Recently in fauna Category
Fiscal millipedes (Diplopodus voraxa)
These unusual insects live among the computery chaos of the trading floor of the Stock Exchange, feeding on the testosterone-rich sweat of the traders. While she was prime minister, Margaret Thatcher kept a fiscal millipede in the Cabinet Office as a sort of mascot.
Number of legs: Fluctuates according to the strength of the pound.
Appearance: Like a normal millipede, but pinstriped, with a greedy face.
Habitat: The Stock Exchange, Moss Bross.
Diet: Sweat, champagne.
Social grouping: There is no such thing as fiscal millipede society.
Reproduction: Fiscal millipedes lay their tiny eggs on the underside of a fifty-pound note.
Relationship with man: Because fiscal millipedes thrive on the testosterone of the traders, economists who carefully study their health and population numbers can track the buoyancy of the financial market. For example, numerous, fat millipedes mean a lot of testosterone and the frenzy of a bull market, whereas fewer, skinnier millipedes mean less testosterone and a more cautious bear market. Of course, economists can more easily track the financial market by just reading the papers, but they like to study the fiscal millipedes because when you pick them up their little legs make a pleasant tickling sensation on the fingers.
Useful byproducts: Instructive metaphors about the evils of unchecked capitalism.
Threats: Eurocrats, the BBC.
These unusual insects live among the computery chaos of the trading floor of the Stock Exchange, feeding on the testosterone-rich sweat of the traders. While she was prime minister, Margaret Thatcher kept a fiscal millipede in the Cabinet Office as a sort of mascot.Number of legs: Fluctuates according to the strength of the pound.
Appearance: Like a normal millipede, but pinstriped, with a greedy face.
Habitat: The Stock Exchange, Moss Bross.
Diet: Sweat, champagne.
Social grouping: There is no such thing as fiscal millipede society.
Reproduction: Fiscal millipedes lay their tiny eggs on the underside of a fifty-pound note.
Relationship with man: Because fiscal millipedes thrive on the testosterone of the traders, economists who carefully study their health and population numbers can track the buoyancy of the financial market. For example, numerous, fat millipedes mean a lot of testosterone and the frenzy of a bull market, whereas fewer, skinnier millipedes mean less testosterone and a more cautious bear market. Of course, economists can more easily track the financial market by just reading the papers, but they like to study the fiscal millipedes because when you pick them up their little legs make a pleasant tickling sensation on the fingers.
Useful byproducts: Instructive metaphors about the evils of unchecked capitalism.
Threats: Eurocrats, the BBC.
The Tower of London has held a menagerie since the thirteenth century. It was a place where magnificent tigers, elephants and even polar bears cavorted for the pleasure of kings and queens. However, 800 years is a long time and the Beefeaters have not always managed to keep up such an impressive roster of animals. Here are the beasts that most disappointed the Royal crowds:
1. A parrot shouting 'Vive la France!'
2. A spider with six legs*
3. A moody little monkey
4. A fried egg in a nest
5. A pig's head on a pole**
6. A fairly hungry caterpillar
7. Richard Nixon
8. A goat chewing a Beefeater's sock
9. A shepherd's pie
10. Fred Bassett
*Historians now think this was probably just an ant
** After five years of bad reviews, the Beefeaters augmented this menagerie inmate by making it 'wink' every so often, via a simple contraption made out of fishing line. The new winking pig's head on a pole became one of the Tower of London's greatest attractions, drawing hundreds of thousands of visitors each year. Even Queen Victoria came to see it in 1859, although sadly she took offence at the pig's head 'getting fresh' and slapped it. The winking mechanism was irreprably destroyed.
1. A parrot shouting 'Vive la France!'
2. A spider with six legs*3. A moody little monkey
4. A fried egg in a nest
5. A pig's head on a pole**
6. A fairly hungry caterpillar
7. Richard Nixon
8. A goat chewing a Beefeater's sock
9. A shepherd's pie
10. Fred Bassett
*Historians now think this was probably just an ant
** After five years of bad reviews, the Beefeaters augmented this menagerie inmate by making it 'wink' every so often, via a simple contraption made out of fishing line. The new winking pig's head on a pole became one of the Tower of London's greatest attractions, drawing hundreds of thousands of visitors each year. Even Queen Victoria came to see it in 1859, although sadly she took offence at the pig's head 'getting fresh' and slapped it. The winking mechanism was irreprably destroyed.
