I hate it when Pea returns from a visit to the supermarket. There's something about waiting for a bunch of fat people to finish their dumb conversation while blocking the aisle, preventing him from reaching his tin of no-name baked beans that puts him in a foul mood. Then he says he has to wait for hours (I've told him a trillion times not to exaggerate.) while some dopey woman with a carton a milk acts surprised that she actually has to pay for it and spends eons looking for her purse in a cavernous handbag, and then once she's found the purse, spends further eons picking through mounds of coins for the correct change. "Why," he asks, "can't they at least have their purse ready?" Men don't do it, he reckons. Look at any checkout queue in any shop anywhere in the world and you'll see men clutching their wallets and women flicking through the stupid magazines they sell near the till apparently with absolutely no idea that they will be asked to stump up some cash when they reach the front of the queue.
And so he rants on, shambling about the house, slamming doors. If he had a cat he probably kick it. Fortunately he can't get his foot into my cage without getting it irretrievably stuck and then he'd have the embarrassment of turning up at accident and emergency with his foot wedged into a guinea pig cage. Explain that away fat boy! Once he's calmed down, he's back to his old self. Dragging me or Badger from our cage and giving us a stroke seems to help, and we don't mind as long as we get a bean or a piece of carrot for our inconvenience. We'll even pretend we're enjoying it, purring and squeaking and snuggling down. We've got the silly old sod right where we want him. Then whenever we feel like we've had enough stroking and want to be returned to our cage for a bit of peace and quiet we just piddle on his lap - simple.
Unfortunately Badger is learning a few tricks of the trade. These days whenever I try to mount him (As one always should a good friend.) he either bites my bits if I try to mount his head or kicks me in the teeth if I attempt to jump on his back - both jolly unsporting and un-Australian. That's a phrase I've been hearing a lot lately on the telly. It's always "this is very un-Australian" and "that is very un-Australian." In fact I'm hearing it so much that whatever these people are doing must actually be very Australian indeed since nearly every Australian seems to be doing whatever is is that is supposed to be un-Australian. Do you know what I mean? If so, please drop me a line and explain it to me.
Meanwhile half a world away in good ol' gun-toting USA, a twelve year old boy has turned himself in having shot his parents dead and critically wounded his two siblings. This particular cavy never ceases be be amazed at the stupidity of American gun laws. It's said that it's as quick and easy to buy a gun in some states as it is to buy a Big Mac. Either one is likely to get you killed one way or another. But why would a twelve year old kid do that? Was he worried they'd find his porno mags under his bed or something? It's about time the United States of America grew up and stopped playing with guns. Personally I'm with John Cleese. He said that America has proved time and time again that it's not fit to govern itself and that Great Britain should tear up the Declaration of Independence and re-colonise the joint. Maggie Thatcher would have. I can just imagine her saying to Mr O'Barmer "You're not the President. You're just a very naughty boy."