Black and Yellow Flying Git-Bastards
Wasps. I have no great phobia of the flying skinheads, I have been stung a few times and while it wasn't pleasant, it was no great drama.

However.

Back in the mists of time, I lived in a big old house on the outskirts of Embra. The garden lead down a fair old gradient, so was terraced. The very bottom level had fallen into disuse after a few years of 'Good Life' style veg/fruit production. This meant that every now and then it started to resemble Heart of Darkness type jungle. As Osok Senior was away working, any chopping/hacking that could possible involve agonising injury was down to me.

After a some time slashing away like a manic Freddy Kruger clone, I wasn't getting far. Scottish brambles in those days had a tensile strength greater than steel.

A-Ha, thinks I, I'll just go and fire up the trusty strimmer.

That broke after about five minutes, but I was definitely making an impression. Right, you bastards, thinks I, lawnmower time. I'll just pick you up, plonk you on top of the undergrowth and let you chew your way down to ground level. At this point I should have noticed (a) quite a lot of wasp activity and (b) an old tarpaulin, partly grown over with grass/brambles that appeared to date from the Bronze Age.

Lawnmower. Whirrrgrunchgrunchgrunch BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

"Heavens to Murgatroyd" said I, "I've just hacked my way into an enormous fucking wasp's nest that was concealed by that tarp. I wonder what my considered course of action should be?"

Or, with a lower level of lie, "WASPS! AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!" I was off down the garden like Jesse Owens, with the Wasp Luftwaffe in full-on annoyed mode in hot pursuit. After about 30 yards I decided that it'd be safe to stop. Ooops.

"STILL WASPS! AAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGHH" Off I sprinted, in the direction of the river which was conveniently placed (The Water of Leith if you're interested). Skidding to a halt at the top of the bank, I contemplated the ten foot drop into the murky water, and gave myself a mental slap.

"Look, they're not killer bees, they're miles back, and you're not jumping in the fucking river"

BZZZZZZZZZZZZ

"OWFUCKOWYABASTARDS"

100 yards of flailing madly while running down a riverbank path shrieking "WAAAAASPS!" later, the little bastards finally gave up.

I decided at that point to respect my insectoid neighbours and steer a wide berth....did I bollocks. Half a gallon of Four Star strategically applied....WHOOOOOMMPH!





BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ


"OWOWOWYAWEECUNTSOW"

Took THREE petrol bombings to take the fuckers out once and for all.

I might have ended up stung, jabbed, lightly toasted, reeking of petrol and with a charred smoking crater for a garden, but I WON!

They came back next year. I left home.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 16:34, 6 replies)

I just laughed like a cunt at this!
Jesse Owens pursued by the Luftwaffe? Odd mixed metaphor there.

For future reference, if being pursued by wasps or bees, don't jump into a body of water. They'll be waiting for you to surface. Get indoors if you can. If you can't, keep running, through as much vegetation as possible so as to 'scrape' them off. Keep on running - they generally lose interest after a few hundred yards.
( Bob Todd whee, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 16:40, closed)

STILL WASPS!
you owe me a new pair of knickers, you've made me piss these ones!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 16:59, closed)

A wise move
not jumping in the Water of Leith, God knows what ailments you would have picked up in there.
( Stu71 ....bad money dies, I love the scene, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 17:27, closed)

Brilliant!
Have a click

But what you should have done was jumped into the Water of Leith and twatted the buggers with one of the shopping trolleys which inhabits that fine waterway.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 18:58, closed)

A hornet flew into my face once
it was at least a foot long. At least.



*may be exaggerating through fear*
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 19:45, closed)

This was in t'old days
When we still had trout in the Water, indeed my Dad was a Bailiff. All I caught was Non Specific Urethritis and a Caution for shooting at Dougal Haston clones with an air rifle (you'd have to be a local to get that reference)
(osok Rebel without a clue, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 22:18, closed)