You guessed it:
Ken, stressed to fuck as he rightly should be and, of course:
Spot on this one I reckon. It’s actually a pal called Mike who was a little concerned when I asked if I could use his image in case people thought he might be gay, which he isn’t. He said I could only use it if I stated clearly in the text that ‘he loves the hole’.
So – tomorrow’s the big day. No more comms from Boris, a generic email from Bri, and the usual spam from Ken. It’d better not be Ken or I’m going into hiding to bury my beak in the carpet of a disused local till I throw up.
All you Londoners out there, it’s up to you. You decide.
The fate of the London pigeon is in your hands.
Just pitched up for a spot of late night posting at ‘L’s, and found this in my inbox. Only a proper response from THE Brian Paddick – see post below.
The ‘Lib Dem’ only goes and replies with the personal touch. Back of the nest.
Thank you for this e-mail. I would want to see them humanely removed from the square, rather than withdrawing all feed. There must be another way.
Nice. Like the sound of where he’s coming from too. Reckon ‘humane’ rocks as a concept, although not sure about being ‘removed’ from the Square, food or no food. Where would we go? Surely it would be back to square one? Anyways, he got back to me, and that’s what counts.
Nice one, Brian, and it’s not often I get to say that.
Oh – and while I’m at it, and before ‘L’ chucks me out – here’s what I got from Ken today:
There are two days to go until the election, and I need your support to win.
Across the city, thousands of volunteers are delivering a million postcards to voters. They set out the stakes in this election: this is not a joke, it’s about serious issues that will decide the future of London…”
Blah blah fucking blah, and still no mention of the pigeon. Jesus.
Right – with only three days left till London decides who’s in the driving seat, I was beginning to wonder whether either of them actually gave a shit about the pigeon’s vote. Clearly not enough to respond to the emails I sent them over a week ago.
First I’d mailed Ken and asked him if his anti-pigeon stance was likely to change in any way.
This, and several others just like it, is what I got back:
Ken – for starters, when an email has clearly gone to the whole of London, the personal touch means jack shit.
“Boris Johnson tells good jokes on TV, but there’d be nothing funny about putting him in charge of a £39 billion transport budget and watching our bus, underground, and train improvement plans fall apart. With just three days to go before the election, we have to remind Londoners that the job of London Mayor is no joking matter. That’s why we’ve launched a new billboard today to do just that. We need your help to spread this message to as many Londoners as possible.”
Yeah right. As if. You total twat. Where’s the response to my question?
“Our campaign is giving out postcards and leaflets all over the city, reminding people what’s at stake in this election. We also have volunteers making phone calls to thousands of London voters, reminding them how important it is to vote in this election.”
Would have happily got a load of pals dropping leaflets all over the place. All you had to do was answer one simple question: pigeons – do they stay or do they go?
“Don’t let Boris Johnson have the last laugh on Thursday. Please sign up to spend an hour or two helping our campaign this week. The election is just four days away…”
First it’s three days, then it’s four – make up your mind, you nonce.
“…and since the race is still neck-and-neck, we’ll need as many people to show up to the polls as possible to beat Boris.Thank you for helping us get out the vote.
That was it. No reference to pigeons. None whatsoever. Not even a ‘thanks for your email, Brian’.
Fucking rude if you ask me.
I’d emailed Boris on the same day asking him to outline his views on the pigeon, and this is what was hit my inbox last night:
“Dear Mr pigeon”
Good start. Nothing like a bit of formality.
“Thank you very much for emailing the Back Boris campaign, and please excuse the delay in getting back to you.”
Even better. A personal reply, a thank you AND an apology.
“I shall pass on your mentioning of pigeons to Boris’ relevant researcher for review. Boris certainly doesn’t believe in wasting tax payers money to pay for hawks and megaphones to scare off the pigeons like Ken Livingstone has done. If elected, Boris will review the current situation and act accordingly. If there is anything else you would like to bring to our attention, please do not hesitate to get back in contact with us. It is vital that we hear from Londoners about the issues that matter to them.”
The fact he sees the whole hawk idea as ‘a waste of tax payers money’ rocks, and is a very good start. Maybe Boris is someone I could work with afterall…
“Yours sincerely, Jason Devan
Back Boris Campaign.”
It even gets the personal sign off by someone called ‘Jason’. Nice touch.
