The Unfortunate Birds Residing In Devon

In Devon, they dress crows in wedding dresses


and make them marry gentlemen's dogs.


In Devon, rare birds are caught and weighed down, 


and are made to run long country jogs. 


In Devon, they throw shoes at owls, 


and say they have no regard for the rules, 


In Devon, they bake geese in large cakes,


and 'shooting' is in the curriculum at schools. 


In Devon, swans are drowned for vandalism, 


and ornithology is tantamount to tax evasion. 


In Devon, sparrows are tied to helium balloons,


and they're all let loose on a ceremonial occasion.


In Devon, they blame crime on starlings,


and use beaks to 'pebbledash' their houses.


In Devon, men like to fight cockatoos


and women wear feather blouses. 

In Devon, children are encouraged to take up sport, 


'raven rounders' is a favourite in many schools, 


In Devon, the elderly enjoy a round of 'dove darts',


and they also like a spot of 'blackbird boules'



In Devon, birds are locked up for stealing fruit, 


such as the prized granny smith and Cox’s. 


In Devon, prisons are full of gannets and falcons, 


and the prison guards are all cats and foxes. 



In Devon, there are no visitors, 


and there isn't a tourist board, 


In Devon, there isn't a local MP, 


just a bird-watching slaughter lord.

"There are flocks of things in the garden..."

                                           

"There are flocks of things in the garden,"

my little sister said to me, 

"They float, they hover, they dance, 

and they hunt in packs of three"

"Creatures walking with nine legs,

riding in the wheelbarrow,

Goblins with yellow teeth, 

some firing a bow and arrow"

"They're trampling on the plants, 

they're digging up the trees, 

They're eating the rose bushes

and scaring away the bees!"

"Calm down little sister, 

I can understand your pain, 

but it's all quite, quite simple, 

so let me explain..."

"I know where they came from,

those little men eating our rooks, 

they all came from a mans mind 

they came from your storybooks"

"You must have left a book open

when you fell asleep last night,

and then they crept outside,

each pixie, imp and sprite"

"Imagination is all we can hold onto, 

it's personal and very endearing,

I imagine a monster everyday, 

just to stop mine from disappearing"

"Now go and get your books,

and fetch the spare rabbit cages, 

we'll gather them all together, 

and crush them back into their pages"

By David J Walker, aged 22. 

Michael Parkinson Fan Fiction

I have written a small piece of fan fiction, using one of my favourite broadcasters, Michael Parkinson, as my protagonist. 

Before anyone has a go at me, saying I'm having a laugh at Parkinson's Disease, for any reason, just know that I'm not. It's literally just about Michael Parkinson, there is no allegory or metaphor in use. 

I've called it 'PARKINSON'S THIRST'

Just, just, just, just, just, just try and enjoy it.

--------------------------------------------

Sunlight spilled in through gaps in a blind, delivering the summer heat which only served to heighten Michael Parkinson's hayfever and assorted allergies. 

The man himself was lying on the floor in the spare bedroom, which was just something he liked to do on a Sunday afternoon. He was reading an unofficial biography of his life, seeking incongruities he could then use as humorous anecdotes at dinner parties. He did the same with unofficial Parkinson calenders, Parkinson mugs, Parkinson pencil cases and  Parkinson carpet tiles. 

All of a sudden, Parkinson realised that he was really thirsty. 

"I'm really thirsty" he said, as if to confirm suspicion. 

He was really thirsty, so thirsty that he began to suspect that such thirst has never been experienced before by a human being, he even began to hullicinate. He witnessed a payslip teaching latin to underpriviledged maltese youth, he witnessed a SIM card solving a rubiks cube in twenty seconds, and he also witnessed a physical form of math, known as King Mathmatical Matthew. 

He pictured himself winning an award for thirst. Parkinson then realised that such awards do not yet exist, and so he would have to found them himself. He would call it Parky's Parched Persons Awards. He was excited, he could tell because he was foaming at the mouth, eyes and ears. He made for the telephone, but found that he couldn't... 

Parkinson couldn't move, his legs really hurt. 

"My legs really hurt" he said, in the instantly recogniseable voice of the famed yorkshireman. 

The same voice has been used to chat to so many famous figures over the years, Muhammad Ali, Muhammad Ali, Muhammad Ali, Muhammad Ali, and David Beckham. 

He lifted his head to see what might be causing such pain. Michael Palin was at the base of his bed, with a hammer and chisel, working away at his shinbone, carving a small statuette of George Best. 

"Palin!" he cried aloud, in the instantly recogniseable voice of the famed yorkshireman. 

The same voice has been used to talk to chat to so many famous figures over the years, Sandra Bullock, Sandra Bullock, Sandra Bullock, Sandra Bullock and Ronnie O' Sullivan. 

