Email really is a genius invention, especially for pigeons. In the old days it was us that transported messages. Millions of them. The day to day life of a pigeon was nothing but carrying around small bits of paper with writing on. We were the original Internet.
Nowadays, we don’t need to go anywhere near the message. In fact, I haven’t seen an actual message for years. The messages come to us, online. What’s even better is we get to send them too, providing the whole jumping around on a keyboard thing has been mastered of course (see previous post).
The story I’m about to tell you is the perfect example of how well this works. A pigeon got in touch from Chicago recently. Kid you not. All the way from across the pond in Chicago. The name’s Rocco. He actually called himself ‘Big’ Rocco. Not sure why. He doesn’t look very big in the picture.
He’s the one on the left with the slightly odd neckerchief going on:
He said he’d been reading Pigeon Blog for a while and thought he’d send me an email. How simple is that? There’s no way I’d have got that message before the Internet came along.
Have to say, Chicago sounds like my kind of town. Big history of gangster pigeons back in the day, apparently. One in particular, weirdly also called Rocco.
Rocco discovered how to make alcohol out of cat piss. He had a thing going on in the Italian quarter where he’d kidnap pigeons from other parts of town and offer them up to the local cats in return for their piss, which he’d then turn into alcohol. Total genius. Apparently it’s where the term ‘get pissed’ comes from.
This is where he lived. It’s also where Rocco and most of the other uptown pigeons live now. Plenty of ledges and pretty central:
He’s not wrong there. Never seen so many ledges. Unfortunately he did say that most of the buildings these days are ledge-free. I’ve told him the same thing is happening in London. Ledges are a thing of the past.
Anyway, Rocco and me are going to stay in contact, and he’s also going to put me in touch with a couple of pals of his in New York.
Good times. Here’s to the Internet.
Loads of you have been asking where I’ve been. In fact, it’s so long since I did a post, WordPress have even gone and changed their user interface, including the ability to ‘add a poll’. So now I might add a poll just for the hell of it. No idea what about. Maybe a poll asking whether you like polls? Who knows. It also has a button that says ‘distraction free writing mode’. WTF? I just pressed it and nothing happened. Mart’s still wanging on and the sun’s still shining. Oh well.
Unfortunately the basic typing method hasn’t changed. It’s still me jumping about on letter keys no bigger than my toe. Occasionally one gets stuck. Happened the other day on the letter P. It’s a tricky business. Always has been. The whole typing effort is also the reason I’ve been absent from the longer form post. I sprained my foot. Twitter’s 140 characters was all I could bloody manage. There. I said it. I sprained my fucking foot. Jesus it hurt. How, you might ask? Let’s just say a puddle of beer was involved followed by an embarrassing incident at The Clock Tower.
So, I’m still in Brighton and it’s been a rocking summer, injury aside. Wall-to-wall hotness, and it’s still going on. A far cry from last summer that’s for sure. In fact, had we had this summer last summer, I may have stayed in London. A long stretch of sustained sunshine is always a winner. I bet even Coventry looked alright this summer. Then again, maybe not.
This is mainly where I’ve been spending my days. It’s a cafe called The Meeting Place down on the seafront. It’s the best place by miles for some decent throwaway, and is a great place to meet new pigeons:
And, as you’ll see from this next pic, it’s got a great view too.
This is Bill, or I think his name was Bill. Can’t really remember as he didn’t say much:
Only snag with The Meeting Place, as it’s bang on the seafront, is it does tend to attract the tourists. Not that I’m exactly a local, but you know what I mean.
Tourists like this total twat in a hat. A hat that he’d fashioned out of his own arse feathers:
All the rage in Swansea, apparently. Knob.
We all ignored him and he went away in the end.
So, what next? Summer’s coming to an end. The autumn then, I guess. Let’s hope it’s a nice gentle one. Bit of sunshine gradually easing us towards Christmas. Jesus. Christmas. Did I just say that?
I’ve got no clue what Brighton will be like at Christmas. Word on the street is there’s loads of parties. Sounds good to me, so long as I stay away from that fucking Clock Tower.
There are two major factors influencing the content of this post: The current bin man strike in Brighton, and the resultant angry seagulls.
So, first off, there’s been zero bin emptying down here for three days and already it looks like this:
Basically a town-sized free-for-all:
Yesterday I managed a warm pepperoni pizza slice and an egg mayonnaise roll piece washed down with a bit of cappuccino. This morning I found myself several beaks of trifle. Sweet as, literally. It was only Morrison’s, but I couldn’t fault it.
