Watch The Skies
I am aware that my recollections of an ‘educational farm holiday’ in the last show painted a picture of me as a weird child with ‘embryonic serial-killer’ written all over his grubby little face. However, I am a fully-grown man now and I still haven’t committed a single ‘moider’, let alone worn a suit made from my victims’ skin. So there! Also, the things I did were, in a way, scientific. I wanted to see how living chicks would react to seeing the little dried-out corpses of their unfortunate brethren and also I pondered who would win in a fight between a chicken and a pig, answer: pig.
Okay, I admit these weren’t the actions of someone who would flourish into a noble, Albert Einstein-type of scientist, more the feeble sort of hunch-backed assistant who is more than happy to do the sadistic bidding of evil doctors, hidden behind a clipboard, an ‘orders is orders’ shrug and the flicker of a grin. Oh, how things could have been different for me if that morbidly fascinated little twerp had continued his ‘experiments’.
But then I got to thinking, what had made me like this. Suddenly the memories came flooding out, most of them about death and more oddly, ALL involving birds. Here’s the top three (yes there are others!)…
1. The Monster in the Wall.
I was about 3 years old when I became convinced that there was a monster in my wall. The air-vent in the chimney breast would flick open and claws would emerge and a hellish, strangled sound would invade the darkness of my Superman-wallpapered bedroom. I cried, I shook, I knew the world was a bad place. My Mum was sympathetic the first couple of times I screamed for her but this soon evaporated. After two or three nights of this living nightmare, the creature finally emerged when my mother was actually in the room, turning her anger to lovely, lovely guilt. A trapped crow was dying in the chimney and a little boy felt the warm swell of vindication; vindication and permanent mental scarring.
2. The Margarine Tub.
I was about 4 and my sister and I found a dead blackbird in the garden. It looked beautiful. Muted pearlescent colours haunted its jet black feathers like the rainbow sheen on oil. Its orange beak was like a traffic cone on a brand new, black road. We prodded it with a stick, operating its not-yet-stiff wings and then eventually went and got our Mum. The corpse was put in a margarine tub and chucked into the big dustbin without ceremony and we carried on with our little lives. A few days later we suddenly remembered the blackbird and excitedly decided to open the margarine tub and see our funny old friend, oh what joy! I don’t know what we were expecting, a skeleton? No change? An empty tub? Who knows? Certainly what we weren’t expecting was the sight of a soggy, stinking, black swamp, alive with maggots. The horror left us shaking and burbling, and the worst thing was- we couldn’t tell anyone because we’d been forbidden to touch the margarine tub after it had gone in the bin. We hung on to that shared trauma like a couple of titchy Vietnam Vets.
3. Monkey Business
This is perhaps the most disturbing of all these memories, prepare yourself. There was a pub a few miles from our house, in a village called Bean, in Kent. This pub was very ‘family-friendly’, it had a huge garden and wait for it… real live monkeys! Yep, in a huge cage in the garden, two cheeky little monkeys getting up to all sorts of capers for the amusement of children on sunny, English summer days of ‘coke and crisps’ in pub gardens whilst the grown-ups laugh too loud and don’t pay as much attention to you as normal. In fact on this occasion we children were plonked in front of the monkey cage and left to enjoy the antics of these chattering scamps like they were a living Punch and Judy show. So far so good; there was no danger- the cage had two layers of chicken-wire a Foot apart so no kid could get their curious digits into the cage, to collect God knows what exotic diseases these little clowns might be carrying.
What could go wrong? Well, I’ll tell you: a little sparrow got itself trapped somehow between the two layers of chicken-wire. It all happened so quickly, the bird was suddenly in there panicking. The monkeys went insane with excitement, I mean we were kids and we thought we knew how to get ourselves into a ‘hyper’ state, but this was something else. With their teeth bared, their eyes almost popping and their desperate hands grabbing for the bundle of squawking feathers currently crashing around like a pinball in a terrible game….To cut a long story short, they got that bird into their cage and they killed it, I’ll spare the details. Anyway, the weird thing is we all sat there and obediently watched this spectacle that would have made bloodthirsty Roman Emperors run out of their Amphitheatres and be sick into a bin. Well, when we eventually rejoined our Mums and Dads the report ‘the monkeys killed a bird’ just didn’t convey the horror of the bald and bloody sparrow’s demise.
It’s amazing that I didn’t develop a phobia of birds (or ‘Ornithophobia’ to give it its proper name, that I just googled) instead of a quizzical interest in chicken mortality . So there you have it, 3 reasons why I was a bit of a weird kid. Don’t have nightmares. (I’ve just realised that my sister shared two of the above horrors, I’d better give her a call. Don’t want her to repress all these memories only to have her, perhaps, freak out at an Owl Sanctuary one day and have to be Tazered. Nope, it’s best to remind her of all this stuff right away).