Palin raised his head from his work, he was wearing an apron and was surrounded by tools associated with woodcraft. A hammer, a chisel, a wooden mallet, some matches, some canapes, a hessian sack, a woven horse, and some dead wasps in a jar labelled 'treason treats'...

Palin panicked, and his eyes fell out of his face. Confused, he then began to scurry around on the floor looking for the cool ice blue eyes which have looked upon such sights as The Maldives, The Maldives, The Maldives, The Maldives, The Maldives and John Cleese. 

It was at this point that Parkinson took a closer look at the George Best statuette protuding from his shinbone, it was marvelous. It was so life like that Parkinson almost asked;

"So, are you really not going to play football ever again George?"

This question was posed to George Best in an interview in 1973. 

Confused, and still suffering from the height of thirst, Parkinson rolled over to the corner of the room. Water ran down the curtain there, which originates from a leak in the roof. Parkinson liked to lay there, underneath the curtain, sometimes for several hours, with his mouth open, letting the rainwater drip into his mouth and onto his frail dry face. 

Parkinson was thirsty no longer. 

The newly quenched Parky stood up, and looked out of the window and laughed to himself. He was happy in retirement, but knew that mysterious events would often be afoot. 

He then turned around, and began to kick the shit out of Michael Palin. 

The Cryptid Rhino - Part One

The rhinoceros has never been seen alive, it's existence is based on mere myth and legend. 

Few have provided hard evidence that would even suggest the rhino is an actual living, breathing, coughing, sweating, thinking, humorous and insightful land mammal. The rhino has been resigned to the ranks of other cryptids, the Yeti, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and of course, John Major. 

Over the years there have been several noted sightings;

In 1858, the wife of an aristocrat was buying some lovely lace from a stall in a marketplace, when she felt a heavy tap on her shoulder. "Yes?" she said, before turning, only to make eye contact with an animal she described as being - 

"a grey mass of shrivelled, wrinkled skin" 

The lady, also known as LADY X went on to say;

"I felt as if it was looking for something, perhaps an answer to a question it was too afraid to ask. I did wonder if it wanted some of my recently bought plums, I offered them, but he started shaking violently before mysteriously dissolving down a drain"

Lady X and her statement made the evening edition of The Times. The news of the dissolving rhinoceros started to spread, and within weeks a search began for any trace of it. None was found. Lady X also went onto witness other cryptids in and around inner-city London, The Mile Tall Panda-Whore, The Hideous Spider Horse, The Ghostly Greenish Brownish Goat, and The Christmassy Leopard. The authenticity of these claims however, are disputed. 

Lady X was tried at the old bailey for defrauding newspapers, and was sentenced to death. She was forced to eat a whole dog, including it's forehead and arms. She died shortly after, the dog lived well into it's eighties. 

It's claimed that Jack the Ripper was startled by a ghostly apparition of a Rhinoceros, as he was about to pummel a prostitute. He fled the scene, leaving the prostitute unharmed. The girl, Miss Thelby-Thatcher, thanked the Rhinoceros, and is reported to have even offered her services to the ghostly beast. The Rhinoceros replied that he wasn't that way inclined, and then evaporated into the victorian air, but not before doffing his cap and wishing her the best of luck in her endeavours. 

That evening Jack the Ripper ran all the way home, which at the time was a small room above a cobblers. Once inside, he hid inside a bureau which he often used to write threatening letters to the authorities and newspapers. He cried quietly to himself, shocked by what he had seen. A fortnight later, he emerged from the bureau, but had grown a rather repugnant tusk. From that day forth, Jack the Ripper was known as Dirty Tusked Thomas.

Silly Jack the Ripper. 

"Godforsaken gas stove..."

I can't drive. I've always been hanging onto the ideal that by the time I reached my mid-twenties cars wouldn't exist, people would 'hover' or just sprint everywhere like commuting Linford Christies. What a great world that would be. Alas, this seems undestined to come to fruition. 

But living in London is fine for public transport, you get your 'shits' but then again where don't you, it's rather bloody handy. People seem to insist on reading broadsheets in rush hour, unfortunate people may find themselves in an angry discussion with an embittered traveller, and sometimes there's strikes, delays and bombs, but when it works, it works, and that's good enough for me. 

I'm never to going to claim that by travelling publicly I'm doing 'my bit' for the environment, because this isn't the case, if I could drive I probably would, I get the tube, bus and train because I have to. 

The environment is shit, and I couldn't care less about it's future, nor the generations of children that will suffer due to ill-foreseen eventualities. I immediately take this back, I'm really really sorry. 

