Maurice.

So the other day i rescued a pigeon. which is unusual for me, because id always convinced myself i hated pigeons. i dont know why, i think its popular to hate them and to mutter "rats of the air" under your breath whilst walking past them. almost like if you say it too loudly theyll kick off and fly into your mouth or something horrendous. stab you up i dunno anyway, i digress. i was watching the football and heard a rustling noise outside my window but passing it off for a gust of wind i continued watching the footie until i heard it again. louder this time. almost cocky loud because id ignored it the first time, like an attention seeking cough. so i got out of bed and looked out of my window onto the roof of the bay window under mine and sat there, in complete discomfort and looking really annoyed was the pigeon we have come to know and love as maurice. I really quickly went next door into my housemate lauras room and told her to come and look at the broken pigeon i had found. her automatic response was to grab a camera...says more about her than anything else. SICK. But broken pigeon fetishes aside she came into my room and looked at Maurice and (after a few sneaky snaps) agreed with me that i should call the rspca. so i did. The woman on the end of the phone was thick. lets not beat about the bush. she was thick as shit. It took about 10 minutes to describe why i was on top of a bay window to see this pigeon. im not sure how but she ended up making it sound like i had a seedy reason for being on top of a bay window, rather than it being that my room looks out onto it. a few awkward silences and "sure Mr England...."s later she told me to clap at the pigeon. "yeah. clap at it, see if it moves." so i did. and if ever a pigeon could look superior to a human, that was the time. nobody on the street below could see Maurice, due to the ledge of the roof so as far as theyre concerned, i'm hanging out of my third floor window clapping at what appears to be average masonry and a leaking gutter. The pigeon waddled over to the other side of the roof and did a shit. Literally, if it could talk it would be saying, "Yes i can move. Oh wait....i...i can also SHIT ON YOUR ROOF." After assuring the lady that the pigeon was very much mobile on its legs and other bodily functions she told me that someone would come round the next day to save him. in the meantime i should keep checking on him. so i did. every half hour or so i leant out the window and made that wierd tutting noise that you use to attract cats (attract is probably the wrong choice of word here. i dont want to attract cats, or any other animal. just to be clear) to see if he'd come and say hi. so now the passers by who previously thought i was an over enthusiastic building inspector now took me as a disapproving pervert who hung out of windows in his boxers tutting at them and their children as they innocently dandered past. all to no avail. Maurice didnt move. i left him for the night.

The next day i was woken by the RSPCA lady who was coming to rescue Maurice ringing me just checking that i still "had a pigeon on my bay window" (again making it sound really unnecessarily pervey, like some ineffective inuendo) so i checked if he was still there. and he was. so a few hours later she came with a net and rescued him and checked him over, apparently he'd broken his sternum by flying into my window. Thats something thats always confused me. loads of birds fly into windows every day but why was maurice trying to get into my room in the first place? did he want to watch the Brazil game? or did he see the en suite and think Luxury! before hitting what is seemingly a sheet of hard air and breaking his breast bone and spending the whole night being clapped and tutted at? hm? i dunno. but she took maurice and i feel empty. alone. bereft of company. That is the tale of Maurice. Amen. Maurice, we barely even knew ye.     

The Beginning. 95 Penny Coins.

Hello Bloggers! gay. I've always wanted to say that, dunno why, it hasnt really met up to my expectations if i'm honest. but its done now, no going back. well this is going well so far. yes i thought id start a blog, because basically im in my third year of university, studying to become an actor and its the end of my final term and im broke. so i thought a way to cure the problem of being sat in my pink room all day (yes pink) would be to blog. so im blogging. Im so broke that today i raided my copper jar in order to pay for a packet of pringles, so ended up paying 95p in pennys at the self service till in tescos express. I didnt make any new friends today. a man shouted "for fucks sake", which i assume isn't a new hip term of endearment. well theres no assumptions about it. he was pissed off. and he had a beard and a Gillet on, which made it all the more threatening. so i inserted coins with all the more vigour. i half expected a round of applause when i finally and triumphantly picked up my pringles and not forgetting the receipt, minced out of the store with a huge queue of angry Gillet wearing men with beards in my wake.what a rush. Thats how sad its got. that was a rush. I always find supermarkets packed with subliminal messages, like for example the signs in the queue line that say "Youre Next" with an arrow pointing towards the man at the checkout, who more often than not is quite frightening. Its very forboding to know that "Youre next" to recieve whatever service this man in a chequered blue tabard is going to render. I bought a duck wrap the other day from the co-op and the lettuce in it was frozen. the fridge was on too high. so i had aromatic duck with frozen bloody lettuce. thats not so much a great story, it just occurred to me as i was talking about men in tabards. And also the security guards at tescos are always shit. The one in there today was walking about the aisles witha grin like a crackhead waving a flag. no word of a lie. he was waving a flag. not very handy to stop a sneaky Aisle 6 rape. Or a Grocery Dept Happy Slap. by the time hes saluted his flag like a good girl guide the vagabond would have surely scarpered. Bounder. So yeah. Im wary of supermarkets. i dont dislike them, im just wary. But one has to go there to shop. I dont like doing Week shops. my mum calls them that. Week shops. they never last a week and I end up going in and coming out with ridiculous items. I went in once and came out with one of those weird lindt bunny teddy bears with a bell round its neck. And that was all. It would have been excusable except i spent my last £2.80 on it about two years ago and i went in to buy bread, or something to LIVE ON for the last week and a half of that term. YOU CAN'T LIVE ON FELT. Not that i tried to eat it, but it was an assumption that i made. An informed decision if you like. Informed by medicine and shizz and general common sense. Anyway. you see i can ramble. thats enough for this chapter (i want to say blog instead of chapter, but didnt want to insult hardcore bloggers if i got it wrong..."Fucking retard, who does he think he is, first entry and hes creating lingo" that was the hardcore bloggers by the way...). so yeah. i hope this is the beginning of something beautiful. like the perfect foetus at the first scan. an ideal embryo. Peace out. Dave x