Bye.
Gosh!! all them stories are quite harrowing!
BirdVsMonkeygate particularly saddens me...
I was really hoping that there would be a happy ending and the little bird would flutter off, twittering in an optimistic fashion....*sigh*
You poor sausage!
I have a similar history with bees. I mentioned previously my peculiar conspiracy theory concerning bees and their 'suicide sting' missions to implant humans with microchips so that the government can keep tabs on us.
I also have a 'there's-something-in-the-walls' memory from childhood, in which I recall standing on my bed with my ear directed skyward listening to something scratching around in the ceiling. Of course, my parents disregarded my claims as paranoia, until men in white suits turned up at my house. No, not psychiatric hospital orderlies, but pest control men to remove the GIANT bees' nest in the loft above my room!
From experience, if a wasp ever gets caught in your long locks, you will incur its wrath and furious panic the same way a mother may smack her child's behind (or wag the finger of chastisement), in rhythm to the telling-off: "DON'T *smack* YOU *smack* DO *smack* THAT *smack* AGAIN! *smack*"
But with wasps: "GET *sting* ME *sting* THE HELL *sting* OUT OF *sting* HERE! *stingstingsting*"
the other day whilst enjoying my lunchtime snack of tikka chicken pieces al fresco in the local park, a few pigeons hopped along beside the bunch blatantly begging for food. Without even thinking I threw a chunk of the spiced Indian chicken to the floor, which both of the sky rats immediately pounced upon and ate.
Soon after the pigeons started pestering me for more! - Then it suddenly struck me - had I just forcefully committed these two birds to a life of catabolism?
When feeding them the meat I had completely forgotten that they also belonged to the bird family, not quite poultry, but still cruel! – then again, it did actually make me laugh a bit!
Being the unfortunate bird guy Matt, you share very similar horrors with birds as did my uncle. In a "The Walls are alive" episode, apparently when he was little he had wall paper covered in birds in his bedroom. Thus when my nan heard his cries that the birds were alive and out to get him, she put it down to excess sugar before he went to bed. However, like your mum she felt incredibly guilty when she realised the tortoise, Alfie who had been hibernating in a box under the bed had emerged from his winter slumber.
The second horrific tale that my mum told me about my uncle's childhood is the chick he had as a pet. He kept the little chick in a cardboard box, and one day whilst distracted, it jumped out of the box. Unfortunately his bid for freedom was short as the family boxer dog rushed upon the poor little thing and bit its head off leaving my uncle in tears.
Although i have not really had any problems with birds, i have a suspicious feelings that four legged farm yard animals are out to get me. This is because at the age of seven, a goat attempted to munch my blonde locks mistakening them for straw. At ten i was bitten by a gipsy's horse despite having feed him several carrots and i've got a lovely little scar on my arm. However, it is often refferred to with affection as the lucky horse bite because i won our caravans bingo 3 times that night!
good! nice to have terror in your little life.
You mentioning that blackbird in the margarine tub as just made me think of the many small pets I've buried over the years. Margarine tubs make such great coffins for little creatures don't they? Waterproof and non bio-degradable. God knows what horrors still lie within those tubs!
your blackbird in the wall story is my fav from the radio show, its awful in 1 way but utterly hillarious the other.
Hmmm, you sound like a man desperately trying to justify some adult sadistic tendencies!
I distinctly remember you telling that Monkey tale on a previous broadcast and not only being disturbed by the glee with which you recalled the ghastly incident, but the usually dear sweet Russell becoming highly excited, revealing his disappoint he hadn’t witnessed it personally……worrying.
So how have these childhood video nasties manifested themselves into your adult form? Are we the R2 listeners perhaps a gigantic cage of lab rats that you gaze upon and feed mind altering substances on a weekly basis, while you sit back watching to see if we all start eating each other?
One of my good friends has recently disappeared into thin air……do you think somebody ate her? Was it YOU?
“And when they met, it was moider”.
Is there a prize for the surviving rat? How about I have Russell on a silver platter?
x.
the monster story was harrowing - for some reason, the bird monkey story had me laughing uncontrollably. worried for my sanity now. although i've never shown some chickens their dead brethren.
Children do seem to have a morbid interest in animals.
When I was little, I blocked up the nose of our new kitten to see how long it couldn't breath for. I did let it go and I remember being overcome with terrible guilt afterwards. That incident haunts me to this day. The cat was called Cindy and she lived until she was 17 years old. She didn't like me much though.
Hmm. It's a sad fact of evolutionary biology that we girlies are attracted to men who are both kind and a bit cruel. It's obvious that the dear, sweet Russ has a dark side and that's what makes him so devastatingly attractive.
