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The Mole without a Hole

“He could have been born with that cap.”

One day, two moles were caught up in the government’s war on terror, and were overheard plotting in their hole, a few yards from a sumptuous lawn in cap wringing country*:

“He’ll flush us out with that poison, and then shoot us when we come out.” said the first mole.
 

“That’s’ about it,” said the second mole, “Short this life, isn’t it.”

“Well, why don’t we go out fighting, and ruin his lawn before he gets us?” said the first mole, who later became known to the police as ‘Al Molarwi.’

“I’ve a better idea. Let’s create so many tunnels just under the lawn, as soon as he even steps on it, it will collapse and he’ll sprain his ankle.” Said Molarwi’s accomplice, the ‘mole without a hole.’

The police, who had placed microphones in many places, thought Christmas had come early. Here was a chance to catch a couple of terrorists, plotting a major incident. They could get tooled up, and raid the lawn in almost incomprehensible numbers, just in case there was any resistance.

The moles were between a rock and hard place. The person they had spoken about who had murderous intent was also known as the Mole. The Mole wanted them dead, no wounding, access to a solicitor or martyrdom, options the police offered. Were the hole operation to be kept secret, the moles could have ended up in Guantanamole Bay. Imprisoning moles made sense, as they were already partially sensory-deprived, and any suicide attempt could be explained away by re-classifying them as lemmings.

The Mole is someone who has perfected the art of deference. He has found peace of mind by ‘hitching his wagon’ to failed social climbers. The Mole would regard himself as the living embodiment of the English countryside. Drives an old tractor, has a few geese and chickens, mows lawns, cuts hedges, and wears the regulation cap. Insults, exploitation, calamity, injury and hospitalisation, roll off him like mud on a hosed boot.

Real moles are rarely seen above ground, except dead, hung on barbed wire fences. Classified as pests, they can be very destructive to lawns, a reason used to justify their slaughter. For those not prepared to bend the knee to those of higher social status and their agents, the Mole has been known to slip a live mole from his pocket into your garden.

Like his animal namesakes, the Mole was blissfully unaware of what the police had planned.

The Mole was also ‘skilled’ at ‘despatching’ rabbits and a number of other entities. Not for him the furry little creatures of ‘Watership Down’ Along with magpies, squirrels, foxes, ducks, geese, hens, cows, sheep, ostriches, llamas, pigs, goats and deer, there were two very simple criteria:

Can you eat it? Kill it. If no, does it damage livestock or property? The only animals outside these rules were ‘pets’, which for the Mole and many of his countryside ilk meant nothing, as any ‘pets’ destroyed by packs of dogs chasing foxes could be easily replaced.

The police had staked out the lawn for weeks. The Mole couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been able to flush the little ******* out. Something was pre-occupying them. He had to careful with the poison, as catching a lung full of it would mean despatching himself to the great slaughterhouse in the sky.

Another of the Mole’s extraordinary talents was his ability to create and distribute gossip about people, innocent or not. Misguided souls kept him informed about non- and real events in case they were themselves slagged off, or to prevent an unwelcome visitor to their lawn.

So, the Mole ‘got wind’ of police activity in the area, without knowing what it was about. On the scale of deference, the police get a mixed rating, but interfering with the ‘ways of the countryside’ rendered them lower than vermin.

The night was fast arriving. The police had 200 officers in riot gear on standby. The Mole had waited long enough. The moles were taking the ****. The very fabric of society was being undermined by their continued existence.

Midnight struck. Total mayhem broke out. Police ‘intelligence’ had omitted the bit about the lawn collapsing, which as they ran across it, began to resemble the trenches at the Somme. Bodies piled up, guns went off indiscriminately. The sky was lit up like the 4^th of July. The Mole was trampled into the ground, his canisters of poison gas adding to the carnage.

The Mole left his body and ascended to heaven. Meeting him there were thousands of moles, lined up in two rows, like a guard of honour. As he passed them, they broke out in polite applause. After the moles came hundreds of rabbits and assorted creatures. As he headed towards the hall of the great tractor, he heard cheering from previous neighbours he had rubbished and gossiped about in the past. Those on earth he had considered of higher social status, his ‘betters’, were stood side by side with his gossip victims.

As he walked on, by now in total confusion, up the hall steps he saw two tiny creatures perched on a velvet cushion, talking in a high pitched voice.

“Welcome, we’ve been expecting you.” said Al Molarwi.

“What kept you?” said the mole without a hole, “We’ve been here for some time.”

Molarwi went on: “We could have told you about the police, but we hardly rate much higher than weeds in your world view. Equally, the police didn’t consider it necessary to tell anyone local about the raid, except Lord Sod, who only speaks to you once a fortnight.”

The mole without a hole piped up again: “We would rather not be shot or poisoned, but we know that’s what you do. At first we took it personally, then we realised few of you step outside your social conditioning, and spend most of your lives asleep. In many ways, we moles who act consciously doing what moles do, are more awake than you are.”

“Relax, you’ll be here for while,” said a passing rabbit, “A chance to plan your next incarnation. Over there you’ll find some role models. Self-esteem, independence, self-worth and compassion. And believe it or not, some of your ex-neighbours have learned from you. You see, they despised you for your gossiping, but then realised they were feeding you themselves.”

The Mole then heard a familiar voice.

“Yes Elmo, it’s me. “ His mother was carrying an expensive hat. “This is what you will get for your 16^th birthday, if you want it of course, when you go back to the earth plane. It’s wring proof.”

Elmo reflected for the first time since his ‘Mole’ incarnation. Moleskine was the legendary notebook that Van Gogh and Ernest Hemingway used. But was it real?

JS, 28 June 2006.

* a [perhaps unique] form of deference in the UK, is for some people to remove their flat cap when ‘betters’ are present, and fold their cap tightly, and wring it, often unconsciously. It has often been satirised in films and television programmes set in the 20^th century.