#Bristol - The Night My Mind Went Full Zoo: Gerbils, Gourmet Dogs, and Politicians Talking Out Their... Back Ends.

Warning: May Contain Traces of Barbecue Fantasies, Existential Canine Questions, An Election, and Metaphors Involving Cows (Going the Wrong Way).

So, another day dawns, and following yesterday's thoughtful exploration of dog meat as a culinary option, my evening took a decidedly more… domestic turn. I found myself wrestling with the crucial logistical question of gerbil skewer capacity. A quick consultation with Google, my usual fount of trivial yet vital information, proved surprisingly fruitless. One begins to suspect the internet isn't quite the all-encompassing brain we've been led to believe when receiving a reply such as this.

“While the actual number of gerbils you could fit on a barbecue skewer is zero (for so many ethically sound reasons!), your answer depends entirely on the point you're trying to make.

Are you skewering the idea of:

• Overcrowding or limited resources? Perhaps you'd say, "As many as a greedy landlord can cram into a tiny apartment."

• Thoughtless industrialisation or mass production? Maybe "Enough to represent the millions of identical, disposable widgets churned out by a factory."

It was then that my attention was diverted to why canine cuisine is more popular than feline cuisine. Please don’t ask how I think, as I still don’t know what neural pathways I seem to follow, and have to live with!

But, Google continued. Perhaps dogs are favoured over cats in certain cultures because:

• Loyalty translates to flavour: Maybe there's a belief that a dog's unwavering devotion tenderises the meat and infuses it with a uniquely "good boy" essence. Cats, being more independent, might be considered gamey and aloof on the palate.

• Bark versus meow: The theory could be that the deep, resonant bark of a dog somehow signifies a heartier, more substantial meal, whereas a delicate meow suggests a less fulfilling, perhaps even fussy, flavour profile.

• Size matters in satire: Dogs, generally being larger than cats, offer the potential for grander, more extravagant satirical feasts, perfect for skewering societal excesses. Imagine a "Great Dane Dinner" versus a mere "Siamese Snack." The visual impact alone lends itself to more biting commentary.

• The "fetch" factor: Perhaps there's a deeply ingrained cultural belief that an animal willing to fetch sticks is inherently more "deserving" of becoming the stick itself... metaphorically speaking, of course! Cats, with their discerning tastes and refusal to perform such menial tasks, might be seen as too refined for the barbecue.

• Narrative potential: The long history of dogs as companions and workers provides a richer tapestry for menu creation. One could imagine allegories where different breeds represent various social classes or political figures, making the culinary consumption a form of pointed social commentary. Cats, with their more enigmatic and less documented roles, offer less readily available fodder, I suppose.

By the time the clock struck one, my mind had achieved 'box of frogs' mode. Seeking intellectual stimulation (or at least, something to distract me from cooking pets), I tuned into a talk radio station. A swirling, chattering vortex of election fallout, where Labour was apparently powered by pure, unadulterated electoral constipation, and the Conservatives were fast disappearing down the electoral toilet. Or, put in another more polite way, the election's outcome was being reinterpreted as a carefully choreographed performance by a troupe of trained weasels. And so, the animal theme wasn’t quite ready to give up the fight yet, it seemed. But it did!

It was probably the thought of how a glorified office manager ever came to be the leader of the Labour party – a party well and truly licking its wounds – and a man whose charisma could curdle milk at fifty paces that finally sent me off to sleep. He's a veritable whirlwind of beige, a political beige, a man who could inspire a nation to take an afternoon nap. His speeches, carefully crafted to offend absolutely no one, ripple through the chamber like the gentle hum of a distant refrigerator, promising a revolution of lukewarm tea and mildly disappointing biscuits. One imagines his strategic masterplan involves meticulously alphabetising his spice rack while occasionally glancing up to murmur, 'Perhaps we should... consider... a slightly different shade of grey?' But did it stop there? No!"

When I woke up, the radio was still churning out a whole stream of political regrets I mistook for an early morning comedy show. Ah, yes, the morning chuckle courtesy of the political airwaves. It truly was a masterclass in unintentional stand-up. Each carefully crafted explanation, each pivot away from the glaringly obvious, and a comedic gem in its own right. They spoke of "recalibrating strategies" when, you know, it sounded more like what comes out of cows backwards. And just to be clear for anyone who might get their modes of transport muddled, we are definitely not talking about the Isle of Wight passenger ferry here – wouldn't want any dyslexic listeners getting the wrong idea about bovine digestive processes!

We heard about "unexpected headwinds", which felt suspiciously like "the electorate rather emphatically saying 'no thank you'.‘" The sheer artistry of the deflection was breathtaking. One could almost admire the dedication to the bit, the unwavering commitment to finding a silver lining in what appeared to be a rather large, dark cloud. It was a performance worthy of a West End stage, though perhaps one that would leave the audience more bewildered than amused. And as the final excuses faded into the static, one couldn't help but feel a sense of profound gratitude for the unexpected laughter. After all, in these serious times, a bit of unintentional political comedy–even if it smells a bit like what comes out of cows backwards and definitely isn't a ferry–is a rare and precious gift. Perhaps their next career move should be the Edinburgh Fringe. They've certainly honed the art of making an audience question reality, and possibly their own sanity.

And so, as the gerbil-skewering conundrum morphed through the night into a treatise on canine culinary customs, which then gracefully segued into the political theatre of electoral indigestion and bovine-inspired analogies, I can only conclude that the true essence of existence lies somewhere between the optimal barbecue capacity for small rodents and the the lukewarm pronouncements of a leader whose beige aura could lull a hyperactive squirrel into a coma, all while the airwaves echo with the distinct comedic stylings of politicians desperately trying to convince us that the tide turning against them is merely an invigorating sea breeze, and definitely not, under any circumstances, the aforementioned expulsion from a cow.