This evening my daughter came downstairs and announced that the cat Frankie had picked up a tick. It was attached to his neck and was already bloated like a filthy leech.
The internet provided conflicting advice, but all were agreed that it was necessary to get it off immediately. The cat wasn't too fussed about all this. He was just purring sleepily.
In the absence of the special tool to lever out the tick, the advice was to use a loop of cotton and pull steadily. While my daughter held the cat I looped the thread around the tick and pulled. There was a discernable click as the tick was released.
The tick still had all its legs (eight of them - it's of the spider family). The advice was to immerse it in alcohol. But why waste alcohol? Brainwave - use methylated spirit. That is methyl alcohol. So we dropped the tick in a thimbleful of meths.
Second brainwave. Meths is inflammable, why not immolate the creature. No sooner said than done. We found the metal top of a paint tin and put the now bedraggled tick onto the lid. Then poured some meths on top and lit up.
So surrounded by blue flames the tick had a funeral a la Brunnhilde and Siegfriede.
It struck me later that the Tick is a perfect metaphor for the Labour party. They suck your blood, become bloated and are almost impossible to destroy.
Immolation may be the only way to get these bastards out. The House last burned down in 1837 or so. Time for another conflagration?