Basically, whatever you fancy, it’s out there, which means it’s going to get busy when the rest of the UK pigeon population find out (like now, for example). Carnage. Apparently the strike is on till Friday so, as you read this, pigeons everywhere will be hitting the skies, and why wouldn’t they? Brighton needs to be prepared though so I’ve already warned the Pigeon Refuge, and anyone out there with space on their ledge or balcony, you may need to share.
However, despite the fact we should be partying right now, be warned. There are the a few other not-so-nice fuckers tucking into the piles that you need to be wary of. The rats have already appeared, armed and dangerous. Then there are the seagulls. The angry big white seagulls claiming their turf. Those great big fuck-off birds that I thought I’d got to know. Not a bit of it. Every single one of them has gone mental. Off their nut after too much sugar thinking they own it all. Considering most of them have just had kids too, over-feeding on top of a lack of sleep is never a good combination for a seagull. Be warned, and be on your guard. A rat carrying a stick is nothing compared to an angry deranged gull.
A couple of final tips: When going into one of the larger piles, hold your breath. The smell isn’t pleasant and NEVER stick your beak into the small black plastic bags tied together at the top. They’ve got dog shit in them.
Apart from all that, enjoy, and don’t forget to drink plenty of water.
It’s been a while since I’ve done a long one like this. Basically, what with all the Tweeting, twitting and twatting about, I haven’t had time. Nor, to be honest, have I had the connections to facilitate it. Despite doing it for as many years as I have, being a pigeon that blogs isn’t always easy. Not every fucker appreciates a random pigeon flying through the window and jumping all over their laptop, unless they’re expecting one of course, so negotiating those kind of arrangements can be problematic. Someone told me there’s a pigeon-friendly public library down here. Is there fuck. It doesn’t even have ledges. How am I supposed to find the PCs without ledges? I’m pretty sure the windows don’t open either.
Anyway, problem solved. I now have a couple of sources down here happy to help, providing I clean up after myself. Of course as usual, their identities have to remain anonymous in case they get done for encouraging free speech of the pigeon. It wouldn’t be the first time.
So, what have I been up to? I won’t bore you with the throwaway stories but, safe to say, getting something half decent to eat down here is a load easier than in London. It’s smaller for a start and, for some reason, more people tend to drop their food. Don’t know why. Come Friday and Saturday nights getting our beaks round some casual spillage is a piece of piss, especially round the the pier, and even better when the weather’s good. The best is when one of us spots a big group all wearing the same clothes. Think it’s called a hen party. Not sure why though seeing as none of them ever dress like hens. Once we’ve clocked one, we follow them around and just eat whatever gets dropped on the way. Usually starts out with crisps and peanuts, includes lager and sometimes fizzy wine, and always ends up with chips and kebabs. Genius. For those of us who manage to stay the distance, it’s a right result and a great night out, providing you don’t tuck into the puke later like Mart did. Not pleasant.
So, just in case anyone’s wondering what happened between myself and the sweet lady I saw in Queen’s Park? The vision of beauty who lived in a window box in Hove? Turns out to be a right nutter, and not in a good way. Her name’s Alice.
I decided I’d meet her in Queen’s Park in the end. Figured if it turned out to be a disaster, I had a getaway. I knew that soon as I’d sat in her box there’d be no escaping. Call me cynical, but it’s happened before. I thought this way we could keep it casual, hang out a bit, and see if it clicked…
Jesus. Total waste of time. She had nothing to say. Nothing at all. She just did this giggle shit whenever I asked her a question, and I mean banal questions like: ‘How long did it take you to fly here?’, ‘How long have you been in Brighton?’ and ‘What’s your favorite nest padding?’. Questions that were in no way funny. Not even slightly.
This was all I got. Truly dire:
After I’d decided to call it a day, I also happened to notice none of the other pigeons were talking to her either. Funny that. I’ve seen her up there since then. Thankfully she doesn’t seem to know who I am. Total result and a lucky escape.
Other news is we had to move from the first ledge. Not sheltered enough when the winds were kicking in. I didn’t fancy a dusty cliff hole or a dodgy plank under the pier, so went for this instead:
Nice area, solidly built and it’s got a roof. Unfortunately we have to share, but you can’t have everything.
So here’s to summer. Hopefully that wasn’t it last week or I will be pissed.
