The Fall of the Bourgeoise Forest

On the way to the supermarket, driving past the Ginn House (spiffing local pub), a red squirrel scampered up the grassy bank and darted under one of the hedges. I swear it was going for the back door of the pub. It was probably intent on pilfering the nutty nibbles that often conveniently lie in strategically placed bowls along the drink-stained wooden bar, unless the woodland creatures have finally done the sensible thing and succumbed to alcohol.

With the devastating news that a great number of their arboreal shelters are under threat from disease due to bad luck (debatable) and human error (indisputable), our furry little friends have become so depressed that drink is the only answer: the only squirrels we'll now ever see are the ones, thin and morose, clutching a pint glass, propped up at bars and pubs nationwide, glumly reminiscing about the golden age of sylvan beauty, and the Darwinian way animals got on with it.

Comforting Squirrel would be Rabbit, who would have deferred to wise old Badger except that Badger has an ASBO because he is a rank carrier of tubercolosis and so he has to wait in the car park outside to avoid angry farmers disappointed by the decision to delay the cull. 'Anyway,' he thinks, packing his pipe with tobacco, 'can't smoke in there.' Deer keeps Badger company because he is disgusted by a set of antlers tastelessly on display above the bar. His wife has no such compunctions, however, and is on her third gin and tonic decrying the government for squeezing the bourgeoisie. Outside, Deer and Badger settle for a game of cards by the Bentley; loser has to moonwalk round the carpark whilst reciting irregular Latin verbs.

Hedgehog and his family are in the kitchens scouring plates, after a pact with the landlord saved them from being written off as useless, rabies-riddled scroungers of society. Of course, the rest of the animals don't speak to them any more: they are outcasts and traitors, may their prickles soften in the soapy washing-up-liquid water.

At the end of it all, Squirrel is drunk and still crying into Rabbit's shoulder (or haunch), asking why the Animals of Farthing Wood haven't come to save them then promptly rushing outside only to vomit over Badger's slightly worn brogues. Badger sighs, exasperated. What a terrible waste of merlot.