Ok – so no sooner do I manage to find myself a cozy set up on the posting front, ‘L’ tells me she’s fucking off the Mexico for a week. Jesus. Life is just one big hiccup at the moment.
What this means though is that next week may be a bit like flying to the Outer Hebrides when it comes to getting online. Wonder what Al’s up to these days? Al’s a dude in Slough who let me use his cyber caff for a while, back in the day.
Talking of Scottish shit – check this out. A few of you sent it to me. It’s a story that appeared on Popbitch:
“In Scotland, 58 year-old David Bachelor has been feeding the pigeons wearing only a thong. A back-to-front thong. The sheriff fined him £150 and blamed it on alcohol. Bachelor said it wasn’t a sexual thing, “I was just feeding the birds and if I was wanting to do that I would just go down town and get a whore”.
‘Wasn’t a sexual thing’? Yeah, right. Told you pigeon fancying was a well dodgy pastime for freaks. Any of you out there who are even slightly tempted to follow in David’s footsteps, at least make it a Brian Pigeon protest thong.
Looks like the weather’s on the turn too, which rocks.
Out and about earlier with Mart, and caught these grumpy fucks soaking it up in Hyde Park:
Totally gave us the blank, till Mart decided he’d had enough and shat on one of them.
Got a spot on direct hit right in the middle of the forehead, and he only went and hit the deck. Pissed myself. Spluttering all over the place he was.
Now this is something I don’t get at all – it’s a sign I saw in Acton:
What the fuck?
Right – that’s it. ‘L’ is back in a week so you’re gonna have to bear me on the posting front. Sorry.
Sorry for the slight hiccup in the posting rhythm but, bad news, Norm’s told me to haul my arse. My trusty Norm and the use of his Mac are no more. Nightmare. Had to take a couple of days out to cool down and mull it over. He said he’d had enough of the sneezing. Eh? He’s always been allergic to feathers. He knew that, I knew that, and I always did my very best to clear up after myself. Basically, he threw a wobbler when I accidentally shat on his keyboard. I tried to tell him it was Tippex, but he was having none of it. He said it was the last straw, and told me to fuck off. Jesus.
For a moment I thought my whole world had gone tits up till, out of the blue in a kind of magic sort of a way, an option appeared.
‘L’ is a lady who helps me out from time to time on the PR front. Anytime anyone wants to speak to me, ‘L’ picks up the phone and kindly explains that, being a pigeon, speech in a ‘people’ sense is something that has alluded me since birth. She then tells them she is my ‘people go-between’ and deals with the query on my behalf, referring it back to me when necessary.
‘L’ is the only ‘person’ apart from Norm that I have ever had any direct contact with. We get on well, and she totally gets the whole blogging pigeon thing. Frankly, I think she’s quite impressed by it all, especially when I made into Time Out’s Top 50 London websites.
Anyway, she’s just taken up residence in Clerkenwell, which is a reasonably short shot from Soho. Clearly, this option would have been way out of the question had she still lived in W4, which is where she’s just emigrated from. Fucking arse end of nowhere. Great for a Sunday stroll, but I was always glad of returning to my Soho pad whenever I made it out that far.
Soon as I mailed her to let her know about my Norm issue, she offered to take me in.
She said there’s a clear sheltered entrance at the back and that it would be cool, providing I didn’t tell the landlord. Pissed myself. Imagine that? ‘Hi, did you know that your tenant lets a pigeon called Brian in everyday and allows him to use her computer to write bog posts?’
Dogs nuts too coz she’s a Mac lover like me, which means there’s no need to mash my head up trying to learn PC.
I decided to swing by and check it out in advance of a giving a confirmed yes. As I thought, the fly was a piece of piss. Straight up Oxford Street, over Holborn, and hang a right just before Sadler’s Wells.
Neighbours are always an important factor I feel…
So far so good.
Looks like I got me a new office. Nice
So, Norm – cheers for all the help so far, but you can stick your sweaty little Soho skankhole in a place the sun has never seen.
