If ever there was a moment when I find myself being just just a little bit jealous of a couple of pigeons from around the world in an everyday situation, then this is it. Sent to me by Anne-Sophie.
Check them out:
Two of the luckiest pigeons alive sunning it up in Mauritius.
Hmmmmm – shade or sun, what’ll it be?
Cheers for sending them, Anne-Sophie! Any chance you can you take me with you next time?
Couple of the Kilburn boys came up yesterday to celebrate St Patrick’s Day. Not sure why, but they said London Bridge Station was the venue of choice this year. I pointed out that London Bridge Station had absolutely no Irish connections whatsoever, but they didn’t seem to care.
Aside from the fake Irish accents from a couple of them, particularly Irish Steve, who isn’t Irish at all, it was a right laugh. In fact, I’m pretty sure Irish Steve didn’t even know where Ireland was until a couple of months ago.
I took this quite early on:
Good times. That’s Irish Steve on the right.
Think this was the moment he started to demonstrate his Irish dancing. He said if we all joined in, it would be a bit like Riverdance. We obviously told him that under no circumstances were we about to dance around like twats, St Paddy’s Day or otherwise.
He wouldn’t give it up though. Fucking funny.
Here he is again, tapping his way around the station:
Pissed ourselves, especially when he got a fag butt stuck to his foot.
Gerry on the other hand, seen here on the left, had hit the Guinness early and spent the rest of the day trying to engage a piece of celery in conversation about the state if the Irish economy.
Needless to say, he didn’t get very far.
And here he is – Eddy the fox in action on the pitch on Saturday:
Surely that’s worth a signed shirt?
Hanging out on the roof of Twickenham about to watch the fairly poor rugby game that just happened between England and Scotland, when out comes a fox. Cheeky as you like. Trotted around for half an hour clearly loving every minute of it. Pretty sure I saw him turn a side profile to the cameras at one point. Jesus.
Anyway, turns out he’s the same dude who turned out last year to watch England loose against Ireland.
Here he is. Not sure, but I think he may have hit the beer before he got there..:
Bottom line is, he’s a big fan. Probably English rugby’s biggest fan. The names Eddy. All he wanted was a signed shirt, but he got booted out before the game even started.
Never mind, Eddy. You didn’t miss much.
When I first heard that the ear-munching boxer Mike Tyson was a big fan of the pigeon, frankly, I was a little bit scared.
Now they’ve gone a made a TV show about him, and it turns out he really does love the pigeon, and not just for breakfast as I had feared initially:
I reckon we should get him over here to talk to Boris. Surely if anyone can convince our blond buffoon of a Mayor to give us pigeons a chance, it’s him…
Tyson: “Right, Boris. You give them pigeons a break, or else.”
Boris: “Okay, Mr Tyson, Sir. Sorry Mr Tyson, Sir.”
A few weeks ago I wrote about how the pigeon deserved a year in the Chinese calendar. Well, it seems we might be one step nearer. The People’s Liberation Army are about to embark on the training of 10,000 pigeons to carry vital messages in the event of the breakdown of mass communications.
They even described the pigeon as ‘indispensable’ in modern warfare. Sweet.
Managed to track down ‘The Knobster’. Turns out his name’s Alan. The Knobster, or Knobby as I thought he was known to his friends, is a nickname.
Then I looked down and saw why. Jesus.
I was also slightly mortified I’d attempted to strike an instant rapport when we first met by calling him ‘Knob’:
I tried to laugh it off but I don’t think it worked. Alan was clearly a pigeon who’d been through a lot.
He told me he’d joined Harry The Hat for a brief time a few years ago as a seed guard. A ridiculous role seeing as pigeons generally tend to ignore them anyway, which is exactly what happened to Alan. A load flew in from Stratford one day, and took the lot. He didn’t stand a chance.
Harry wasn’t happy, apparently. Not even slightly. Alan didn’t want to go into detail about what he referred to as ‘the foot incident’, but I suspect it wasn’t pleasant judging by the state of it.
Mart is now clearly shitting himself. Trouble is we can’t really back out. Not now Mr Pink thinks it’s a yes. Bollocks. Never mind. Guess we’ll have to do it. Make it a quick in and out. No hanging around for tea or anything. Chuck ‘em a few flying skills and a bit of jargon, and get the fuck out of there.
If not, and it does all go horribly wrong, I guess I can always get myself a built up shoe, which is something I might recommend to Alan.
Remember I went down to Peckham for Valentine’s Day and I met a pigeon called Harry The Hat? He only got in touch yesterday asking for my help. Jesus. Nearly shat myself.
Course he didn’t come himself. He sent a pigeon called Mr Pink.
This is Mr Pink, who wanted to remain anonymous for obvious reasons:
Aside from the toes that didn’t look any pinker than mine, I’m not sure why he was called Mr Pink, but there ya go. I’m guessing Harry The Hat doesn’t wear hats either. I could be wrong.
Anyway, it turns out that Peckham, as I suspected, is a haven for flyaways. Flyaways are pigeons who have either flown the nest too soon, or been thrown out due to anti-social behavior. As a consequence, most of them arrive with very poor flying skills. For some reason, Harry The Hat thinks I can help. Not sure why.
There is one school of thought that says never do business with gangsters because it always goes horribly wrong. There’s another that says do, because if you don’t, it goes wrong anyway. Mr Pink said Harry The Hat would be ‘most pleased’ if I could help, which I read as ‘not at all pleased’ if I can’t.
So I’m going to hunt down a pigeon called Knobby later today. Knobby, or ‘The Knobster’ as he’s known, used to work for Harry back in the day.
In the meantime I’d better brush up on some flying theory, and fast.