Wasps (or proof that if there is a God, he’s a bit of a dickhead)

When I was younger I was a bit of a scamp. I would spend endless hours out on my bike, trailing all over the local area, sometimes breaking my parents rules about not going up to the High Park, or heading over the hill and further afield, like into Rouken Glen and beyond. One of my favourite youth highlights comes from the first time I took to the open road on my bike and more than probably hit over 30mph careering down an incline towards a red traffic light.

I would also hang about the burn at the bottom of my street, jumping over the polluted stream, hanging out on Trolley Island, and when the new Our Lady of the Mission extension was built, playing a lot in the tunnels that were built to take the burns away from the new school foundations. Climbing onto the roofs of schools and into abandoned garden nurseries, I was always out and about. These facts my parents probably did know, but I pretended that they didn’t.

I have no fears of heights – climbing trees was a given. I had no fears of dark places – clambering up into an attic, or into someone basement were no problem. I had no real fear of animals either – dogs and foxes abundant in this urban area… but what I was very much scared of is Wasps.

These terrorising bastards of the insect world, the absolute C. U. N. T. of all evolutionary creation is the only thing in existence that I regularly come into contact with that genuinely scares me. I don’t mind spiders, flies are only annoying, and even Bumble Bees have a rather cute, furry, honey loving feeling about them, almost as if they are on our side.

Wasp? Nope. Utter pricks they are. The reasons for my hatred are mostly routed in the summer of 1995 when I was stung several times. Obviously, not because I was tasty target, but because… well, I was being a dick with them. They used to hang over the bins in the playground, so as a game myself and some friends would try to catch them. This was a recipe for disaster, and I was stung twice inside two days. This proved to many that I wasn’t allergic to the stings, as I hadn’t died.

What it had also proved to the many sceptics was that there was a fear building. These events were the foundations for the start of respect for the creature, which slowly has turned into hatred, and now into fear and contempt. I don’t like the buggers, hate the sight of them, and squeal like a little girl about to be spit roasted by the Jonas Brothers when I see one. And not in a good way.

And if you ever need proof that God, if he is around, is a twat look at the Wasp. I mean… come on.