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I am a pigeon, a regular boy pigeon who jauntily hops along railway platforms looking for the next bird to pull.. Ooo there she is, hang on lady, just let me get a bit closer… dammit, she’s flown the coop.

Never mind, here I am, a regular boy pigeon who’s got a bit on the side, a bit back at base, a bit on the front and several bits of fluff scattered around this derelict railway station just waiting for me to fluff their tails, coo sweet nothings at them all night long and then hop off before the going goes from good to soft and from soft to swamp-like.

Cos as a fully paid up boy pigeon I am not partial to birdy ladies who coo and sweat and then angrily swish their tail feathers when little ol’ me tells ’em that the time has come for me to fulfil my potential and explore new lands and lady birdies, they don’t like it a bit… Ooo there’s another one now… ‘Ello darlin’, how can I be ‘elpin’ you… Just stand still for a minute, yeh that’s it, look away now and I’ll be right with you… Dammit, she’s flown the coop again.

But no matter. I shall saunter myself over to the nearest waste paper receptacle and have a good old rummage around the chip cartons, cardboard coffee cups and discarded Christmas cards to see what I can salvage before the long cold night sets in and then seek some refuge in whoever takes my fancy.

And what do ya know? Lucky old Billy Goat Gruff here has struck lucky for once in his boy pigeon life. A full nine inch rotting frankfurter, a packet of Golden Wonder and a small hip flask of lemon myrtle syrup. God only knows how that lot got here but who am I to wonder about the whys and wherefores. I’ve waited for this moment for years and shall waste no time gathering my finds under my substantial wing span and shield them from those praying-mantis sea-gulls.

Cos mark my words, those gulls are evil bastards. They’ll rip your throat out soon as squawk at you. And if they think for a second that you’ve struck lucky in the jetsam and flotsam of human existence, they’re all over you, beating their wings at you, stabbing and screeching in your pigeon face until you beg them to stop but it’ll be no use unless you surrender your finds to them, no questions asked.

But no this time, no siree. Those fuckwit albatross bastard offspring ain’t frightening me away from my gleaming stash of Rotting Frankfurter, Golden Wonder and Myrtle Syrup. If they think they can scare me away then they’ve got another thing coming to their razor sharp yellow spotted beaks. Cos this find is mine and I ain’t sharing it with any gin swilling cigar smoking anchovy farting sea bird who’s lost his way and is taking it out on some poor hapless boy pigeon who’s only trying to plot his way through his inconsequential life with the occasional assistance of a… Ooo steady on lady, there you go, just one minute... Dammit she’s flown the coop again.

No, this time me and my collection of goodies are going somewhere safe and sound, free from the prying eyes of those thieving vultures and other lesser spotted vermin who take an unhealthy interest in my hard fought collections. Somewhere they’ll never guess in a trillion years. This way my lovelies, just come this way with your friendly old boy pigeon, steady now...