Whose Line Is It Anyway & Comedy Store

I’ve been thoroughly enjoying the repeats of the early series of the original British television version of Whose Line Is It Anyway? being shown on Dave, formerly known as UKG2. (Renamed, I suppose, to be blokier as the channel has Top Gear on loop. Maybe all channels could change to names of men you’d come across in a pub, and we’d be saying, ‘Did you see that Attenborough special last night on Terry?’ and ‘I was watching Corrie on Kev but turned over to Tony’ and ‘Rory Bremner left Barry and is on Pete now.’)

It’s been a joy to rediscover the refreshing humour of WLIIA?, particularly after stumbling across the later American version hosted by Drew Carey, which left me feeling depressed to the extent that I refuse to give it another try. Compared to the quick takes of the British version, the improvised skits seemed to drag on endlessly even when failing, which was unexpected in the presence of Ryan Styles and Greg Proops, fairly regular treasures on the British version. The British show, which started on radio in 1988 (both hosted by the wonderfully spontaneous Clive Anderson), sees four comedians assigned situations to improvise with the aim of being funny. These are really acting exercises that students do in beginning drama classes, but with the challenge of rapidly being amusing. The games include reading a passage from an imaginary book in the style of a chosen author (eg Barbara Cartland, Agatha Christie, Dr Seuss, Hello magazine), having a party host guess what the guests are meant to be (eg a Chippendale, a showjumper, someone who thinks he’s a moth), thinking up punchlines using props, providing silly dialogue for old film footage, and playing a scene where they build up to revealing a line that is unknown to them until they unfold a paper and read it out (eg “Always remember our company's motto: ‘Dead ducks don’t fly backwards’”).

Josie Lawrence was talented at singing and thinking up lyrics quickly but was rarely funny. The song sequences were a weakness but provided the presence of Richard Vranch on piano, usually playing the same ‘hoedown’ tune as the contestants each came up with a verse. The ‘winners’ would read the credits in a style of Anderson’s choosing; for instance, as in a football interview while the other two portrayed irritating passers-by who keep getting into shot.

The multi-talented John Sessions originally shared top billing with Anderson, and Paul Merton and Tony Slattery were also early regulars. I preferred the earlier line-ups though I despaired of Slattery, who invariably resorted to being crude owing to a desperate inability to come up with something funny. Later, North Americans Ryan Stiles, Greg Proops and Colin Mochrie gave the show polish with their enormously impressive abilities, the former a particularly skilled improviser. They never missed a possible joke and Ryan's hilarious facial expressions and sense of daring always won over the crowd, such as when he played the chef with arms provided by someone crouched behind him and he was forced to scoff a whole brie. Most memorable was his portrayal in the Party Tricks game of an antelope frightened that he heard a lion approaching, and I enjoyed his quick wit when being interviewed in a mock news report about how unusual it was when a girl kissed a frog that turned into a man. He quipped, "It is unusual; normally when you kiss a frog, it turns into a prince. This girl kissed a frog and it turned into the Artist Formerly Known as Prince.”

I love seeing the players from the improv nights at the Comedy Store (CS) in Piccadilly where they present the same format live, such as Jim Sweeney (curly haired in the programme but clean headed live), Steve Steen, and Steve Frost. The aforementioned Richard Vranch, a mere accompanist on the television version, comes to life at the CS as a full participant and practically MC, showing not just his musical talent but that he is an adept comedian himself. Along with his comic/acting/writing/voiceover ventures, he presented a Channel 4 science series called Beat that Einstein. Richard, you see, has a PhD in radiation physics from Cambridge University and was briefly a Research Fellow at St John's College, Oxford.

I have an embarrassing confession about Richard Vranch. I am drawn to intelligence--and to pianists. Somehow he seemed a nice guy through his wordless appearance on the show, and the blend of humour, confidence and charisma that he oozed on stage at the CS led to me fancying him sufficiently that, when a group of us were sharing a drink with Fred MacAulay after he MC'd a show (he’d been to school with a friend), my friends quizzed him about Vranch’s single/taken status. When I learned more, I realised he wasn’t the man for me, so he was safe. Still, my friends embarrassed me by dragging him out with clever Niall Ashdown for a photo on my 31st birthday. I’ve blurred the faces of myself and friend as I’m keen on anonymity, though that made it look creepy. (Niall A's on the left, Richard Vranch is on the right.)

