Here’s a another fine example of The Ring of Sharing – see post, although, for all the same reasons we stopped calling it that, they now refer to it simply as ‘A Seed Scrum’. Nice.
Not sure the one in the middle entirely gets the concept? Overall, I’d say the whole affair looks far more civilsed than the London version.
Cheers for sending it, Suz!
Also – check this out – hanging out in Hyde Park yesterday, and you’ll never guess who nearly stepped on my head… John Hurt! Fuck me. John Hurt – in Hyde Park! THE John Hurt, nominated for an Oscar for his admirable portrayal of the mentalist freak-boy, John Merrick, out in the open blatantly striding across Hyde Park.
Managed to snap this:
Unfortunately, I only got his legs.
Sure I saw him give me the knowing nod as he went past though…
Made my day.
Seeing as my feelings for Mary still run deep, and following the distressing revelations of last week – see this post – I decided to see if I could find her.
Sadly, I did.
The drug taking is starting to take its shocking tole and she appears to have developed severe black markings all over her lovely white body. Such a shame.
She’s even started curbstoning, and blatantly selling her wares to unsuspecting passers by.
Here she is chasing one of them who was quietly going about his business:
Mary: Come on, Love. You know you want it.
Unsuspecting passer by: No. Thank you. Really.
Mary: You know you do. Half price if you’re quick. Call it a morning special.
Unsuspecting passer by: Look, will you please leave me alone. I’m happily married and live in Chiswick.
Mary: So? Never stopped anyone before. Why do you think I work it in W4? Go on. Sink your hot love beak into my feathery softness.
Unsuspecting passer by: Will you please just go away. You’re starting to make me feel a bit sick.
Jesus. Tragic. Think she may have spotted me too.
Took this one a bit later. Here she is curbstoning, and being approached by some potential custom:
Nearly offered myself up out of pity, but didn’t want to catch anything. You never know these days. VD is rife amongst pigeons on the game, apparently. A mate of mine caught crabs once too, which is a nightmare if you’re a pigeon, and totally visible to the naked eye.
Seems the Americans got there first. June 13th is going to be National Pigeon Day in NYC. Even looks like they’re already onto Woody to put in a guest appearance, or at the very least chuck in a cash bundle. Must let Wilf know – see post below – he’d be well chuffed.
Reason it’s June 13th is it’s the anniversary of the death of Cher Ami, a famous pigeon war hero from the First World War who ended up being awarded the French ‘Croix de Guerre’ medal for being brave as fuck in active service.
If you want to read more about Cher Ami, this is his story.
However, I’m hoping the whole event will be one big musical extravaganza because, what most people don’t know, is that Cher’s first love, some would say his only love, was early Jazz music, particularly the phat tunes of Buddy Bolden.
Rumour has it he would have made a fine trumpeter and had even planned to travel to New Orleans one day to study under the great master.
Sadly, this was not to be. He was badly wounded in action and lost a leg, which clearly brought his trumpeting days to a swift and bitter conclusion. Cher, on knowing he would never realise his Jazz dream, eventually died of a broken heart on June 13th 1919.
The ever-so-slightly weird end to the story is that some total pervert decided to stuff him, and stick him in museum. Not even a Jazz museum. Some American History museum.
Probably the last thing Cher would have wanted is to end up looking massively gay nailed to an oval mahogony stand.
This is Cher:
Frankly, not very respectful.
Least they could have done is stick his trumpet in his beak.
Anyway, goes without saying that I’m planning to use my new found fame to ensure we too get a National Pigeon Day on June 13th.
Bring it on.
Meant to post this before, but got a bit caught up with the whole Time Out thing.
Went up to Hackney the other day to see my old pal, Wilf.
This is Wilf:
Known Wilf for years. Sadly Wilf forgets rather alot these days, and largely lives off his own shit. Back in the day though, Wilf was quite something. Bit of a celebrity in fact. Some say Wilf was the inspiration for Pigeon Street, but I’m not sure about that. He was certainly widely recognised as a one of London’s finest mime pigeons.
Anyway, there we were chatting away when Wilf only goes and drops the biggest bombshell. Knocked my fucking block off. You know the whole ‘rats with wings’ concept? It was only Woody Allen who invented it. Jesus. The Woody Allen. The dry witted comedy genius, Woody Allen. Gutted. I was a big fan of Mr Allen, till now.
Apparently he wrote it into the script for some movie he made back in 1980. One I’d never heard of called Stardust Memories.
Mr Allen – I hate to say this, but I now hold you personally responsible for the decades of persecution caused by the invention of what, as I have posted about before, is a totally unjustified racialist slur.
Mr Allen – this one’s for you:
Suck my arse.
