Fighting the Yank Invasion

The Americans have invaded us one too many times. It's time to fight back. We've suffered the agony of eating the products of that cereal (or is it serial?) breakfast peddler Mr Kellogg, we've sucked-up to Mr Hoover, Mr Otis Lifts Us Up Where We Belong and Mr Gates crashes our computers with amazing regularity.
Now we're showing signs of fighting back - but, as usual, on the Yankees' terms and conditions. So, Mr Boeing is suddenly finding Airbus a real high-flyer. Mr Hoover has realised that Mr Dyson's appliance is far superior and has had to resort to copying it (why suck once when you can suck eight times?). The Pentagon is realising that it can no longer monopolise the GPS system because Europe is sending up its own satellites to do the job. Mr Otis is "going down" and out. Mr Gates is realising that Linux is a real threat not to be laughed at. But at last we have decided to fight against an American invasion which has lasted for about the last 150 years - I refer you to the ominous scourge of sciurus carolinensis. This alien came innocuously to our country in the 19th century. It insinuated itself - not into our society but by the back door - into our forests. It started to usurp, and finally threaten the very existence of, some of our most dearly loved natives. In case you haven't twigged it yet because of my unusual slip into Latin, the alien of which I write is that monster, that genocidal rodent the Grey Squirrel.
With their cute, bushy tails and the way they sit up and hold nuts in their front paws while eating them, everyone thought what lovely, harmless little animals they are.
The native species referred to, of course, is the smaller and more timid red squirrel which has been driven from most of its natural habitat by the more aggressive (typical Yank) grey. Like most Yanks the grey is a voracious eater, even eating acorns - which are inedible to the reds (perhaps they have a religious prohibition on eating acorns, or did Tony Blair make it illegal?). The red squirrel is now restricted to small areas in the North of England and parts of Scotland. There is, I gather, a small outpost of reds on the Isle of Wight who had planned to retreat further onto the Needles but the sea washed that landmark away, much to the annoyance of many nesting gulls.
Now we have joined the fight. Not because of the plight of the reds - more because the forestry people have realised how much the ever-increasing population of these "tree rats" is damaging the trees in our remaining forests in the UK. The Forest of Dean, renowned for its lovely stands of English Oak, is having problems with the little devils stripping ALL the bark from trees, thus killing the plants and destroying the habititat of the wildlife in the forest. They are now trapping and killing the squirrels in a mass "cull". Is this genocide? I don't know - but if it is then it could be looked on as just desserts for the genocide committed against the reds. Probably it's a case of too little too late. Many would argue that this invasion is all part of natural evolution - just speeded up by the inadvertent intervention of man introducing the greys into UK. Others (mainly religious fanatics) would argue that it is all part of God's Wonderful Plan for the world.
But I still like to dream of the last little grey fighting to the end in his little bunker as the reds come storming back. The little critter gets on his mobile, dials a secret number and says: "Never mind the robot menu - GET ME THE PRESIDENT! Urgent Priority First Class!" . . . . "Hello George - uh, I'm sorry, Mr President - well the truth is Sir we cocked up. We didn't take into account the fact that the Brits resent invasions. We should have taken more note of what happened to that other Right-wing leader . . . What was his name? . . . ah yes, Hitler, that's the guy . . . Yes Sir, I'm the last remaining Grey in the forest - they're all around me now and I can't hold out much longer. I'll sing The Star-Spangled Banner as I go down Sir. You needn't send the choppers with the body bag for me - by the time they get here the foxes will have eaten me anyway. What's that Sir? A posthumous Purple Heart? Oh, thank you Sir! . . . . now let me see, what were the words of the Star Spangled Bann . . . . . "