I also confess to having moments of fancying other CS Players, perhaps because I’d just got divorced when I started dragging friends there for inexpensive cheering up. I liked Neil Mullarkey for a moment (Cambridge Footlights alum Neil fares better on stage, particularly at Edinburgh, and had early double acts with Nick Hancock and then Mike Myers, which led to bit parts in Austin Powers films, and guested regularly on Paul Merton's surreal sketch series); Lee Simpson, who co-starred with Julian Clary in an odd sitcom and whose Improbable Theatre produced the mindstompingly impressive Shockheaded Peter on stage with puppets and slightly bizarre group the Tiger Lilies; and Tony Hawks, who caught my attention after he gave me a massive, prolonged smile one evening (I was easily impressed then).

Hawks’ amusing first book, Round Ireland with a Fridge, an account of his adventure lugging a refrigerator around Ireland whilst hitchhiking to win a bar bet, was an entertaining vaguely Bill Bryson-style read but completely put me off the man himself as he spent all his time pursuing women and alcohol and not only slept with a strange woman in a doghouse one night, but then told the world about it. He’s had the odd quiet telly series such as One Hit Wonderland, based on another bet that led him to have a hit song in Albania with Norman Wisdom and Tim Rice, and he reached the Top 5 in the UK charts in 1988 as leader of Morris Minor and the Majors with their Beastie Boys parody, Stutter Rap (No Sleep ‘Til Bedtime). He’s now the annoying unshaven chap in the telly adverts whinging about ‘Wollop!’ being hit by high car insurance premiums and getting a thousand unwanted free tax discs holders. He is often mistakenly sent e-mails destined for American skateboarder Tony Hawk and posts on his website his rascally responses to them.

One great thing about the CS was you could have a drink or quiet word with the Players as they’re forced to order drinks at the same bar as you, climb through the crowd to reach their dressing room, and even share the loos. So if you are a truly committed stalker, rather than an overly shy person with unconvinced designs on the occasional comedian as I was, you could probably make progress by introducing yourself. I highly recommend seeing the Comedy Store Players on Wednesdays or Sundays. Vranch, Sweeney, Mullarkey are inevitably there, with Lawrence and sometimes Paul Merton still attending on Sundays. It’s now a pricier £15, but worth it and now fortunately smokeless, given that it's a small basement area. Book ahead to avoid queues, arrive early for a good seat (you’re not game for attack as in stand-up and a cute comedian might smile and lead you astray) and take your thinking cap; I was always amazed by the brilliant creativity of some of the audience members who shouted out hysterical suggestions for the comedians to implement. If you can't get there, enjoy Series 1 and 2 of the British WLIIA?, which will be released on DVD in February 2008.

Letterman Returns to the UK

Despite the myriad complaints I have about ntl/VirginMedia, and how I wish that rather than spend a fortune on Uma Thurman’s attempts to lure innocent young men blindly to their Dark Side, they’d put that money into providing even a modicum of customer service, I can applaud them for one thing: recently giving us DivaTV. It almost makes up for the channels that we’ve lost. DivaTV (Ch 192) appeared on my wishlist not because I have some talk show fixation; I assure you I gladly bypass all of them, despite having occasionally glanced at Oprah in the past. (Her programmes are loathsome when they fawn over some Hollywood star, but are great when they teach you something, like how to survive a plane crash or an encounter with a grizzly bear—the latter being either to play dead or to climb a tree; I can never remember which is grizzly bear and which is black bear, and hope I figure it out before the worst happens…..).

Nay, the diamond in Diva’s crown is the Late Show with David Letterman, which has been absent from these shores for far too long. I can barely control my elation at being exposed again to the hilarious Top Ten Lists and Stupid Pet Tricks, never mind so many wonderful musical guests and the great Paul Schaffer. These programmes are about a month old when shown on Diva, which is disappointing, particularly as I used to gain my knowledge of American current events from Letterman's monologues, but I am too thrilled by the return of this fine man and his cohorts to mind too much. Diva shows the Late Show at the early time of 9pm, but then I tend to fall asleep earlier after a hard day at work so I can deal with that.

