By Mike Hytner on October 11, 2010 in Other

Imagine the scene. It’s 3:37am and there is a rather pasty, bald man wearing nothing but a pair of underpants poised in a menacing way over a bed. A girl lying below him jolts from her slumber, suddenly alert, taking a few seconds to work out whether this is real or just a horrible nightmare. When she realises it is the former, the only thing stopping her from screaming, as the chicks always do in horror flicks, is the fact that she knows the man. It’s her husband. It’s me. On goes the light and a rolled-up newspaper clenched tightly in my fist soon gives away the bizarre and initially unsettling scene: it’s an early morning mosquito death squad patrol.

She doesn’t need to ask what on earth I’m doing; we’ve been here before. And despite the frequency of these scenes being played out, it still rankles my better half that I allow mozzies to get to me so much. But, as a Pommy, I just can’t help it. In my bedroom, they attack discriminately; they solely target me because of my ‘Pomminess’ and my rare, sweet, juicy blood. Put me in a room full of people and the rest of you will be just fine. I’m the best mozzie repellent out there, simply because I soak up all the hits myself.

I have no idea what it is about my blood, but it seems to be far more quaffable than that carried by your average Australian person. It must be something like the mozzie version of a fine wine, aged for years and then imported for their drinking pleasure, and when it arrives, they cannot help but crack it open and get stuck straight in. The inebriated insects must have a field day with me around. That is, until the death squad catches up with them.

Yeah, that’s right. They might have slurped down their own body weight in the delicious nectar of my veins but it comes at a cost and the hangover doesn’t half stink. Retribution is swift, all the more so because they’ve had the temerity to wake me up with that distinctive and infuriating high-pitched buzzing. Once that sound cranks up, I know I won’t be able to sleep until it’s muted. Permanently. Hence the death squad – regrettably the only way to deal with this sorry situation. Rolled up newspapers, magazines, books, pillows, towels, purpose-made sprays and swatters – even bare hands – all turn into tools with which bloody vengeance can be reaped.

It’s not easy, mind; they can be crafty little blighters, sometimes hiding out under the bed or behind the curtains until the lights are off again and they think it’s safe to come back out. It’s a dirty war in many ways, and an unfair one. On one side, the smaller, I would say more devious foe is the clear aggressor who only mounts attacks under the cover of darkness, while the bigger, stronger side is hampered by fatigue and rendered impotent without the lights on.

As with many conflicts, neither side can claim to be a real winner. Certainly not me when the scars of battle appear about 24 hours later with welts bubbling up from under my skin that are not just itchy but painful too. The wife regularly suggests during these standoffs at ungodly hours that I just let them bite me, ignore the buzzing and go back to sleep, but she is underestimating the Pommy body’s reaction to a ‘mere’ mozzie bite. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why Aussies don’t react in the same way. You bastards.
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