The Badger

“Any man may do evil, but not every man knows what is good.”

PLATO

“A man walks into a bar and starts a conversation with an old guy next to him. The old feller says to him, “you see that dock out there. Built it myself, hand crafted each piece, and it’s the best dock on this coast. But do they call me ‘Smith the dock builder.’ No! You see that bridge over there? I built that. Took me months and I was out in all weathers putting it together but do they call me, ‘Smith, the bridge builder.’ No! And you see that pier over there. I built that. Best pier in the country. But do they call me, ‘Smith the pier builder’? No!” The old man than leant towards the man so that no one else could hear him speak, “you shag one goat...”

OLD JOKE, ANON

“Life is good and bad. Mostly and”

DIOGENES

2011

As the sun rose on a mid-summer day I was walking down the street. Well, that is not actually true or accurate. I do like to be correct about these things. Verisimilitude is important I feel. My motion at that moment could not be described as one of a man confidently striding down that particular road. No, I was hopping. You may wonder why I was hopping. It is not the usual way for a gentleman of leisure to transport himself down the Queen’s highway. This manner of movement was not a dignified or even a correct way to behave, indeed this whole tale is one large attack on my dignity but so be it.

The reason why I was suddenly auditioning for the role as a one-legged Tarzan was because I had trod in the remains of a dead badger. It needs to be pointed out that I was shoeless at the time so to find badger’s entrails attached to one of my naked extremities was a less than pleasant experience. We have all trodden in something unpleasant in our time and cursed the animal and/or its owner as we frantically do an impromptu moonwalk on the side of the pavement. To step into the carcass of a deceased animal is far more distressing I can assure you. Especially, as I have had an aversion to biology since we dissected a rat with Mr Cleeve at school. Innards are not my thing. To be honest I am not over enamoured with outtards, if there is such a word, but there you go.

Mr Cleeve, I seem to recall, used to take great pleasure in pulling apart animal flesh. You only had to watch him devour a chicken leg in the school canteen. He would rip it to pieces with his long bony fingers and there was a definite venomous glee in his eyes as he stuck his teeth into the meat. As a child there it seemed so strange that someone that this grey, dull teacher could be so animalistic consuming his food like a caveman.

Yet I digress. So I was standing Stork-like (or is it Flamingo-like?) with the internal organs of this badger covering my right toe. This particular mammal had not been run over, as is usually the case with these nocturnal creatures. It had actually been shot - clean through the temple. A professional hit. Don't worry I am not at this point going to talk about bovine TB and whether badgers are responsible. My predicament, as you shall see, was caused by me raising such a question in the first place. One has to be so careful about when to introduce politics into a conversation.

If only I was only barefoot. Things would not be so bad if that was the case. Let us be candid about this, we are all adults here. My body was unclothed. I was naked. Yes, I was naked as the day I was born. Before you jump to any conclusions I am not a naturist or a naked urban rambler. If you must have a picture of me you shall. Let us say that I am no Adonis. My stomach resembles a small hillock. In my youth it was as flat as the singing of football fans outside a pub on match day. As I have approached middle-age it has expanded in the same way that Hitler’s Germany did before the Second World War. It has, in its own way, searched for lebensraum and found it. You can imagine that I was not a pretty sight even without the liver of a badger attached to my foot. It was, of course, at this point that the policeman approached. This is a tricky situation to explain to a gentleman of the law.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you know what time it is?”

I must admit to being slightly baffled by his inquiry. Could not the man see I was not wearing a watch and that there was blood dripping from my toe in the manner of a tap that has not been fully turned off?

“I am afraid, officer, I do not have the time on me at the moment.”

Sarcasm with people in authority is a dangerous game. The customs man who asks you if you know that it is an offence to bring drugs and guns into the country is asking for the sarcastic reply but you can end up with a hand up your arse before you know it if you try to be too clever. Believe me, I know.

He then looked at his watch and said, “It is 5.32 in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

There was a pause. I smiled. He looked to the side before slightly grimacing and then he leant towards me and conspiratorially said, “Can I ask why you are not wearing any clothes, sir? And I why you are doing some sort of fertility dance around this dead badger?”

“You can. Only before I answer could you help me?”

“Sir?”

“Could you wipe off the creature’s mess? I can’t touch it. You might think it weak of me but I have an aversion to internal organs.”

“Certainly, sir”

He then proceeded to produce a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and knocked off the offending parts of the animal as well as the blood which allowed me to stand upright.

“Thank you, officer.”

“Well?” he inquired as he got out his grey notebook.

It was then that I had to tell him how I had got in to this position.

