Introducing ‘The George Report’ Post alert: This is a long one! First off, Happy New Year! Can you still say that in Feb? Secondly, if you’re wondering why you haven’t heard from me in ages (again), here’s why. From the minute I arrived in Cornwall, the weather has sucked arse. If it’s not raining, it’s windy. If it’s not windy, it’s foggy. There’s also a weather state down here the locals like to call ‘mizzle’. That really is the pits. It’s a misty drizzle combo that generally stays all day. The worst of all worlds. At least in London there are decent bridges to get under. Down here it’s in your face from the minute you wake up. So I found myself a bush, and hunkered down. Literally. Apart from the odd waddle over to the lake for a leg stretch, I’ve barely left its cover since I arrived! Kid you not. Mart, on the other hand, was immediately bursting with excitement and didn’t give a shit about the relentless wet. He got bang on it making friends and seeing the sights. How the tables turn! I’m sure everyone down here thought I was one miserable pigeon, and they weren’t wrong. I didn’t talk to anyone and steered well clear of any group activity. The local beach tour, Dairyland, Newquay Airport. Couldn’t be arsed with any of it. Mart, however, did it all. He went on for hours about the Dairyland Bull Pen. Best thing he’s ever seen, apparently. Even though I knew it was good for me to be here, I didn’t see the point of it. For starters there weren’t enough pigeons around, or none worth hanging out with anyway. Certainly none that dug poetry or gave a shit about rising crime levels amongst the squirrel population. Most of them I’ve met have come here in search of the quiet life and seem to be quite content to just ‘pick at the pavements and watch the world go by’. Don’t understand that at all. Why would you want to watch it all ‘go by’ without getting involved?? The truth is, I think I was determined the whole thing just wasn’t for me. I sulked. I missed London and I missed my mates. I missed the dust and the noise. The cut and thrust of City life. The sweaty edginess. I also missed the partying, which meant deep down I also knew I was in the right place… Bit by bit, despite being generally pissed off most of the time, I started to feel my brain piecing itself back together again, and by November I could even make it through a whole day without thinking about sticking my head in a pile of fermenting beery foam. Clearly a good thing! Smells started to mean something, and I could actually taste what my beak was stuck into. A blessed relief after more recent errors of judgement than I care to mention… Unlike me, Mart seems to have settled here better than anywhere else we’ve lived. He told me the best bit was the fact all the birds have learned to speak eachother’s lingo. Initially this sounded like my idea of hell, until I thought about it. Unlike London where there are so many pigeons no-one gives a shit about communicating with any other bird, down here that isn’t an option. Birds need to talk to each other, simple as, and with that comes a whole new level of integration. Swans talk to ducks. Ducks talk to seagulls. It takes a bit of getting used to at first, the fact that a sparrow can be friends with a chicken (yep – it’s true), but that’s how it is. So much for multicultural London. What I’ve learned since being here is big Cities can be the least culturally mixed places on earth. Okay, so there are loads of different versions of bird, but everyone sticks to their own, and with that comes a lack of trust and understanding. I’m sure if the pelicans in Hyde Park had got to know the pigeons a bit better there would never have been that horrible mix up where Derek got swallowed (click here for the full story). Anyway, Christmas soon arrived. I swerved the group lunch in Newquay town centre in favour of some more solo bush-time, and that’s when Mart said he’d had enough. He got back from his festive jolly-up, suggested we go off and do my Christmas Pigeon Blog post wishing you lot a Happy Holiday, and when I said I couldn’t be arsed, he went mental. Lost the plot. Said I needed to pull myself together. I was shocked to the core! Mart has put up with so much over the years. He’s dragged his feathery arse all over the shop for me in the name of Pigeon Blog, and he’s never moaned about it. Not once. He said I couldn’t just say, “Hi, everyone, I’m back!” only to disappear again. The thing is, I knew he was right; I just didn’t have the energy for it. Then he said he’d had an idea, and it turns out it was the first idea of his that might actually work! He said that during the lunch he got talking to a seagull called George. Talking to seagulls isn’t something I’ve ever enjoyed before, but he said I should give George a shot. Turns out George has always fancied himself as a bit of an investigative journalist. Mart told him about Pigeon Blog and how, back in the day, I’d been the voice for pigeons everywhere on a wide range of pertinent issues. How I organised protest fly-bys and Pigeon Olympic events back in 2012 and have been speaking out for the persecuted and misunderstood since 2006. George suggested he could do some reports for Pigeon Blog, maybe even a weekly one. Call it ‘The George Report’. Not a bad idea at all, so I told Mart to tell George to come see me. The three of us ended up spending New Year together. They even got me to leave my bush. So, with fireworks banging off all around us as we perched on the harbour wall, we hatched a plan. Pigeon Blog should cover a wider range of subjects outside of the pigeon world, and down here where all birds are equal is the perfect place to make that happen. He said he knew others who would be up for contributing, and suddenly the thought that I could stop the running around and just be Editor in Chief or At Large or whatever sounded rather appealing. Let the younger generation do the wing work. Perfect. Nice one, Mart! I told him I’d need a photo, so Mart took this. George said he wanted to show his more serious side: Hilarious. The only snag with all this was I had no idea if he was any good… He could string a sentence together verbally, but could he piece it into a whole story in written form? Figured if he was any good though, there I’d be, legs up, sucking on choc chip ice cream under my bush while George was out and about writing shit about Cornish stuff. So, here we go. This is what he sent me as his first report: The George Report – Bringing you the stories that matter most in the South West and other places, by George S. Gull. Many birds in Cornwall are becoming increasingly concerned by the amount of rain that is falling from the sky. Large black clouds have been looming above us for what seems like a very long time now. Possibly even since last August. “It’s relentless. Never stops. I think everyone has had enough.” Said Thomas. As a duck, he’s born for the wet, so the fact even the ducks are saying enough already speaks volumes. He’s right. According to weather.com, the average in February should be 110mm over 25 days. I reckon we had all that in the first two. The puddles are often so large they are mistaken for small lakes with groups of birds gathering at the edge looking for fish. But the real concern down here is when is it going to stop, and what can be done about it? “We need to be careful the ocean doesn’t overflow. Look at it. It’s filing up.” Said a Newquay Harbour resident, who wanted to remain anonymous. It turns out the sea overflowing is now a major concern, not that it would bother us, or indeed any water-based bird, but touch on the subject with a pigeon and you get a whole different reaction. I asked Lisa what she thought, and she just looked at me like a crazy bird and flew off. Maybe those who can swim should be teaching those who can’t? Just a thought.