We’re terrifically lucky to have the opportunity to see him again in the UK (weeknights at 9pm), and I continue to be thankful that Letterman has survived some serious health scares (an emergency quintuple bypass in 2000—when the likes of Bill Cosby guest-hosted--and a dreadful case of Shingles in 2003, when even Elvis Costello guest hosted, but stiffly). My fondness for Letterman runs deep; I’ve practically grown up with him, and I remember trying to convince my freshman year college roommate of his merits back when he was known for more acerbic, confrontational and sarcastic interviews. I even mentioned him in my father’s eulogy as they always reminded me of each other. I thank goodness I can see one of them every night again; I wish I could say more.

[Sadly, Diva dropped David Letterman not long afterwards, so I'm in the devastated position of being Letterman-less again. And there's no point in watching DivaTV.]

Interesting Facts About Barry Manilow

I accidentally recently half-watched the programme on Barry Manilow (Barry Alan Pincus) on the Biography Channel, and was interested to learn how he got started. I suppose I had heard that he originally wrote advertising jingles, and the programme said that, in order to keep the audience’s attention in his early shows as an unknown, he would perform a medley of the famous jingles he’d written and sung, so the concert took a surreal advertising break as he and his backing singers sang seriously about KFC, Dr Pepper, Pepsi and McDonald’s—the latter’s famous ‘You Deserve a Break Today’ campaign.

Another thing that caught my attention was that his first producer was Tony Orlando, as in Tony Orlando and Dawn, who sang Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Old Oak Tree—so famously used as an unofficial anthem during the Iran hostage crisis—and Knock Three Times, and hosted a variety show in the States in the 70s, as did most performers it seems (The Smothers Brothers, Captain and Tennille, The Carpenters, Sonny and Cher, Donny and Marie, etc). Hearing the result of Orlando’s tinkering with such later-famous ballads as Could it Be Magic? and Mandy suggest that it was not the happiest arrangement, as Orlando turned most things into something that sounded like Tie a Yellow Ribbon, a quick catchy pop song of the day. Fortunately, Manilow wrestled them back and eventually made hits of them his way, before the likes of Take That eventually covered Could it Be Magic? in a way that would make Orlando proud.

But most amazing, I thought, was seeing old clips of Barry Manilow working as Bette Midler’s pianist, with Grammy award winner Melissa Manchester (another former jingle singer) on backing vocals, in toned down shows on a teeny stage at a gay baths (NYC Continental Baths), where Manchester said the vending machine only sold KY Jelly and much of the audience watched bare-chested and clad only in towels, which they would throw at the stage if they disliked what they saw. But methinks that seeing Bette Midler, Barry Manilow and Melissa Manchester perform together on stage in the 70s must have been an impressive act worth keeping one’s towel on for.

Though my musical tastes are generally slightly more cutting edge, as partly demonstrated by my music-related website http://www.aboutlastnight.org.uk/ , I would certainly go see Manilow if I found myself in Vegas with the fortune to spare that it would probably cost me. He’s surely an impressive showman, I remember loving a lot of his songs I heard on the radio when I was a girl—particularly Mandy, the name of my cat, short for Kathmandu as she was a Himalayan cat. Think of all the songs you could sing along with if you were that way inclined, sung by that bold, unique voice on stage: One Voice, I Write the Songs (written by the Beach Boys’ Bruce Johnston), Can’t Smile Without You, It’s a Miracle, Looks Like We Made It, I Don’t Want to Walk Without You and the one most people like more than I do: Copacabana. You couldn’t pay me to see the likes of Tom Jones or others who might be filed under ‘naff’, but I imagine Manilow would be worth the mortgage-priced ticket cost. Hey, Sinatra and Dylan have been fans, so don’t knock him.

