The World’s Greatest Blog

On Monday morning I went to the park. The botanical gardens in Brisbane to be precise, while I waited for Linda to finish a meeting.

I went prepared, however, as I took some essential sandwich making equipment, a mandarin and a samosa style thing that we had bought from the indian takeaway on Sunday night and hadn’t been able to eat.

After I produced the samosa and had eaten roughly one bite, two miner birds began to get interested in my food and landed on the picnic table I was sitting at. They were a little bothersome, but not too difficult to keep away.

I then produced the equipment to make my sandwiches. After trying to butter two slices of bread and giving up (the butter was still rock solid from the super-cold fridge at the camp kitchen), I then started to put some grated cheese on one piece. This alerted the birds even more, and they actually needed to be forcibly removed from my plate at this point. I had to sit with one arm around the whole affair, not unlike the school swat hiding his answers. This seemingly paranoid action turned out to be entirely necessary when I relented and one of the miner birds tried to grab a piece of cheese from my hand.

Unfortunately, by the time I had made my cheese and pickle sandwich, and begun eating, the entire bird population of Queensland had been notified of my naive attempt to enjoy some food in the open air and I now resembled a character from a macabre Hitchcock film as Sacred Ibes, pigeons, some ducks and other various birds began to surround me, in what I thought was a mob-handed attempt to bully me into giving them some food.

I began to feel a little scared, but was enjoying the start of my sandwich.

After a couple of bites, I relaxed a little, savouring the delicious taste of cheese and Branston pickle, and I sat back chewing. Unfortunately, my guard had slipped, as I felt a huge thump in my sandwich hand and the cheese and pickle filling exploded all over me, and the floor…

What on earth?

A blur of brown passed by with a ridiculously small piece of bread in its beak - riduculous given the destruction it had reaped in order to get this - and the gathered throng quickly moved in to gobble down what was left of my now ruined lunch. In my daze, my eyes followed the blur to a nearby branch where the kookaburra - who was clearly responsible - was now callously eying the tiny remaining ripped fragment of vaguely buttered bread in my right hand.

I must admit that my anger took over me at this point and I took the only logical step. I balled that piece of bread as tightly as possible and launched it, baseball pitch style, at the little brown assassin. Alas, this missed its mark and cracked into the tree, whereupon my flock dealt with it promptly.

I then looked around and spotted an elderly couple who were clearly a little concerned about this madman throwing things very hard at their local wildlife. They must not have seen the attack I had sustained, and I was in no position to explain myself.

As I was wearing cream trousers, which were now covered in brown spattered pickle stains, I could not, as planned, spend the afternoon interviewing for jobs, so I had to take the rest of the day off, and spend it looking as if I’d had an embarrasing accident.

After a couple of hours, my shock had receded enough to take stock of this brutal assault, and I came to the conclusion that the whole event had been planned by the birds in cahoots. The gathered throng knew not to pester me too much - but just enough to ensure I turned side on to the table - their role was just to gather waiting for the kookaburra to perform his dirty stealth mission.

So, the other birds are not as culpable as the kookaburra. OK, they profited from the crime, but the linchpin in this sandwich mugging was the laughing kookaburra. I certainly wasn’t laughing.

Birds in cities are beyond the pale. In the bush, these animals are skittish at best and even downright nervous wrecks when a human being comes near, but this brazen assault proves one thing if nothing else: without a healthy dose of fear of - and respect for - humans, birds can destroy all our lives.

As always though, I’m going to propose a solution to this worrisome situation. We must all do our bit. When in cities, if you see a bird take one or all of the following steps:

• Flap your arms and shout very loud - this may scare a bird who is becoming used to human contact
• If a bird lands or flies near you attempt to swat it with your hand, a rolled up newspaper, or any other suitable weapon that is to hand - the key here is to use something which will shock more than hurt the bird in question and let it know that getting “all up in my space” is simply not on
• If a bird lands on the floor near you, aim a moderately hard kick in its direction - this has the effect of the above two steps, but is particularly useful for pigeons. Again the key is to get a message across - something along the lines of “I could kick you harder, so next time, do the wise thing, and just don’t approach me”

In America, in the 1930s, American president FDR (Franklin Delano Roosevelt) created several jobs to try to curb the Great Depression and provide employment for the swathes of population who were now jobless. Many of these jobs were considered completely useless tasks - or Boondoggles. One such role was to walk around the streets of a city carrying balloons to scare pigeons. I now realise the importance of this job. I also think that FDR was indeed a great leader, and it is precisely because the Americans could eat their sandwiches in comfort that he was elected for an unprecedented third term of office - the only president in the history of the USA who has been.

So that is the final step we must all take:

• When walking anywhere in a city, make sure you are carrying a balloon - this will alert any birds in the vicinity to your predatory nature, and make them naturally very scared of humans again.

I have two messages.

Mr Roosevelt: I salute your foresight. If only today’s world leaders could do something to rid the world of this unparalleled threat.

Mr Kookaburra: don’t expect any christmas cards from me this year, or any year unless your unruly behaviour improves markedly. Next time I hear you laughing at the plight of others, I may well come over with some balloons… you have been warned.