“For a Greater London vote Boris Johnson as your 1st choice for Mayor on May 1st”
I say ‘Go Boris’. Ok – so a reply from you in person would have been better, but at least your office took the time to get back to me on what I consider to be one of London’s hottest topics.
The one person I forgot to email was Brian Paddick, mainly coz he’s a ‘Lib Dem’, whatever that is? Anyway, seeing as he’s having a go too, and he’s called Brian, I got in touch with him just now to see what he was planning to do for the London pigeon. Will let you know soon as I hear anything.
So far though, I reckon it’s got to be Boris all the way.
Ok, so it was only a matter of time before word got out on my whereabouts.
Rocked up at ‘L’s yesterday and there he was bold as you like sat outside her window.
Been there for hours, apparently.
Soon as he heard the sound of my flaps, he turns round and goes:
“Bri – mate. Dude. It’s me, Rocky. Rocky from Edgeware. Remember me?”
I said I’d never seen him before and told him to fuck off.
The thing is, since the whole fame thing kicked in, it’s been happening alot. Random pigeons pitching up from nowhere pretending like they know me. Freaks.
He tries again: “Bri – it’s Rocky. Let me in will you…? Pal…?”
I told him to stop being a mental cunt and to get his arse off the sill.
Then it all went a bit weird:
“Ok, Brian Pigeon. You don’t know me, but I know you. I know everything about you. I know where you go to at night and I watch you while you sleep.”
Now I was scared. Jesus Christ. This dude really was a mental cunt.
“Let me in, Brian. I can make it all better. It’s meant to be. You and me. The two of us. We can go away somewhere. Somewhere nice. Somewhere we can be alone. I know places and I can show you things. Lots of things. Shiny things that will make you happy. I can make you happy, Brian…”
Then he just sat there, stared into the faraway, and went on and on about ‘all the lovely things we could do together’ and how we could be ‘pigeons in perfect harmony’. Fuck’s sake.
After a while, I stopped listening. I figured it was the only way to get rid of him. Ignore him and hope he goes away. It worked. He sloped off in the end. It’s bad enough having a stalker, but a mentalist gay stalker? If I have to have a stalker, can’t it be some sexed up gagging for it chick with everything to give and nothing to loose?
‘L’ said if he rocks up again she’ll tell him I’ve re-located to Wales. In the meantime, I am going to move ledges asap just in case he really does watch me while I sleep. Scary shit.
There we were strolling through St James’s Park all beefed up and raring to go with the planning for our very own National Pigeon Day – see post below – when we came across this. Jesus Christ. First I thought she was ladling out some bread bits, so I moved in for a closer look.
Then I heard what she was saying. Mental.
“Come. Come closer my pretties. No, not you, you foul urban dragnets with your blinky eyes and breath like mustard (presume that means us…). My woodies. My dear sweet wondrous woodies. Woodies are my friends (oh dear…). Go forth. Fly fast to the hills with your pretty white neckerchiefs. Go gather your armies at dawn. Rise up against those all dressed in grey. Rise up and fight the evil ones who seek to bring you down. Collect your flocks of woody perfection and together we shall crush them, for they are the enemy. Take heed of the actions of the pelican…”
“What the fuck’s she on about?”
“No idea, mate.”
Then it got nasty.
“I said GO! Go now before it is too late. Before the seed of London be theirs! Hear what I say, or be damned! Damned to hell!”
They both fucked off just after I took this. Reckon they were pretty taken aback by the whole affair. Hardly surprising, not that I much like the so-called ‘woody’. No particular reason other than the notable absence of a sense of humour. As for her – scary stuff. Thankfully, the woodies she chatted to were from Kent and had no idea what she was on about, which was a good thing seeing as this is the very park where a pelican wolfed down a pigeon called Alf only last year.
That said, if you click on the link you’ll see the whole thing was one big mistake. Poor Derek’s still in therapy, apparently…
Any wood pigeons out there who happen to bump into this total nutter, don’t listen to her. She’s clearly utterly fucking barking.
Apologies for the slackness on the posting front. This is mainly due to the lack of available internet. Jesus. L’s never fucking there (Note: ‘L’ was the lady who used to let me use her computer during the time when I thought hanging out in Clerkenwell was fun).
Night after night I’ve rocked up to an empty pad. I was gonna suggest some kind of a Google diary share arrangement till I realised my days are pretty random and I find planning ahead a bit of a mare. Maybe I’ll move to one of the handy local ledges out the back of her place? Pretty hidden, well sheltered and plenty to choose from.
