Fox hunting was banned in the UK in 2005. The Government of the day in an attempt to compensate for centuries of cruelty meted out on foxes, set up a reparation fund for the foxes’ protection.
Part of these funds was earmarked for the relocation of the foxes. Armed with these funds and coupled with the increase of overflowing rubbish bins due to the reduced refuse collection in the big cities (which to them is what the lure bright lights of Broadway is to an aspiring theatre starlet), the foxes packed their belongings and landed themselves in cities like London.
A few of them at first, but gradually they multiplied either by sending for their relatives from the country-side (like an illegal immigrant would when his papers have been normalized) or just by good old fashioned fucking. I can attest to this, because the noise of foxes fucking in my back garden used to wake me up at about 4am in the morning, once a week a few years ago. Then it was every other morning and now it is every morning. Judging from the duration of the high-pitched howling noise, it seems the orgasms are getting longer and longer or they are having an orgy in my back garden and they take turns reaching climax. Whichever way, it is wakes me up at the wrong time in the morning.
Earlier just after their emancipation from the countryside, I used to see a few of them in South London where I live after dark and they would scuttle away as I approached them. But now they stand firm and look me in the eye as if to say, “What’s your problem? If you come near me, I will fuck you up and then sue you for all you have got. I know my rights”. Such is the protection the Government has given them.
I remember once walking home in broad daylight and I heard quick footsteps behind me. I looked back and saw a woman with her little cute pugs running towards me, fear written all over her face. I asked her what the matter was and she said there was a fox on the other side of the street, where she had crossed over from looking at her dogs and that she was scared for them. The pugs did look expensive. I just stood aside and let her run, like she was being chased by debt collectors coming to collect on money owed the vet.
There have been a few reported incidents of foxes going into houses in parts of London and nibbling away at small helpless babies. When the news got out, fearing reprisals and using their vast treasure chest provided by the government, the foxes hired a high-powered fixer. Before we knew it there was a huge media campaign in support of the foxes. Newspaper ads were taken out, TV appearances made by shameless vote loving politicians on news programs and TV news documentaries were commissioned to show how “vulnerable” and “misunderstood” foxes were.
At the end of it all a poll was taken and the public decided that the reports of foxes attacking helpless babies were misconstrued and malicious. One of the questions in the poll was “Would you allow a fox into you house to baby sit your new born child?” 89% of the respondents answered “Not sure”. The British public was duly won over. Job done. Scandal’s Olivia Pope would have been proud! “It’s handled”
A few days ago a friend of mine told me how she went to a garden centre to ask for advice on how to repel foxes from her back garden. She had seen a few foxes and she has a 3-year-old son who regularly plays in the garden and she was concerned that a fox might attack him. She was advised to have the child “mark the territory” by having him pee in the garden. Apparently, the foxes respond to male piss and would stay away. She swears it worked for her and she doesn’t see the foxes in her garden any more.
Encouraged by her testimony, I tried the same thing in my garden yesterday and this morning I wasn’t woken by the elongated high-pitched orgasmic howling noises coming from my back garden. Thank God, my marking appeared to have worked.
I went downstairs as I do in the morning in the buff and drew the blinds for the glass doors in the living room that lead out to the garden. I noticed four rather “excited” male foxes pacing around in the garden. They looked eagerly in my direction and they looked like they were saying “Morning big boy , we see how its hanging. You wanna chill out? Do you have chems?”
Being that I live within the gay hard partying recta(l)ngle of South London, comprising Kennington (Shagginton), Oval(Anal), Vauxhall(Fuckhall) and Stockwell (Cockwell). I wasn’t entirely surprised by that offer.
Happy 2015 to every one!!