No?

Okay, look, we need to have a talk.

I don’t usually make it my business to speak out on these issues, in part because I don’t have a voice box, and in part because I’m too busy making that rustling noise that’s keeping you awake at 3am.

And I’m content doing that.

Don’t get me wrong. My brain is the size of a walnut. I don’t need much stimulation, so I’m not really asking for anything.

Most of the time, I leave you alone, and you leave me alone, and it’s great.

But sometimes you fuck me off, New Zealand, and I don’t get it.

You let me sleep all day, eat all your insects, make a home out of your eggplant.

But why, for the love of god, can a hedgehog not get his head stuck in a KFC Krusher cup without having you put it all over the fucking news?

I didn’t ask for this shit. It’s embarrassing. What other country in the world would tolerate the deliberate, gleeful humiliation of a helpless animal being categorised as current affairs?

Look at this from my perspective: You’re a hedgehog. You’re out on a Saturday night in Taranaki. This is punishment enough. You’re drunk, because you accidentally licked up some beer on the sidewalk.

In Taranaki, it’s hard to tell whether liquid on the ground is water or alcohol, even when it’s raining.

But that’s okay. No biggie. You’ll just go home, right? Maybe stop at KFC on the way home?

Wrong. You have no money, because you’re a hedgehog.

So what are you going to do when you see a mostly empty KFC Krusher cup rolling around near the curb? Are you going to say ‘Oh, no, can’t do that, no, that’s below my dignity.’

Fuck no. You’re never going to be able to afford a clean one, so you stick your head in it and help yourself. It’s delicious. All’s well that ends well.

But this didn’t.

Now you can’t get your head out. Next thing you know you’re surrounded by drunk streetgoers, laughing and pointing.

“Stupid fucking hedgehog,” they say.

“Dole bludger!” another one yells. “Fuck you, hedgehog!”

Yeah, fuck you too, buddy.

So what do all these people do? Do they kindly remove the cup from your head, and let you get on your way?

No. They take pictures, and call the fucking police.

What is this? A public safety issue now? Christ you people are stupid.

So there I am, waiting for 30 minutes, surrounded by people treating this like some kind of national news event – which apparently it was – until a policeman shows up, chuckles to himself, and takes me into the police station.

Finally my head is freed. I get a medical examination. For what? God only knows. I get called condescending names, put in a cage, let outside, and everyone claps and cheers like a kid just got rescued from a burning building.

Fuck off.

But at least it’s over, right? I mean, it can’t get any worse.

Well in New Zealand, it can. Because now the most humiliating moments of my entire life are all over the television. For a week.

“It just goes to show you never know what’s around the corner in this line of work,” laughs the policeman on One News. “But it’s nice to know that we can be there to ensure that these kind of situations have a happy ending.”

Sorry, what?

I’m going to get hit by a car in 4 hours and you won’t even give a shit.