Nom nom nom
You wouldn’t believe it if you’d only read it, but an enterprising person of whom I’m very jealous took a fantastic photo (shamelessly stolen, right), proving conclusively that a pelican ate a pigeon in St. James’s Park the other day in what has to go down as easily the best Russian doll impression ever effected by wildlife.
Whether the pelican was indulging in a spot of marsupial role-play (and haven’t we all?), or was trying to compensate for the relative failure of Ken Livingstone’s underperforming hawks is unclear. What is clear, however, is that Trafalgar Square must be equipped with pelicans at once. Possibly hundreds of them will be required; I don’t know, I’m not an ornithologist. I do know that hornbills might also be useful for dispensing with some of the hardier veterans occupying Nelson’s Column, as well as providing handy bottle-openers for late night revellers. Furthermore, while vastly endangered and utterly ill-equipped to handle any predator more threatening than moss, I believe the addition of Kakapos to London’s central district would immeasurably improve things. If nothing else, a feral population of overweight, flightless honking parrots will prove much easier to control than the current pigeon infestation.
Despite the occurrence of what is clearly the best thing that has ever happened and will ever happen, Londoners returned to work as normal on Thursday. Quoted during her regular commute, media saleswoman Karen Armitage said: “No, there doesn’t seem much point any more, but I figure it’s possible they’re working up to humans, and that’d be a good way to go. Don’t you think?”
I’m going to stop apologising at the start of these entries, favouring instead a brash unashamedness. Thus, rejoice! This entry is both dorky and self-absorbed. For today I found out how to find what people searched for before finding my site.
Thus I discover that I am something of a guru for those curious as to how halloumi goes with bacon. Granted, these wannabe epicures will have been disappointed to discover that I haven’t actually combined these two items, but I bestow my wisdom on you now:
Bacon goes with everything.
Moving on through my not-quite-mail pile, we discover that someone in the United Arab Emirates would like to see “Lebanese singers fucking”. Not here, my friend; not here. I’m not even in the first ten pages of results on Google for said horny singers – I salute your tenacity, but fear for your tendons.
More miscellaneous items include “National trust blog”, which presumably garnered the searcher a nasty surprise; “smurfs in portugal”, to which no response seems sufficient, and “nude interrogations” which I can only assume is our seeker of Lebanese porn, returned after a bout of physiotherapy.
Finally, my favourite: “how work robot?” That says it all about me, really.
How work robot indeed, sir? How work robot indeed.
They do, you know. “Hey, Mr Beard,” they’ll say, gaily demanding that I fetch their still-fluffy underage lungs some fags from the corner shop. “Oh go on,” they say, trapped in their dilapidated schoolyard until the scandalous hour of 3pm.
“No,” I say.
But today, a disturbing development. “Ha ha,” one of the lovable ruffians vouchsafes unto his peers, “I thought he looked like Mr Beard!”
Looked like Mr Beard? What fresh dismissal is this? I thought I was Mr Beard. Are they confusing me with myself, or is there one who lays claim to my identity? Now I worry that my face furniture merely elicits sighs of nostalgia; memories of a happier hirsutitude; hints of yesterbeard. With whose beard does mine share a humourous congruity? Ou sont les barbes d’antan?
Dammit, I’m Mr Beard.