By Jordan Gardner, rattus norvegicus and father of 70

LONDON. The big rancid cheeseburger. The place where dreams are made, or were. Because it’s full and I’m getting out. Here’s why:

Too many new mouths to feed

My ancestors? Been here hundreds of years, mate. One of ‘em pissed on Shakespeare’s lost folio, ruined it. But now there’s rats with none of the tradition rocking up expecting prime access. How’s indigenous rodents getting on the property ladder when every bin’s staked out by buck-teethed pricks from Surrey?

Bins aren’t what they used to be

Back in the day, any bin’s rich pickings of freshly dumped kebab meat and grey chips. Now it’s all empty Huel bottles, vegan wraps and that camel’s piss kombucha. They’ve gentrified our rubbish, and it turns my stomach. And that’s coming fr

See Full Page