Stop That Pigeon!

I was looking out of my window the other day, watching the world go by, when I saw a particularly tatty pigeon flying past. These disease-ridden rats of the sky are foul unhealthy things, so without hesitation, I snatched up a glass ashtray and threw it at the feathered flapper. Unfortunately, aim a tad poor, I missed the avian beastie by several feet, the ashtray consequently hitting the garden wall below and shattering into about a thousand pieces.

Well, one of the largest shards of razor-edged glass then shot into the street and struck a passing woman on the side of her face. Shocked and dazed, cheek gashed open to the bone, white polyester blouse and crimplene slacks rapidly becoming soaked with blood, the female pedestrian fashion-victim dropped her Quicksave carrier and unwisely staggered off the pavement and into the road, slap bang in front of a speeding motorcycle.

Luckily for the canny shopper, the leather-clad rider was on the ball and swerved in the nick of time, thereby missing the witless woman by mere inches. The helmeted chap’s manoeuvre proved ill-advised, however, cruel fate sending man, pillion passenger and machine into the path of a giant tanker lorry racing from the opposite direction. Unable to break in time, or otherwise avoid a collision, the lorry smashed into the motorcycle and crushed it flat, thereby propelling the luckless biker into the air, whereupon he crashed through the windscreen of the tanker’s cab and butted the driver in the face, knocking him unconscious.

Out of control and unguided, the lorry jack-knifed, hurled the dead bike rider into a nearby tree - where he landed on a branch adjacent to the one his unconscious pillion passenger was draped over - mounted the pavement and careened at high-speed through the gates of the junior school opposite my house.

The wayward wagon then ploughed a deep furrow across the playground and demolished several classrooms, before coming to rest in the assembly hall. In the process, it not only wrecked year three’s papier mache nativity scene, but also killed forty-one ethnically diverse children in the middle of singing “all things bright and beautiful”, their geography teacher, “no-nonsense” Mr Frith and Gertrude, a passing West Indian dinner lady, who had unwisely chosen the wrong moment to leave her post at the turkey twizzler tray to go for a sneaky fag, poor woman ending up tangled around the lorry’s back axle with the butt of the unfinished ciggy jammed up her nose.

Filled with thousands of gallons of highly flammable petroleum, the tanker finally exploded in a ball of flames, creating a conflagration that spread rapidly through the building, causing five million pound’s worth of damage and barbecuing another one hundred and seventy-three school kids, the deputy head, Mrs Narendra Patel, six other assorted piss-poor teachers, Bill the caretaker and Violet, a blue-haired school cleaner, who was due to retire the following Monday after thirty years of faithful service on minimum wage.

To cap it all, the blaze miraculously leapt the school wall and raced across a forty-foot lawn, before consuming the old folk’s home next door, leaving no survivors among the aged residents and putting the kibosh on two Irish nurses and four Ghanaian care workers who sadly choked on a mixture of noxious fumes emanating from burning dentures and colostomy bags while desperately trying to drag some of the charcoaled oldsters from the cinders.

The only bright spot in this terrible tragedy – apart from the bricks in the school wall which continued to glow for several hours after the fire was finally extinguished – the motor bike passenger’s miraculous escape from serious injury - apart from his broken legs, nose, ribs and collar bone - became somewhat tarnished several weeks later when he hung himself from his adoptive family‘s banisters out of pansy-arse survivor guilt syndrome.

Luckily for his step-parents, taking a leaf out of Madonna and Jolie’s book, they had recently bought/adopted a little foreign baby, so didn’t really miss the soft twat. They may have seen things a little differently, however, if they had known at the time, while not bothering to attend his funeral, that they had actually wasted their money on a little cutey that was already infected with the ebola virus that was set to eat its eyes and internal organs within a matter of days.

That pigeon was a blasted menace. Filthy bird!

And I missed Eastenders, what with being distracted from my TV guide by all the people outside running about in flames, screaming, and the sirens of the emergency vehicles that turned up just too late to be of any help. Anyone get murdered this week?