Anyway, talking ledges, I thought I’d pick up again on the ‘Brian Pigeon’s Guide to London’s Best Ledges’. Not done one for a while.
Okay, so this is more of a ledge than a step but, fuck me though, it’s a new step. One giant spanking new step (Note: Of course it’s probably not to new now). A step so shiny and new that no-one’s so much as shat on it, till now. When do you ever get to prance about on a new step in London? Not ever, but here’s Mike lording it about with freaky orange jacket lady clearly looking on in envy wishing she too could touch the stone:
No chance, love.
He also managed to land a large one just after I took this. Fair play.
The new steps I’m on about are the new steps at St Martin’s in The Fields church on Trafalgar Square.
Ok – it looks like the yanks have got their shit together. National Pigeon Day is all on.
4 till 8 on Friday June 13th on Pilgrim Hill in Central Park, NYC.
This is their line up of speakers so far:
Deacon Joseph Dwyer who’s gonna banter on Cheri Ami – as usual, he probably won’t be covering the jazz aspect.
Karen Davis, Ph.D., President, United Poultry Concerns and author of ‘More Than A Meal – The Turkey In History’. Probably more of a pamphlet than a book. Apart from the their somewhat unfortunate appearance and loathing of Christmas I shouldn’t imagine there’s much more to say on the turkey. Karen is also editor of Poultry Press who produce a quarterly rag about chickens. Not a big fan of the chicken myself but I guess it gives them somewhere to vent their anger.
Then there’s Valerie Sicignano, East Coast Director, In Defense of Animals. Nice – presuming it includes birds?
Sadly, not a pigeon in sight, although I suspect lots may rock up on the day. Of course I offered my services straight away and said if the bill was chocca and a brief walk on part was out of the question I’d be more than happy to air-drop some flyers perhaps to parts of town they might not be able to get to, like Brooklyn?
Read more about the whole event here.
I still think it’s worth going for a global effort though and doing something here. Personally, I’d like to focus more on the party aspect. Free scran, a couple of lager pools, and maybe some foam? I’d also like to shift focus from the pigeon in nativity and get some music going. Maybe have The Pigeon Detectives do a set, or The Kooks?
Anyway, seeing as the people of London will have hopefully seen the light and ousted Ken from the top spot on May 1st, it may well be possible. I emailed Boris the other day to ask him what his stance on the pigeon was but not heard back yet…
He just shat a massive brussel sprout:
Check him out and his hasty getaway.
“Er, no. Wasn’t me. Never seen it before. Nothing to do with me. Absolutely nothing whatsoever. What sprout?”
Pissed myself. Must’ve been a bit like shitting a football.
Just rocked up at ‘L’s and it’s all on, thank fuck. BT was clearly shitting himself so he sent one of his mates along instead. Anyway, looks like he fixed her up. Mental it took so long. How hard can it be? It’s not like the internet’s new or anything. This BT twat’s obviously on the blag.
Chuffed to be back to normal tho. ‘L’ gave me some bread bits soon as I turned up to make up for the whole debacle. Only snag was she didn’t tell me it was 100% rye, which turns out to be a bit like sucking on a brick. Just about managed to swallow a couple and told her I’d save the rest till later.
Since we got back from Brighton the weather seems to have taken a swift sharp turn for the better. About fucking time too. The sun’s been shining and everything. Nice. London rocks when the sun shines, especially during Legover.
Legover is the festival of all things related to getting down and dirty. I’m not sure if it’s just a pigeon thing or not? Someone told me once that voles had something similar, but I think theirs starts in June.
Legover lasts for about eight weeks and is the time when pigeons everywhere try to pack a poke as often as possible.
It used to be a polite permission based affair with only the unattached taking part. In recent years however, and particularly when the sun shines, it has become one massive shagfest free-for-all, which is a shame in some ways. Instead of it being used as a period of time dedicated to the search for the love of your life, nowadays it’s just loads of pigeons walking about with permanently fixed fruity grins sexing up anything that moves. Partners tend to forgive the wandering eye more readily at this time of year too, which only makes matters worse.
Here’s a scene typical of Legover.
First off he gives it the whole ‘look at me with my big muscly chest all puffed up.’ Typically she politely ignores him and continues to go about her business. Not surprised. Frankly, I reckon he’s gone a bit overboard on the chest front. I remember chatting to a bird last year who said a massive chest can be a right turn-off, which is a good thing seeing as mine has no muscle on it whatsoever.
