Fame Is Weird
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.