EASTER is the most potent destructive power that this world has ever seen.
Forget about the hysterical outpourings from North Korea, forget about grim faced responses from South Korea and America and pay no attention to terrorist incidents wherever they may happen. The force of which I speak is far more destructive.
It is the humble chocolate Easter egg and the human child.
Taken separately they are both sweet, but combine them and you have a weapon capable of causing almost unlimited damage in a frighteningly short space of time.
My home town of Weymouth in the county of Dorset on England’s south coast looks like a war zone at the moment thanks to the happy shrieking efforts of thousands of children.
Spurred on by the thought of finding a mouthful of chocolate, these innocent little darlings have laid waste to vast areas of gardens and public parks in almost every town you come to.
It is easy to spot which community announced they were going to hold an Easter egg hunt for children because terrified adults in tattered clothing can be seen clinging wild-eyed to the topmost branches of trees or barricaded in their garden sheds, desperate to escape the tidal wave of terror unleashed by tiny tots.
I viewed one Easter egg hunt through the safety of binoculars from a nearby hill and it was not pretty to watch.
The only semi-sane moment seemed to be the start point where an adult explained that clues entitling the finder to a chocolate Easter egg had been hidden in various points of the garden.
The moment he’d finished speaking a howling mob of children ripped away his clipboard and one arm of his shirt as they battled to see if any clues had been written down that they could use.
No luck there but it did give the poor man vital seconds to escape and lock himself in a portable toilet.
Outside it was mayhem with hoardes of screaming four-year-olds tearing aside branches, knocking over ornaments and uprooting plants in their search for concealed clues.
It was rather like watching locusts at work as this bit of green and pleasant countryside was reduced to a wasteland of battered vegetation and broken flowers.
Odd items of children’s clothing were dotted here and there while the largely hysterical organisers seemed to have banded together for safety near a compost bin, their faces contorting in terror when any child came near.
Finally the children’s chocolate lust seemed to abate a bit enabling some air of order and decency to be restored through the liberal use of Mace, tasers and repeated charges by police mounted on steeds commandeered from the local pony club.
Even then the cost in human dignity was appalling, smelling salts having no effect at all on an apparently catatonic Miss Huntingdon who had become cornered in an arbour where a baying pack of three-year-olds ripped the woollen tights from her body.
Mr Probisher was no better, his attempts to get one ravening girl to share her armful of eggs with other children provoking a vicious assault. Surgeons are hopeful that prune juice will help him pass most of the eggs in a natural way.
So it was with some pride that the chairman of the organising committee for the Easter egg hunt felt recovered enough to tentatively suggest that they will be repeating the event next year.
Sadly I had to turn down their entreaties to join a crack new Rearguard Squad being recruited for the hunt. Perhaps the SAS could help.