If I could accompany this opinion with a soundclip, it’d be the haunting thirty-second masterpiece of every knuckle in my hands, awakening from much-extended and unhealthy slumber - an epic thunder of reawakening joints, piercing pops and bangs. And if I could accompany this opinion with a scent (I’m sure Mircosoft are working on it), rest assured it would be the stale, thick-set aroma of a neglected key(board), clinging desperately to what little light has managed to penetrate a month of dust and grim. If ever there were a reason to forgive the quality of my opinion, be it this one.


Cowardice, thy name is man. Or at least under certain circumstances. The story I am about to tell is true, though somewhat humiliating for me (and a friend). My hope is that you will overlook your contempt by acknowledging the dedication I have shown to consumerism. By that I mean my willingness to tell the story in its true, un-edited form. If you feel I’ve built things up quite a bit, however, do leave now.


Last Summer, I was unemployed for… about three months, I think. Though I should like to pretend I filled those months with efficient, persistent attempts to find work, I love you all too dearly to lie. My efforts to become an honest man were delayed, frequently, by my desire to not become an honest man. In practical terms, this meant that on more then one occasion I would simply rest, in good company, and attempt to regain the joyous apathy of my youth. To aid me in this quest, myself and the good company would employ the services of soft drugs and quality home entertainment, to compliment numerous life-altering conversations and semi-insane bouts of laughter. Amen. And it was during one of these very occasions, that my pledge to ‘Raid’ was made.


This particular occasion gracest us with the hottest day of the summer… queue an open window, queue seats firmly within reach of the rays
it emitted. Queue the bliss of a head thick with smoke and the sun-light and the gentle breeze making love upon your face. Queue the hours passing like minutes. Queue the sudden fall of night.


Now I’d never volunteer to pet a snake, but I wouldn’t be frightened if one slithered its way past me. The same goes for most traditionally terrifying animals (with the exception of lions, spiders, vultures and frogs). I can stand small places (and resist the plethora of bad-taste jokes that inspires), heights and clowns. But the one thing that truly does strike fear in my heart… moths. Did he say ‘moths’?! Yeah, moths. Moths?! Yes, sodding moths. Wow… …I know. But come on, people… picture it – eyes, black as Satan’s anus… a transfixed expression, as crude as my similes… and the FUR. Great, big cluffs of fur, spread over its wings like a botched, shit-stained carpet. There is something wholey unnerving about a moth, and what is worse… the unholy flap-flap-flapping of its movement, and the perfect, practised insanity of its path. I think we both know where this story is going, but try to bear all this in mind.


With night, came the subdued period of individual melancholy and reflection. Conversation during this time is limited to grunts and points by the wise, and extended to half-arsed ‘sharing’ by the foolish. That night, we were both wise, and both about as deep in own slhit as our mediocre intellects would allow. A second later, just as Mark Kozelek was asking us to be his mistress, all hell broke loose. The creature glided through the far right of our vision, and in that moment, she was nothing less then a bat. With an agility thought impossible by cannabis scientists world-wide, myself and GC grasped and wielded the first items that came to hand, desperate to shield ourselves from the onslaught. The moth, who probably let slip a laugh as
she spied us shaking a cushion and a cork-screw at her, merely continued to swoop and glide, left to right, up and down, until we no longer felt safe from any angle. Neither of us could contain our hysteria, at least not enough to stop shouting profanity and flinching violently at the very thought of contact, and then, she came in for the kill. Across the back of my hand was the indistinguishable touch of insect hair. Actually, at the time, I was even convinced it had sunk its tiny fangs into my flesh, for just a second. This was enough to have me spring cartoon-like to the door and close it, and GC, firmly behind me. Though I had escaped immediate danger, I knew even then that permanent scars had taken seed. However, curiosity eventually got the better of me, and I looked in. There, raised on the couch like a Greek God, GC was swinging a trainer-boot to and fro, missing the bird-like intruder at each turn. Still, I had to admire his bravery – and did so, with encouraging cheers and yells. Then, somehow, he landed a blow. Like a stone she seemed to fall to the ground, sliding somewhere beneath the room’s only desk. And since GC had performed the murder, it was naturally my job to carry out the autopsy. Naturally.