If it were only kindness, intelligence and good sense which led to success on radio 2 it would be the Trevor Lock Show. But it isn't.
I've just read an old fashioned poem about a highwayman which reminded me of Russell. The inn keeper's black eyed daughter kills herself to warn him that he'll be captured - you can bet she wouldn't have done that if he'd been a sensible carpenter or something. No, she'd rather die for a murderous thief she hardly knows who was probably very good looking in a Russell Brand sort of way.
Linda x
Hi Matt. When I was young my mum did a university project on the mating habits of slugs. Our back kitchen was stacked with ice cream boxes to the ceiling and they would eat each other and escape. Mum coerced me into the task of cleaning out the tubs and putting in new lettuce. I had nightmares for years about slugs and now can only eat ice cream from a stick.
Dear Russell, Matt and Trev,
An idea for the celebration of your pod-cast triumph. To avoid the wrath of angry Mr. Whippy's etc but still get the desired effect of Ice-creams for the people with a flamboyant twist, I thought a land travelling gondola in the style of Roger-James Bond-Moore cutting a dash through Trafalgar square distributing cornettos ( other ice's available) would be unique and definately turn heads.
I am looking forward to your Sheffield show on Monday, as i have my birthday on Sunday.
Juliet Lilly
South Yorkshire
P.S. Mr Gallagher was right last week you should be resident host of the Brits now.
OMG! How is that you have had so many traumatic experiences with birds? The margarine one is repugnant; I’m shocked at how vividly you described the dead body. These child hood memories sort of explain why you and Russ are/ were obsessed with dead animals. Anyway bwyee matt, luvoo. (wait you don't like Luvoo).
I've listened to the chicken v pig story countless times and it still makes me laugh out loud on the train - "the chicken would know never to do that... it would be very bad"
Monkey v bird, however, sounds utterly horrifying!
Then again your pub story just highlighted how woefully inadequate my mother's parenting skills could be when the pub would come calling. At least you had a cage of primates in a garden for entertainment. We weren't allowed anywhere near the disreputable establishment and were, instead, left in the car to ferciously squabble over two packs of prawn cocktail crisps and a can of coke (window rolled down a couple of centimetres like fekking dogs).
superman room? pah! not a patch on my matching paddington bear duvet and curtains
nikki
ps if hankering to re-create your childhood domain (as you would) pop into Libertys top floor - they have a pair of original superman curtains on sale IN THE VINTAGE HOMWARES SECTION!!! seriously, when did our childhood tat become sought after contemporary decor? £95 for the pair? my mum would run you up a set to fit a 1960s semidetached in a day ;)
Matt, I LOVE your blogs!
Just to back you up on the bird thing, I remember you talking on your podcast about how Saddam Hussein was probably actually a nice father christmas-esque man because he fed the birds while he was in jail. However, especially considering your harrowing childhood tails do you think this is actually a sign of evil? To back this up, consider the famous "birdman" of Alcatraz, who was said to TALK to birds! ...not sure how that nice lady in Mary Poppins fits into all this, but i'm sure she's from a crime unit of some sort. Anyway, if it makes you feel better when my brother went clay pigeon shootinglast week, someone accidentally shot a real pigeon. They slit it open, took it home, and eat it.
X X X
Matt, I always read your blog but, until the blackbird story, never felt the need to respond. You've made me re-live a secret childhood memory of my own, and now I feel the need to share it.
It's very similar to yours, in that I found a dead blackbird, but my dad actually buried mine in the garden (without the margarine tub coffin). I, also, was forbidden to touch the grave, although I remember picking little flowers and laying them on the soil to mark the spot. I, too, was curious about what would actually happen to Mr Blackbird now he was buried in the ground and, like you, was shocked (and scarred, I now realise) by what I found! I can't give you full details because it's making me feel sick thinking about it, suffice to say that I dug down (WITH BARE HANDS!!!) to discover the same horror that you described.
Oh god, I feel a lot, lot worse now I've articulated this memory.
Vx
I also experienced the pleasure of hearing a birds, long drawn out death in my bedroom, it had somehow wormed it's way underneath my floor boards from which it emitted violent squarks and scratchy sounds of protest. The initial relief of it going quiet and the fantacy I had created of the bird finding another street wise bird down there and finding an exit together in disney fashion when the smell of dead bird spread itself everywhere. What makes it worse is that I am now all to aware that I am sleeping centimeters above a bird corpse.
wierd.
Could anyone tell me if this recollection is correct: I remember a few years ago seeing a young comedian meeting a travelling circus on late night television- he played tarot cards with a deck of happy families. I think it was russel brand but i cant be sure. Apologies if im wrong.