From a trawl through the Bluestocking threads, started in July 2024, it seems the origin of the gerbils, those improbable yet utterly necessary fixtures of the Bluestocking is probably lost in the mists of time. Though I think cake and Boily may know from whence they came.
They appeared in the first thread in summer 2024 of the Bluestocking as a brief mention by cake saying they had been employed as guide gerbils to find your way through the myriad rooms of the pub.
Cake’s casual aside about guide gerbils — scrabbling helpfully at doorframes, peering importantly into parlours, whiskers twitching at the faint scent of hops and candlewax — was meant only as a throwaway. But once mentioned, they refused to fade. They scampered across the narrative like quicksilver, pawprints indelible.
Boiledbeetle was concerned about the words they put on t-shirts. She sharp-eyed, spotted the flaw: They can't spell for toffee because they can't read. Their t-shirts bore slogans of baffling charm — “SUPPORT NBAD” or “CLOWN 4 EBER” — but no sense. Yet it was this very incapacity that saved them: without spelling, they could not be accused of pedantry. They remained innocent creatures of gesture and grin, their delight pure, their mischief unmalicious.
However, it was on page 35 of the third thread, (coincidentally my birthday last year, though I had yet to find this marvellous place), where they displayed their extensive talents.
https://www.mumsnet.com/talk/womens_rights/5169893-les-bas-bleus-the-bluestocking?reply=138646611&utm_campaign=reply&utm_medium=share
Our gerbils are all actors and theatre folk in-between jobs, aren't they?
What began as a simple magic show unraveled into a riot of performance. Out came sequins and smoke bombs, ribbons and juggling clubs. Cirque du Gerbeil was born, and with it came the proof that these rodents were no mere pets or pests, but artistes of the first order. They were clowns, mimes, tragedians; they performed Beckett with blank stares of cosmic despair, Les Misérables with tiny revolutionary fervour. Their attempt at Hamlet, with a skull half the size of the actor, brought the house down.
The confusion over ribbon-twirling? Naturally, this led to a splinter troupe of gerbil rhythmic gymnasts, who trained earnestly until they could not only twirl but ignite their ribbons, creating flaming arcs across the snug. Fire-juggling followed. Someone cried health and safety — but the pub, as ever, suspended such dull realities.
It was JanesLittleGirl who pierced the veil with her question: “Are gerbils semi-sentient support creatures that exist purely for our convenience and delight?” A dangerous moment. Android’s reply — “At the Bluestocking, yes.” — was at once a decree and a blessing. Thus it was established: they were not beasts, not wholly imaginary, but a liminal chorus of furred thespians, existing for us, with us, because of us.
From this sprang their Trade Union (Local 42, Theatrical Gerbil Equity). They marched (in perfect step, tiny placards aloft), they demanded fair seed allowances and regulated performance hours as well as rights for non-verbal animals and to spell badly. But they also gave back: full-dress productions of Gilbert and Sullivan, squeaked in falsetto harmony, complete with pirouetting piratical rodents in velvet waistcoats. Five pages of laughter and astonishment ensued, cementing their immortality.
Since then, they have remained — ushering newcomers, waiting tables, staging impromptu cabaret, or napping together in velvet-lined teapots. To remove them now would be like tearing down the rafters of the Bluestocking itself. They are not merely residents but foundations: semi-sentient, wholly indispensable, forever ready to light the lamps and sweep the stage for whatever drama comes next.
I have also discovered the historical chronicle of the Gerbil Union, complete with key dates, scandals, and great performances. Which can be summarised for hilarious purposes discerning connoisseurs of gerbil history.