Clerkenwell – bring it on.
Tell you what too, ‘L’ is way cooler than Norm. Not only did I get to check out her new pad and use her computer, she said she was glad of the company and handed me a plate or Organic seed to keep me going.
Becci sent me this. It’s a link to a clip from the Nat Geo show I posted about a while back. Cheers, Becci!
Course it only goes on about stuff we already know, like how pigeons are good at remembering shit, like how to get home. As pigeon facts go, I’ve always felt that particular one has been rather blown out of proportion. Lovely though it is to receive a bit of praise, surely navigation to the home is a basic requirement in life generally, regardless of distance?
Imagine a world full of pigeons with no fucking idea where they lived? It’s weird too coz no-one ever bangs on about how mice manage to make it back to the right hole.
What if pigeons really were the only fuckers able to remember their way home? Foxes would be wandering the streets going, “Hmmm, pretty sure I’ve seen this corner before somewhere…” Hundreds of confused badgers roaming the woods asking woodpeckers for directions…
Badger: “‘Scuse me Mr. Woodpecker, would you mind telling me where I live?”
Woodpecker: “Sorry, mate. Can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
That said, this is Linus:
Linus knows how to remember a thousand images. Linus is a pigeon who has reached new heights on the ladder of pigeon genius. Linus clearly disappeared up his own arse a long time ago.
War hero and Jazz maverick Cher Ami gets a mensh too, sadly they omitted to mention the Jazz…
Check it out. Click on this link or the pic to watch it.
Fave quote: ‘Pigeons are one of natures most successful creatures’.
Jesus Christ. What the fucks going on with the weather? One minute it’s blowing a hurricane, the next it’s chucking down an arctic storm. Unbelievable, and no fun whatsoever for the pigeon. It’s so cold one of my toes got completely stuck to a lamp post. Then, when I finally managed to free myself, I get a snowflake in the eye. Decided to give up on the day and check out the nearest indoor venue using my favourite site – Derelict London.
Found this little beauty:
Can’t believe I hadn’t spotted it before. It’s just round the corner from where I live, and has the added bonus of the promise of alcohol.
Sadly, the boards were impenetrable and I had to give up. Damn shame. Could have been the perfect way to spend a chilly Saturday. A moment’s nuzzle in the carpet and I would have been off my nut. Oh well.
After flying about in the freezing fucking cold for ages on the hunt for Mart, I eventually found him trying to warm his arse on a burger box:
He’d been there for ages rubbing himself all over it. I told him that a discarded box meant the hot steamy burger interior had already been consumed and, as a consequence, the box was only ever going to get colder.
He thought that the burgers prepared themselves inside the boxes, and the fact it was shut meant one was in there right now cooking away. Easy mistake I guess, if you’re fucking stupid.
We spent the rest of the day ledgbound debating whether this was indeed the start of the next ice age… We also discussed whether we should launch a range of small portable heaters? Something that could be strapped to the back to provide instant all over body warmth? Or how about the furry hot water bottle hat? Call it the ‘Hottie Hat’?
“Make cold heads a thing of the past with the Hottie Hat. For the pigeon-about-town, the Hottie Hat will travel with you wherever you go. Attached using an easy to tie chin strap and available in black, blue and pink for the ladies. Keep it warm night and day with a Hottie Hat.”
Reckon it’s a winner.
Got back to thinking about Mary yesterday. Riddled though she might be, I hate the thought of her flogging her cute feathery arse all the way out in W4.
It breaks my heart when I think back to the Mary I fell in love with. Mary who was so full of life. So full of dreams. Mary who often talked of a future living in a meadow in Surrey making daisy hats. The wonderous sweet perfumed Mary who thought farts were funny and once told me a joke that ended in the word ‘cuntflaps’.
I decided I needed to do something about it, so Mart suggested we track down Smacky Steve.
