Pigeons

We’ve all seen them. Chances are, each and every one of us has a close encounter with one every single working day. The dictionary calls them ‘pigeons’. Others call them ‘flying rats’. Some refer to them as ‘grey feather buggers’, ‘swooping doom shits’, or ‘evil beaky helmets’. They’re everywhere. They watch us with their beady little eyes, scuttling around like big ruddy ants. They wait until the very last second, scampering quicker and quicker until finally – WHOOMPH – they flap their feathery little arms in your face. They’re a bunch of unsettling gits and they know it.

The comparison with rats is not far wrong. Both wander the city streets searching for scraps of food, both look decidedly dirty if left to their own devices and both are usually unwelcome guests. The difference is that pigeons rub our faces in it. They don’t have the common courtesy to skulk in the shadows, using stealth and cunning to keep alarm at bay. No, they like the look of terror on our faces as they swarm around our dropped buns and discarded beef patties. Sit still long enough and one is almost guaranteed to try punching you. What’s more – perhaps their most potent weapon in this assault on humanity – they are capable of defecating on our faces from great heights. Next time you’re uttering a sentence that requires you to open your mouth wide for an extended period of time (such as “I haaave the powerrrr”) just bear in mind that an opportunistic pigeon could bullseye your epiglottis with a bum-flavoured torpedo. Savage.

There once was a tale that pigeons can’t pass wind. They are entirely unable to emit a pant ripper. “Pop a water-soluble aspirin in a chunk of bread and watch the plumed goon explode!” they said. “It’s the next logical step in our war on flappers.” Such claims fell on deaf ears. The mere suggestion that such wicked creatures cannot fart is desperate optimism. More likely their anal expulsions are the very poison destroying our ozone.

Most terrifying is their wanton disregard for their own health in this attack on mankind. Through a combination of cuts, grazes, disease and faeces, pigeons often lose toes or even whole feet. Quite simply, they are willing to shit their own feet off to win this war.

There is little we can do in the face of such extremism.

Brief

Two things:

1) Either my blog has recently received a lot more traffic, or the counter's gone nut-nut. I want to believe the first, but I'm fairly certain it's the latter.

2) I've finally decided how best to deal with annoying pikey shits who play rubbish music out loud through their phone. Approach in a pleasant, non-threatening manner and say, "Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice, either your phone is ringing or you're a c**t." Should do the trick. Now all I've got to do is buy a stab-proof vest and a gun. Should be fine.

Wasps vs. Bees

Yeah, like there's really any competition. Let's face it, wasps are the evil scum of the insect world. If they were human beings they'd be evil dictators or serial killers. I'm serious. You check out a wasps nest. They've probably got dead ants hidden under the floorboards. I'm 73% confident I've seen a wasp trying to buy a gun outside Kings Cross station.

Bees, on the other hand, are the Jean Claude Van Dammes of the insect world. They're happy to go about their business, collecting pollen in the sacs on the back of their legs (admittedly, I can't confirm JVCD does that...) without harming a soul. But step into their back yard with some unnecessary attitude and they will be prepared to open a sweet can of sting face. What's even more admirable is that once they've dealt their pointy brand of justice, they fall on their sword and bite the bullet. Such honour. JCVD has the same code of honour, albeit he only promises not to cheat, and doesn't actually go so far as to die after dishing out a series of improbable roundhouse kicks straight into his enemy's neck.

Such a shame then, that wasps are built like missiles. When they spot their prey, there is virtually no stopping them. A well-aimed chop can knock their nasty little faces off, but you need the speed and accuracy of a seasoned lumberjack. A colleague of mine bore the brunt of a stripy-tailed bugger just the other day. We were happily strolling to the Tesco garage to purchase some lunch (classy) when one of the little winged bastards swooped down and stung him right on the ear! No warning, apparently no motive and certainly no need. Rotten.

So there you have it. Wasps are ruthless shits, whereas bees are gentle, but hard as nails Belgians.

Not old, just stupid?

I've got this thing where I can never remember if I've just locked a door or turned something off. Strange. If I had a pound for every time I've walked back to my front door to check I've locked it... well I'd be a rich man. Not crazy rich, but I could probably afford to get a front door that locks itself automatically.

It's the same with my car. Get out, lock door, walk five steps away, turn back and check I locked the door. Sometimes I even check I've put the handbrake on too. Which I always have done because, well, why wouldn't you?!

I also check my pockets about five times before I leave somewhere. "Hmm, phone, wallet, keys... good..... now, have I got my phone...?"

Some people say it's because I'm getting old. I'm 28. In the grand scheme of things that's not really very old. I think a cat lived longer than that once.

Therefore, I can only assume I'm an idiot. Now please excuse me while I go check I turned the oven off.

Lazy Bastard

It's come to my attention (i.e, I remembered) that I haven't written a blog in ages. Though that is in part because I couldn't be arsed, it's also because I've been rather busy, what with all the work, holidaying, footballing, burning my face lots of times in the sun, sitting, watching films, eating, pointlessly doing other stuff and generally just not bothering to write anything outside of work. Since I last wrote I've driven nearly 2,000 miles in a foreign country and eaten approximately 7 croissants. That could well be a conservative estimate. So, just to bring you up to date with what I've been up to, here is a list of facts and figures detailing my life since my last blog:

+ Driven 1,900 miles to the South of France. If anyone has ever done something similar, you'll know that French motorways are something of a double-edged sword. Yes, the sheer lack of other cars makes them a joy to drive on between cities, but their road signs are so shit-smearingly awful that you could easily find yourself flying helplessly past your exit and ending up in the centre of Paris going round and round on the busiest road in the world. Cretins.