Slowly, I lowed my head to the floor and opened my eyes. The desk ran deep and dark. GC stood above me, breathing deeply, as I leaned a little closer in. She was either dead, or injured. She had to be. Wrong. In a mad fury, the moth flew from the darkest corner of the floor, and soared to the ceiling in a violent zigzag. I stumbled backwards, dazed, afraid, looking again to GC for help. His face was blank with terror. We hadn’t even wounded her pride. At this point, we both left via the door. It was time to step back a second and talk this through.

What took place during the proceeding two hours, was a bloody, tiring war of attrition, in which we tested great numbers of make-shift weapons to virtua
lly no avail at all. Every time we struck a blow, she’d play dead and then surprise us, knocking us off guard. By the fifth shameful defeat, we declared capturing and destroying the animal the soul purpose of our being. United in fear, there developed an unspoken vow to slay the moth, even if it were to be at ,or beyond, the cost of our own mortal life’s. It was at roughly this point, GC stumbled upon his can of ‘Raid’. Holding it straight-armed into the air, the blue can became Excalibur – our glorious savoir in this hour of need. There’s was subtle, epic vibe to its entire being… the way it gliding effortlessly through the air… the snug way it fit the palm… the ease and style of the button. I gave it a short, experimental blast. A smooth, confident wave of gas sliced through the air and distributed it’s self evenly upon the carpet. Ergonomically sound, and almost entirely full. Like a battalion of soldiers after sharing a whore, we marched into the room with a new-found confidence and morale. As I clutched a tennis racket, GC readied the ‘Raid’. All we needed to do now, was find Her.

And we did. Tucked peacefully beneath in the corner of floor, nestling in a random sock. I looked at GC. He looked at me. With less then feline agility, we attempted to creep up and take the girl by surprise. But she was on to us, as she always had been. In a second she was once again in the air, darting to and fro in that absurd montage of speed and direction… unpredictable, unforgiving, and, given half a chance, unmerciful. In a panic, I gave a random swing of the racket, missing completely and stumbling half way to the ground. The was her opportunity. Quickly circling GC, she flew low and glided through my legs, sending the two of us round in circles. She was tying us in knots. It was time gain some control. In a fit of rage, I began to swing my weapon madly. Red flashed
before my eyes – no longer prepared to be a victim of this creature. Lamps crashed to the ground… empty cans were accidentally cast across the room like golf balls… but despite the chaos I continued until the last drops of my energy stood to fade. Finally, by chance, I had her backed into a corner. In no time at all, GC pounced, can in hand, and sprayed an inch from the moth’s face. For a moment, she floated as if suspended from the ceiling. I could almost hear her tiny lungs cough, and see the growing veins in her eyes. GC was still spraying strongly, grinning and nodding like a maniac. I put my hand softly upon his shoulder, and he stopped, shaking his head as if emerging from a strange trance or dream. Side by side, we watched quietly, as the She fought bravely to say in the air. But it was no use. After a few seconds of struggle, she fell flat onto the ground. We peered over. Aside from the final flinch of her tiny legs, our enemy had finally been defeated.

And that was that. No surprise come-back, as we half-expected, just an honourable death. Looking at the moth, lying still on her back, I couldn’t help but feel the hate and anger drain away, like losing her how somehow sprung leak within me, and all that was left in my heart was sadness. There was an absurd, yet clear and absolute dignity in the air, and though I did not feel guilt, I did feel sorrow and the tiniest prick of regret. Gently, I scoped her onto a piece of paper, and committed her mortal remains to the Northumbria sewage system. As she span in the toilet water, moving closer to the point of no return, I understand instantly the message of the night’s bizarre events, and a feeling of euphoria engulfed me.

Never leave a window open on a hot summers night, and if you do, have a can of ‘Raid’ ready. You never know when some bird-like demon might swoop in, and disturb your slumber for ever.



PS -
I am deeply unhappy with the length and content of this opinion... I've also not bothered to re-read so it could be littered with mistakes. Sorry it was so long and sorry the intro didn't pull off at all. Take care, I love you. P.

PPS - Please observe the irony in a product called 'Raid' aiding what was basically a minor drug session, or I've wasted my time. Thank you. P.