Bird Guano
The column that throws the bath water out with the baby

We extend a hearty HIP welcome our new readers in Norway, where The Hastings Independent is now the number one English language newspaper. Olaf Wåagenweal, a Norwegian fisherman from the island of Spuün (“home of the herring”), has agreed to be a regular contributor to this column, and will keep us updated on exciting events in the cold forbidding Scandinavian north.

OLAF: Thank you Mr.Bird, for kind greeting, but sorry, this month there shall be no news in Norway because of Herringfest, when it is tradition for all Norwegians to get drunk and steal bicycles. It is also when we like to eat the famous Håaagenhurr Herring, which is buried for 300 years and then dug up and mixed with whale semen. When it is eaten, accompanied by Aquavit and Norwegian accordion music, you will think that you might be in paradise! I will from Norway report again soon, perhaps when I am sober.

READER: Norwegians? What next? This is Hastings for God’s sake! Were there no British fishermen available?
MYSELF: When I want your opinion, I’ll make it up.

My desk is now heaving with your overwrought correspondence, so I suppose I will have to print some of it, if only to locate my keys. Mrs Thespia Calamari from St Leonards writes;
Dear Mr. Guano,
The recent discovery of time-wrinkles by astronomers has got me thinking. As a busy housewife I find it increasingly difficult to follow my hobby of absailing down electricity pylons whilst playing the trumpet. In this fast-paced modern world, what with the internet, pop-up toasters, Kylie Minogue and dogging, many of my friends are asking the same question, namely; where does all the time go?

Dear Thespia,
Being no expert on the peculiarities of relativity, I consulted Hastings inventor Professor Gordon Thinktank, who kindly allowed me to browse his enormous private reference library with the aid of an ingenious ladder powered by compressed air. After a lot of wheeling about, I was able to locate Whither Tempus Fugit? the definitive volume by Dr. J. W. Dunne, the leading authority on this subject.  There, I found the following information on page 6,853:  “The time,” writes Dunne, “goes to Hartlepool, where it stays at Chez Guavara a cosy, family-run bed and breakfast near the famous monkey museum. It returns to Greenwich every other weekend to check its emails and adjust the hours of daylight.”
I hope this has been of some assistance.

This one was more up my street:
I was mowing the lawn recently, using my vortex-powered Zapata bladeless grass obliterator, when I accidentally shredded a grey squirrell. The acorns it was burying got snagged up in the centrifugal twig gusset, causing a blowback in the right cartioid ganglion. Should I rebore the musket cylinder, or simply replace the high density masking flaps?
R. Mutt, The Urinals, Upper Dicker

Dear Mr. Mutt,
A difficult question, frought with angst, which I will nevertheless attempt to answer. Many experts favour a rebore, which may temporarily restore nipple pressure, but I would have shunted the horseshoe grip to occupy the vacant cam tray, allowing the selenoid build-up to be dissipated by the mongoose filter. Had it been a red squirrel, I would have unquestionably gone with the rebore.

As if the sacking of controversial boss Sergio “The Horse” Peccadillo wasn’t enough, big Ronnie Tublard, the centre back at the heart of Hastings and St Leonards Warriors FC’s defence, is now doubtful for next Saturday’s clash with Hellingly Supernaturals, due to a calf injury. “He’s in intensive care at the moment, surrounded by friends and family. It’s touch and go.” said caretaker manager Stan Jackstrop. The incident is believed to have occurred at his father’s cattle farm in Kent, where the calf, on its way to a veal pulverising factory in Belgium, fell off a trailer directly on top of the midfield dynamo, causing severe concussion. “Thank God it was only his head” said Warriors’ glamorous physio Lulu LaVerne.

I would like all dog loving fans of this column to join my new campaign.
Is there a better start to the day than stepping in a nice, soft, fresh example of what the Germans like to call a hundvurst, accurately plopped, dead centre, on the pavement? Of course there isn’t. I also propose to ban plastic disposal bags and motorised pooper scoopers, all on the grounds of global warming.

Sausage Life!


PS: Note to the irresponsible idiot who jumped out from behind an abandoned washing machine and scared the living daylights out of me in Silverhill the other day: Cutting out a photo of Theresa May and sticking it on your face is not funny.