James Griffin: Roll out the artillery, war is declared

Opinion

We are under terrorist attack. They are everywhere, yet they are invisible. They are using psychological warfare. They are sending in wave after wave of suicide bombers. We are under attack from al-Cicada.

Now, when I say "we" I mean our house is under attack, from ravaging renegade insect hordes. They are everywhere, all around us, the cicadas of al-Cicada. I know they're there because I can hear them.

In fact, I can hear bugger all else, above their incessant chirruping. What are they saying? What fiendish message are they sending? And why do they have to send it all freaking day? Then, when the fiendish insect terrorists of al-Cicada have softened us up with their audio assault, they send in the kamikaze boys.

Sometimes they come in squadrons, battering themselves into eventual submission by colliding with every surface and object in our kitchen before, inevitably, dying in the sink. Why always the sink? What are they trying to achieve? What are al-Cicada trying to destroy? Their uber-objective is not clear, as they smack themselves into insect oblivion.

Sure, they're insects and we're not, so there will always be a language gap, but some kind of clue as to what they're actually after would be nice. Are they trying to send us a message about plumbing? Is that why they always die in the sink? And why do they have to be so noisy about everything?

If al-Cicada want to communicate with us, to tell us their manifesto and to enter into political discourse, can't they do it in a more gentile fashion instead of coming at us like mini Rodney Hides with wings instead of a yellow jacket? Probably the only good thing about the cicada madness round our place is that we have metal lampshades in the kitchen which make a really cool "ting" sound when a cicada goes berserk and slams into it. Ting! Ting! Ting, ting, ting! And then into the sink with a "tung".

On the whole, however, I just don't get cicadas, I really don't. I mean, there are many pointless things on this planet - Britney Spears, for example - but the cicada really must be up near the very top of the list of Most Useless Creatures Ever. As far as I can tell they exist only to annoy humans and to give our cats something to chase round the kitchen, thus pretending they are mighty hunters.

Apparently all cicadas do is breed, then they live underground for ages, then they come out to breed again. Noisily. Their entire life cycle, as far as I can tell, is kind of like the insect version of Friday night down at the Viaduct. Isn't there some way of harnessing all that energy cicadas expend trying to get laid and turning it to something more useful than annoying me?

Surely any creature that can rack up 120db in volume by essentially flexing their abs and shaking their timbals can be used for good? They could keep some in Parliament and when a politician has droned on for long enough, the Speaker could give the order "release the cicadas" just to drown him/her out. That would, at least, be doing society a small favour. Rumour has it you can eat cicadas, though why anyone would want to is another thing about the insect that is a bit of a mystery to me.

All I can really say on the matter is; (a) no way, not ever, not me; and (b) anyone who does is more than welcome to come and forage in our garden - we have a sumptuous all-you-can-eat buffet waiting here for you. Yep, I've got a War on Terror going on round at my place. Me versus al-Cicada. I know they're out there, the fiendish devils. I'm not entirely clear on their cunning plan but I know it runs counter to my own desire for a nice, quiet existence, especially one without a shrieking banshee of an insect going bananas in my kitchen before dying among the dirty dishes.

Oh yeah, they may have the numbers and one feeler on the volume knob of life, but (because they're insects and don't have much in the way of a brain) they don't realise who they're dealing with. Like in the actual War on Terror, al-Cicada has awoken a sleeping giant - literally, some mornings. I'm going to go all Iraq on their asses any day now. And I won't stop until I, too, can unfurl a "mission accomplished" banner on the metaphorical aircraft carrier of my silent backyard. Yes, al-Cicada, I am your worst nightmare. I am your very own George W. Bush as you hide in my bushes. Be afraid, al-Cicada, be very afraid.