This story is from a land far, far away. A land called Airland. A place ruled by birds, where the wing is king.
By and large, a happy place. Except for one thing. Hundreds and hundreds of Airland's birds died each year from crashing into each other. Young ones; old ones; quick ones; slow ones - none was spared. There was one bird charged with stopping this carnage.
Peacock was his name. Minister Peacock to you and me. He was once notorious for starring in publicity shots surrounded by chicks and dolly-birds. But now, he was more prone to strutting around solo, primping and fluffing his feathers, parading his expensively-maintained plumage to all who'd watch. He was hugely disliked, but somehow managed to stay on his perch in spite of the bile directed his way on a daily basis.
Reviled though he was, he did one good thing. He brought in penalty clips. Transgress the laws, you get wing feathers taken out. Eventually, you'd lose so many you were grounded for a year until they grow back enough for you to be able to fly again. Simple.
It worked for a while. But then it stopped working. Birds started dying again. Peacock was in trouble. The people advising him were either thick enough to stay or smart enough to quit. He was getting grief from all sides. ("He's for the humans, that fella," they'd mutter in the roost.)
And then, out of the blue, he announced his plan to resurrect a wise old bird like a Phoenix from the flames to lead his new air safety campaign. He dragged the Great White Owl out of the obscurity of his nest on the Hill of Howth, whence he ventured infrequently to open new seed shops and birdbaths when he was short of a few bob.
The carrier pigeons were summoned to a press launch where the Owl was presented as the saviour. The Owl insisted he was his own bird. He'd do the job, and by the hokey, he wouldn't let perch-sitting grain-pushers get in his way. "I don't know how much longer I have in this life," he said. "And I don't want to spend it twirling my thumbs and talking to Peacock and getting nothing done."
Thumbs? The passenger pigeons looked at each other. What are these thumbs he speaks of?
The Owl, sensing dissent, whipped his head around 180 degrees, fixing his beady yellow eyes on the snivelling wretches. Their twittering stopped. Except for one unfortunate chap, a humanbrain straight out of carrier college, who started sniggering uncontrollably.
"Who? Who?" the Owl demanded before spotting his prey. He sprang into the air, soared majestically over to the twit and ripped his head clean off. He then retired to a corner to feast.
Peacock started feeling a bit nervous. Had he, unlike the Owl, bitten off more than he could chew? He began to reconsider his cunning plan to keep the Owl in the dark. It might make him angry. Anyway, owls have night vision, don't they?
The carrier pigeons were told to go forth and spread the good news. The grovelling lickspittles among them - the ones afraid to ruffle feathers, happy instead to swallow the gloop regurgitated to them from the gullets of Peacock's "people" - duly did.
Others, embittered, sceptical types, many of them vultures in pigeon's clothing, were less quick to crow. Was this a master stroke or just a plain old stroke?
Peacock, tired of the cynicism, made a bold decision. He assembled a flock of experts to rule on whether his plan was genius or gunk. He promised to abide by their ruling, flying the coop forever if they decreed he was a shyster after all.
Sadly, after a few hours of deliberation, the heady lunch of rotting birdseed and fermented fruit got the better of the panel and they landed en masse on a live powerline. They were fried instantly; their incinerated corpses left dangling by their claws.
Well, asked the vultures arriving on the scene, was there a ruling before the barbeque?
No, said Peacock, delighted at his luck. It's a hung jury. . .