In the meantime, watch this space for further updates on the rising waters, or will someone get to the plug in time and let some out? (We had some serious rain a few years ago in London and wondered if building an ark might be an option? – Ed.) And that was that. He left if there. A cliff hanger. Not bad for a first go, and nicely re-enforced my feelings about the climate down here. Fair play to him, and the fact the sea might overflow is clearly a genuine worry. I told him more pics were needed, so Mart said he’d lend a hand. We’ll see how that one pans out! I had to ask him what the ‘S’ stood for. He told me his name was really Steven, but he got sick of the Steven Seagal joke and decided to call himself by his second name, George. Fair enough. So, there it is. Where I’m at. Brian Pigeon, Editor in Chief. I’m liking the sound of that one. And now the sun has come out, it’s nearly spring; things seem to be looking up down here. George is sending in another report next week. We’re thinking every weekend might work? The bottom line is George and Mart have come to the rescue and I’m feeling more motivated than I have done since I got here. I can still do the odd piece on the things that matter to me, while others can go out and about and fill in the rest. Needless to say, if any of you want to send in a story, feel free! Mail it to me – brianpigeon AT gmail DOT com. Couple of simple rules – you have to provide a picture, at least based part time in the bird world, and not be advertising Viagra. Right – I’m off for some food now. Thinking I may even wing it to Bodmin. Get me out from under by bush. Mart said he’d join me if I could wait until after he’d had his Editorial Strategy Meeting with George. Love it. Pass it on: Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)

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Brian’s Coming! There I was minding my own business yesterday when a head pokes out, look’s down at me and goes, “Watch out. Brian’s coming!” Nearly had a heart attack. WTF? Then a couple of steps later, and it happens again: “Brian’s coming! Any minute now… You mark my word…” By this point I’m totally confused. Didn’t recognise either of the dudes and had no idea what the fuck they were on about, till I nearly got blown across the Atlantic by a gust of wind the like of which I have never felt before. Jesus. It was like being kicked up the arse by a football boot. Took me right off my feet it did. Didn’t even have time to get the wings out. Dangerous stuff when you’re not pissed. Awesome if you are. Used to love a bit of wind-banging back in the day. Next thing I know, Mart rocks up and tells me they’ve named a storm after me. Yep. It’s true. There is a storm called Brian, and it is happening right now this very minute. Even though I like to think the mammoth effort it took me to get to Newquay deserves some kind of recognition, a whole storm might be a bit much to expect. That again, it did involve a stopover in Okehampton… More on that never-ending epic trek next time. For now, be safe out there. Brian’s about to kick some windy arse! Pass it on: Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)