Jesus. What a night. Loads of pals rocked up and we hit the big one, big time.
Checked for venues on derelictlondon – and chose this party paradise from a selection of recently added empty shitholes:
Camelot Fasions in Aldgate.
Bit of a shlep, but well worth it. I tell you, derelictlondon is a party pigeon’s dream.
Managed to sip a bit of spillage on the way, so fairly tanked by the time we got there. Don’t remember much apart from giving myself a black eye on some sharp edging.
Today, however, was a total fucking mess-up. Woke up slumped in a corner with Mart lying on top of me. Beak like a dead man’s slipper. Mart said I smelt like someone had shat on my head and suggested we head for Pigeon Pond for a bit of a wash. Trouble is, Pigeon Pond is all the way over in White City. Pigeon Pond is a shallow water feature right near the BBC, so great for spotting celebrities like Jeremy Clarkson or Mylene Klass.
Seeing as flying all the way was obviously out of the question, Mart suggested we take the tube. So me, Mart and Doug, who decided to join us despite the fact he said he’d gone blind, headed West. Made it as far as Hammersmith, fuck knows how, when Doug declared his eyesight had returned and he had to puke.
I tell you what, I’ve never seen a pigeon sick-up as much as Doug did. Fucking piles of it. Reckon he nearly lost an intestine.
This is him, heaving for London:
Mind you – spot on when we got to White City. Instantly felt like a new pigeon. Sadly, Doug didn’t make it and sloped off for some eye rest by the river.
This is me, splashing around:
Frankly, with the head still thumping, it was more sitting than splashing.
Cheers again, Time Out. Despite having the worst hangover in living memory, I’m on top of the world!
Me, partying hard! Jumping to a thumping rhythm. Grooving on down to a funky beat. Kicking some shapes like a moose in Acapulco. Curlin’ me wings like there’s no tomorrow.
Why, you might ask?
Coz I only got into the Top 10 of Time Out’s Top 10 Blogs in their Top 50 Best London Websites feature.
How fucking cool is that?
Cheers to Time Out!
Gonna feel like shit in the morning.
Check this out – a top new ad for FedEx starring a load of pigeon pals giving it large.
Click here or on the pic to watch it.
It fucking rocks.
Great news too for all those yanky out of work pigeon extras. Not much around these days, what with CGI being what it is. Then, out of the blue, an ad comes up starring nothing but pigeons.
Had to do all their own stunts, apparently.
Also, not sure if any of you recognised him, but remember Ragnheufleiderdom?
Here he is playing ‘Undercover Jack':
And here he is again, this time playing ‘Big Bill':
A true pigeon chameleon.
Amazing stunt too. Clearly not a real car, but impressive nonetheless.
Tell you what – next time there’s a casting going on for an ad like this – I’m gonna be first in line. Love to get on the big screen one day – also love to know where they got all the little people from…
Cheers for the link, Anne!
This is her. Her name is Lilly, and she’s lovely.
Much as I don’t usually give racers any more than the crumbs from my arse feathers, arrogant fucks, this one is an exception.
She is, without doubt, the most beautiful pigeon in the world.
To top it all, she’s funny and smart and tells rude jokes. If there was a Miss Pigeon World, she’d win eyes down. If all the angels were to get together, this is the pigeon they would make. If there was such a thing as heaven, it would be full of pigeons like Lilly. Millions of them. They wouldn’t fly either, wouldn’t have to. They’d float. They’d sit on their own little fluffy cloud cushions and just bob along through the sky.
The thing is, I don’t stand a chance. Mart reckons I would if she knew I had a blog, but I’m not so sure. She probably doesn’t use the internet that often.
Saying that, Mart also found this today – reckons it’s her Mother:
Jesus fucking Christ. Imagine having that round for tea?
I said it couldn’t be her coz, last I’d heard, she’d moved to Somerset and was spending most of her time at Nunney Castle hanging out with a load of druggy swans.
Mart said he was sure it was her, and went off to get some proof.
This is what he came back with. Totally shocking. Looks like Mary’s run out of drug money and is back in London to get some more by flogging her cute feathery arse.
The lovely Mary is nothing but a cheap pigeon whore.
Mary: “Hey boys. Want a bit of this, eh? Check me out and my white feathery softness.”
Mary: “Check out my tight little cute pigeon arse.”
Mart reckons she was so good at working the spikes like a shop window, even he was tempted.
If you’re interested, and I’m not really, but both of these sad fucks had a pop while the one on the far right kept look out – fence hopping’s still illegal in the UK.
Mary is a slag with wings.
I wish I’d never written her such a lovely poem.
I feel like a total cunt.