(Photo: Tony Goulding, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0)
Early in the morning of 20 January 2006, a commuter made an unusual
call to the emergency services. Hesitantly, he said he wasn't sure if
he was hallucinating, but he thought he'd seen a whale in the Thames,
just by Canary Wharf. He wasn't hallucinating. At 8:17 am, the
authorities confirmed there was indeed a whale in the river - the first
cetacean in the capital since Dalston Whale Pond was drained in 1973.
Sightings followed throughout the day. By nine o'clock, the whale was approaching the Millennium Bridge. By ten, it had come ashore and was seen flopping down the escalators at Charing Cross tube station. An hour later, it was spotted enjoying elevenses at a smart café on the King's Road, and by noon it had joined the queue for Madame Tussauds.
The London whale breaches outside Selfridges on Oxford Street
The whale caused a sensation. Londonders abandoned their desks to get a glimpse of the vast marine mammal, checking rolling news reports and using mobile phones to find out where it had last been spotted. There was something of a scramble in the media to name the whale. ITN and Sky both came up with 'Whalo', the BBC went for 'Mr Whale', but it was the Evening Standard's headline, 'WOLFENSTEIN THE WHALE', that stuck in the public imagination.
Whale experts were concerned that the whale might become stressed in London, what with the crowds and dry conditions. Volunteers bravely approached Wolfenstein - an adult male more than forty feet in length - in an attempt to shoo him back toward deep water, or indeed any water at all. But the whale, now sporting a novelty policeman's helmet, seemed determined to continue sightseeting, and went on to visit the National Gallery and the British Museum, before becoming wedged in the turnstile of the London Dungeon.
Marine biologists tried to keep the beast alive, ladling water over his scaly skin and feeding him plankton flakes while a big crane was fetched, but to no avail. Late that afternoon, Wolfenstein slipped away, his last poignant moments captured by a Sky newscopter, his giant tongue still reflexively lapping at the Cornetto he had bought on the South Bank. By dusk, the Royal Navy were on the scene with an impromptu body bag made from a submarine cosy. A city mourned.
But never fear, the London Whale lives on: Wolfenstein's laminated skeleton now serves as a charming children's climbing frame in Regent's Park.
(Source images: Julian Robinson, Edgley César, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0)
Sightings followed throughout the day. By nine o'clock, the whale was approaching the Millennium Bridge. By ten, it had come ashore and was seen flopping down the escalators at Charing Cross tube station. An hour later, it was spotted enjoying elevenses at a smart café on the King's Road, and by noon it had joined the queue for Madame Tussauds.
The London whale breaches outside Selfridges on Oxford Street
The whale caused a sensation. Londonders abandoned their desks to get a glimpse of the vast marine mammal, checking rolling news reports and using mobile phones to find out where it had last been spotted. There was something of a scramble in the media to name the whale. ITN and Sky both came up with 'Whalo', the BBC went for 'Mr Whale', but it was the Evening Standard's headline, 'WOLFENSTEIN THE WHALE', that stuck in the public imagination.
Whale experts were concerned that the whale might become stressed in London, what with the crowds and dry conditions. Volunteers bravely approached Wolfenstein - an adult male more than forty feet in length - in an attempt to shoo him back toward deep water, or indeed any water at all. But the whale, now sporting a novelty policeman's helmet, seemed determined to continue sightseeting, and went on to visit the National Gallery and the British Museum, before becoming wedged in the turnstile of the London Dungeon.
Marine biologists tried to keep the beast alive, ladling water over his scaly skin and feeding him plankton flakes while a big crane was fetched, but to no avail. Late that afternoon, Wolfenstein slipped away, his last poignant moments captured by a Sky newscopter, his giant tongue still reflexively lapping at the Cornetto he had bought on the South Bank. By dusk, the Royal Navy were on the scene with an impromptu body bag made from a submarine cosy. A city mourned.
