Remember a while back I mentioned Roy, the dog who does Judo? The one Frank told me about? Well, I managed to track him down, finally. It took me a while. He’s a busy dog. Not only is he a Judo master, he’s got his own TV show.
Then, someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone has only gone and bagged me an interview. Sweet. Thinking he might be able to drop me a few hints and tips on the art of Judo. Could come in handy on my quest against the urban grey.
In the meantime, here’s Dog Judo. One of the classics:
And go here to see lots more. You’ll piss yourself.
Good work Roy and Rexley.
Roy – thank you in advance for your time. Look forward to speaking to you.
It takes a lot to get me riled, particularly when it comes to food, and most definitely when it is one of the finest producers of the hamburger in a bun around today, McDonalds. Despite their recent attempt to create a more wholesome image doing salads and stuff, generally McDonalds can always be relied upon to provide the fattiest chewiest greasiest burgers in town. Even when there’s no burger left, just juice and mayo on a bun, it doesn’t disappoint.
This, however, does. A massive moving billboard has appeared on Piccadilly Circus advertising McDonalds, featuring a pigeon. There was no permission asked, and the poor fuck didn’t even get paid. Outrage. They claim to be all eco-friendly these days, surely pigeon exploitation counts too? Sat in front of a camera he was, for hours. Covered in make-up, and without even so much as a bap.
Here’s the result in all its glory:
‘I’m lovin’ it’. Yeah, right. Looks like it.
I’ve not managed to catch-up with the pigeon in question as he’s currently in hiding undergoing some sort of stress therapy.
Did talk to this dude though, outside Liverpool Street Station. He was one of many that day targeting McDonald’s outside eating areas across the country:
“It’s not good.” Said Aurthur, from South Bank. “McDonalds is a great brand. I’ve supported it all my life, but why a pigeon? Why not a cat, or another bird, like a finch? If they were about to provide free seeded buns, it would make sense. What’s in it for us? I also heard their treatment of Len was appalling. Aside form the odd voice over, he’s had to give up commercials altogether.”
Arthur said he would be sitting there everyday until the campaign ends. Fair play.
Is this not the best pad you’ve ever seen?
Complete with private security, and a light for extra warmth. Jesus.
Wouldn’t be surprised if it came with underground parking and use of a private gym.
One thing’s for sure, it makes mine look like a total shithole.
Cheers for spotting it on Deviant Art, Jon. Nice one.
This is what goes on. Come ten o’clock, it’s one big free-for-all. Bring on the bread for the boys.
Not sure why as it appears to occur just outside the Job Center where you’d expect a look-in on free food of any kind to be one big bloodbath, but not here for some reason.
Pigeons from everywhere rock up to partake in what has become known locally as ‘The Dough-Fest’:
It was surprisingly fine natured too, all things considered, until Johnny decided the baguette was his:
“Give me that. It’s mine.” He said, trying his best to get it in the air.
Then in comes Eddy, ever the mediator:
“Come on, Johnny. There’s plenty for everyone. Share and share alike.”
Mart waited for the kerfuffle to move along, and quietly stepped in for some bread based me-time:
Hilarious though as Johnny didn’t give up.
Check him out in the background:
“Johnny, just get off the baguette will you.”
“But you’re treading shit all over it.”
Needless to say, Johnny made himself incredibly unpopular that day, and not for the first time.
Love this. Sent to me by Tom at 12foot6, and simply called: Pigeons.
Remember Frank as in The Frank Report? Frank who never quite got it together to be the journalistic sleuth he thought he was? Well, turns out I was wrong.
There I was yesterday when Mart comes flying right up to my face telling me Frank was back, and he had news. I reminded Mart his breath was never good close up, particularly in the mornings, and off we went in search of Frank who told Eddy who told Mart he would meet us on the steps of St Martins.
Sure enough, there he was keeping a low profile in the shadows. I asked if I could take a pic.
He said best not to under the circumstances, and I respected his wishes, till he turned around:
He told us he’d been working undercover. Deep undercover. Way undercover, with the squirrels.
Fuck me. No fucking way. Not only had Frank mastered the art of journalism, he had surpassed himself by infiltrating one of the hardest cells in London. He had earnt the trust of, and been entertained by, the highest level of the inner sanctum of the urban greys. Drank at the table of the squirrel controller no less. Fair play.
Said he’d seen my Operation Stop the Squirrel campaign a while back, and wanted to help.
