Aerial photograph of Barnard Castle
Price:£7.99
Giving the bird to an alternative viewpoint
Mar 18, 2008
BARNEY Liar is thankfully on the mend after something of a scare. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible, but in the meantime here's one he prepared earlier...
The atmosphere in the pub was high-spirited. The lads were all in there, whooping and geeing each other up. It was Friday night, time to boast and brag, to tell tall stories and impress the birds. And when I say birds, I mean birds and big ones at that. Pheasants enjoy a pint, too, you know.
They have their own local, called the ‘Cracked Windscreen', named after many of their esteemed forebears who headed straight for a reflection of themselves with croaks of joy. Yes, the lads were on form, all right, with their red eye patches and green heads nodding vigorously as they shovelled down the John Smiths.
One of their number, Lee by name, was squawking in the centre of the circle. He was extolling the virtues of his best mate, Harrison. "Now there's a real pheasant," he said. "Yup, he makes me proud to be a member of the species. That boy does not understand the word fear. When the traffic comes along, he doesn't mess about. He just gets in the hedge bottom and waits for the vital moment. Harrison's got perfect timing. He sits there 'til one of them human things comes along in a moving box. He waits just on a corner, where he can't be seen. Then he strikes. A few long daft steps, just about getting off the ground, flaps like mad, turns inwards then splat, straight under one of them wheels. Boy, he's got style. I seen him do it meself on the road to Eggleston. The human got out of his box and started stroking the front of it and saying stuff about damn pheasants. Boy, Harrison sure showed him! Funny though, I ain't seen Harry much since then, have any of you?"
There was much concerned croaking and clucking and a general consensus was arrived at that, no, Harrison hadn't been in the pub for weeks.
Lee's cousin, Ryan, croaked up next. He said Harry wasn't the only one who hadn't been in the Cracked Windscreen lately. Darryl and his bird Chantelle were flying over to see him and his mam last week, just coming in to land in the estate when they just disappeared out of the sky after a loud bang. Ryan was most put out.
"I wouldn't have minded, but me mam had done a plate of nosh special, like, and it just went to waste. She said it's the last time she was gonna ask 'em over if they fly off and never so much as a by your leave."
Morgan, a bird from the council nests, who, it must be admitted, is a bit thick, even by pheasant standards, said he was confused. He'd seen his dad being carried by the neck by a big fat human. "I think the old man was enjoying it, because he had his eyes shut, all happy like, but he never answered me when I croaked at him." There was agreement that this had been very bad manners. At this point a new voice piped up.
"He didn't croak back because he'd croaked it," said the lone pheasant by the fire.
"Oh, it's 'im," groaned Lee. "It's old yellow-belly smarty-pants know-all Sebastian posh lugs." The lads all glared at the Messianic figure who addressed them.
"When will you lot ever learn?" asked Sebastian. "Our friends disappear because they're dead. They're dead because they get shot or because they're so stupid and fly straight into fast-moving solid objects. Solid object hard, pheasant soft, outcome splat. No more pheasant.
"What we really need is a road safety awareness campaign and to that end I have made an application to the National Lottery for an Awareness Liaison Consultant to underpin our cultural programme for the breeding season."
This enraged Morgan. "Who'd wanna mate with you, yer great fairy? Call yerself a pheasant? I've never seen yer nut a windscreen yet!" Much murmuring of consent. In fact, the mood turned quite hostile. Sebastian was surrounded, a prophet without honour in his own country. The hen birds put down their J2Os and clucked happily, looking forward to the big scrap they knew was coming.
"I like fights - me mam says they make me more fertile," said Lisa, Morgan's bird. Mind you, that Sebastian's got nice tail feathers. I wouldn't mind mating with him, but don't tell our Morg - he might get nasty if he knew."
The cock birds crowded round Seb and forced him to the door. He backed out, pleading: "You must change your ways. If we don't look after ourselves, there'll be none of us left!" This cut no ice. They were determined to throw out this pacifist, this bird who was different.
Forward they came; back he went, out into the road, still preaching his gospel as he went. They slammed the door. Sebastian shouted: "Oh ye of little fai...." and was promptly run over by the last bus to Middleton.
Inside the Cracked Windscreen, Lisa cackled. She snuggled up to Morgan, proud of her big strong man.
"You sure showed that great big girl's blouse, didn't yer, love?"
"What?" replied her love, whose attention span was better than most in the pub.
"Sebastian who? Never heard of him. And who are you, anyway?" Outside, Seb was rapidly becoming an integral part of the Tarmac.
First published in the Mercury, March 5, 2008