If the extended chest doesn’t wet her feathers, more than likely he’ll chuck her a cheesy one-liner such as: “Hey, cute thing. Fancy celebrating Legover by joining me in some sweet hot juicy loving?”
Then, slightly shamed up by the fact she is still ignoring him, he’ll move in and start to hassle hard:
“Go on. It’s Legover afterall. Let me put it in you. It won’t take long… I’m good. Honest.”
The other thing the bird last year said was that if a pigeon overly extends his chest and then tells you he’s good at it, he’s usually shit.
To be honest, sun or no sun, I tend to give Legover the wide berth. It’s just too commercial these days and either full of nonces giving it large or filthy slags who can’t get enough. Not really my scene.
What a freaky weird few weeks. Jesus. First off I get evicted from my Soho sweatshop, the next I get struck down with the most dreadful emptying of the bowels, and now, just when I thought the world was going straight, ‘L’ gets fucked over by some twat called BT who totally cocks up her broadband. Love to meet the nonce. Sets himself up as a doer of all things broadband, and then can’t even get the line in straight. What the fuck? ‘L’ was doing her nut this morning. Don’t blame her. Thought I’d leave her to it seeing as there’s not much I can do to help, apart from lamp a large shit on his cunty head when he finally rocks up.
Managed to break back into Norms for one last time. I remember him saying he’s visiting his ‘really good friend’ in Doncaster this weekend…
Hopefully, if BT can get it up, all will be good from tomorrow onwards. Better be. All this instability is doing my head in. It’s made me realise how much I love a bit of routine. I know it may sound strange for a pigeon to be into ‘routine’, but I am. I discussed this with Mart who said he was the opposite and preferred to live his life ‘perched on a knife edge of fiery unpredictability’. I’m not convinced that’s strictly true.
So – to desperate Dan going slowly mental in Brighton. We winged it all the way down the M23 in well bad freeze-your-arse-off conditions. One stressed out arctic blow down all the way. No fun whatsoever. Got there and managed to find a place to stay, which was tough seeing as most places were pretty chocca…
This is where we ended up:
Guess it’s the pigeon equivalent of a Travelodge? Nothing in the way of facilities, cramped conditions all round with not even so much as a complimentary shortbread. Sea views rocked though. Got chatting to some of the residents. Turns out most of them were on a weekend mini-break. Came from all sorts of places. Met one dude who’d winged it all the way from Dudley. I asked him where that was but I couldn’t understand a fucking word he said, apart from the fact he was into boats.
Next day we headed off to find Dan. Last we’d heard, he’d moved on from the puddles – see post, and was holed up in a chalky hole somewhere in the cliffs.
We found him pretty easily in the end:
Tragic. Just standing there he was looking well ragged humming the theme tune to Thunderbirds over and over again. He was tapping his toe at the same time. Think it was to a completely different tune tho.
We tried to talk to him. Nothing. Mart even stood right in front of him. Only lasted a couple of minutes. His breath was well rank, apparently.
Not sure what else we can do apart from go visit him from time to time and hope he moves on from Thunderbirds to something a bit cooler, like ‘Mr. Brightside’ by The Killers for example? Just a thought.
Just in case you thought I’d gone all a bit silencio of late, thought I’d better explain what’s been occurring.
Got back from Brighton on Monday – more on that later. Safe to say Dan is still well and truly bonkers as a flapjack.
Anyway, far as I knew, ‘L’ would be back from Mexico and we’d be all back to normal on the posting front. So, I pitched up Monday pm. No ‘L’. Shit. Stood at the fucking window freezing my arse off for ages. Nada.
She finally rocks up last night looking like shit. Turns out she got stuck in Mexico coz her flight got cancelled. Mental. Anyway, she wants me out so she can get come kip. I told her not to mind me. She said she’s rather I came back later. Fair play.
So – Brighton update and the latest on desperate Dan is going to have to wait.
At long fucking last my arse has started to behave itself. Never again will I dice with death on a Chinese Takeaway from Slough – see post below. Ali apologised. I said it wasn’t his fault. Mental too as Mart was the one who’d tucked into the chicken. Should have been him struck down with a mortifying emptying of everything and anything. It’s all good now, apart from the obvious soreness which means the rear-end takeoff clench burns like fuck. Bit like how I should imagine it feels to sit on a tealight.