When people learn I can't drive they look at me as if I've just revealed that I still believe in Father Christmas or haven't ventured through the puberty. Learning to drive seems to be a right of passage that has to happen, otherwise society will forever look down at me like a scrunched up bag of piss and cake wrappers. 

Thinking about it, the only cause I'd have to drive would be to drive my pregnant wife (or girlfriend - it's nearly 2009 afterall) to hospital when she reaches the vast exciting plateau of labour, I'll be there, holding her hand, kissing her head (albeit with my eyes closed for 6 hours)

I'd also need to drive my children to school when they reach that age, as taxi drivers and passing strangers have become less and less trustworthy in recent years. 

I'm going to have to learn to drive. 

Then again, perhaps in ten years time, pregnancy won't exist and schooling will be become something that only winners of 'school' ballots can enjoy. 

Babies will spring out from petri dishes, or even better, force their way from massive technicolour eggs laid by magic floating lions in 'human' masks...

As for the school ballots, I've never won much that could be considered important, and I've lost so so so much...

Read the attached picture doc, it made me laugh. 

David. 

 

"Inside this vase are my thoughts and feelings..."

Today I skimmed through an old notebook I found whilst trying to find an elusive P45. Here, in no particular order, was some of the strange delights I came across. 

"Heavy snow fell in the morning, but in the afternoon it began to lose momentum, like a horse's ever faltering christian faith..."

"...his feet were boiling hot, so hot, hotter than most hot things you can think of...and that includes a miner's cornish pasty, a sailor's hot soup, or a cowboy's porridge oats..."

"...Michael couldn't believe what he was seeing, his eyes had turned in their sockets out of their own volition, he was looking directly at his own brain...and it was smiling at him..."

"He found his broken tooth within a dirty rag, within a small glove, within a dog, within a dangerous calf, within a tiger, within a satanic beast, within a dragon, within a blue whale, within a fisherman's net..."

"he woke suddenly to find himself surrounded by a shower of small boys, they had wrapped him tightly within the ancient flag of Cornwall, they then proceeded to throw him into a nearby pond, where, according to arthurian legend, Sir Bedivere threw Excalibur to The Lady of the Lake..."

I love finding things like these, they make me laugh. Anyway, I've attached another stupid piece of 'creative' writing. It's a fictional letter. I often find letters to be a great way of venting words or frustrations, especially when you don't send them. This letter is weird, and I'd never have any intention of sending it to anyone. 

David. 

"He keeps chipped marbles in his pockets..."

 I'll tell you what's brilliant, trekking through old word documents I have tucked away deep within my computer's depths. I'm starting to think I was much more imaginative when I was 18/19, it was a time of excitement, hope, and vegemite on toast. My bedroom looked much the same way as it did now, small pieces of luxury carelessly thrown amongst the jumble and clutter I gather from here, there, over there, around there, under there or somewhere else entirely.  

Looking around now I can spot one such guilt ridden bastard; a Uni Qlo bag full of rubbish, I dip my hands inside and pull several things out at once. A tape measure, an eccles cake in tinfoil, a 20 pence piece which seems to have been bound with the remnants of a mint aero; as if it's forming some variety of minty coin hybrid (mass market potential?)

I think, in a way, this room is much like the contents of my tiny head. 

It's badly decorated, it leaks, it smells of coffee and tea at the same time, and worse of all, it has me inside it jabbering away about nonsensical jibber-jabber jimbits. 

Much of it is worthless, and should have been removed of a long long time ago, much of it should have been thrown out alongside those dreams of being a Time Travelling Pharmacist, curing scurvy or cholera wherever it reared it's filthy hide. 

I also dreamt of being an architect, albeit not a time travelling one, I found that present day materials were much better for forging football stadia and massive massive igloo palais. 

Alot of it should be treasured, I've pages upon pages of ridiculous writing and terrible illustrations that I couldn't help but keep. I've got favourite mugs that don't belong to me, they bear a royal coat of arms and never fail to make me laugh when I'm drinking scalding hot tea. 

I have pictures, letters, postcards, ball bearings, screws, batteries, receipts...

I'm convinced even the holy grail lies somewhere within these dirty walls, however I'm not interested in finding it. Finding it would mean this room would become a shrine, and I can't be dealing with that, not when I've got 4 minutes to catch a train and some bloody pilgrims are in my way crying all over the laminate floor and reciting the lords prayer over and over...

Attached is a strange piece of 'creative' writing I found inside my selfish and altogether witholding computer. It's called THERE IS NOTHING, it's absolute insanity on my part, I think I wrote it within a few minutes. It's about nothing. Quite literally, there's no metaphor or allegory, it's simply nothing.  

It was my attempt to be as stupid as I could possibly be, which is very stupid indeed. So by all means read it, but don't expect Kafka or anything. There will however be improved creative writing winging your way. 

David.