Posts Tagged ‘bird’


Bert finds a Cure.

March 3, 2015

Bert was a normal enough weasel. He was a mammal (source: Wikipedia), and he looked like that weasel from Animals of Farthing Wood. So, pretty standard. He was a nice weasel, he sent everyone at work Christmas cards, he wrote to his mum, and he didn’t skulk away when it was his round at the bar. But Bert had one major flaw: he could not hug.

It was a problem that bothered him deeply, a dark secret constantly poking away at his sanity.

It was not a physical problem, but a mental one. As a child, Bert had attempted to hug a moving car. The car of course bit him, and Bert’s poor psyche was damaged forever. Ever since, a hug had been impossible for him.

One day in Spring, Bert was feeling particularly gloomy. Sat in a tree, he looked out into a field and thought dark thoughts. If he couldn’t hug, what was the point? The whole world was out there, but at arm’s length. The best he could do was shake its hand, and it wasn’t enough. Not any more.

And so he jumped. Bert leapt from the branch that was previously his seat. Eyes closed, the wind rushed through the fur on his cheeks as the ground rushed up to meet him. And then, suddenly, he felt a soft thump beneath him.

“HOLY BUTTOCKING JESUS!” came a shrill cry, just below his head.

Bert opened his eyes, and there was a woodpecker, and he was holding onto its back. Wait… he was HUGGING its back!

“YES! Oh my goodness! I’m hugging! I’m hugging!” Bert whooped and screamed with joy as the pair flew through the air.

He was free at last.


Image from here, by a person called Martin Le-May. Sent to me by Nick, Tristan, and Mike, in that order. Thank you to everyone involved!


The Mysterious Note.

January 29, 2014

“Find me when you wake up.”

It was scrawled on a crumpled up piece of paper Alfonso had in his pocket. He frowned again as his beady-bird eyes slowly drifted over the faded characters on the page, his brain assigning the groups of abstract shapes the sounds in his head that made them into words of the English language.

Who was it from?

Alfonso pocketed the note, for perhaps the fiftieth time since he had found it this morning, and took to the skies to clear his head. His tiny wings flapped frantically to draw him into the air. His shoulders ached. Actually, his whole body ached. He felt liked he had been punched right up the arse by someone with shovels sellotaped to their fists.

“I shouldn’t have drunk that bottle of Southern Comfort last night,” he mused as he looked down at all the people below.

Which one of them had written him that note? Which of those tiny bastards was responsible for this confusion?

Alfonso’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he drifted down to alight on a stone pillar in the city below. It was a text. The text said this:


It said that because it was 1998 and everyone wrote texts like that for fear of sending two messages and it costing them an extra ten pence for the sake of one lousy letter.

The number the frugal-minded message was from was not in Alfonso’s address book, so he texted back:


The reply said this:


Alfonso wasn’t sure what a “zoo lol” was, so he headed over to the regular zoo in the hopes it would be the same thing. Luckily, it was, he could tell by the fact that someone in the camel enclosure was calling his name and waving and sometimes saying “Coo-eee!”

The increasingly confused bird shuffled over to the source of the sound; a cheerful looking camel with a red harness around her muzzle. The camel was very pleased to see Alfonso.

“Hi Alfonso! I’m very pleased to see you!” The camel said, which proves the previous sentence was not a lie.

“Who are  you?! How do you know who I am?! What is going on?!” Alfonso collapsed on the ground and sobbed like he did when Mufasa died.

“Don’t cry. Jump on my head and I’ll tell you what happened.”

Alfonso hopped onto the camel’s head, and she whispered this:

“My name is Elizabeth, and I am your wife. You got really drunk last night and called me nasty names, so I sellotaped shovels to my fists and punched you right up the arse so hard that it erased your memory, and the address book on your phone. I think it even erased your email accounts. It was the best punch I have ever done, and you bloody deserved it, you IDIOT FACE.”

Alfonso was very shocked to hear this, but of course it all made perfect sense. He was an idiot face. This had happened before.

“How can I make it up to you Elizabeth?” Alfonso whimpered.

“There is only one way to make it up to me: Build me a house made out of your tears.”

And he did just that, and never drank a whole bottle of Southern Comfort again.



Thanks to Dannie for the image, who got it from the usual place.


Journey Across the Manly Sea.

June 7, 2012

The journey was long, but they knew that had to take it. Their wives had caught them watching Bridget Jones and eating ice cream. It was time for them to leave, to voyage out across the Manly Sea, and to find the gruff hairy man inside them.