+ Eaten lots of croissanty type goodies. They might be rubbish at signposts, but they know a thing or two about building pastries.

+ Visited Barclays Bank twice to use their coin deposit machine without managing to deposit any coins. I finally got round to emptying my Bell's Whisky jar of coppers and silvers and quite simply would like to pay them into my account. By my reckoning I must have about £100-worth just sitting there. Weighs an absolute ton, let me tell you. But, much to my annoyance, both times I've gone to the branch the machine has been full. WELL BLOODY EMPTY IT THEN!!! On sensing my annoyance, the kind staff suggested I go to Morrison's, where I will have the pleasure of paying a supermarket to put my own money into my own account. They should have just slapped my face and kicked me in the shin.

+ Seen roughly four naked people that weren't me or my girlfriend. Turns out folk like to tan their genitals in the South of France. But hey, with a ratio of three slender twenty-something ladies to one baggy old codger, it could have been far more unpleasant.

+ Burnt my face three times. Will I never learn? Massive globe of furiously burning gasses in sky + one pasty-faced Englishman = idiot with a head the same colour as a freshly skinned salmon. With my track record of facial burning, it's a good thing I don't subscribe to the French 'sans pants' sunbathing technique.

+ Killed something close to 1 million flies. No shit. I was driving home along the M3 last night and must've gone through a swarm of midges or something. I honestly thought it was raining at first because of the amount of splodges on the windscreen. I now have a car that looks like a giant bogey from the front.

+ Watched one film that genuinely made me laugh out loud. The Hangover is great. Especially the hairy guy.

I'm gonna stop now. To be frank, I wasn't jotting down the amounts of everything I did over the last few weeks and my memory is far too poor to recall any more. I'll try not to leave it so long next time. Adieu.

View From Not On The Sill

Well, it's been a while since I was last on the sill, but don't think for a second that I've stopped learning valuable life lessons. Here's what I've learned lately from not on the sill...

+ You are NOT what you eat. But, if you eat several pounds of meat on a Monday night, you will inevitably have to deal with the substantial consequences on Tuesday.

+ Despite the fact that advertisements are supposed to encourage you to buy a product, it is possible to produce an advert that is so abhorrent people will actually promise not to buy that product ever, ever again. With that in mind, I shall not buy another Pot Noodle as long as I live. That's at least £3.79 they've lost out on each year. Gutted.

+ Computers will, whenever possible, violate you by any orifice available given half a chance. Digital rapists.

+ Buffy the Vampire Slayer and spinoff series Angel are the best TV programmes ever made. It's strange, but I'm convinced it's true.

+ When asked "What do you miss most about your childhood?" the correct answer for an 80s child is "The sound of concorde."

+ If you go to Staines town centre on a Sunday afternoon, you are guaranteed to see at least two 14-year old girls dressed as whores.

+ Magpies eat other birds. Especially little fluffy chicks that were minding their own business.

And that is all. For now.

Really high

I flew to New York over the Easter weekend. It was lovely, but I won't bang on about the exceptional time I had in the Big Apple. Instead, I'd like to discuss the matter of flying.

Now, on the way from Heathrow to JFK, I had the choice of about thirty films to watch on my own little screen. I watched three movies in total. One was an Oscar winner, one was a mildly humorous buddy movie, the other I can't remember. Oh, wait, it was the first half of a movie I'd read the book of. I love movies, so this whole setup was a dream. Furthermore, there were quizzes, games, great TV programs to watch and recent albums to listen to, all at the press of a button. Entertainment-wise, I was the equivalent of a christmas turkey. I was being fattened up on entertainment until I was a wobbly, entertained mass, ripe for the digital oven.

But it didn't end there. Within an hour of taking off, I was given a warm ham, cheese and egg wrap to shove in my gob, complete with refreshing beverage. I like ham, I like cheese, I'm a fan of warmth and I even like eggs. It was like a perfect welcome in a floury tortilla.

I barely had time to digest my last meal, when the main course arrived. Pasta, bread, cheese, crackers, chocolate. All served with a cool beer. Was this some kind of sick joke? I was being treated like a king! Food on tap, free beer at the click of my fingers, moviefilms being beamed directly into my eyeballs and some kind of special, not altogether comfy chair. I felt like an over indulgent Stephen Hawking.

More beer soon followed, and all I had to do was ask politely! In fact, I probably could have asked slightly impolitely and I'd still have got it! Crazy fools! I was even given a choc-ice before the flight was through! I didn't even know they still existed.

Before I knew it, I was in New York, fully fed, suitably quenched and utterly entertained. Planes eh?! Faaantastic!

Well, that is, they would be if they weren't essentially a hollow tube of steel, hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles an hour, thousands of feet off the ground, with my squashy pink body rattling around inside it. And in that respect, they're immeasurably fucking horrible. Can't win 'em all I guess.