Pushing the boundaries of journalistic endeavour

after months and months of writer's block (caused in no small part by people telling me they actually liked my previous column), I finally found inspiration this evening in the form of a plucky fly. Kind of like Robert the Bruce. Thanks to Gav for pointing out the obvious, i.e. that it was a spider in the story. So much for poetic license.

Anyway, it's not pulitzer prize winning and probably won't get published but here is my story. And to think I was worried I have nothing to contribute to the world.

"I have had many moments of epiphany down the pub over my illustrious drinking career, but not many have topped tonight.

There I was, chatting away with my girlfriend (and no doubt boring her to tears), when I glanced down. Lo-and-behold, a small fly was doing the doggy paddle across my pint. Normally a student of the “mush it into the table for being so cheeky” philosophy, on this occasion I adopted a more philanthropic bent. Don’t ask me why – perhaps it was the sunshine and company – but I noticed the little fella was swimming like dixie in a fruitless attempt to get out of his predicament.

In a stubby finger went - almost drowning him at first - until he rose majestically from the San Miguel, looking more than a little soggy. At this point I must admit I still thought it better to put him out of his misery, but a supportive word from my girlfriend persuaded me to give him a shot. He was a sorry sight, wings plastered down over his back legs, staggering in a manner all too familiar to those with a love of the pop, but then a remarkable thing happened.

Perched on my finger, he started to dry his front legs, then crawl up my hand before eventually coming to rest on the leaf-like greenery of my hoodie. A bit more staggering, then his middle legs started functioning, and things started looking up. I still thought “no way is he ever flying again”, but suddenly his back legs came free and he started purring his wings like an airline pilot checking the controls before take off. A few practice buzzes – “yep, all seems in order” – and off he flew into the sunset. I like to think he returned to the waiting fly army hordes and shouted “stop the invasion! The humans are actually all right!” - kind of in the same way as Woody Allen’s character in A Bug’s Life, but different. That, however, was a potential side effect of the lager.

It made me feel great, that little moment. Next time you’re tempted to crush someone, spare a thought for what might be. A fly’s life is short, but to allow it to live another day by a moment’s thought makes me feel like a better person - even if half that life is spent with a raging hangover. Welcome to my world."

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