Dilbert was a bird, or at least, he assumed he was a bird. What would the bill and wings be for otherwise? He wasn’t entirely sure what kind of bird he was, he just knew he wasn’t a sparrow, or an ostrich.

George was a turtle. He wanted to be a Ninja Turtle when he was small, but he discovered quite quickly that he wasn’t good enough at kicking people in the face in a stealthy fashion so had to settle for just being a normal turtle. It still kept him up some nights.

The pair said goodbye to their respective wives, to ice cream, and to their Bridget Jones VHS tape, and set out on their perilous journey of manliness.

The day started well. The Manly Sea was calm, and so were they, until they saw The Island (not the film). Excited, they swam over to The Island, hoping to find manly stuff, like beer, and hairy legs. There was nothing on the shore, not even a moustache, but Dilbert and George walked up the beach regardless, assuming that manliness would be found further in.

Pushing through the overgrown trees they found themselves stood in front of a small pink house.

“Doesn’t look very manly,” George grunted.

“Maybe it’s a trick. Like a test to see if we’re comfortable enough with ourselves to go into a pink house,” Dilbert offered.

“Okay, let’s try it.”

They cautiously edged through the door and turned on the lights to discover a hugely feminine living room, with an excessive amount of cushions (so many as to make it actually less comfortable because there was no space for sitting down). The fridge was full of ice cream, and the VHS collection included such classics as BOTH Bridget Jones films, and Notting Hill. Dilbert and George looked at each other, baffled. It was their dream house. So they watched the films, they ate the ice cream, and they sailed back home during the night, thoroughly happy yet confused as to how this constituted manliness.

Their wives were waiting for them on their home shore, looking quite angry, and getting angrier still as their husbands explained how it had gone.

“You went the wrong bloody way!” Alice (Dilbert’s wife) interrupted, and pointed in the opposite direction to which they had sailed, “It’s that way!”

“Shit,” Dilbert said, and headed back to the sea, “I guess we best try again, then.”

And so they set sail, in the same direction they had gone earlier, and high fived as their wives shouted for them to turn the other way.

Thanks to Dannie for the image, which is from here.


The Tale of Mr. Custard.

May 3, 2012

Mr. Custard had never noticed it until the man pointed it out at the bank, but it was true, he did have a bird on a cat on his head.

Baffled, he trudged back home in a daze. Suddenly all those years of people pointing at him made sense. The whispering and laughing. That strange weight on his head that made his neck ache. All the pieces fell into place. It was like in the film The Matrix when stuff like deja vu is explained, and you realise that the Matrix is real, and we all live in it.

He needed a sit down and a cup of tea. A proper one, out of his extra large Spider-Man mug.

Cradling the oversized mug in his shaking hands, Mr. Custard eased onto the sofa in his front room.

“What does one do in a situation such as this?” Mr. Custard whispered to himself.

“We’re just glad you know about us now,” the bird said.

“Yes, we’ve been trying to work out how to break it to you for quite a while. But since we didn’t mention it straight away we felt it would be awkward to bring it up, so we kept quiet,” the cat elaborated.

“It’s been a pretty awkward couple of decades, if I’m honest,” the bird chirped, “Sitting about on this cat, who coincidentally is sitting about on your head. I haven’t called my mum in years. My wings are all stiff.”

“It’s hardly a flipping picnic for me!” the cat was anxious to let everyone know he was not enjoying himself. “I feel like the filling in a sandwich! Like a piece of ham, or some salad. It’s rubbish. I think I need some counselling.”

The pair went back and forth for a bit, all the while Mr. Custard listened as best he could while sipping his tea. It certainly was a predicament, and none of the participants in this strange inverted food chain tower seemed happy to be part of it. He sloshed the tea between his teeth, musing as it cooled. He knew over time this practice would stain his teeth, but he couldn’t give a damn, he had a bird sat on a cat on his head.

It was then that the idea came to him.

“Guys!” he interrupted. “Have you ever thought about just… getting off?”

There was a pause. The bird cleared his throat. The cat coughed. And then the pair shuffled about a bit and stood up, toppling onto the sofa beside Mr. Custard. The two animals dusted themselves off in silence, now separated, and then looked at Mr. Custard.

“Bit embarrassing, really. I wish we had spoken to you sooner,” the cat said.

“Oh well, at least it all worked out in the end,” Mr. Custard shrugged.

The trio said their goodbyes, shook hands, and the bird and the cat went their separate ways, leaving Mr. Custard to finish his tea.

Thanks to Dan H. for the image, not sure where he got it from (will update if the information turns up).


The Angry Witch and the Hippo.

