Ah, the English summer. Hot, sultry, airless days. The sound of leather on willow. The frustrated cries of the crowds at Wimbledon. The gentle clink of silver on bone china. And the ceaseless mutterings of people saying "f*cking flies". Yes, thunderflies (otherwise known as thrips, or in my family as thunderbugs) are just what you need to ruin a perfect summer day. The little blighters get in your hair, your face, on your skin - everywhere. And they love white t-shirts.   And you try and take a ride on your bicycle without coming home covered in the bastards! Ever wondered what all those black flecks on the front of your car are? Yup, dead thunderbugs. Oh yeh, there are three in your cup of tea as well. Look at the state of that sandwich! And they'll ruin your onion harvest as well - guh! And what can you do about it? Nothing. As soon as you brush yourself clean of the little critters, ten more have settled on you. They must outnumber the human population of Britain by about ten billion to one. And I HATE THE BASTARDS! In case you hadn't guessed. GS

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