The edible dormouse
Who knew that the vile little Glis glis is an endangered species and must be spared extermination? Not Maureen Lipman
Three days at Champneys health resort seemed a good idea at the time. A reprieve for me from filming Coronation Street; and, for my partner, Guido, a distraction from the heavy-booted mice in his kitchen.
Unfortunately, Champneys had the builders in – which meant dust sheets, orchestral hammering and mile-long circuits to and from our room.
Despite this, our skin was spotless and our spirits higher when we returned to Guido’s house in Gerrards Cross to find the pre-arranged pest control van – ‘Environmental Hygiene’ scrawled across its side – and Charlie, the bobble-hatted pest controller, on the drive.
‘Can’t set any traps,’ he announced, ‘See, it’s not rats or mice. I seen a picture your lady took and what you’ve got is a Glis glis.’ ‘A what?’ ‘A Glis glis. Can’t put poison down. It’s endangered, isn’t it.’ ‘But what is a Glis glis?’ ‘It’s an edible dormouse,’ Charlie mumbled apologetically.
I asked what kind of person ate dormice, and he said the Romans did.
So how, I asked, might we get rid of such a historic delicacy – a delicacy that samples the contents of the fruit bowl and peppers the kitchen with Glis-piss every evening before shinning up into a cupboard to leave a deposit – if we weren’t allowed to poison it?
Charlie explained that, for £132, he’d give me a cage in which to trap it. He’d then come and remove it, giving me another cage in case it had a couple of co-conspirators. ‘Have you got an apple?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got a banana.’ ‘Not for a Glis glis. Apples they like. Quartered.’
‘So why don’t you carry a bag of apples when you give out the cages?’
‘I didn’t know it was a Glis glis when I come out.’
He offered me up to five cages, warning me that, on the appearance of a sixth Glis glis, another £132 would have to exchange hands.
‘And will you block up the holes where it gets in?’ I asked.
“Sorry, you’ll need to get on to Environmental Health for that.’
‘Let me get this right.’ I said, ‘I give you £132 and you give me a cage. I give you an apple, quarter it, put it in said cage, and go away leaving the holes in the walls for more Glis glis to come and shit on my bananas?’
At this point, a neighbour, Ian, appeared, to ask after Guido.
‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘Have you got an apple?’ ‘An apple?’ It was as though I’d asked him for an Oriental sex toy. ‘For Guido’s Glis glis… He’s peckish…’ Charlie sheepishly asked if I’d like to speak to his supervisor. As I took his phone and embarked on the saga, I suddenly remembered a joke my brother told me when I was 12.
‘It’s like the joke about the man with the tapeworm!’ I gurgled. ‘What joke?’ asked the supervisor. ‘He consults a quack, who says he can get rid of the tapeworm if the man brings him two apples and a bar of chocolate.
‘The man returns a week later with the requested items. “Drop your trousers,” says the quack. “Bend down.” The man braces himself. The quack takes one apple and shoves it up the man’s bottom, followed by the other apple, waits for a count of ten, and then shoves the chocolate in the same direction. “Has the tapeworm gone?” asks the startled man. “Not yet. Come back next week. Bring two apples and a bar of chocolate.”
Next week, they go through the same procedure, and the next week and the next until the man is desperate. “Don’t panic!” says the quack, “Next time we get him! Bring two apples and a cricket bat.”
With some trepidation, the man returns a week later.
‘Once again, he shoves an apple up the man’s bottom. Then the second. “Wait,” says the quack. “Let’s count to ten. One, two…” and suddenly, the tape-worm pops its head out the man’s bum and squeaks, “Where’s my chocolate?” and the quack smashes it over the head with the bat.’
Has ever a stupider, older joke caused more explosive joy? Charlie, Guido and Ian, now clutching a Braeburn, all stared at me as I leaned on the car, exhausted, the helpless cackles of the supervisor ringing in my ears.
Since then, a week has passed and the Glis glis has been sighted just once, sitting on top of the cage munching an apple he had daintily extracted from the cage at no apparent cost to his liberty.
I should really send pest control packing, catch the rodent myself and release him in the dead of night on the common – where he could boast to his Glis glis chums that he’d just spent a fruitful week at Chumpneys.