Blue Neon Electric Fly Killer Things

You don't seem to see them about so much these days, but in the seventies and eighties they used to be everywhere. Perhaps they just stuck in my mind more at an early age, because a lot of them seemed to be called "Simon", which (if you haven't yet guessed) is my real name, "Becky" is just what the French call a nom d'aiglefin.

It seemed weird that the Blue Neon Electric Fly Killer Thing manufacturer named their product "Simon", after all you don't see many men's names used for electrical goods. There isn't, for example, a range of fridges called "Dave". In fact the only exception I can think of is "Beko" appliances, named after the noted South African anti-apartheid activist (as sung about by Peter Gabriel and played by Phil Silvers on TV).

But maybe I've found the reason. The flies and other buzzy things aren't attracted to their certain 240 volt doom by the soothing blue glow of the neon tubes, they are attracted to things called Simon. The manufacturers of Electric Fly Killer Things know this mystical power and named their products Simon to take advantage of it. The neon light is just there to make you think that's what the insects are interested in, because no-one's going to pay for an electic box with "Simon" written on the side of it. Think about it: where are insects going to see blue neon lights in the wild, anyway? They're interested in things like flowers, raw meat, cow dung, and as a particular delicacy (when they can get it) me.

You see, insects find me enormously attractive. Specifically the kind of insect that likes nothing more than spending half an hour indulging in an al-fresco feast of O positive in the delightful environs of my right ankle.

You know that person at an outdoor party that gets stung to death by the entire local mosquito population, while everyone else gets left alone? That's me. I'm thinking of hiring myself out. I'm great for riverside barbecues, just feed me and I'll do the job of 10 electric boxes with blue lights in all evening.

I wouldn't mind so much if the mosquito bites stung immediately, so that the culprit could be politely dissuaded with the palm of a hand moving in at breathtaking and deadly speed. I also wouldn't mind at all if, after they've taken their fill, the mosquito departed and left me totally unaffected apart from an inperceptable reduction in blood pressure.

But they don't do that. After landing unobserved, applying that local anaesthetic mojo thing they have, and then slurping undisturbed for a few minutes, they then take off and fly past my face, looking considerably fatter and wearing a smug "that's going to hurt like hell in half an hour, mate" expression.

Which it invariably does. Like hell. As well as being a magnet to the bloody things, I'm also more than a little allergic to their bites. About five minutes after being stung on the thigh, my whole leg feels weird. And then the sting starts to itch, and then sting like billy-o. Despite my best intentions not to scratch, I'll wake up in the middle of the night to find I've unconciously scraped away at all of them in my sleep.

But why? Why do they hurt so much afterwards? What possible evolutionary purpose could it serve? I can't make the bite go away, so what's the good in my body telling me that I've been bitten after the fact? Conversely, why do mosquitos put something in their bites that is designed to itch and sting so much? What do they get out of me being miserable several hours after they've buzzed off to ankles new? It's just their sheer bloody-minded evilness if you ask me.

I'm thinking of changing my name. Not the "Simon" one, that would require forms and actual effort and stuff; and anyway I think the insects would see right through that ploy. Tranny names, like number plates, are a bit easier to change. I've decided to rename myself Becky "All You Can Eat" Buffét, which keeps the pseudo-French flavour of my original surname, with an extra twist. If you can't avoid them, you might as well advertise.