But never fear, the London Whale lives on: Wolfenstein's laminated skeleton now serves as a charming children's climbing frame in Regent's Park.
(Source images: Julian Robinson, Edgley César, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0)
Chimney snakes (chimchimini chimchimini)
These dangerous rooftop animals are not true snakes, but actually mammals - one theory is that they are weasels that became adapted to living in chimneys and other artificial tube-like structures, losing their legs over evolutionary time as a 'squirming' method of getting about proved more advantageous. In Victorian days, they were the bane of chimney sweeps - some of the bigger specimens could easily eat a sweep whole and still have room for a roof monkey. The creature was immortalised in Edgar Allan Poe's chilling tale, "Cough," Quoth The Chimn'y Snake.
Number of legs: Just four vestigial stumps.
Appearance: A sort of living draught excluder.
Habitat: Chimneys, ventilation ducts, church organs.
Diet: Soot, children.
Social grouping: Chimney snake society is basically like a pan of giant evil noodles.
Reproduction: When in heat, a female chimney snake suspends herself in her 'nest' chimney, takes soot into her lungs and puffs it out of the top of the chimney in a sexy pattern. Male chimney snakes, seeing these saucy smoke signals, race to her chimney. The first one to slither there will dislocate his jaw and engulf the whole chimney pot with his mouth, breathing in the female's smoke puffs which now come at an urgent, pulsing rate. These vigorous puffs of smoke cause the male chimney snake to hack up a sticky parcel of reproductive phlegm from his lungs, which double as gonads. The fertile mucus splatters on the inside walls of the chimney where the female chimney snake gathers it up at her leisure, using a bony appendage shaped like a teaspoon. Precisely what she does next with the gamete solution is unknown, and probably disgusting, but at any rate: six weeks later, a shower of hundreds of shoelace-sized newborn chimney snakes will pop out of her chimney at 180mph, then rain gently down on delicate parachutes made of placenta, falling into chimney pots all over London, ready to start the whole majestic cycle of chimney snake life again.
Relationship with man: Bad. Victorians always resented the fact that hundreds of young chimney sweeps and children playing hide-and-seek were taken by chimney snakes each year. They hunted the creatures down vociferously. Unfortunately, the only effective way of hunting a chimney snake known to Victorians involved lowering a small child down a chimney on a fishing line in an attempt to lure the serpent up to the rooftop, where it could be safely doused in acid. The hazards involved in this technique were many and, on average, five children were killed for every chimney snake dissolved.
Useful byproducts: The long, flexible spine of the chimney snake is much prized by Goths as a sort of scary belt.
Threats: Santa.
Number of legs: Just four vestigial stumps.
Appearance: A sort of living draught excluder.
Habitat: Chimneys, ventilation ducts, church organs.
Diet: Soot, children.
Social grouping: Chimney snake society is basically like a pan of giant evil noodles.
Reproduction: When in heat, a female chimney snake suspends herself in her 'nest' chimney, takes soot into her lungs and puffs it out of the top of the chimney in a sexy pattern. Male chimney snakes, seeing these saucy smoke signals, race to her chimney. The first one to slither there will dislocate his jaw and engulf the whole chimney pot with his mouth, breathing in the female's smoke puffs which now come at an urgent, pulsing rate. These vigorous puffs of smoke cause the male chimney snake to hack up a sticky parcel of reproductive phlegm from his lungs, which double as gonads. The fertile mucus splatters on the inside walls of the chimney where the female chimney snake gathers it up at her leisure, using a bony appendage shaped like a teaspoon. Precisely what she does next with the gamete solution is unknown, and probably disgusting, but at any rate: six weeks later, a shower of hundreds of shoelace-sized newborn chimney snakes will pop out of her chimney at 180mph, then rain gently down on delicate parachutes made of placenta, falling into chimney pots all over London, ready to start the whole majestic cycle of chimney snake life again.
Relationship with man: Bad. Victorians always resented the fact that hundreds of young chimney sweeps and children playing hide-and-seek were taken by chimney snakes each year. They hunted the creatures down vociferously. Unfortunately, the only effective way of hunting a chimney snake known to Victorians involved lowering a small child down a chimney on a fishing line in an attempt to lure the serpent up to the rooftop, where it could be safely doused in acid. The hazards involved in this technique were many and, on average, five children were killed for every chimney snake dissolved.
