Skip to main content

Christmas has become the rape of an idea


A pair of Streptopelia chinensis larking about at St Johns Park, New Town. December 2010.

Streptopelia chinensis – the Spotted Turtle Dove to its friends – is a pigeon which is a resident breeding bird in tropical southern Asia from Pakistan, India and Sri Lanka east to south China and Southeast Asia. Obviously, you can add New Town to that list!

In fact, my spies (as well as my moles, emissaries, stoolies and informants) tell me that these buggers are spreading at a rate of knots, often to the detriment of our very own native doves. Like the European Wasps and Argentinean Ants, immigrant animals are overrunning us!

Something must be done. We don’t need words, we need ACTION.

Now, I’ve looked into the matter and realise that our detention centres are all full. Offshore confinement won’t work, as the bustards bastards can fly.

Well, I decided to take matters into my own hands and wring these two buggers’ necks. They put up a hell of a fight!

That is our Christmas dinner sorted, at the very least!

Comments

The best remedy is to introduce a larger animal that eats this. If this works, would introduce a new animal to eliminate the latter. If this works, should continue introducing animals, until finally, the introduction of an animal that ends the first to introduce this bird: The Man.
Roddy said…
You should try Fantail. A white dove/pigeon that is much tenderer.
Still, if you're hungry you will eat almost anything.
Kris McCracken said…
MDP, we have tried that in the past...

Roddy, yum!

Popular posts from this blog

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...