“Mr Weaver said there was no need for people to start fearing an onslaught of badger attacks.”
I’m childishly amused by people who go for short walks in the Lake District, in warm weather, along managed paths, laden with hundreds of pounds-worth of boots, multilayer survival garments, multiple maps, flasks, and odd walking sticks. It’s best to be careful if climbing a difficult hill in changeable weather, but I often joke that someone in suburbia is telling tales of giant bear-like badgers, packs of terrible man-hunting foxes, and moles that can drag a full-grown man to his doom.
“Have you packed the fox-repellent spray dear?” “Yes, and I’ve sharpened the anti-badger stick too. Remember poor George, they only found his feet.” “I’ll pack the flare gun too, just in case.”
Of course, now a real badger has now gone on a violent suburban rampage, I expect walkers with tasers and bayonets.
The poor thing was killed, but he managed to chew up a man’s arm rather badly and chase policemen, so a dog wouldn’t have expected anything better.
