This month, the Angry Man has been getting mostly angry about… birds. Grrr!
No, I’m not talking about the lovelies who serenade us with Britney’s finest at the Rose and Crown’s karaoke fish-fry on a Friday night. What do you think I am, a dinosaur?
No, it’s those feathered bastards nesting in the tree above my car that need to sod off and die in a ditch somewhere. I swear they plan their days around when I’m going to be outside with my bucket of suds, counting down the minutes until the car’s freshly cleaned, before taking aim with their dirty little backsides and squirting a grotty torrent of greyish-white filth all over my freshly gleaming paintwork.
The very minute after I’ve washed the car, every single bloody time, without fail, some chirpy airborne bastard will defile the wax with its semi-digested worms. Flappy little tossers. I’ve suggested a few ideas to the council about what can be done about urban avian populations and the culling thereof, and they’ve replied with phrases like, ‘here’s a number for some people who can help you deal with your demons’ and ‘please stop calling us’. That’s no help, is it?
Honestly, the only good bird is the one stuffed with Paxo and roasting away in my kitchen at 180˚C. I’ve tried explaining this to the birds, reasonably and with minimal shouting, but it just makes the neighbours twitch their curtains as if I’m the unreasonable one. Fucksake. How would the birds feel if I went and shat all over their stuff?
You know what? I’m going to try it. See who’s laughing then.
