Switch on your irony headsets, because everything is laughable about what we're doing here. This is what I think, but remember to take into account the writer's paranoia, the free-roaming imagination and the 5 miles of perma-ice we call logic in my shed. This is what's happening. Britain is not Top of the Pops anymore. Hasn't been for eons, but instead of letting the padded shoulders drop, kicking off the elevated heels and hammocking the afternoon of our imperialism away with a sparkling G and T, we've decided to kalashnikov the poor dumb creatures called badgers. We've monstered them into public enemy numero uno - prime suspect of the spread of cattle TB. The scientists can't make up their mind. I sympathise with farmers - it must be heart-break hotel time for them, but if badgers are not the cause, the problem won't disappear.
Anyway, the Badgers of Beechen Cliff was inspired by all the hoo-ha, and of course, if there any furry creatures around for me to be on their side, that's where you'll find me.
Buy the paperback here:
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