Having received a request to air my views on forsaking the rat race by a dear fan, I feel honour bound to disclose that I am ambivalent on the subject as I hope to explain to my burgeoning readership in this my 3rd Hub. (Those of you who were eagerly awaiting my thoughts on the importance of sex in a steady relationship, will have to wait until next week, I think you will find it is worth the wait.) She who must be obeyed has had some kind of mid-life crisis and has managed to convince my best friend that we should leave our suburban life of cable TV and central heating, to set up home in rural Brittany, in a ruined farm house, with only the most basic of facilities. "Ooh how brave" , I hear some of you gasp. Arguably, it is the act of a menopausal, left-wing hippie, who is shirking her responsibilities in the modern capitalist world. Forsaking the rat race my furry little backside! Let me elaborate.

 Apparently, they had been plotting the move for several years.  That explains all their little jaunts abroad whilst Loo and I languished in a dog borstal.  It also explains why furniture kept disappearing in the large red van they acquired.  Loo suggested that they had consulted a Feng Shui expert and gone in for minimalism, the idiot.  Then there were the strangers who came poking round the place, preceded by an orgy of cleaning.  A chap couldn't cock his leg without being yelled at.  Even the carpet was changed, the place just didn't smell of home.  Then my bed, with an odour that had taken years to mature to just the right level of doggy goodness, was taken to the bottom of the garden and burnt!  Having been dragged backwards and forward to the vets to have whacking great needles inserted in places you wouldn't credit, we were bundled into cages and watched our old house receding into the distance to the dulcet tones of Marilyn Manson.  Its a wonder we haven't been emotionally scarred for life.

However, our new home isn't that bad. There's plenty of room for Loo to run around in, she can be such a pain if she hasn't had a regular work out, she's completely addicted to exercise. The outbuildings provide wet weather entertainment and the nightlife is great. For some reason She doesn't appreciate our night shift noise. I wouldn't mind but it is our job to dispose of vermin and its hardly our fault if they disappear into the crumbling walls. You'd think she would show more gratitude when we flag up a mouse at 3 in the morning.  She also has a weird attitude when it comes to the cows.  They enjoy a few laps of the bottom field but she goes ballistic if we so much as look in their direction.  In fact there are so many no go areas that it is becoming a kind of torture.  There are the hens, the precious goats, the dog down the lane, all out of bounds and yet so alluring.  But I digress, lets get back to her motives for upping sticks and dragging us to this exciting but largely forbidden place.

Ever since I gave her my blessing and she hooked up with my best friend, she has been filling his head full of nonsense.  Apparently, Blighty was too noisy.  I concede that the police helicopters hovering over the house at 4 in the morning were a bit disconcerting.  The supermarket being open at the same time more than compensated for this though and meant that she could always pop to Tescos' and pick up a few munches for me and the bean pole. I have always found that the stocking of Christmas selection boxes in September a sensible idea, giving her ample time to give into the cravings, wolf them down and then buy them for who ever all over again. Why she objected so strongly to honest shopkeepers cashing in on the one real blow out event of the year is beyond me.  Christmas is not just a day.  Its the four month run up that's so important.  By boxing day, we're all heaving a sigh of relief and tucking into the hot cross buns.  According to she who must be obeyed, out of control capitalism was to blame for the degeneration of society and she was not going to participate a moment longer!  Very worthy, but surprise, surprise, she soon changed her tune when housing prices collapsed.

Oh yes, anti-capitalist right up to the point that her own house started to depreciate. Gordon Browns' name was mud in our household, I can tell you. In fact, Loo learnt some really bad swear words during this period and most of them weren't from me. She went from Hugh Fearnley Whats His Name to Norman Tebbit in exactly the time it took for the estate agent to calculate the worth of our family dwelling. Never mind that the rest of the Capitalist world was going to hell in a hand cart, she felt the timing was specifically directed at her in a cosmic attempt to scupper her well deserved happiness. And you think I have an ego!

Personally, I'm all for rampant capitalism. After all, my breed of dog exists because of it. In the beginning when wolves were first involved with mankind, it was a commercial arrangement. Wolf cubs got fed and sheltered and in return, worked the night shift as an early warning system. Much like dogs kept by the homeless. They aren't just there to gain your sympathy into coughing up a few quid you know, they also wake up their owner before excitable youths set fire to his bed after chucking out time. However, Jack Russell's were right there at the dawn of modern capitalism, cashing in on a niche market - rat catching for entertainment during the Victorian period. Oh yes, you can forget your pedigree breeds, if you were a working class bloke who wanted some spare cash for your gin habit, you could go far with the right Jack. Top ratters made big money and kept their owners little ones in shoes and rotten fruit, whilst ridding the middens of the industrial landscape of their disease ridden vermin. Of course the proletariat still caught typhus, typhoid and cholera from the water but you can't have everything. So, the needs of the working man to make a few quid from the killing of animals for sport created the adorable creature you see before you today. Jacks are a direct product of wage slaves supplementing their penury with enterprising endeavor.

 So, she may think that she's dropping out and tuning in to the new wave of 'back to nature, ooh eggs taste so much better when you know which hens' bottom they came out of' but she'll be back the moment shes' run out of that anti-aging cream she's so fond of.  Yep, won't be long before she'll be hiring me and little Loo out to French farmers for the price of an exfoliant.  Exploiting the working class (all right, we're not a mass but you catch my drift) for the price of a rubber chicken and a scratch behind the ear.  She hasn't forsaken the rat race, she's just bunking off!