Mozzy Cuntbourne

Unlike their English relatives, Japanese bugs are a menace to society and one that has seen me developing a manic glint, reminiscent of a serial killer.

I have been known to spend entire evenings, cross legged in the centre of my room, straining the lugholes to locate the position of the mosquitoes, which plagued my waking - and sleeping - hours all summer long.

These glorified vampires worked to transform my pasty skinned exterior into a scene from a Black Death reconstruction camp, engorged lumps and bumps forcing me to walk like a wind-up toy soldier, leaving usually friendly locals cowering in the wake of Zombie May Banks.

With an impeccable aim and ability to squash the little fuckers in one foul clap, no fly was safe.

Following a sleep-attack from a particularly gluttonous offender, which left me with a face resembling the product of a sordid love affair between a warty toad and Meatloaf, the culprit became my first victim, its innards making a satisfying squishy pop between my palms.

The harrowing memories of being awoken in such a manner are too horrific to recount.
Despite smearing its remains down my window, as a warning to mosquitoes Yubara wide, they sadly weren’t deterred from my delicious blood.

And so war was declared, my apartment transformed into a mosquito death camp, a tiny plug in egg my weapon of mass destruction.

The death toll reached uncountable figures under the reign of Ellie the Assassin.
With the last of the mosquito’s came the rise of the stink bugs.

Similar in shape and size to the less offensive cockroach, I was not forewarned of their odour, which is exactly how I would imagine an old corpse doused in Old Spice to smell.

Like Big Brother, stink bugs are everywhere. Dragging on an old vest top from the depths of my crammed drawer, I was surprised to see I had formed an obscurely placed extra nipple overnight.

Upon closer inspection, inside the supportive bodice upper half, a stink bug was snuggled in to regions of vest I never even knew existed.

Scooping these beasts up can prove dangerous as they excrete their ghastly serum across your hand. Like a broken heart, time is the only cure for the lingering sensation of bad.

The worst stink bug incident came one morning. Washed, showered, breakfasted and on the way out of the door, feeling dapper in my brand new jumper, I felt a tickle on my shoulder.

Scratching the area I was horrified at the smell that was unleashed, as the bug plummeted to the laminate flooring, wriggling on its back in that irritating way that badly designed hard-back bugs tend to.

I had been attacked from behind, off my guard. And so the foul playing, foul stinking stink bug found itself hurtling towards the valley of death outside my apartment with all the force an angry Ellie May could muster before, with no time to shower again, I was forced to spend the rest of the day explaining my disposition to wary colleagues.

The invasion of the stink bugs made me yearn for Colin the cockroach who, although a little noisy when he scuttled around during the night, was a good roommate, unlike his less savoury relatives.

But there is light relief at the end of the tunnel. For the past month I have been flat-sharing with Susie the Invincible, a resident red on black ladybug, who is no trouble at all. She flutters around a bit but mainly chills on my dressing table.

It’s not just the bugs that come into the home, but those who lurk outdoors which disturb the peace of rural society.

Cicadas and locusts engage in a vicious round-the-clock squawk off, harmonizing with a chorus of relentless frogs throughout Japan’s late spring “rainy season”.

Cicadas, which sound identical to Little Britain’s Anne, are the clear winner every time.

Finally let's not forget the weird array of alien bugs. Poisonous? I cannot tell, but they will meet death by pint glass in an every man for himself battle of survival.



And chanting woman?

Don’t get me started.