At last, life is starting to sort itself out down here. Met some great new mates including a number of sea gulls. Hate to say it but I take back everything bad I’ve ever said about them. Far from dull, a fair few of them have been hilarious with a surprisingly dry wit. Clive who we met the other day wants to teach me to swim. Could be interesting. Of course Mart asked him if he taught surfing too. Said he was planning to make himself a surfboard out of tooth picks. Jesus.
Best bit is we’ve managed to sort ourselves a half decent ledge in the better end of a place called Kemp Town. Near enough to the action for warm chips, but far enough away to get some sleep on a Friday night, and it’s also only a five minute fly to the middle. Genius.
The pigeon refuge was fun for a while – see last post, and it was great to meet pigeons like Tony, but it can get a bit much. Everywhere you turn there’s a pigeon wanting to chat. You just want to tell them to fuck off, but you can’t.
Now we’ve finally got our own pad, we can start to kick back. The shit clearing rule stays though.
At the weekend, during a classic game of Shit or Miss over the Brighton Marathon, the sun even managed to come out. At long fucking last it seems the longest winter ever is coming to an end. Surely a hot summer is in order to make up for it?
All in all, life is good, and it’s possibly about to get a whole lot better…
Today, I met the pigeon of my dreams. She reminded me a bit of a pigeon I was into years ago called Mary. Something I won’t be mentioning.
Clive had invited Mart and me to Gull Fest. Gull Fest is an annual event for the local sea gulls held in a place called Queen’s Park.
He told us that not many pigeons get the nod. He wasn’t wasn’t wrong:
Even though it was banging, we did feel a bit awkward at first.
Think the ducks were feeling it too:
Turned out to be a right laugh in the end.
A highlight for me was when one of the funniest gulls I’ve ever seen did a routine about swans and sparrows. Last time I saw her was on a mini-break in Brighton last year.
She’s called Harriet but likes to be known as Harry.
Yes, It is a female:
She was fucking funny. Mart and me pissed ourselves.
Anyway, there I was hanging out chatting away to a pigeon called Andy who talked a lot when, suddenly, a vision walked in front of me. Nearly spat out my own tongue. Never seen anything so lovely:
She was drop dead gorgeous. I asked Andy to see if he could find out any detail on the whereabouts of her ledge.
She totally ignored him. Hilarious:
Then I found out what he was saying: “Excuse me. My friend over there. See him. Over there. He wants to know where you live.”
Jesus. No wonder. Probably thought he was some fruitcake stalker.
But then, thankfully, she changed her mind:
She told him she lived in a window-box in Hove. Think we might be hooking up at the weekend.
Wish me luck. Not been on a date for years. May even have a wash.
We’re here, finally, having done one of the hardest flys ever including an emergency stop-over in Crawley after battling gale force winds down the M23. Nightmare and totally knackering. Then, pretty much soon as we get to Brighton, it turns into the Arctic fucking Tundra. Kid you not. WTF? Nearly April and it’s chucking down freezing snow. This time last year we were boiling our arses off.
Not on. Ended up spending our first night here. It’s a refuge for homeless pigeons:
Couldn’t be arsed to go hunting for a dream ledge in this weather.
It’s actually turned out to be be quite a laugh in the end. We even managed a bit of a sing along yesterday to keep warm. Genius, until one of them suggested the soundtrack from Mama Mia.
We’re thinking we might stay here for a bit, or at least till the weather get’s better. The others don’t seem to mind and there’s plenty of room. In fact, it turns out one of them called Tony has been staying here for two and a half years.
This is Tony (right) on the window ledge:
Said he’d flown away from Worthing one day because he was bored, and landed in Brighton. He’d planned to settle on a nice ledge but ended up here and just stayed on. He was reluctant to say why, so I didn’t push it.
“We look out for eachother and help to keep the place clean.” He said. “It’s more of a commune than a refuge.” Nice one, and definitely the place to be for now.
Come on Spring. Get your shit together.
It’s decided. We’re moving to Brighton. If these Arctic conditions continue, at least we’ll be freezing our arses off by the sea. Mart’s bang up for it. London in this weather is just depressing.
This was us yesterday near Marble Arch:
So cold we couldn’t even be bothered to speak, and then it rained. It rained all bloody day. Miserable.
Not sure where we’re going to end up yet. Possibly the Marina. Got taken there the other day. Not only is there a massive MacDonalds, it’s got a car park and a drive through which means people drive through, eat in the car park and then chuck what’s left out of the window. Genius. Burger throwaway everywhere, and some of it was still warm.
