Sunday, 14 June 2009
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Making Blanks - Part Three
On the rare occasions when Vadis was not intent on raising hell we’d catch bees. My trap of choice was a Hartley’s jam jar with a lid with Martin Peters on. This particular jar was the perfect size for my hand but I particularly liked it because the lid didn’t just snap on – you had to twist it around the grooves at the top of the jar which gave the bees the chance of escape and the opportunity to sting me. It was my way of levelling the playing field. Coffee jars were anathema – they were mostly orangey brown glass (which reminded me of the identically-coloured pokes of chocolate buttons you got in Easter Eggs) and you couldn’t see your prisoners very well. Where was the joy in that ? I also pointedly rejected pickle jars – the smell of Branston and onions never left those jars no matter how often you washed them out with bleach or disinfectant. I truly believed the smell of onions would upset or antagonise the bees and I honestly couldn’t put them through that. I considered all bees to be allergic to anything of the onion family, even onion aroma. From my current vantage point I can see that I was projecting my own likes and dislikes on to the bees but I can say proudly and sincerely that no bee of mine was ever incarcerated in an onion-fumed environment.
I loved bees then and I still do although I was very bad and cruel to them back in the day. There were various types – bakers (white bum, yellow or black nose), hymies (the ones that didn’t sting – small, orange bum, yellow nose), red hot pokers (brown and furry with the sorest sting) and queenies ( a rare but wonderful sight and a truly prized capture). We’d entice bees into our jars by putting some ‘food’ therein – I always chose the same flowers, pink and blue lupins. Bees went loopy for lupins,. Their brilliant colours lured the insects throughout the summer, nature’s honeybee honeytraps. I loved the feel of the lupin florets, there’s nothing quite like it in the world. If I was attracted to the flowers no wonder the workers and bakers went ‘ape’ for them. The only problem was the lupins were not wild flowers which meant we’d to invade gardens to stalk our quarry.
I’d normally settle for three or four bees tops in my jar – the more you captured the more likely an escapee when you unlidded to snare yet another. The ultimate disaster was a sting to your jar-holding hand when you would likely drop and smash the container , lose your prisoners, possibly incur further stings from the newly liberated and be left with Martin Peters . Consequently you had to trudge back home for a replacement – this invariably meant I’d to finish off what was left of the jam as a wee bonus. However, as with all things flammable, Vadis preferred quantity over quality. If my bees were humanely treated and more-or-less ‘free range’ Vadis preferred the battery approach. This meant a huge coffee jar, zero ‘food’ for the inmates (as the flowers would use up precious bee accommodation) and a missionary zeal to fill the jar to the brim with bees. Vadis refused to fork his lid so the bees could get air. He might have been Patrick but he steadfastly refused to pierce.Nothing was sacred or off-limits as far as he was concerned. His jar would tussle with mine to snaffle a bee. If his oversized jar was almost full of bees he’d beg me for a ‘transfer’. This was a hazardous transaction where I would endeavour to switch the few bees from my wee jar into The Buzzing Black Hole of Calcutta that was Vadis’ teeming swarm without losing a single bee from either prison. Further he’d freak if any florets fell into his apiary – ‘no food, no food’. When he was satisfied that he couldn’t possibly fit another bee into his jar he’d declare The Moment as being imminent. The Moment was when Mad Vad threw his jar high into the air while we scarpered before it smashed on the ground and the bees were released. It was madness but it seemed the natural thing to do for the propagation of the species. Some of the bees in the hell that was The Vadjar were already dead but I was pleased that the rest were free. The last thing we needed was a bee shortage for the remainder of the season on account of Vadis’ manic monopolising.