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Happy Birthday, Bill Shakespeare. 400 Today. Not done one of these for a while but seeing as it’s St George’s Day and William Shakespeare’s birthday, I thought I’d get my aging arse off my ledge and do it. I also have to confess I started it two days ago it takes that long to write one now. Every toe aches at the end, and as for the beak? Jesus. Mart had to feed me with a straw for two days after the last time. Anyway – it’s all worth it. For those of you new to Pigeon Blog, I’m sure you understand that ten years on the block is a long run for any pigeon. Still, least you’ve got ten years of stuff to wade through! Those of you who have hung in there all this time – and you know who you are – nice one, and well done! If I could send you a T shirt, I would! Anyway, on with now. First off, Shakespeare’s birthday. Only a handful of you will remember Doug. Doug was my pal back in the day who fancied himself as a bit of an actor. He was also a total Shakespeare nut. He used to say the world would be nothing if it weren’t for ‘the beautiful Bard’. Of course with Doug, everything was a drama. Even finding a flattened pizza slice in the gutter would always get an, “Ah ha! Look forth! Such a splendid thing of beauty I bear not to touch it…” Of course by the time he’d finished wanging on, it was pretty much all gone. Here he is on this day in 2006 celebrating the Bard’s birthday by performing the death scene from Romeo and Juliet: “Eyes, look your last!

Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you

The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss

A dateless bargain to engrossing death!

Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!

Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on

The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!

Here’s to my love!” You can read the full post here. Have to say we pissed ourselves at the time. Mart and I always found it hard not to laugh. Doug did take himself and his acting incredibly seriously and, if I’m being brutally honest… he wasn’t terribly good. Obviously we never said as much and always cheered loudly at the end. Here he is doing the famous ‘Friend’s, Roman’s, countrymen. Lend me your ears.’ speech from Julius Caesar: You can read the post here. He would often stage his monologues on statues in order to ‘immerse his audience in the scene by encouraging a dramatic backdrop’. He even used to hang out at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre hoping to find an opportunity to make an appearance. Far as I know, he only managed it once in the 2008 production of ‘Merry Wives of Windsor’ when he landed in the middle of the stage and managed to stand there for a full five seconds before being thrown off. Said it was the best four seconds of his life. The fifth was when he got a pointy costumed toe up the arse. Always a painful moment. I’ve had a few of those in my time and it smarts for days, costumed or non-costumed. Of course I lost touch with Doug years ago when I moved to Brighton, and now I’m back in London I’m based up West pretty much full time and barely ever go Central. Doug, mate, just wanted to say that, wherever you are, I’m thinking of you and hope you’re still giving it large on what I know is your absolute favourite day of the year. So, onto St George’s Day. St George’s Day is supposed to be the day when, if you’re English, you celebrate all things English. Mart reckons it means bacon is obligatory to get the party going so he’s gone to look for some. Good luck with that one, Mart! Not many bacon butties flying around W4 these days! The thing is, I’m not sure there’s anyone left anymore who is totally ‘English’. Surely by now most of us are a little bit of a mix up of all sorts? I know I’ve got Scot’s in me, and possibly a bit of Durham. Someone told me the other day that in two months time on June 23rd, people in the UK are going to vote for whether or not they want to stay mates with the rest of Europe. WTF? Surely no-one thinks we’d be better off as a tiny little island floating cold and alone in the big blue sea? Personally I’m a big fan of Europe. Love the place. Costa the Greek was one of my best buddies for a long time. This is Costa: Costa arrived from Greece in 2004 and has stayed here ever since. Of course border controls make no odds to us, not that many of us can fly the channel! The ferry is usually the transport of choice, but I do think if we cut our little piece of land off from the rest, it will mean less people will want to come here, and ultimately that will mean less diversity in the pigeon world, which will be a shame. Diversity is good. I’d go as far as to say, essential. Tell you what, I had better conversations with Costa than I do with a lot of pigeons London born and bred. Just saying. So how do I feel about St George’s Day? I’ll eat a bit of bacon if there’s any going, but won’t be partying with the rest of them. Just don’t think it should be about celebrating all the little bits, but giving it large as a whole, and that includes the big bit over the water. Saying that, I’ve never been one to turn down a spilled tin of lager, or spinnie as we used to call them. Maybe I’ll send Mart out in search of one of those later? One’s never too old for a spinnie! In the meantime, I’m off to rest my beak! Pass it on: Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)