One thing the show didn’t mention was that in June 2006, some Australian officials blasted Manilow’s music between 9pm until midnight every Friday, Saturday and Sunday to deter gangs of youths from congregating in a residential area late at night (there was no mention of what the residents thought of having Manilow music blasted around their homes all night, but I assume it was preferred). As nothing seems to work here in Britain, I wonder if they should consider that? Though I’m sure they could come up with artists who would be more of a deterrent…..any suggestions?

Doctor in the House Revisited

I’ve been watching old episodes (the only type) of the LWT comedy series Doctor in the House. I have a soft spot for this series as it was one of the few English programmes I could see when I was growing up in the States, shown usually near midnight on the little watched public broadcast channel, PBS. That was in the early 80s and even then, this 70s programme looked severely dated, perhaps because of the huge gap in fashions, haircuts and film between the two decades, particularly as the sitcom was staged at the beginning of the 70s with many lingering 60s fashions, including distinctly dodgy sideburns.

I made a great choice when using a recent perfect gift of an Amazon gift certificate to get the DVD of the second series as it’s a nostalgic joy. Mind you, my expectations were low; I hadn’t remembered it as being so funny. But then, I was surprised to find that this series was written by Graeme Garden and Bill Oddie, later of the Goodies and even later of great Radio 4 panel programmes and Spring/Autumnwatch, respectively. Some episodes in the first series, which I can’t wait to delve into, were written by later Pythons John Cleese and Graham Chapman. Although I had always enjoyed the programme, I hadn’t expected anyone with such impressive comic pedigrees to have been involved. ….I also found that the nearly omnipresent David Jason is even in this, playing an old Yugoslavian patient.

As a young American, I did wonder how these doctors got so many girls, as I also wondered about womanising Jacko of Brush Strokes, but then our cultures had different tastes. Robin Nedwell, who played Duncan Waring, was fairly cute if you could cut his hair, shave the sideburns and get him better clothes (specifically looser trousers), but I never fancied the lead character, Michael Upton (played by Barry Evans), though I naturally admired his honest character.

A particularly sad fact is that, despite his success in this programme and its spin-off, Doctor at Large, Barry Evans’ career never amounted to much more, and his life is a bit of a sad story so I would have wished better for him. He grew up in an orphanage but got his chance by winning a scholarship to the Central School of Speech and Drama. He ironically—given his final career--starred in the 1976 sex farce Adventures of a Taxi Driver, as well as the awful series Mind Your Language, where he played an Upton type of teacher of English as a foreign language to a room full of nearly racist stereotypes, and sadly seems to have done little else as an actor. He ended his life as a taxi driver in his birthplace, Melton Mowbray, where he died in 1997 at the age of 53 in mysterious circumstances. The coroner recorded an open verdict on his death apparently by alcohol poisoning; he had been found dead in his bungalow with bottles of whiskey and aspirins nearby. A youth was charged with his murder, but acquitted on lack of evidence.

Robin Nedwell, who played Upton’s (cute) best friend Duncan Waring, also died at an early age, just two years later. He fell from a ladder, visited hospital where he got stitches, then returned home. After feeling unwell for a couple of days after that, he saw his GP and whilst at the surgery, suffered a heart attack and died. He was only 52.

The sad tale of Barry Evans reminds me of Bob Crane, who once enjoyed enormous success as the loveable Hogan in the American comedy about inmates in a German World War II prisoner of war camp, Hogan's Heroes. He also later experienced a bit of a work drought, although when he was 49, he bought the rights to the play Beginner’s Luck, which he directed and starred in, touring small town America. In 1978, when the play reached Scottsdale, Arizona, he was found in his rented room beaten to death with a video camera tripod and strangled with the camera’s cord, apparently while he slept. Terribly sad. Crane’s widow, whom he had been divorcing at the time, was the actress Sigrid Valdis, who played Hilda in Hogan’s Heroes, and they had they married on the set eight years before.

But I have digressed into gloom when I began to talk about how much I enjoyed watching these old episodes of Doctor in the House. And its other alumni were busy successes. George Layton, who played Paul Collier, is still going strong and has enjoyed enormous success as a writer as well as actor. He was probably equally as well known for his role in It Ain’t Half Hot Mum, and was even a regular in the corny series Sunburn in 2000.