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We had long convinced ourselves that the yellow-orange pollen baskets on the bees’ legs were in fact honey. Although neither of us was particularly keen on honey we needed experiential evidence that the buttery pouches were in fact honey. We therefore captured one of the pollen bearers and executed it a la Madame Défarge – we carefully removed the lid but covered most of the mouth of the jar. When Mr Honeybags got his head to the rim Martin Peters cut it off. We were therefore spared any guilt, Catholic or otherwise. Peters and Bee - we turned a blind eye, it was nothing to do with us. If only the England legend knew of the atrocities he carried out in the name of medical science. However, as they say in the best thrillers, ‘the beheading was the easy part’. Trying to remove the pollen bags intact from the bee’s legs was an impossibility – we managed to amputate the legs but couldn’t take the amputated leg from the pollen sack, it was harder than removing a hair from a bogey but a similar operation in many ways. There was nothing else for it - we ate the smudges of pollen, bee legs and all. It tasted of nothing. A measly lunch of bee leg pollenaise had proved unedifying. We would have our revenge……
I loved bees then and I still do although I was very bad and cruel to them back in the day. There were various types – bakers (white bum, yellow or black nose), hymies (the ones that didn’t sting – small, orange bum, yellow nose), red hot pokers (brown and furry with the sorest sting) and queenies ( a rare but wonderful sight and a truly prized capture). We’d entice bees into our jars by putting some ‘food’ therein – I always chose the same flowers, pink and blue lupins. Bees went loopy for lupins,. Their brilliant colours lured the insects throughout the summer, nature’s honeybee honeytraps. I loved the feel of the lupin florets, there’s nothing quite like it in the world. If I was attracted to the flowers no wonder the workers and bakers went ‘ape’ for them. The only problem was the lupins were not wild flowers which meant we’d to invade gardens to stalk our quarry.
I’d normally settle for three or four bees tops in my jar – the more you captured the more likely an escapee when you unlidded to snare yet another. The ultimate disaster was a sting to your jar-holding hand when you would likely drop and smash the container , lose your prisoners, possibly incur further stings from the newly liberated and be left with Martin Peters . Consequently you had to trudge back home for a replacement – this invariably meant I’d to finish off what was left of the jam as a wee bonus. However, as with all things flammable, Vadis preferred quantity over quality. If my bees were humanely treated and more-or-less ‘free range’ Vadis preferred the battery approach. This meant a huge coffee jar, zero ‘food’ for the inmates (as the flowers would use up precious bee accommodation) and a missionary zeal to fill the jar to the brim with bees. Vadis refused to fork his lid so the bees could get air. He might have been Patrick but he steadfastly refused to pierce.Nothing was sacred or off-limits as far as he was concerned. His jar would tussle with mine to snaffle a bee. If his oversized jar was almost full of bees he’d beg me for a ‘transfer’. This was a hazardous transaction where I would endeavour to switch the few bees from my wee jar into The Buzzing Black Hole of Calcutta that was Vadis’ teeming swarm without losing a single bee from either prison. Further he’d freak if any florets fell into his apiary – ‘no food, no food’. When he was satisfied that he couldn’t possibly fit another bee into his jar he’d declare The Moment as being imminent. The Moment was when Mad Vad threw his jar high into the air while we scarpered before it smashed on the ground and the bees were released. It was madness but it seemed the natural thing to do for the propagation of the species. Some of the bees in the hell that was The Vadjar were already dead but I was pleased that the rest were free. The last thing we needed was a bee shortage for the remainder of the season on account of Vadis’ manic monopolising.
-
We had long convinced ourselves that the yellow-orange pollen baskets on the bees’ legs were in fact honey. Although neither of us was particularly keen on honey we needed experiential evidence that the buttery pouches were in fact honey. We therefore captured one of the pollen bearers and executed it a la Madame Défarge – we carefully removed the lid but covered most of the mouth of the jar. When Mr Honeybags got his head to the rim Martin Peters cut it off. We were therefore spared any guilt, Catholic or otherwise. Peters and Bee - we turned a blind eye, it was nothing to do with us. If only the England legend knew of the atrocities he carried out in the name of medical science. However, as they say in the best thrillers, ‘the beheading was the easy part’. Trying to remove the pollen bags intact from the bee’s legs was an impossibility – we managed to amputate the legs but couldn’t take the amputated leg from the pollen sack, it was harder than removing a hair from a bogey but a similar operation in many ways. There was nothing else for it - we ate the smudges of pollen, bee legs and all. It tasted of nothing. A measly lunch of bee leg pollenaise had proved unedifying. We would have our revenge……
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