FLIES ARE BASTARDS

Flies are total bastards.

On the spectrum of bastardry, flies sit somewhere between President Assad of Syria, Michael Gove (a perfect example of a cunt), those low low fuckers at News Corp, and Karren Brady. (Bring back Margaret!!)  

But the absolute worst thing about flies is that they love my house. It’s almost as if there’s a gigantic neon-lit sign above my back door that says, “Hey, we’re shooting a remake of The Amityville Horror in THIS house. If you and your extended family of houseflies are looking for parts as extras, please do come on in, please, it's no bother”. In addition to the second neon-lit sign above my front door that says, "Now recruiting for the Fourth Plague of Egypt." 

Which there isn't. 

Oh, how I long for flies to become extinct. How I long for them to stop puking their guts up all over the banana cake or the brioche rolls I accidentally forgot to wrap in a million billion layers of super-thick anti-bacterial foil last night. How I long for them to stop hurling and spewing and upchucking all over the crumbs on my worktop and then sticking their long, germy, shit-stained little probosces where they’re not wanted, like total food rapists. If I could have one superpower, it would be the power to breathe out huge clouds of Raid, at whim.  

LITTLE FUCKERS

And if you don’t agree, in some recent research, eight houseflies were allowed to come into contact with various types of germs before being allowed to settle and walk over food. Just half an hour later, the food was contaminated with 500,000 germs. 

What total bastards.    

My aversion to flies has nothing to do with fear however.  In fact, here is a list of all the things that I find terrifying and you will see that flies is not amongst them:

Motorway slip roads

Mister Maker

Morning people

Wasps

Bin juice 

Zetan Warlord –Do you actually mean to say that you never played Top Trumps in the Seventies?

Oh no. My hatred of flies has something to do with shame.

The truth is that flies love my house because I’m a slut. Because I’m a slattern. Because I lack domestic skills. Because I am not house-trained. Or house-broken. Flies know that right at the bottom of the kitchen bin - sliding around underneath the torn bin liner - are scraps of oozing carrion. They know the vegetable tray in the fridge is A World of Fermenting Vegetation. They know that the cat litter needs disinfecting and that the cat bowls need washing. They know about the filthy, secret corners of neglect multiplying across the house, the crusty kitchen tiles, the biohazardous Petit Filous spills underneath the sofa cushions, the damp piles of laundry that smell of wee-wee.

It's the same kind of shame you feel when your friend's dog gets high and crazy from the scent of your groin, when you can’t drag him away from there, when he flashes the whites of his eyes at you like a loon, and shudders all the way through to his tail, as though he’s never smelled anything quite like it.  DEEP. PERSONAL. SHAME.  

Fuck me, they’re embarrassing bastards.