Useful byproducts: The long, flexible spine of the chimney snake is much prized by Goths as a sort of scary belt.
Threats: Santa.
Busby mites (minisculum militaris)
These endearingly tiny insects make their home in the warm, cosy environs of the Grenadier Guards' distinctive Busby hats. Far from being a pest, these little creatures are much loved by their soldier hosts and there is even a Royal Society dedicated to their protection.
Number of legs: Too many to count!
Appearance: A sort of silvery, microscopic centipede with a face a bit like an elk. An elk with compound eyes.
Habitat: Busby hats of the Grenadier Guards, The Vatican.
Diet: Bits of moth, peanuts (given to them as treats by the Grenadier Guards).
Social grouping: Busby mites live in a highly stratified society. The status of an individual mite increases with its proximity to the base of the Busby, where the heat of the host's head provides warmth. Busby mites defend these higher-status territories ferociously, locking antlers (actually stiffened antennae) to fight. These contests can be so violent that occasionally a Busby mite is thrown clear of the Busby and into a soldier's tea.
Reproduction: The mating ritual of the Busby mite is unusual: it depends on a symbiotic relationship with the Grenadier Guards and their famous marching music. To attract a mate, the male Busby mite hums along to the tune of the marching band. This tiny sound - only five or six nanodecibels loud and produced by a row of mouths along the male's thorax, is nonetheless audible to the female Busby mite's keen ears. She will try and choose a mate whose humming harmonises most closely with, say, 'Parade of the Wooden Soliders'. The height of the Busby mite mating season coincides with the Trooping of the Colour, after which the Grenadier Guards each clean about seven pints of congealing Busby mite gametes from the matted fur of their Busbies.
Relationship with man: Very good. As we've seen, the Busby mites depend on the music of the marching band in their mating rituals, and in turn the Grenadier Guards like to know that the little insects are up there in their hats so they don't get lonely when guarding the Crown Jewels in the dark.
Useful byproducts: Busby mite legs can be used as a substitute for velcro.
Threats: dry cleaning, republicanism.
These endearingly tiny insects make their home in the warm, cosy environs of the Grenadier Guards' distinctive Busby hats. Far from being a pest, these little creatures are much loved by their soldier hosts and there is even a Royal Society dedicated to their protection.Number of legs: Too many to count!
Appearance: A sort of silvery, microscopic centipede with a face a bit like an elk. An elk with compound eyes.
Habitat: Busby hats of the Grenadier Guards, The Vatican.
Diet: Bits of moth, peanuts (given to them as treats by the Grenadier Guards).
Social grouping: Busby mites live in a highly stratified society. The status of an individual mite increases with its proximity to the base of the Busby, where the heat of the host's head provides warmth. Busby mites defend these higher-status territories ferociously, locking antlers (actually stiffened antennae) to fight. These contests can be so violent that occasionally a Busby mite is thrown clear of the Busby and into a soldier's tea.
Reproduction: The mating ritual of the Busby mite is unusual: it depends on a symbiotic relationship with the Grenadier Guards and their famous marching music. To attract a mate, the male Busby mite hums along to the tune of the marching band. This tiny sound - only five or six nanodecibels loud and produced by a row of mouths along the male's thorax, is nonetheless audible to the female Busby mite's keen ears. She will try and choose a mate whose humming harmonises most closely with, say, 'Parade of the Wooden Soliders'. The height of the Busby mite mating season coincides with the Trooping of the Colour, after which the Grenadier Guards each clean about seven pints of congealing Busby mite gametes from the matted fur of their Busbies.
Relationship with man: Very good. As we've seen, the Busby mites depend on the music of the marching band in their mating rituals, and in turn the Grenadier Guards like to know that the little insects are up there in their hats so they don't get lonely when guarding the Crown Jewels in the dark.
Useful byproducts: Busby mite legs can be used as a substitute for velcro.
Threats: dry cleaning, republicanism.