Jonathan Lynn, who played the extremely irritating Irish rugger player Danny Hooley in series 2, has also fared well as half of the writing team of the astounding Yes, Minister and Yes, Prime Minister and a director of acclaimed films My Cousin Vinny and less acclaimed but popular ones like Nuns on the Run.

On the set of the Doctor series at all times was the president of Equity, the actor’s union. Not because of any statutory requirement, but because it was Ernest Clark, who played the wonderful but feared Professor Loftus. Clark died in 1994 at the age of 82, and his widow Julia is the daughter of film star Margaret Lockwood.

Many of the Doctor alumni regrouped for a brief revival in 1991, Doctor at the Top, obviously without poor Bob Evans. Sadly, no matter how much we think we’d like them or how much the telly folk think they need to force them on us, revivals don’t generally work, do they--especially without the lead character (see Reggie Perrin) or when the novelty has passed (see Absolutely Fabulous).

Anyway, I highly recommend revisiting Doctor in the House, or generally enjoying the enormous pleasure of locking oneself away for a weekend and delving into a nostalgic box set of DVDs. It can sometimes feel like a quick ride in a time machine, taking you back to the emotional bookmark in your life when you first saw those programmes, and to memories of the person with whom you enjoyed them. When the old London Weekend Television logo appeared and the theme tune kicked in over a shot of the fictional St Swithin's Hospital (the old Wanstead Hospital in E11, now the residential Clock Court), my heart nearly fluttered. Reliving the first series of Watching had a similar remarkable effect on me not too long ago, but that’s another story. Turning back time in this way makes life seem so much simpler than it is, just for a while. It is pure, fine escapism that most of us could really use in these chaotic days of stress and deadlines. Just don’t be tempted to grow any dodgy sideburns in tribute.

Pet Pigeon

September has brought a sadness for the loss of more than just the summer; I feel as though I have lost a pet. I should think in more positive terms as though it was taken to live on a farm where there’s more room for it to run around—or fly around—and live happily ever after, or so I hope. What pet? A pigeon. Not one of those fancy ones, the poodles of the pigeon world, nor a homing one. No, just Joe Pigeon. Joe and his bride and his wean.

I live in a London borough where the avian wildlife mainly comprises pigeons, seagulls, Hitchcock-like numbers of starlings, and the odd crow or magpie. I adore animals but have sufficient knowledge of hygiene matters to grimace when tourists in Trafalgar Square encouraged these major disease-carrying flying health hazards to perch upon them en masse. But that doesn’t mean I’m not heartbroken when I see one limping around with a deformed foot, or annoyed when I see a child run at them as they desperately try to scrounge a meal.

Said heart was stirred and surprised when I glanced out of my window in early July at the large Weeping Birch that my neighbour wants me to remove, thinking that it would be the wrong time of year to do so as a bird’s nest had revealed itself when the tree was bare in the winter, and I’d seen several adorable blue tit fledglings on the branches some weeks before. When I tried to make out the nest’s outline through the many draping branches in full leaf that usually hid it, I was shocked to find a bird sitting on it then, just level with my first floor kitchen window. It was a pigeon. I thought pigeons’ nests were never seen, that the birds nested on ledges in high-rise buildings, yet here was one in a tree.

Thus began a relationship of sorts that lasted about two months. Every morning when I raised my blind, I would check on my pigeon. When I came home from work, I’d go to see that the pigeon was there, and it always was. Whenever I went to make a cup of tea or wash up: pigeon. I’d often feel forced to photograph this glimpse of nature, and would be unnerved when the pigeon would seem to turn to look at me, as surely it couldn’t see past the branches and shadows, through the glass and into my kitchen to see me. But then I remembered that pigeons have excellent eyesight; they can, after all, recognise landmarks when they are flying high above them, which helps their homing skills, although that’s apparently based on some sort of magnetic pull (though these days perhaps they have a i-phone with GPS). Pigeons can see colours and even ultraviolet light. Their hearing is also superb, which is why a flock sometimes seems to fly away for no reason; perhaps they’ve been disturbed by a foreign volcano (as opposed to one in Kent).