This is one of our new pals, Clive. It was Clive who told us about it:
Get in there Clive.
Even met a half decent sea gull called Boris (in the middle).
I think Brighton is going to rock and, who knows, maybe I’ll try out a few dates? I’ll definitely be checking out the stand-up scene. Whatever occurs, it’s going to be a damn sight better than sitting on a wall near Marble Arch in the pissing rain.
If anyone can recommend any decent available ledges, let me know.
If you’re wondering why you haven’t heard from me for a while, I’ll tell you. In all the years of writing this blog I have never suffered any injuries. Not one. Pretty amazing all things considered. Some might say flying about with a camera strapped to me might be hazardous to say the least, but no. Nothing.
It also has to be said that in all the years of doing this I have never given a flying fuck about Valentine’s Day either. Apart from anything else I’ve not really had much cause to if you get my drift.
This year, they both come at once. Total nightmare.
Met a half decent bird a couple of weeks ago called Sally. We got on pretty well and seemed to have quite a bit in common like being interested in bagels and trying out different types of nut. We even agreed on a favourite – the Brazil. She seemed pretty into me writing Pigeon Blog for as long as I have too (even though she said she’d never read it). Anyway, cut a long story short I decided to take her out on Valentine’s Day. Mart suggested a throwaway on Brick Lane, but I wanted to go a bit more up market. If I was in the zone for a possible legover I had to get it right, so I decided on a sunset ride on a Millennium Wheel pod. Perfect. Both of us staring into out over London. Wings slightly touching. I’ve never done it myself but heard it’s pretty easy to hold on and doesn’t go that fast.
So – Feb 14th comes. I get up and go for the necessary wash in Leicester Square and what happens? I stub my fucking toe getting out. Never been in so much pain. Jesus. Couldn’t walk. Couldn’t stand. Swelled up like a fucking potato. Just had to get back in the water and sit there while Mart went to tell Sally the date was off.
Thankfully the toe has gone down a bit now so hopefully we can do it next week instead. Tell you one thing though – never again will I ever mention the word Valentine.
As always happens in London, the snow all came and went in a couple of days. Up to our knees we were in a slushy nightmare. Anyway, sledging was fun even though all we managed to do was tow each other around a bit. Turned out that carrying a foil throwaway box in the air any distance was too much like hard work. Good times, unlike now. Really not much going on in London at all these days. As far as I can make out, there’s not much happening this year full stop. Flat as a soggy pancake.
2012 was all about massive amounts of tourists and parties, and then there was the Olympics and my stint at Time Out. This year, nothing. Nada. Fuck all, so I’m considering moving to Brighton. Been there a couple of times and there’s a pretty good scene going on.
Put it this way, this was the biggest laugh we’ve had since the snow:
Eating shit off the floor in Waterloo Station, and that was only because it was pissing down. Hardly comedy genius.
At least in Brighton you can get yourself a nice sunny-aspect ledge like this one and stare out to sea all day:
Bit of coastal meditation could do me the world of good. Change my perspective a bit. Get the old creative juices going again, especially if I can crack the comedy scene down there. Heard the pigeons in Hove have got a great night going on under the pier on a Wednesday.
For a start, I know I’d write a whole lot more because I’d actually have something interesting to write about.
I mentioned the idea to Mart who was right into it soon as I mentioned the word ‘explore’. He said he’d love nothing better than to spend his days exploring just like in the film, ‘The Explorers’. Jesus.
Anyway, watch this space.
So, this is it. The snow’s here, big time, and there’s more on the way. In fact I think it’s doing it again now. Thankfully I managed to escape the slush of Central London by swapping it for some lush white powder in Richmond. Good move. Plenty of room under the bridge, and we even got fed yesterday. Kid you not. Richmond is definitely the place to be when it snows.
This was me, yesterday:
Good times, despite the cold feet. Jesus they were cold!
Mart’s just suggested an activity for today. Possibly the first genuinely good idea he’s ever had. Sledging in the park using an empty throw-away box. Ideally one like this:
He’s off right now with a couple of pals hunting one down. Should be easy enough to get it up there with a few of us. Watch this space. Or, if you’re out and about on the slopes of Richmond Park, watch out for a bunch of pigeons on a tin foil sledge.
Bring it on!