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Rupert Duffet – A Spokesbird For The Gulls Weather aside, I’m having a cracking time being back in W4. Love it. To be honest, I’d forgotten what diversity was like. Down in Brighton it’s kind of one pigeon fits all. In London we’re talking pigeons of all shapes and sizes, literally. From the fat posh ones in Kensington to the nut jobs in Brixton to the pigeon literati in Shoreditch. As a result, no two pigeons are the same, and thankfully the conversation often flows beyond food, seagulls and the weather. That said, I did get talking to Geoff the other day about the reason why seagulls get so much airtime in Brighton. It’s because there are bloody millions of them. Everywhere you turn there’s a seagull screaming in your face. Anyway, he started to tell me about Rupert Duffet. Genius. Duffet is a seagull who’s recently flown over from Calais and keeps popping up all over London trying to ‘educate’ pigeons on the upsides of the seagull. WTF? Of course I had to go track him down at his next scheduled appearance in Gunnersbury Park last week: As I got nearer, I realised why there was only one pigeon listening. Duffet was mainly speaking French. Speaking French to a bunch of pigeons from West London was never going to go down well. I asked the one that seemed to be listening if he understood what Duffet was saying. “Mais, oui.” He said. “Je suis Jean-Philippe.” Not wanting to extend the conversation any further, I simply asked him if he knew when Duffet was speaking next. When they came out, the only words I understood were ‘St James’s Park’, so that’s where I went today to see if I could find him, and I did: Duffet was friendly enough and happy to chat. A little too friendly I thought when he came in for a cheek kiss. It’s what they do in France, apparently. For a start, it turns out his name isn’t Duffet like bucket, it’s pronounced something more like doufflé. FFS. It wasn’t a good start. Frankly, overall he just sounded like a total rambling nutter, and probably is. As I only understood one word in every five, and three of them were ‘seagulls’, ‘pigeons’ and ‘sharing’, I switched off pretty early on. My advice to you, Rupert Duffet, is learn at least a smattering of English if you’re going to go about defending the gulls. That said, I’m pretty sure he won’t be coming back any time soon. Pass it on: Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)

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London Here We Come! I’ve made two big decisions recently. One is I could do with a bath after all this flying about. Not covered this kind of mileage for years. The second one is a massive one – me and Mart are moving back to London. Brighton’s been fun and all that, but there really isn’t much to do down here apart from look at the sea and take the piss out of seagulls. Having spent so much time in The Smoke recently doing Pigeons Got Talent – more on that in a bit – I realised how much I missed the place. The smells, the sounds, throwaway on every corner, the bridges. To be honest, I can’t fucking wait. We spent a few days up there last week. This is Mart posing in front of one of the ‘Don’t Feed The Pigeons’ signs on Trafalgar Square: He asked me to take it as it’s become a must-have pic for the visiting pigeon. I did draw the line at him jumping in the air though. The deciding moment came on Saturday when we squeezed in a game of Shit or Miss on the tourists in Piccadilly Circus. Not done that in years either. Good times. So, now the decision’s been made, we just need to decide where to live… When we left London a few years ago, we were on a pucker ledge on Beak Street in Soho. Just looked it up in the archives and it was nine years ago we moved there. Mental. This was what I wrote about our move day on March 7th 2006, which was pretty much when I first started Pigeon Blog. Not sure if that particular ledge is available at the moment. Probably not. We may even want to find a quieter spot. Don’t know. Guess we’ll see when we get there. So, onto PGT. We’ve decided to extend it another couple of weeks as the caliber of hopefuls appears to have gone somewhat downhill. We had a good run at first, but the last couple of auditions… Oh dear. Here’s two examples. Let me introduce you to Dianne. “Hi, what’s your name, where are you from, and what have you got for us today?” We said. “My name’s Dianne, I come from Clapton and I’m dancing the Fandango.” She replied. “Hi Dianne. That sounds interesting, but aren’t you supposed to have a partner?” I asked. “I’m going to perform it solo.” “Fair enough, Dianne. Off you go.” Jesus. This was it. Literally. Left leg forward, left leg back, left leg forward, then back again, and with no music: Seriously. Okay, so she had some rhythm, but considering the definition of Fandango is ‘a lively couples dance from Spain’, WTF? Then along came William Shakespeare. I kid you not. He’d actually called himself William Shakespeare. Said he was going to be performing the opening monologue from Richard III. Know the one? ‘Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York’. The really famous one that goes on for ages? He tried it six times and didn’t get any further than ‘this son of York.’ Unbelievable. Anyway, I think we’ve lined up a couple of good ones for next week, so watch this space. Fingers crossed we can wrap it up after that too. Mart and me have got some serious ledge hunting to do! Pass it on: Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)

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