I found that I spent a great deal of time worrying about my pigeon—or pigeons, as there were two taking shifts. The dad clocked in for the work day, and the mum sat on the nest overnight (I read this; I couldn’t tell their gender). One of them sometimes looked speckled brown from the underneath rear view as though a giant wren had taken its place. I suppose it was just that I'm not used to seeing pigeons from below with their tail raised, nearing their soft white underside. These pigeons—wood pigeons--also had a lovely white ring around their necks, like a pearl necklace, which made me think of them as upper class, and more closely related to delicate doves, symbols of peace and love, than your average urban disease deliverer. But most biologists would tell you there’s not much difference between pigeons and doves anyway, and pigeons are actually rock doves.

Pigeons are also monogamous, so this pair might have been together for years and might remain so for many years yet; they can live for around 16 years. I learned many such pigeon facts as my curiosity was peaked by my feathery new neighbours, and I have a new respect for them.

I came to look forward to checking on my pigeons—I'd see them one at a time, of course—and worried about them. They must have thought their watch was wrong as it couldn’t possibly be August, with absolutely fierce winds blowing them all around, loads of driving rain, and they’d chosen the worst place for a nest. Any other tree surely would be more stable; a Weeping Birch is top heavy, flimsy, and waves about madly in the slightest wind. Indeed, another one in our close was felled by the merest breeze. This precarious situation made me fear for them, which made me feel even fonder of them. The nest was composed of a mere few twigs barely connected, it seemed, and surely the only thing that kept it in place, though it did seem to drop slightly over time, was a rogue vine that was torturing the tree.

One time, their white egg was clearly visible from the side, and I worried that it must be dangerously chilled as certainly neither the nest nor the tree offered it much protection. I cringed when rowdy groups of young delinquents drank and shouted in the car park a few feet away from the tree, and wished I could shield my pigeons, and always prayed that none of said delinquents would ever catch a glimpse of the nest, as no doubt they’d compete to knock it out of the tree with rocks. I would stand and watch the pigeon who was sitting guard on the nest during the worst windy storms, praying it would make it, and the next morning I’d return to the check the tree, fearful of the worst. To my relief, one of the pigeons would still remain dutifully in place.

This sense of duty later seemed to fade slightly. There would be times when I eagerly rushed to the window to greet the sight of my pigeon, only to find a vacant nest. I would be terribly worried for hours. What had happened? Had the egg been blown out of the nest, so the pigeons abandoned it? Just when I began to feel deflated that the joyful experience was over, the next visit to my kitchen would reveal one of my feathered friends sitting there. Perhaps they’d needed a break; it was a tougher than expected job after all, with this wintry weather in summer. When the absences become slightly more frequent, I worried that one of the pair might have been killed. One time when the nest was empty, I saw a lovely wood pigeon on top of a nearby garden shed, forlornly looking out as though it was searching and waiting for its partner. I noticed then that this pigeon was actually a lovely bird when you see its grey back feathers separated by the breeze, so much prettier than those glossy lacquered-looking solid typical City pigeons with the iridescent opal-like sheens. This bird had character, and right now, it was looking lost and lonely. Or perhaps I was going a bit mad; I’m no Dr Doolittle.

Fearful that one pigeon was forced to leave the nest to feed because its partner had been killed, I once put some breadcrumbs on top of my bin near the tree so it wouldn’t have to travel far for food. The bread remained untouched. I later learned that wood pigeons don’t eat any old junk like their concrete city cousins, they prefer plant shoots and sometimes insects. Or maybe they just didn’t like my cooking; no one does.

I also wondered whether the egg had yet hatched, as I could no longer see through the sides of the nest to be certain. I felt the presence of a new life (or squab) had been confirmed when I saw one pigeon sitting on the nest when another flew in and stood on the edge, leaned over the nest as though regurgitating into a squab’s hungry mouth, which was also happy confirmation that both the cock and hen were still alive (unless they rope in step-parents pretty quickly).