“You mean you’ve been undercover all this time?” I said.
“Yes. Yes I have.”
“Proud of you Frank.”
“There’s someone I want you to meet.” He said, under his breath doing what I suspected was a poor impression of Marlon Brando. Aside from the fact he wasn’t American, Frank had a lisp.
“Come this way, Brian.” He said, flinging his head like he was wearing a cloak, or a long wig, and off we flew. Frank looked nervous. You could tell by the random line he took up The Mall. After about five minutes, we got to Hyde Park.
“Is this it? Hyde park?”
“He said he’d meet us here. Under this tree.”
“Who?” I said.
“P.” He said.
“Who the fuck’s ‘P’?”
“Don’t ask, just respect his privacy. He’s got information. The squirrels are planning something. Something big.”
After about thirty seconds, a short grey squirrel comes waddling over.
“Alright, Pete.” Said Frank.
Pete was clearly ruffled by the immediate blowing of his cover:
I blurred the picture to avoid any reprisals.
“They’re in training.” He said. “Every last one of them. All Squirrels have been put on special diets.”
Not all, I wanted to say, but thought better of it.
“Each and every on of us has been ordered to master the art.”
“Of what?” I said, as if I had to ask.
“Kung Fu, and those that can’t are being sent to camps. Special camps in places like Luton.”
“To do what?”
“Nothing. Just live in a camp.”
“You need to act fast. There’s not time to be wasted.”
“He’s not kidding, Bri.” Said Frank. “I’ve seen them. Hundreds of them. Doing the Kung Fu moves chopping up cardboard pigeons. It was terrifying”
“I told you, Bri. I was on the inside. Earnt their trust. Said I’d always wanted to be a squirrel. Told them I hated the dirty pigeons. Rats with wings. That’s what I said. They’re all rats with wings. Dirty dirty rats with wings. Dirty dirty dirty…”
“What you going to do about it?” Said Pete.
“I’m thinking.” I said, and I was.
“Well?” Said Frank.
“I don’t really know.” I said, and I didn’t.
“You could ask Roy?”
“Who the fuck’s Roy?”
“Roy’s a dog.”
“What sort of dog?”
“I don’t know.”
“Big or small?”
“Medium, I think, but he’s a judo ace. Proper Judo king. Real master of the art. A pro. Studied it his whole life.”
“And he hates Kung Fu.”
“Absolutely. Fucking hates it. Nothing worse than Kung Fu. Kung Fu is for gays. That’s what he said, didn’t he Pete?”
“So where can I find this ‘Roy’?” I said.
“Well, he’s kind of a bit of a celebrity these days. Got his own TV show and everything.” Said Frank, dribbling slightly.
“Never heard of him.”
“What, you’ve never heard of Dog Judo?” Said Mart.
“Jesus, Bri. Call yourself a pigeon in the know. Dog Judo is the best. Roy and his mate do Judo shit. It’s total genius.”
“Okay, Mart. Let’s go. Frank, as you were. Keep your ear to the ground and your arse to yourself. Pete, thanks. I know it was a risk talking to us… You take care out there, guys.”
Then me and Mart took off heading for Soho.
“Bri, what was with all the ‘Take care of yourself, guys’ shit?”
“Dunno. Felt like saying it.”
“But you sounded like a twat.”
“It was embrassing.”
He was right. I shouldn’t have said it.
It seems the pigeons in Sydney have had enough. So much so, they’ve taken to nesting in the city’s main tourist attractions.
Fair play, I say. About time too.
Worringly, this is the quote from pest controller Grant Morris brought on board to deal with ‘the issue’:
“They are worse than rats. You can poison them but the trouble is they tend to drop from the sky. Gas is best to euthanase them,”
Caught this today – Graham totally flummoxed by a giant bread piece.
“Okay. Here I go. Tucking in now.”
“Right now. That’s me. Tuckin’ in. Ohhhh yeah.”
“In I go a tuckin’ in…”
Then, along comes Eddy:
“You not having any of that, Graham?”
“What’s that? Nah, mate. Not really that hungry. Just looking at the crust.”
“So you don’t want it?”
“No no. You go right ahead.”
And that was it, he walked away. Gave up on the whole affair.
Never seen a pigeon beaten by the bread before.
Course Eddy got in there and downed it in one, but then I guess that’s why they call him Ed the Bread.