Timothy Leader (maverick pigeon feeder)

Timothy Leader keeps sacks of breadcrumbs in his pockets and bags. He never leaves home without them. And that’s because he’s one of those people you see, who often wear threadbare coats and weird shoes, hanging around the public squares in your city, feeding pigeons.

It’s a singular kind of person that decides to go down the route of public pigeon feeding. They are generally extremely thoughtful and honest individuals; the kind of person with whom most right-thinking people would happily share a scotch egg and half an ale of a Thursday and/or Wednesday afternoon in summer. Public pigeon feeders (PPFs) are also usually among society’s most stable characters. It’s a little known fact that a staggering 67 point three % of them are almost entirely debt free.

These ‘average’ PPFs, however, do not represent Timothy. He is an entirely different – some would say maverick – breed of PPF. For starters he operates, in net weight terms, with an 4:1 breadcrumb to seed ratio. Timothy goes to the trouble of weighing out a selection of poppy, pumpkin and sesame seeds and expertly blending them with the breadcrumbs, simply because that’s his vibe. He can’t really be sure the pigeons notice. But he’s seen other PPFs furtively glancing at his product from time to time (though the less said about that the better).

Timothy Leader does not only differ from your run of the mill pigeon feeder in relation to the composite mixture of his feed though. He is taller, and significantly richer, than most of the others too. He works in a bank, where he has got a secretary, and he shoulders the burden of immensely stressful decisions. Sometimes it’s like make or break, and megadeals. Your average PPF lacks the mental strength to handle such intense pressure.

Ironically, it’s questionable whether Timothy would be able to handle the pressure himself were it not for his love of feeding the pigeons. It was after a particularly stressful meeting, which went badly, that he first threw a few crusty scraps of his mid-range Pret a Manger sandwich at a group of pigeons. After seeing the selfish glints in those birds’ eyes when they startled to gobble he was hooked, and started feeding them on a daily basis.

All that now remains for me to explain is the incredible level of hatred Timothy Leader holds for pigeons. He despises their horrible legs and their stupid faces. Bile rises in his throat when he sees them scratching around outside his window. He wishes them ill. This is why Timothy includes secret ingredients called poison and bits of glass in his breadseedfeed mix.


A boring story detailing four loosely connected scenarios

After fifteen cracking months in the jungle, David decided it was time to return home. He had seen twelve different types of tropical toad during his one-point-two-five year adventure. And that was three more than he ever dared dream. He was also to be heading home with a new best friend. They’d met one day when David was scratching his back on a knobbly tree. The tree in question served as a den for Conrad Carlton the clever cat, and the two became firm friends.

Conrad Carlton had led a charmed life. He was aged 50 human years when he served in the Falklands and has increased that total since. This, it should be said, is no mean feat when you consider what Conrad considers an average day. He gets out of bed at precisely noon, drinks three bowls of chilli-flavoured milk and then plays with fire and performs daredevil moves until bed. The bed he sleeps in was bought from the Imaginary Pet Shop, near Boots.

The Imaginary Pet Shop is one of those places where dreams can come true. But it also facilitates nightmares coming true too. Unfortunately its ratio is something like dreams/nightmare = 1/10. One such nightmare scenario happened when a girl called Sarah bought a grey hamster from the store back in 19-oh-6. At first everything was normal but after a bit the hamster went mental, escaped from its cage, and snapped Sarah’s neck off.

This hamster, Derek he was called, scarpered after decapitating his owner. He made a beeline for the airport, as he knew the feds would be on his ass. He didn’t care where he went; he just had to put distance between himself and the bloody mess he’d left behind. It’s tough work at an airport for a hamster, as you can imagine. But after a few hours of zigzagging here and there he managed to board flight BA345, where he met a lovely air stewardess called Jant.

The end