Brian Is Back, And Pigeons Protest At Kings Of Leon

Long time no post. Apologies for that. Not much that was ‘mini’ about my break, I can tell you. The pain in the arse is that I spent fucking ages yesterday jumping about penning the whole sorry tale, only to have a Mac Crash, which meant I lost the lot.

I’ll try to sumarise as best I can.

It was Mart who suggested a mini break was in order. It was also Mart who thought visiting France would be a good idea rather than the usual schlepping up the M1 in search of some non-descript Northern outpost.

I wasn’t sure at first, particularly considering the furthest I had ever been on water was a brief five minute spell sitting on a rowing boat on the Serpentine, and even that made my legs go funny.

Mart suggested we fly The Channel, to which I replied: “No fucking way. That kind of distance requires training way over and above the odd potter to Peckham”. So, that was it – ferry or bust.

Looking at the comfort of my ledge on that shitty, rainy Monday we left London, I almost opted for ‘bust’, till Mart persuaded me otherwise on the promise of ‘all the French lovelies lined up waiting for us on the rooftops of Paris’.

“They’re a sucker for the English accent,” Mart said. Suckers, my arse, but that’s another story.

After a knackering fly, we get to Dover, and jump on a ferry. Unfortunately, the ferry left the port, and the sea was all over the fucking shop. A severe bout of seasickness kicked in ending in both of us sitting on the lifeboat throwing our guts up. Mart said beer would do the trick, but the thought of staggering around on deck in search of some random spillage just made me throw up again.

Eventually, we arrive in France.

Calais wasn’t up to much, has to be said, and we weren’t sure of the etiquette flying-wise either.

“Vous fucking stupide pigeons anglais.”

It was the first bit of French we understood, and also the moment we realised we were meant to pass on the right. How the fuck were we supposed to know? Anyway, it all went from bad to worse when we got to Paris, but I’m going to save that mess for next time.

For now – I have to tell you about this. Loads of you sent it to me. Cheers!

“Rock band the Kings of Leon have been forced to end a concert early after pigeons defecated on them from the rafters of a US venue.

The rockers abandoned the gig in St Louis after three songs when bass player Jared Followill was hit in the mouth and face by pigeon droppings.”

You can read the full story here.

Despite liking like the band, I pissed myself.

They were protesting against ‘Sex on fire’, apparently.

Some pigeon spread the rumor that ‘Sex on Fire’ really meant ‘Sex on Wire’, something that doesn’t go down well in the pigeon community, and for good reason. They said the lyrics promoted sex on wires, which isn’t safe. I say having sex on a wire is just plain wrong on so many levels.

Then again, maybe the whole thing was just a genius game of Shit or Miss..?

I don’t relish the idea of dealing with the spikes when I go to open air gigs though. Only a matter of time. Anywhere without trees, and we’re fucked.

I think we get our protesting nature from the French. Everywhere you look over there, pigeons are protesting. French pigeons protest over absolutely everything.

Here’s a couple we found on the Champs Elysee:

Can’t remember what it was about. Probably something like low tables, or maybe the standing conditions on the umbrellas. Mind you, have to agree on that one. It wasn’t pleasant. Not sure it was worth a protest though?

It’s good to be back.

Bring on London in the summer. I’d forgotten how good it gets here when it’s hot.

No more breaks for me for a while, mini or otherwise.