First thing tomorrow me and Mart are heading down to the coast. Remember Desperate Dan? The dude who got blown all the way from London to Brighton? Well, he’s been spotted again. Lost it completely, apparently, and is currently living the life of a hermit in a hole somewhere in the cliffs. Jesus.
Reckon it’s about time for a mercy mission. Course Mart thinks the whole scenario rocks and that rescuing him is ‘just the same as saving your street brother just like they do in the movies’, which was all well and good till he started going, ‘Yo bro’ and saying ‘man’ at the end of every sentence.
If you don’t know the story of desperate Dan – you’ll have to check out the posts below. Normally I would link to them but the guys at WordPress have re-designed their admin pages and it appears the ability to add links has gone down. Eh? Anyone out there know a short cut?
Thank fuck the shit situation’s stabalised though. Would have been one nightmare journey from hell if it hadn’t.
I’d have been all over the place in ‘Shit or Miss’. Could have been Mart’s lucky day.
Have to say, I can’t wait to get off this ledge. I’m sick of the site of it. No offense, Al.
As for the Chinese takeaway – see post below – I threw it all back almost instantly, and it’s still going on. It’s not pleasant. Not even slightly. Straight in, and virtually straight out it came. I’ve had to remain firmly ledgebound for the last 48 hours while Mart took himself off to the roof, and Al kept the window shut.
He let me in just now to do this, but I’m not sure how long it’s going to be, if you know what I mean. Excuse me too if there are any typos but he also made me put a tea-towel over the keyboard, just in case. Don’t blame him.
To top it all I got an e-postcard from ‘L’ who says there are no pigeons over in Mexico, or at least not where she is anyway. None whatsoever.
She says the reason might be that the whole place is full of these:
Saying that, spot the odd one out on the end giving it all large like a pelican. Typical.
Right. That’s it. Back to the ledge. Over to you, Al. Just press publish. Ta mate.
The inevitable nightmare ensued this morning when I decided that a post was in order. Several attempted break-ins later, including one particular hole of a cyber caff in Hammersmith where the owner took exception to my incessant pecking at the window and belted me on the head with a hunk of sugary doughnut. Joyfully, it was a Krispy Kreme Dulce De Leche which served us well as a fucking delicious lunchtime snack. It also gave us the necessary carb uplift for the journey that was to follow…
I don’t know why, but I really thought with all the publicity I’ve had recently that at least one cyber joint in London would have heard of me enough to be chuffed to have me post from there. Oh well.
Mart suggested the only real option was to wing it to Al’s place in Slough. Jesus. Thing is, I knew he was right. What with ‘L’ away and Norm gone all anti-pigeon on us, we had no choice but to head up the M4 corridor. As expected it was a totally shit journey. Wind blowing us akimbo all over the place. Even the obligatory ‘eyes-right’ when passing Hayes meant we nearly ended up decking it into a tree. Pissing with rain again too. Where the fuck’s it all coming from? Does it mean that one day soon we’ll be able to walk to France?
Got to Al’s and, thankfully, he was in and immediately welcomed us with big wide open arms.
“Mr Brian. Long time no seeing you. Would you be pleased to be staying with me for a takeaway? For the olden time’s sakes?”
Would I be pleased? Fucking delighted more like. He let me in to the old familiar back office, and I was off. I immediately typed him a ‘Cheers, dude’, and got on with replying to a couple of comments while Mart pretended to ski on a couple of pencils.
Al said we could stay over if we wanted, which is cool. So – Slough it is, for the next couple of days at least. Mart said he wouldn’t mind a Mars factory fly-by later on so he could “sniff some choclatey goodness”. I told him he was welcome to, if it was still there, but I was totally staying put for a nosh up on some fresh-out-of-the-box-take-away. It’s not often we get the luxury of hot food in a box. This is what I went for in the end:
Stir fried beef with ginger and spring onions. Goes without saying I gave the spring onions a wide berth.
Tough choice but I always figure munching on any kind of bird is somewhat hypocritical, never mind downright fucking rude.
Mart said he felt he was far away enough from the chicken family, and gave it a go. Choked on it instantly. He said it was ‘a bit on the tough side’. I said it was karma.
Al’s just locking up and we’re about to hit the old familiar ledge. Good to be back as it goes.
Nice one, Al.