Dive for cover! The Germans have landed

Usually, that telltale ting-a-ling is the signal for me to dive to the floor and lie flat, hoping that the visitor will go away.

This tactic has always worked, except on one notable occasion a number of years ago when, roaring instructions to my wife to also ignore the caller, I suddenly found myself being introduced to a stranger who had already been granted admission.

"John, this is Douglas - you know, Margo's husband - he's just popped in to pick up that copy of The Budgerigar Breeder you borrowed from him."

"Er, hello Douglas," I wheezed, the shag pile playing havoc with my asthma. "I was just checking this carpet for mites. You can't be too careful, you know."

I was convinced I'd fooled him. However, after a while, I decided that having a conversation lying flat on one's face with the other person standing up doesn't make for satisfactory social intercourse.

So I picked myself up off the floor and hoped he didn't suspect anything.

Back to the present. The doorbell went again - and to my great relief she-who-must-be-obeyed did the honours. It was two representatives from a major gas company.

Now, we had forsaken this particular firm some time ago and fallen into the arms of a rival. Their mission was to lure us back into the fold. And what a novel technique they employed.

The woman was clutching a clipboard to which was attached a cutting from a national newspaper. The headlines, heavily underscored with marker pen, told the story of how the rival camp was no longer a British enterprise but was now owned by a German company.

"GERMANS!" boomed her male companion. "Germans now own the firm that supplies your gas. GERMANS! Are you happy about that, Madam?"

I listened intently, my ear now attached to the door like one of those suckers on a toy arrow. I kept hearing him shout "Germans!" the words becoming fainter as the couple were eventually ushered back out the door, my wife muttering some vague promise to think about it and ring them at some stage.

Heavens above, this could be serious, I mused. What might happen if, say, we were late paying a bill - would squadrons of Dorniers and Heinkels be sent to bomb our humble home?

Could it be Poland all over again, with Panzer divisions crunching and cracking their way through the larchlap fence by the leylandii? Phosgene instead of North Sea gas?

Stupid boy. No, the worse that was likely to happen might be at any moment now when our doorstep duo called across the road at the home of a neighbour whose wife actually is German.

Let's see them try their uniquely idiotic selling patter at that house...

The things people say. I never cease to be amazed at some of the stuff people blurt out. Here's another example of mouth becoming disconnected from brain.

A few days ago, the Evening News carried a story about how Worcestershire County Council was to appeal to the Government for more funding to avoid a swingeing council tax rise of more than 15 per cent.

The council's director of financial services, Mike Weaver, said the county could argue that it was as equally deserving of extra cash as any of the more-favoured authorities in the Midlands.

That's fair comment, Mike. A 15 per cent hike in tax, with no improved services in return, hitting the low-paid and pensioners who have no means of supplementing their income, certainly doesn't have me straining at the leash desperate to start writing cheques.

Cabinet member Coun Tom Wells wasn't impressed, either. He told the meeting that he was "outraged" by the level of Government funding the council was set to receive.

Not so good old solid Coun Colin Beardwood, who said the council had to show leadership.

"Worcestershire people haven't been paying their share," he trumpeted. "If you want the level of services that some places have, you can't revel in the fact that you are paying nothing in council tax."

Now, I haven't a clue what he was on about, or even what language he was speaking. But just assuming that it was indeed English, and not Outer Vindaloo, I take it that the noble councillor was merely indulging himself in what is known as a "Rookerism."

Ah, yes. A Rookerism is a collective term for a sentence or phrase whereby a number of individuals, finding themselves in an unpleasant situation, are told by an extremely important politician to like it or lump it.

Cultural note: The more etymologically-inclined among you may remember New Labour's Lord Rooker telling the villagers of Throckmorton last year to stop whinging and gratefully accept an invasion of several hundred asylum seekers into their parish.

Back then, his lordship hinted that it was about time the sturdy yeomen of Worcestershire pulled a collective finger out and did their patriotic duty and do their share in helping the huddled masses.

It was imperative these country Johnnies did something, inferred our man from the verdant meadows and rolling hills of sunny Brummagem. Hear, hear, I say. Are there no patriots left in this country anymore?

But returning to local politics, it does makes you wonder whether Coun Beardwood made his comments for a dare. You know, somebody had bet he wouldn't come out with the most electorally-suicidal statement imaginable and still believe he had a chance of re-election come the next polling day.

No, seriously, I admire Coun Beardwood. We need more politicians like him, people who are not afraid to tell it like it is, regardless of the fact that the average voter - what's left of them - has the memory of an elephant and the social awareness of a chipmunk.

And there's another thing. Voters. To continue with the mammalian metaphors, they do appear to be suffering the same fate as China's giant pandas.

However, your average punter is the reverse of those famed eastern cuddly-wuddlies that can only exist on a diet of bamboo and reject everything else.

For years, the man in the ballot box was quite content to exist on a diet of "bull" - now he rejects that and accepts anything, literally anything else.

Where will it lead, I often wonder as I recline in my favourite armchair, clutching a mug of ale, safe and secure at Dun Subbin, my fastness deep in the Battenhall wildwood. And thank heavens it is she-who-must-be-obeyed who always answers the door, aided by my trusty guard-rabbit Edward, a kindly coney who continually sniffs the air, alert to the presence of any intruders.

Ting-a-ling. It's the doorbell once again. Could it be the Germans? It can't be - I pay by standing order, bang on the nail every month. It's a false alarm. Someone's wearing what appears to be a rosette in his lapel. Oh no... it couldn't be... yes it is!

But I know just what to do. Everybody, quick - lie down on the floor. We're not in.