Pigeon pie

If the sentence “Volunteers must not engage in any other activities whatsoever” does actually mean a cessation of drug dealing, beatings and other criminal activity, then the IRA have scored today’s big news. However there are still plenty of bad people in the world. Pedalling along this afternoon, on my way to see hear fellow-biker Mr Brando drop his cadences during the opening shots of ¡Salvaje!, I severed the wing of a pigeon that lemminged into my path. I was wondering what to do next when a little old man rushed over from the bench where he was ogling a couple of under-age prostitutes, wrung its neck, and popped it in his bag, and rushed back. I don’t think he got a discount.

Pigeons are slow, stupid and vulnerable to fixed wheel attacks, but on a faster bike anything’s fair game, although the party’s usually over by the time one arrives:

I’ve never seen a flattened boy scout nor grill guide on the roads, despite the Spanish chapter of Baden-Powell Youth spending most of their summers wandering along major highways on their way to mountain villages, where they hope to assist yet more little old men fight off the Boers and tame the reckless wildebeeste. The rural economy doesn’t work like that, so they invariably droop off into pine forests, die of thirst, and are devoured by giant woodants. This does not alarm them unduly, because even scouts are marching to a different tune these days:

I’ve sung this song at people for ages, telling them that–like most perversities–it was Manx.

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