Some creatures are easily understood. Some make themselves understood, some just are understood. For example, bears. Bears are big, angry, hungry bastards, stay away. Yes, they protect their young, same as humans, they want food, same as humans. But humans can say “stay away from my baby, or I’ll cut you” or they can say “give me what I ordered you McMoron, or I will end you, with a shovel.” Bears can’t say that. So they roar.
But wasps are still Glaswegian tossers.
I went on holiday recently, with a couple of friends, that I would stand up to a bear or a mother for. But not a wasp. The holiday itself was awesome, apart from the occasional tatt-hating twat, but we found a whole new site. We camped, hence site. By the way, avoid Scotts camp site, the young man behind the counter is a complete tool. And he will drive that business into the ground if they don’t fire him asap. So, Scotts site, near Chichester, avoid that shit.
Anyway, naming and shaming done, back to holidays. We set off, took a couple wrong turns, but we made it, and it was a few days of unbelievable awesome. We did museums and body-boarding, epic, by the way, and we drank, far too much. Adults on holiday. Hours of fun.
The problem with adults camping is that we refuse to acknowledge that we’re getting older, and need help to stay awake longer now. Hence, huge amounts of monster, red bull and other high caffeine content things. But with energy come the demons, the striped nasties. Not good enough to be full-time bees, not shit enough to be full-time hornets. You can almost hear the theme tune. Picture it.
You open the can, krch-ppffff-sssst, then on the edge of hearing, just there, can you hear it? Like Ride of the valkyries, with some imperial march and a bit of jaws. Duh-duuh-duh-dun-dun-du-dun-da-duh, duh dah, duh dah, duh dah. See, you can hear it now, can’t you? So the striped nazis descended, en masse.
Turns out, you have to sacrifice the first can of the day, but you can get rid of them. Find a post, somewhere the can won’t get knocked over, pour a little on the post, and put the can there. Success. Wasp bastards distracted, leaving you to enjoy your time.
Cue a couple days of awesome fun, getting sun burnt body-boarding, worth every painful second, by the way, eating ice cream on the beach. West Wittering, it’s a long drive, but worth it, that beach is beautiful. I’m not going to wear perfume in summer anymore, pure poison, by the way, only thing I can wear, hint hint, I’m going to wear sexwax board wax, that stuff smells awesome.
Then back to the site, for barbeque night, nomnomnom. Put the thing together, get out the coals. Remember the wasp trap can? Yeah, it only works until someone comes and cleans the can away thinking it’s trash. The second those coals hit the tray, bzzzzzzzzzzt, duh-duh-duh etc, the stripes flying tired attack.
They weren’t even on fire yet, the meat wasn’t out, and they swooped. You could almost hear them, ay, food, ay ay, grab it. Bastards.
Thus I have decided to offend the entirety of Glasgow by claiming all wasps are Glaswegian. There, I’ve said it!
But either way, West Wittering is worth every second, if you’re stuck for somewhere to go on a cheap holiday in summer, go there, it’s gorgeous.
And I owe my friends so much for inviting me, thank you guys, you’re mega brilliant.