Category Archives: country living

pigeon n’ chips

I’ve had a fucking meeting all morning that required the services of my black bitch.

She and I rode hard from Tooting into the West End, the journey was punctuated with peril and danger culminating in grid-lock round Waterloo from which even we couldn’t escape. Evasive action in the form of riding on pavements and firing up a one-way street in the negative direction saw me make my appointment with seconds to spare. Yes, I won.

The ride back was quite lovely, like a scene from Grand Theft Auto. Needless to say I came first. See? Even riding around in the city is serendipity, and that rhymed.

Last night Myfwt came over, she was suffering from that thing what happens to chicks under 50, yeah. I fixed her with a chicken and mushroom pie which even by my standards was exceptional, and some Bordeaux in front of the TV. That Russell Brand chap, he’s awfully good we thought before going to bed in utter peace.

I thought Cunt was out as it was so quiet but at about 11pm I heard a soft cough from downstairs, indeed, he’d been in all night as quiet as an ickle brain damaged mouse. I really hope that the bollocking on Tuesday has made its mark. Though I suspect it’s not. Well, he does it again and it won’t just be me banging on his greasy door, I’ve made contact with the council. May I wish him all the ills of humanity.

Right, a first for Piqued, a mate of mine sent me an email which I’ve decided to stuff into these hallowed pages as it amused me so, make yourselves a nice cup of tea, build a joint and lay back and relax with this…

“There was a pigeon which was looking odd yesterday, and I was all for killing it as there’s a pigeon lurgy going round. But oh no, the missus didn’t want it. So this morning it was sat sadly on the bird table, with one eye closed/missing and it’s beak crossed over, with drool down it’s front. Enough, says I, and got ma gun. (This was bought after an unfortunate incident with my mate A kicking a mixy rabbit into a freezing ditch last year in an attempt to get it across our bridge, before it went and died under the shed or something. Faced with either ignoring it or dashing it’s head in with a lump hammer I resolved to get an air rifle. Next day I leave the shop with a cheap Chinese rifle and a rather splendid Pith helmet). Anyway, I plan to tell the missus it was the dignified way to do it. The Mother-In-Law doesn’t know what’s happening until she sees me with the rifle. It has telescopic sights I got as part payment for something. Anyway, I’m feeling a little bit cool as she gasps and scuttles indoors. Then I go up to this pigeon, who is so clearly ill it lets me put the barrel to it’s face, and I blow the back of it’s head off. It sits there for a second, and then the fucker launches itself at me! There’s flapping, blood and brains spraying and a lot of feathers, along with a mewling, whimpering noise. I pistol whip it a bit, then shoot its head again, which bursts. Finally (and I really hope nobody saw this) I have it pinned to the ground, shooting it through the heart in a superstitious belief now that it’s ‘the only way to stop it’. Slowly the whimpering noise stops, and I realise it was me. I then have to carry this dripping carcass to a misty field, where I bury it, still warm, along with the dead mixy rabbit which next door asked me to remove yesterday. Country living eh?”

Enjoy that? I did

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