This protector of the people was quite young. Younger than me by some twenty years I would gauge and in that respect I could have been the man’s father. As he brought out his pen, ready to inscribe my particulars, I noticed that he took a glance at the most exposed and exposing area of my anatomy. It was unavoidable that this would happen. In all respects I am sure he did not mean to do it. My hands instinctively went down to cover my moderate endowment. He then fixed his eyes on my eyes. The embarrassment that had belonged to me had spread like spilt tea to him and it lingered there between us floating until I told him my tale.

Like we all do, to explain the present I had to go into the past. There is no other route to this moment. I told him that it had all started the previous evening. I had been out for some libations with my friends at my private members club. Much carousing had taken place. Many witticisms had been exchanged and a good time had been had by all. After saying my goodbyes I decided to walk home. It was a warm balmy night and when full of liquor I tend to like to stroll along in the light of the moon with my thoughts propelling me along.

On my way home I was approached by, to use the horrendous cliché, “a lady of the night.” She was a prostitute, a seller of sex. Now I have never been with a prostitute in my life. I am unmarried and free to do what I like. I have had relationships in the past and even came close to marriage but I am, I know in my heart, one of life’s bachelors. (It is important you know that I am not single, I am a bachelor. There is a huge difference. Single just reflects my status, as these kids may put on facebook, a bachelor is the way I feel.)

So when she asked me for “any business” I resisted her at first. I was polite but firm and then off I trotted to smell the sweet aroma of the midnight air. But she pursued me (honestly) even though as I have already revealed I am no longer the thin, athletic, sprightly Adonis of my youth. In my inebriated state I was frankly honoured that this beautiful young lady should want to sleep with me, even if she did want me to pay for the privilege.

I am of a mind that in this life one should try everything at least once apart from buying the Daily Mail which one should never do under any circumstances. So I decided to say yes to this young lady and immediately a cab appeared and we were taken into the night through back roads and streets I had no knowledge of and to the seedy side of town I have to admit I have never frequented.

She led me in to her flat and took the money upfront before any congress took place and then she played her part perfectly. I was not a great performer, like any actor if you go in to it drunk you are bound to fluff your lines. It was not though an unpleasant experience and as we enjoyed a post-coital cigarette (yes, can you believe it reader, she was smoking in her workplace. By the letter of the law we should have gone outside) we saw the brilliant full moon.

Off we trotted to the window and together stared with wonder at the lunar body. It was, I think, a romantic moment even though we were involved in a commercial relationship. I was still naked as I was hoping to go for a second take and get my lines right this time. She had put on a dressing gown which was made of silk and I admired her good taste.

The silence, as they say, was deafening and I was just about to suggest we try again when she spotted the badger. Badgers, as I have already stated, are nocturnal creatures. It was ambling down the road. From nowhere my paramour pulls out a rifle, opens the window, and shoots the badger straight through its head. One shot - dead. I am surprised none of her neighbours were woken by the sound of the gun but no lights came on around her as people slept through the death of the poor badger.

She explained that her father was a farmer and that he hates badgers as they cause bovine TB. I thought it would be a good idea to play devil’s advocate (it was, of course, a bad idea) and to argue that there are farms where there are no badgers present that have had cases of bovine TB. I said the jury was out about whether badgers really are the cause...

The lady went mad. Crazy. I had not just touched a nerve I had rammed in to it at 100MPH. She grabbed hold of me and threw me out of the flat. I apologised and banged on the door asking for my clothes back. She was crying on the other side of the door. Again, I said I was sorry but could she please give me my clothes back. A resounding negative came back and there I was naked on a landing in a dingy house (I don’t want to sound snobbish but it was not in the best state of repair).

I decided to remain as I figured that as it was a strange part of town I was better leaving when it was light but also, of course, she must leave the flat at some point and I could retrieve my attire. So I slumped in the hallway and slept for a few hours.

No one seemed to pass me in the night. But I woke as dawn was breaking. I hammered at the door again and there was no answer. She was obviously asleep. I decided to leave, to try and make my way home and forget the whole incident.

I looked for something to cover my body but there was nothing. I crept (I don’t know why) down the stairs and in to the living room of this house. There was an old TV, a few books, a table. I walked through into the kitchen and searched to see if there was a tablecloth, anything that might cover my modesty but there was nothing. I thought I would just go for it, there won’t be many people around at this time and if luck was with me I could flag a cab and the driver, I hoped, had surely seen men of my age and status in similar states of undress in this part of town.

I left the house and the streets were deserted. It seemed the right thing to do to walk quickly and confidently in case someone was around and to try and make out that I was not embarrassed about my exposed nature. It was then, of course, that I failed to notice the dead badger.