There still remained some worrying interludes when no adult was on the nest, but I didn’t know the phone number for Pigeon Social Services. My fears were realised when, one morning, I opened the kitchen blind to look out at my warm and fuzzy “Springwatch” scene---only to be greeted by an Edgar Allen Poe horror. I saw a flurry of giant black wings flapping madly over the nest! A crow was attacking my precious pigeon, my nearly constant companion day in and day out for well over a month. I couldn’t think what to do so I just opened the kitchen window as loudly as possible, and the crow leapt off its prey so abruptly that a few black feathers fell to the ground, and it perched on the tree trunk beside the nest and gazed at me to size up the threat. After a few moments’ thought, it flew to a nearby branch and watched me as it pondered its next move, then shortly afterwards, it flew away. (I have no photo of the dramatic crow attack as I was too busy trying to save the pigeons; I guess I’d fail the David Attenborough School of Naturist Filmmaking as I interfered rather than just observing.) I later wondered what I might have done if the window noise had been insufficient, and I realised I had some brazil nuts that I might have thrown, but if I’d injured even this devil, I’d be devastated that I’d hurt an animal, so it’s good it hadn’t come to that.

I actually felt shaken by the attack and realised that no adult pigeon had been on the nest; it had been a one way fight. But surely the crow had just killed the baby pigeon. This, I thought, is why the adults shouldn’t leave! Think how terrifying that attack must have been for the baby, and what an awful death. As I expected, I didn’t see another pigeon all day; I figured the baby had been killed so they’d abandoned the nest.

Much to my surprised delight that evening, I not only found an adult pigeon on the nest, but I saw it feeding the littlun’! I couldn’t believe it had survived the crow attack, and I was thrilled. It was a treat to see all three pigeons that night with both adults fussing over the peeper, one adult sitting on the nest, the other flying in with food.

That fortunately was the last terrifying episode that I witnessed, although I saw no reason why the crow wouldn’t try again as the parents still occasionally left the nest. Shortly after that, the combination of the wind having blown the branches around so much and the rain having brought tremendous shoots of new growth on the tree meant that the nest was no longer visible to me unless wind blew the branches out of the way. I could still tell when an adult was seated on it as I might catch a glimpse of its tailfeathers, but I didn’t see the youngster again…..until my birthday.

My birthday at the end of August provided me with a gratifying treat when I opened the kitchen blind and found that the baby pigeon had fledged. It was perched on a branch near its nest, absolutely adorable, a mini-pigeon puffed out, more like a new species of sweet little bird. That sight cheered me up no end, but that night was terrible, with driving rain and dreadful winds that really shook the tree side to side. I couldn’t imagine that this new little fluffball, using its new feet and clinging to a branch for the first time, could survive it. I kept checking on it until I got the sense I was making it nervous; I guess the dear ingrate didn’t appreciate that it was me who had saved it from a crow. Soon, it was too dark for me to make it out in the branches, so I closed my blind and prayed, but worried all night.

I was jubilant in the morning when the fluffball was not only still clinging on, but it had moved to a branch right outside the window. Worryingly, this was in plain sight and I feared it might invite a crow back, and I hoped the adult pigeons were keeping a close eye on it, and it seemed to do fine. After a couple days, I saw no more of the baby pigeon, and of course the adults were never on the nest again.

So I feel a bit lonely now. Several times a day for two months, I would regularly look out my kitchen window and see ‘my’ pigeon sitting there, and I saw these two adults raise a youngster that eventually flew the nest, without Bill Oddie or Simon King obstructing the view or narrating. I remained worried for a while about the welfare of the baby bird but have to have faith that it’s out there living a grand life. A few days after it fledged, I found myself leaning against a fountain in Trafalgar Square as I enjoyed a Chai Tea Latte before catching a matinee of Elling starring John Simm, and naturally I was surrounded by pigeons, but the common variety rather than the prettier special wood pigeons. Indeed, I find when I walk around the city that I care more about all pigeons, but see wood pigeons as vastly superior to the others, with more character and class.

So if you spot a slightly daintier, seemingly more naïve wood pigeon trying to tackle some food stuff that is beyond its capability, or see some kid cruelly and needlessly running at it, please protect it, because it might just be my little pigeon.