Smacky Steve is the Pete Doherty of the pigeon world. Spends most of his days rocked off his nut. That said, he’s got shed loads of contacts and may know who her pimp is…
Didn’t take us long to find him:
There he was, in a square just off Oxford Street, trying to flog a drop of poppers to some poor innocent passer by who’d only stopped off momentarily for a sip of the brown stuff.
We tried to talk to him:
But he was having none of it.
When we asked whether he could help us out with a little info, he simply replied, “Just fuck off out of my fucking face you fat fucking fucks.” Not much you can say to that one really.
And then he just turns around…
…and starts tucking into some crusty shit stuck to the curbstone. I suspect it might have been his.
Another tragic mess-up is Smacky Steve. Used to be a pretty talented artist back in the day. Specialised in making small cats out of tin foil. Lovely they were. Used to exhibit them on a Sunday down Portobello Market.
Oh well. Fuck him.
Don’t worry though, Mary. I’m not giving up on you. Not yet.
Bring it on.
Cheers to everyone who sent it to me!
Ok – it looks like Dan’s been spotted in Brighton. Unfortunately, the Dan in the post below is the wrong Dan. The Dan we’re after is Dan from Mile End. The Dan in the picture is Dan from Kennington. Dan from Kennington – apologies for the mix-up and for any unecessary concern it may have caused.
Looks like this is the right Dan though. I haven’t had the chance to proper ID him yet, but seeing as he twitched when he heard his name, I reckon it’s got to be him. Fucking tragic. Seems the whole event has left him with a massive dose of post traumatic stress.
This was him yesterday:
Apparently he was stood like that for hours just staring at his own reflection saying something that sounded a little bit like, “Help me”.
Then he was there again today doing the exact same thing whilst rocking from side to side:
Clearly a pigeon on the edge.
The stories of storm survival keep pouring in, including one rather tragic episode. Dan set out from Mile End on Monday morning and was last spotted yesterday afternoon just outside Brighton desperately trying to turn around whilst tumbling at high speed towards the Coast. Any of you down there who happen to spot a pigeon clearly in a state of extreme panic, can you give him a big ‘Bonjour’ shout out? At least that way he’ll know how to say hello when he hits the cliffs at Calais!
In case you’re wondering what he looks like – this is Dan:
It was taken a while back, so he may have put a bit of weight on since then.
Thinking of you, Dan.
In the meantime, remember my actor pal, Doug? The Shakespeare nut? Bumped into him today in The Square, and had to post this. With The Bard’s birthday just round the corner, he’s thinking he might take it to Covent Garden. Fucking hilarious. It’s from ‘Antony and Cleopatra‘ and is one of his favourite monologues, apparently.
Here it is:
“All is lost!
This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me:
My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonder
They cast their caps up and carouse together…”
“Like friends long lost. Triple-turned whore! ’tis thou
Has sold me to this novice, and my heart
Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly;
For when I am revenged upon my charm,
I have done all.”
“Bid them all fly, begone.
O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more.
Fortune and Antony part here, even here
Do we shake hands. All come to this? The hearts
That spanieled me at heels, to whom I gave
Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets
On blossoming Caesar; and this pine is barked,
That overtopped them all.”
“Betrayed I am. “
I gave him a bit of useful feedback in that a little more going on behind the eyes might help the audience to better understand Antony’s emotional journey. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his was probably the worst performance of that particular monologue I have ever seen.
Guess you’ve got to admire him for his tenacity.
It all went mental in London yesterday, weather wise. Massive winds and pissing it down all day.
Those of us who rememberd the battering of last year stayed ledgebound.
Those that didn’t, paid the price.
“I didn’t know what was happening, till I hit the deck.”
In need of a more sheltered ledge, Geoff decided to chance it and attempt the short fly from Mare Street to Upper Street. “It should only have been about five minutes, tops”, said Geoff. However, he soon found himself out control and unable to stop as a strong gust carried him all the way to Whitehall where he had to crash land in a small park on Victoria Street. “I didn’t know what was happening, till I hit the deck. One minute I was coasting over Upper Street, the next I was heading towards the West End at high speed. I couldn’t stop. I called for help, but there was no-one around.” It seems Geoff isn’t the only one. There are stories of some being blown as far south as Clapham. Scary shit. “At least I stayed north of the river!” Thankfully, Geoff was able to see the funny side and plans to head back home tomorrow having spent today sheltering under a Rymans bag.
