Hitting birds

This morning at the train station there was a large concentration of feathers halfway along the platform.

Either there had been a pillow fight over the weekend (which, in my typical male mind, was between two giggling girls wearing next to nothing), or an unsuspecting pigeon received a massive faceful of train.

With no sign of a body, or a pillowcase, we’ll never know which type of bird got a battering.

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Tough birds

The pigeons in London are a law unto themselves; a real force to be reckoned with

I’ve lost count the amount of times I’ve seen them divebombing hapless pedestrians.  I can’t decide if they just don’t see us, don’t like us, or if they’re out to humiliate us by forcing us to duck violently whilst dousing ourselves and the surrounding area in Starbucks coffee.

I suspect it’s the latter.

In fact I was the victim of an attempted flying faceplant yesterday mid conversation, but I saw the little shit coming and simply moved my head slightly to the right to avoid a faceful of beak and feathers.  This caused my friend to smirk loudly at my expense, but I simply looked at her, raised an eyebrow, smiled and coolly said “I saw him coming”. 

What I really wanted to say was “Fucking hell did you see how close that was?? I nearly swallowed the little git!!”

This got me thinking.  Pigeons are relatively resourceful birds with a modicum of intelligence and bags of attitude. They strut around the city ON THE GROUND to taunt us with the fact that they COULD fly but instead choose not to; bobbing their heads like a cockney who’s ‘lookin’ to start sumfink’.

There’s always food lying around in London and there are plenty of spattered statues that will agree these bastards eat very well, so maybe, just maybe they try to relieve the tedium by daring and double daring each other.

They probably sit there with a mate on a windowsill, people-watching.  Their conversation may go a little something like this…

Brian – “See that bloke down there?”
Cyril – “Where?”
Brian – “Down there”
Cyril – “What, the twat on the bike?”
Brian – “No, that one down there taking a photo of his wife and son”
Cyril – “Oh yeah.”
Brian – “I dare you to take his head off him just as he takes the photo”
Cyril – “Nah, I’m knackered. I’ve just spent twenty minutes flicking that piece of crust up in the air over and over again”
Brian – “Go on”
Cyril – “No”
Brian – “I double dare you”
Cyril – “Well in that case I’ll take his bloody head off”
Brian – “Go on then”
Cyril – “Ready?”
Brian – “Ready”

He swoops at the man’s head, full on, without stopping.

The man shrieks, ducks and drops his camera.  A passer-by laughs, then shuffles off unapologetically.  His wife and son go over to check he’s ok.

“That’s my boy!!” shouts Brian from his perch, “he folded like a cheap suit!”

“I think he shit himself!”, Cyril shouts back, laughing.

Brian breaks into a football style chant, “Who’s the wanker, who’s the wanker, who’s the wanker on the floor?  Who’s the wanker on the floor?”

They both laugh.  Cyril flies back up and joins his buddy on the perch.

“Now, about that twat on the bike”