It’s been a while since I posted, but that’s mainly because I’ve been busy. No excuse I know, but it’s true. First off, I’m thinking of moving and have been looking into potential destinations. After all these years struggling in London, I reckon I’ve had my fill. There’s just too many of us with not enough throwaway to go round, and when I read the other day about that BBC hawk chewing on a pigeon, that was the final straw. The odd stray one accidentally downing a pigeon because it’s hungry, fair enough. Showing off in front of a load of BBC staff however – not on. Why do the BBC need hawks anyway? Trafalgar Square, I sort of get it seeing as it used to be such a hang out, and still is, but we don’t even like the new BBC building. It sucks arse. The only pigeons who go there are either star spotters hoping to catch a glimpse of Bruce Forsyth, or they’re lost. Give it up, BBC. You’re not that great.
Another nail in London’s coffin is the lack of decent ledges. Back in the day there were plenty to go round. Now, no chance, especially in the West End where they’re strictly on a first come first served basis, and spikes have clearly come down in price because every fucker appears to be getting them.
Yesterday, I found some pigeons finally making some noise about it outside Starbucks on Carnaby Street:
Bring it on.
I spoke to one of them. Debra from Dulwich (left):
“I can’t believe how many spikes there are these days.” She said. “They’re everywhere. It’s especially hard if you’re a larger pigeon like me who needs a slightly wider ledge…”
She went on to say they intend to sit up there every day until the spikes are removed. Fair play, although I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen any time soon.
As last year came to its inevitably soggy conclusion it looks like 2012 is officially the wettest on record. You don’t say. Frankly, things had better improve in 2013 on the weather front. There’s already talk of a new migratory policy and it’s only January 2nd.
The only snag is, how do we do it? All those in the know, i.e. all those that fuck off every year, have already fucked off, so it looks like we’ll have to wait till the spring when they come back to get the low down.
We just need some detail. Where to go? How far is it? Best en route stop-offs etc.? I’m sure we can make it to Morocco at the very least. Who’s with me?
Any of you in any doubt, just take a look at this poor fucker sifting through a pile of wet sick on a Monday morning:
Anyway – Happy New Year!
Mart always accuses me of never wanting to do anything festive. Fair comment as generally I do try to avoid it, apart from the traditional Shit or Miss on the Christmas shoppers on Oxford Street that is. So this year I decided to go for it by suggesting we fly to Windsor for the annual Christmas carol singing event. A pal called Ed goes every year and says it rocks the big one. Mart was made up so off we flew first thing this morning straight up the M4.
Thankfully we managed to dodge the pissing rain. Pretty easy fly as it goes, mainly because you can see the Castle from miles away. The only downer was Mart practising ‘Away In A Manger’ the whole way there. Kid you not.
As we approached they were already half way through an air-bound rendition of ‘Ding Dong Merrily On High':
Have to admit I even hummed along a bit. Of course Mart was straight in there with the harmonies. Painful stuff.
Then everyone hit the turret for Silent Night:
That’s Ed at the top. Frankly getting into it a bit too much for my liking.
Still, it was a right laugh and Mart said it was the best Christmas Day he’d ever had.
Tomorrow we’re back on the ledge getting ready for the annual Boxing Day Brazil Nut Hunt on Berwick Street.
So, seeing as the world didn’t end after all, here’s to a Happy Christmas from me and Mart.
Everyone’s talking about it. The end of the world is this Friday, apparently. Not sure what that means but checking the mental weather this year, I wouldn’t be surprised. Have to say though, it’ll be a shame if it does. I haven’t even been to the Isle of Wight.
Some of the conversations I’ve had about it have been hilarious. There are pigeons out there actually preparing for it. Unbelievable.
Take Francis from Morden, for example. Francis has spent months filling her nest with whatever shit she can pick up, even if she doesn’t know what it is:
Mental. She can’t even sit in it anymore and spends most days walking around with crumbs stuck to her arse.
This year really has been one big weather roller-coaster. Mental, and now it looks like the Arctic is moving in to make 12.12.12 the coldest day, ever.
Practically every lamp worth taking in London has gone as pigeons hunker down for the night. Think I’d rather have non-stop pissing rain than this. My beak was literally frozen solid this morning. I even had bits of frost on my toes. This afternoon I decided drastic action had to be taken, especially as Mart spent most of the day sitting as close as possible trying to keep warm. To be honest, I found it all a bit uncomfortable.
The good news is we managed to bag one of these on Leicester Square. Mart is sitting on it right now.
Just got to make sure neither of us roll over in our sleep. Could wake up to a nasty shock:
Still, least we’d have had warm arses for the night.