July 1, 2011

It had been a tedious morning for Dilbert the Hippo. He had made a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes for breakfast but somehow managed to forget about them while he was pottering about, so when he came to eat them they were soggy. Dilbert hated soggy Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.

It was then that The Witch came. The Witch (an unfortunate name for any little bird), had decided at a young age to take her name up as a vocation, and had trained many years at Witch School. Secretly she had hoped Witch School would be a bit like Harry Potter, but unfortunately it was just a bunch of shitty portable classrooms in a field.

A combination of being a witch, going to a rubbish witch school, and being run over by a callous hippo driving a knackered old Mercedes Benz while drunk, had thrown The Witch into a gaping, swirling canyon of madness and hatred.

Her madness and hatred were mainly directed at hippos and portable classrooms, and Quavers (another story).

That morning The Witch had snapped after kicking her toe up on her front door. She flew into a rage, and rushed to the nearest portable classroom she could find. There were seconds between her arrival and the classroom becoming a smouldering blotch on the grass.

Once the deed was done The Witch found herself still very angry, so she went in search of a hippo to take out her rage upon. Unluckily for Dilbert that hippo turned out to be him.

He had just discovered his soggy Crunchy Nut Cornflakes when The Witch, spewing abusive words and making rude gestures toward him, flew down and sat on his back, her magic touch instantly turning him into Lego.

The Witch was pleased, and flew off laughing to herself, not knowing that justice was around the corner. The police found her and arrested her for “Turning flipping hippos into Lego”, and “Burning stuff.” She was sentenced to life.

Thanks to Dannie for the image, (captured on location at the event).


Gangsters 4Life.

May 17, 2011

Apologies about missing last week. I was a bit worried about following the last post, as it was amazing. gave it a stunning 9/10, saying “We couldn’t read it without checking all the doors were locked and then taking our pants off. ” Which was lovely of them. The animalonanimal fan club sent me some flowers that seemed to have been taken from my own garden, with a “Congratulations” card attached apparently written in my own handwriting.

It was an all round success.

So here’s hoping this one will be acceptable at the very least.

Trevor was sick of being in a gang. He wasn’t a bad rhinoceros, he was just bigger than most people, and not so clever, and that tended to get him into trouble.

Being beefy attracted a lot of negative attention when he was in his youth. Kids would push him and challenge him to fights, dare him to run about in china shops with his friend Edward the bull. He used to get into trouble with the police a lot, and eventually fell in with a bad crowd full time.

Clive “Oddly Small” Stevens was the worst of them. A bafflingly tiny rhinoceros with a Napoleon complex, he was hell bent on “Running this freakin’ town, bitches”, and quickly became the leader of a gang that would be called “The Superfly Cool Dudez”.

The gang was mostly comprised of little white birds that made a lot of noise and didn’t do too much, so whenever anything dangerous or violent needed doing that would likely warrant an Explicit Lyrics label were it a music release, Trevor was sent to do the dirty work.

After a few years of this, he eventually realised that his life had not gone the way he had wanted. His mum kept telling him off every time he went to see her, and his dad just stared at him, glassy eyed, sipping whiskey.

So Trevor got out.

He told Colin where to shove his gang and ran off to Devon to set up a B & B (which these days is said to have the best tea of any B & B in the country), and lived there until he was old and smelled a bit.

I would like to thank the one they call Dannie for the image, who got it from here.


Detective Casablanca has a bad day.

November 13, 2010

It had already been a strange day for Detective Casablanca the cat, he had found out his own father was a Russian spy that morning and had to arrest him, and then he had found out that his father was actually his mother (she had been wearing a stick-on moustache all these years as a disguise).

With these revelations weighing on his shoulders he wandered into a supermarket to get some lunch. He bought an unremarkable sandwich, and a Lion Bar for dessert.

The sandwich was fine, but when he opened the Lion Bar he discovered inside the wrapper, instead of a lion bar, was his arch nemesis Senor Toblerone! Senor Toblerone used his devilish agility to leap out of the wrapper and land on Detective Casablanca’s exposed back, at which point he injected a microchip into the fur on the Detective’s neck so he could control him.

Pleased with his success, Senor Toblerone rode Detective Casablanca back to his country mansion to gloat about his achievements to his wife.

Thankfully, Detective Casablanca’s Russian Spy Dad/Mum had managed to escape incarceration came across the horrible scene completely by accident! She punched Senor Toblerone right in the mouth and rescued her son.

Months later, after having the mind-control chip removed, Detective Casablanca and his Dad/Mum decided to move to Moscow and be Russians. As far as anyone knows they are still there today, communisting it up.

Thanks to Amy for the image, who got it from here.