A Cockroach’s Life
I know a bloke. His name is Phil. Phil’s a good bloke. Phil’s also a cockroach. One of the hardy species that will survive the approaching nuclear holocaust, and will dance on humanity’s ashes and bones when the fallout dust clears. The eventual and ultimate winner of Darwin’s Race Of Natural Selection. Ready set go, humans make it to the 21 st century more or less in one piece, then vote for some unaccountable psychopath one time too many and it’s boom and the mushroom cloud. Like the old song says “boom goes London, boom Paris, more room for you more room for me”. Last ones standing will be Phil and his mates, rubbing their scaly forelegs in glee at the prospect of ruling the radioactive desert that will be all that’s left of planet Earth. Phil is an enterprising fella. He used to live under the fridge at the house of a mate of mine, with his five thousand brothers, sisters, uncles, aunties, nieces, nephews, and unacknowledged illegitimate kids. He gets around. B...