I’ll be catching up with more stories of storm survival tomorrow. In the meantime, for fucks sake, stay put.
Ok – if any of you felt even the slightest twinge in the feather region at the sight of the total Freeeeeeeeeeeak in the post below, check this ugly mother out:
Another example of the so-called ‘German ‘Beauty’ Homer’. What the fuck?
Whoever called it that was having a laugh, surely? It looks like someone sliced its face off and replaced it with a block of feathery Edam.
Right – not done one of these for a while – but figured this total and utter freak deserved an outing, particularly as it’s called a ‘German Beauty Homer':
A ‘Beauty Homer’? What the fuck?
My arse produces better looking things than that on a more than regular basis.
No wonder the dude in the cage behind is looking the other way. Must be shitting himself.
Don’t get me wrong, I am totally into using my new found celebrity status to breathe a bit of life back into last year’s ‘Give Pigeons A Chance’ campaign. I’m also bang into doing my best to sort June 16th as National Pigeon Day. What I’m not into is strangers I don’t know coming right up to my face pretending to be my mate, when all they want to do is hang out with me just coz I’m a little bit famous. Fucking weirdos.
Out and about with Mart earlier and there I was keeping myself to myself quietly tucking into a dried haricot bean, when these three pitched up. Didn’t say anything, just stared at me while I carried on eating. Fucking rude. Think they might have been down on a daytrip from somewhere like Bury St Edmunds. Not seen them around before.
Then one of them spoke:
“You’re Brian Pigeon, aren’t you?”
I decided not to encourage them, and stayed silent in the hope that they would go away.
“Brian Pigeon as in Pigeon Blog? Online diary of a London pigeon? Top 50 London websites…?”
I stare into the bean.
“No way! Massive fans we are. Massive. Would you mind signing something? It’s for my friend. She’ll never believe me when I tell her!”
I broke my silence, “She, you say? What’s her name?”
Inside my head, Penny was ravishing and right up for it.
“You got a piece of paper and a pen, then?”
Ok. Time to throw a shape like an exit. I figured that if Penny really was such a massive fan, she’d probably come and find me herself one day and, when she did, I would take her from behind under the stars.
However, and this is when it got weird, as I tried to escape….
…one of the freaks only goes and follows me trying to make conversation about all sorts of boring shit. Mart was pissing himself. Jesus. He told me how his niece had tried to use a computer once but gave up after her beak jammed under the shift key. He told me how him and his mates had come down for the day from Luton – which is nowhere near Bury St Edmunds by the way, and then went on to describe his journey down the A1 in intricate detail including how one of them got a small piece of seeded bun stuck in his throat outside a Little Chef. Fuck me. I was bored to tears. It was when he started to tell me how they usually spend their Saturday afternoons plane spotting at Luton Airport that I decided I was going to have to either tell him to fuck off, or start eating my own leg.
Mart must have sensed the urgency. He came right over and told me a giant heron was squatting on my house, and I should probably go sort it before it gets too comfortable. Tony offered to come with. An offer I politely declined. I also suggested it was probably about time for them to cut some O2 and head it back to Luton before it gets dark, which I told him happens around lunchtime in London.
Maybe moving somewhere a little more secluded is the way to go? A pal told me Kate Moss has got a lovely garden up in St John’s Wood? Or there’s always Jonathan Ross‘s gaff? Only snag with that one being the small menagerie he likes to keep. Frankly, I’ve never been a big fan of the Iguana.
My old pal, Mr Goat, came up with a genius method of avoiding unwanted attention – simply adopt a cunning disguise:
Nearly pissed myself.
Cheers, Mr Goat!