Packbawkies

This isn't my story I'm about to tell. It's Gail's, but I'm nicking it by way of preamble to my exposé on the evils of the common packbawky. I'd have used one of my own, but I haven't got any quite this perfect. This story, Gail's packbawky story--well, it's so good, it could be a packbawky exposé all on its lonesome. It's the perfect embodiment of packbawkiness. (Well, almost. An actual packbawky, that would be perfect. Not to have around, mind, but to embody itself. You know.)

Anyhow, Gail, she'd gone out for sandwiches with a friend. It was a nice day, warm and sunny, so they were lunching at one of those sidewalk tables you get. (The pavements are just enormous round these parts, so restaurants use them as terraces. I expect they get an awful lot of dine-and-dashers, what with the road so close by, but there you have it.) So, there they were, chirpy as you please, munching on avocado and Swiss cheese on rye*, when didn't some horrible filthy packbawky do a shite on their table! Flap, flap, PLOP!

Now, if it had been me, I'd probably have moved to a different table. Us rats, we object rather strenuously to birdshit round our sarnies. I'd rather walk and eat, even, than sit at a birdshat table. But Gail is more practical, so she just draped a hanky over the mess.

You can see where this is going, can't you?

Avocado's messy stuff, and what with butter, and melted cheese strings, and a thousand errant crumbs--well, you've more or less got to wipe your face after that kind of sandwich. It might even have been one of those two-tier sandwiches: bread, butter, cheese, avocado, bread, butter, bacon, cheese, bread, toothpick with coloured foil on it. I had one of those last week, and there was mayonnaise on my eyebrow when I was done. I didn't have a hanky, so I rubbed it of with the back of my hand. Gail, though...well--

You know, don't you? You're cringing already, aren't you? You're wishing I'd just get on with it, so this dreadful story would be over. All right. Here you are:

Gail, though, she did have a hanky, sitting right there on the table. So she picked it up, and...wipety-wipe, eh?

I wasn't there, of course, so I can only speculate, as regards her immediate reaction. She was still wiping her face when she got back, though. That much, I can attest to. And that was the story of Gail and the packbawky. (Sorry, Gail.)

Which brings me to the question of packbawkies. There's been a spot of confusion, lately, concerning the nature of the beast bird. A packbawky is not a wren, or a linnet, or any of the melodious songbirds of the British hedgerow. It is not a whippoorwill. It's neither heron nor cormorant. The eagle and the kite, those are birds, and right lovely ones, at that. The frogmouth, the canary, the macaw, and the conure are equally free from blame, as are the albatross, the condor, the swan, and the ostrich.

The packbawky is a peculiar bird, found primarily in urban areas. He is the rat of the sky: a garbage-eating, germ-spreading, shite-festooning bag of all that is vile and pathogenic. He is noisy and immoderate, and invariably untucks his head from his wing at first light, come rain or come shine. He is never alone. That's why he's called a packbawky, and not an alonebawky. He comes in great raucous cacklings, him and a hundred of his friends.

The packbawky appears in many guises. There's the blue packbawky, with his black-striped feathers and his notorious temper: you might know him as the jay. There's the black packbawky, as well, available in small, medium, and large: the crow, the rook, and the raven. And don't forget the Pied Packbawky, with his greedy thief's eyes--that's the magpie, if you hadn't guessed. In the heart of the city, there's the Strutting Packbawky, with his chest puffed to bursting-point--that's the pigeon--and the Smelly Packbawky, fresh from the ocean--that's the gull. The gannet, the grackle, the duck, and the goose--packbawkies, all. If it's greedy and noisy and pluriferous**, it's probably a packbawky.

Above all else--above any greed, any stench, any incontinence, a packbawky can be recognized by its cry. The praaaaak of a crow; the pruuuuu of a pigeon, the desolate pawk of a seagull, these are the packbawky anthem. One pawking gull, one cawing crow, that's not so bad. It's that they all band together, that's the problem. Crows on rubbish day, argy-bargying as they tear up your dust; gulls on the roof, fighting over fishbones; pigeons on the windowsill, rapt in pickety palaver--who can stand them? Horrid, horrid things!

I've a checklist, here. If you're ever in doubt--if you're confronted with an unfamiliar bird, and you can't decide whether he's a packbawky or no, ask yourself the following questions:

Is he in a city, or otherwise in a position where he's liable to rub shoulders with people?

Do you notice an unpleasant smell emanating from him, from his nest, or from any bodies of water he's touching/has recently touched?

Is there a lot of bird-lime around? How about on his feet? Is he a dirty birdie, a stranger to lakes, rivers, and bird-baths?

Is it earlier than six in the morning, or later than midnight, and this wee birdie cunt is still going strong?

Does he have an evil, hungry, or narcissistic gleam in his eye?

Has he got a small platoon of his friends along with him--OR--can you hear them, hiding somewhere nearby?

Has he a cry which, echoed by another four-score throats, and broadcast from the roof of a nearby skyscraper, would annoy the tits off you?

Is he eating rubbish?

Is he engaged in any form of mayhem or destruction?

If you answered "Yes" to two or more of these questions, you may be looking at a packbawky. You should probably throw a stone at him. (It's all right--you'll never hit him. These packbawkies, they come equipped with anti-missile capability. Even if you did get him, his armour would deflect your stone right back at you. He's invincible. Really. I've seen him (or his brother, at any rate) flying about with his leg off, pawking something about flesh wounds.)

That's about all, I think. Pack, 'cos they travel in packs, and bawky 'cos they bawk. Noisy, arrogant, filthy, et cetera. To be avoided, where possible. Packbawkies.

* Or something. I like avocado and Swiss on rye.

** That is, if there's lots of them. I couldn't remember the word I really wanted to use, right there, so I made one up.