fauna: October 2007 Archives
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.
