Disney must die.

2 October 2000
Victor gets medieval on yo mouse's ass.

Case history first, for those who are clown virgins. A number of us clowners are unhealthily obsessed with our childhoods. Within this subset I in particular am preoccupied with a) myself b) big business c) the gap between representation and reality. Apologies to Jamie for covering similar infant panic ground. His piece on clowns pretty much sums up the ethic. Sheer hatred, however, spurs me on to more vitriol against queer creatures that terrorise children.

Mice are very, very small. About three inches long. They are not six foot tall, nor do they walk on two legs nor wear a ringmaster's outfit (macabre features of the circus seem to haunt us). They are not anthropomorphic, nor are they entitled even to pretend to live their lives as humans: they may not own dogs, even cartoon ones with erectile tongue syndrome. They cannot live in houses that are proportionate to their body size, at least not as long as they are fitted with art deco washing machines. They don't steer steamboats or go out on dates with dappy bitches. Nor do they keep company with ducks (who would - know what I mean?).

Mus (as it shall be known for technical purposes) is more habitually viewed decapitated on kitchen floors worldwide. Contract cats all over the universe pride themselves on the quality pest control service they provide. Imagine the confusion if their clients set them to work on Mickey and Minnie. Mind you, Mus Pictus Maximus - Giant Cartoon Mouse, or Big Graphic Mouse if the rodent bestialists prefer - has a couple of significant flaws: its stupidity (viz. numerous situations which get out of its control and its inability to cope with anything out of the ordinary) and its supreme good nature.

Consequence of musing? Vastly more interesting viewing. Tom's pursuit of Jerry is essentially natural: Tom may be almost as big as Mammy the slave-maid; Jerry at least is a good deal smaller. Speedy Gonzalez' supermurine (my spellchecker for the last word supplied 'super urine') velocity is totally appropriate for his species, as Mus Mexicanus is known to be fire powered with anally-inserted chillies. Just wait for the grudge match, when the domestic cat gets to prove itself to Mickey Mus. Tom takes time to ponder the method of retribution and, ultimately, murder. Cats are the cleverest, remember. Pitched against the slower, less sharp, foam Florida resident, it's likely to be rather more than victorious.

Splendid technicolour scenes gather in my mind: Option One - Tom pinning Mus to the linoleum, painstakingly gnawing through the neck (an operation which, due to dimensional considerations, takes up to seven days of eight hour shift work); Option Two - the more modern practical approach with blow torch and power tools; Option Three - the Accidental Fall. Outside the laboratory it remains to be seen which method Tom will adopt. Regardless, it would certainly be worth having the camcorder handy of an evening: some fat bird off the TV might send you money.

That this course is justified is beyond question, and isn't that far from a role-reversed Itchy and Scratchy. But just in case the Mouseketeers of you out there (yes, you're right, I do really like that word) are wetting your pants in protest and frustration, here's why: because. Because you can't get away from Mus Pictus Maximus. Because he's even found his way to France. Because, although I myself came through childhood virtually untouched by this faunal scag, the kids of today (let's call them the Posh Spice generation) are mesmerised by fifty-year-old films about grasshoppers in tails, elephants with big ears (my god, elephants with big ears?), and lions who don't have sex all the time. Get this: they're even encouraged to sing songs by the Oscar-endorsed Elton John and Phil Collins. Phil Collins - the most disappointing member of the Used-to-be-Good-but-Tooth-Drillingly-Shit-Now Club. Play your drums in Switzerland - just don't press 'record' or get on the plane. It might crash, and your contribution to music would be lost in the Alpine drifts forever.

Clearly there are important questions to be asked: why are all the Native American, black or Asian characters a lot lighter-skinned than they should be (Pocahontas, Aladdin)? Hercules is ginger, for Christ's sake and, believe me, I know ginger when I see it. I know the Ancient Greeks were Celtic, but this is ridiculous. Most of all, why does the guy in the new film about Eldorado bare more than a striking resemblance to my ex-boyfriend Jim (Hi, Jim, if you're watching)? Answers on an electronic postcard, please.