The Secret War between Man and Squirrel in Notting Hill

Nobody likes grey squirrels.

Today, in 21st-century Notting Hill (and Ladbroke Grove), they are less woodland charmers and more urban insurgents. They gnaw through private gardens, raid bird feeders and appear to possess an almost supernatural ability to ignore every expensive solution offered by the pest-control industry.

Sonic deterrents? Useless. Cage traps? A joke. "Bait stations"? A phrase that sounds impressive until you realise the only thing being baited is the punter's patience.

So what's the best remedy for an Englishman defending his castle?

An old-fashioned air gun.

But where does a respectable homeowner purchase such a weapon? Not from the internet. Far too suspicious. Far too many questions. No, Guv. The traditional route is one of those strange angling shops where fishing rods, camouflage jackets, BB guns and, for reasons only known to the proprietor, "ninja swords" sit alongside the line and tackle. A place where you can buy equipment to catch fish, frighten a squirrel or perhaps defend yourself from aggressive Sea Bass.

There are, however, complications.   

Discharging an "air weapon" in London on private property is not quite the same as defending a medieval fortress from invading hordes. A homeowner standing in a garden with something resembling a firearm risks attracting the attention of the Boys in Blue. In the wrong circumstances, the distinction between concerned resident and public threat can become dangerously blurred.

Fortunately, modern air guns come with silencers. Or, more accurately, suppressors.

The question was whether they actually worked.

Albert of Notting Hill decided to find out.

Albert's professional life involved the high-powered world of trimming hedge funds rather than hedges; yet when it came to squirrels he became a dedicated amateur vermin controller. Armed with his air gun, he attempted legal pest control.

The results were disappointing.

"Those grey squirrels are indestructible," he complained "I was only a couple of feet away, shot at its chest and the round just bounced off. I'm gonna need Kryptonite." 

The squirrels, it seemed, had evolved beyond ordinary wildlife and entered the territory of mutant monsters.

Then came the incident that would transform Albert from frustrated homeowner into local legend.

One day, returning home, he discovered one of the enemy had finally been captured in a cage. The battle appeared over. The squirrel was contained. All that remained was a final act of mercy.   

Albert retrieved the air gun, attached the suppressor and fired at point-blank range.

Nothing happened. 

The squirrel survived. 

Technology had failed. Albert shook his head, abandoned the air gun and reached for a far older piece of equipment: the Stanley hammer from his toolbox.

An Englishman's home is his castle. And when defending the castle, sometimes medieval methods remain surprisingly effective.

Albert began viewing the squirrels as "small ground game" and eventually accounted for nine of them.

Naturally, neighbours began to ask questions.

"Where have all the squirrels gone?" one concerned resident wondered.

Unfortunately, the person she asked was none other than the alleged Secret Squirrel Serial Killer of Ladbroke Square Gardens.

But when it comes to squirrels, I have form. 

Back in the summer of 1995, one somehow found its way into the basement of my home in Notting Hill. There was no wildlife expert on standby, no documentary crew from the BBC waiting to capture the emotional reunion between man and rodent.  

There was only termination with extreme prejudice. 

The available equipment consisted of a Zulu assegai spear and a gardening spade. 

It was less pest control and more a low-budget remake of Zulu staged in a Victorian basement. But history repeated itself a week later when another squirrel invaded the downstairs flat of Mr. Weldon. An admirable wingman, Mr. Weldon became Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote -- dragged into another completely unnecessary campaign against an opponent that probably had no idea it was involved in a war. 

Now I find myself in Atlanta, Georgia, USA, where squirrels have moved from garden nuisance to full scale building contractors. They are currently chewing their way into the brand new roof of my home. The problem is, unlike their limey cousins, American squirrels come with legal protection. The bad news is that the squirrels appear to know this.

The war continues. The battlefield has changed. The enemy has changed. The rules have changed. But one thing remains certain: give an Englishman a castle, a toolbox and a squirrel problem and eventually there will be a campaign.

The grey squirrel may have conquered Notting Hill. It may have survived air guns, cages and angry hedge fund managers. But somewhere, behind some suburban window, an Englishman is still watching. Waiting. Ready for the next invasion.