They tweet him here, they twit him there

They tweet him here, they twit him there

His quills are proud, and always fair.

I will make or break them though they’ve got to try their best,
Cause both are dedicated to follow my passion.

Hello Blog,

       I’m Colin’s grand kids’ budgerigar. Nice to be in contact with you. I have heard Colin’s wife drone on about you, how Colin thinks more about you than he does about her. I think she is jealous of you Blog. The grand parents are supposed to be looking after me for the week while their daughter has the decorators in. I think they think that the smell of the paint will get on my chest and take the shine off my feathers. That silly old bugger is out trudging again so I have to look a bit smart with my communication!!! You know he is Bonkers? Should have more sense at his age. One of these days the wet nelly is going to really fall over and damage himself big time!! Did you know that he just trudges? The only bit of speed work he gets these days is when he lets me out of my cage and has to chase me around the living room to make me sit on his finger. I wouldn’t mind if he had a proper wash now and again, used a bit of soap or something, then I would perch on his finger quite happily. I keep tweeting to him about personal hygiene but he seems not to understand me. Then when I do perch there, he talks to me in that stupid voice as if I am some dumb animal like that over fed cat he’s got! Why can’t he speak in the King’s English? I am a budgerigar, not a pidgin! He wants to be my friend, he says. What is all the ‘want to be my friend’ business, Blog?

  I have to keep my eye on that cat thing of his. It may be fat and bloated but given half a chance, that feline throwback, would have me for a snack. And another thing, this is supposed to be a week’s holiday for me away from Colin’s grand kids, but what with that silly old sod chasing me round the room and his missus screaming at me when I crap on her precious carpet while trying to escape capture, I’ve just about had enough. I crap because flying round and round in circles in their room with that git chasing me, makes me feel dizzy, and when I get dizzy, I get queasy and when I get queasy it upsets my stomach. So what am I supposed to do when I get the runs? Hold it in with one wing mid flight??? It’s not as if I do a lot. If the old lady let it dry on the carpet, she could just vacuum it up at the same time she vacuums that old burk’s toe nails. Those clippings can be lethal as they shoot across the carpet when he’s clipping away; like exorcet missiles, they are. But she doesn’t say much to him, does she? In fact she doesn’t say anything to him. I have been here five days now and they don’t talk. It’s like living in a bleeding morgue. I tell you. If I didn’t have my mirror and my swing, I would go round the bend. At the moment, my only pleasure in life is to drive them crackers as they try to get me back into my cage after they have cleaned my floor from all the droppings and spilled seed. I love to sit there on top of the curtains and watch as that silly bugger holds my cage up with the door open for me to hop back in. He really struggles with the weight of it, holding it out at arm’s length. I let him struggle for a bit, and when he has got a bit of a sweat on, I’ll jump onto the top of the swinging door. He really thinks I am stupid enough to go back in straight away! Just as he starts to close the door, off I fly to the other side of the room!! I piss myself twittering! And we start the chase all over again.

   I do wish someone would move that iodine block that they have fastened to the side of the cage. I don’t want to get radiation sickness from one of the isotopes, 129 I think is the dodgy one of the 37? I might be wrong?

  They are a bit stingy with the odd bit of fruit, usually the conk of the apple when she has finished gnawing it. I find the pips tend to get stuck in my beak. I pretend that I am choking. You should see them dash over to the cage to see if I am OK. Dead scared I will cock my clogs while they are looking after me … and how would they explain that to their grandkids?? I play it for all its worth.  When I “recover”, it is pathetic to see how relieved they are. Silly creatures. And do you know, while I am combing my feather to look smart, the poor creatures actually believe that I am talking to another budgie in the mirror. Don’t they know that a mirror merely reflects things back? They are stupid. What do they teach them at school nowadays? How on earth they cope with the demands of modern life is beyond me!

  And what is all this cuttle fish nonsense? Why they have left it on my floor, know not I Blog. I am going to trip over the bloody thing if I am not careful. They have just plonked it in the middle of my floor! If there is anything I detest more than that smelly old bloke, it is the smell of fish. Come to think of it Blog, there is not much difference! AND I am a bit brassed off with all the rest of the clutter they are sticking in my cage. This morning they hung a lump of seed in the shape of a bell to my roof! I ask you Blog? What is all that about? All the seed was stuck fast together. Can you imagine how those two old farts would react if I took their potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, carrots, peas and gravy and stuck it all together with araldite and told them to get on with their dinner? They’d soon be spitting false teeth out. Well the glued seed hasn’t done much for my beak, I can tell you!

  When they switch the tele on in the evening, I let them get settled well into the programme, wait until things on the box start to get interesting and I start to sing. Tweet at the top of my voice. Twitter away full blast. Give it full throttle. Boy, does that annoy them. And they won’t move me into another room in case I pick up a chill from the cold air. They are so tight that they only have a fire on in one room; the rest of the house is like a fridge. Tight they are. I know that because I once managed to escape upstairs when the silly old bugger left the room door open when he wanted to go to the toilet while I was out of the cage. I was out for two hours free flying. Great it was; up and down the stairs, in and out of the various rooms with both of the old codgers in pursuit! I only stopped because I was hungry and knackered from the exercise. Yesterday they left the back door open while I was out of the cage flying around. They were so pleased they caught me before I flew off into the garden. Pathetic to see them really. Chuffed to bits they were, at not letting me out by accident. They must be crackers. It is effing cold in the house but it’s a dam sight colder out there in the garden in the chill November air. No way would I leave what warmth there is in their room to fly frozen to the quill. Have they no common sense? I suppose that fat cat of theirs might be just stupid enough to venture out, but I have far more sense, thank you. I’ll tell you what Blog, I will be glad to get back home. They are so boring.  But I have to confess that, while I stayed with them, I thought the grand parents might have done something about this great ring I have got shackled around my ankle. I have not been arrested so why should I be tagged like a common criminal? And why should I be confined to my cage with that silly cloth thrown over at 8:30 each night.  Why the curfew? I believed they were into civil liberties and all that stuff. And also yesterday, he banged on and on about the floods outside. For Duck’s sake, it’s a bit of water. Why the fuss?

  O oh, Got to stop now Blog and do a bit of tweeting as the silly old bloke has just got back from his trudge. Just look at him, anybody would think he was a half decent runner to see the way he carries on. I ask you?

                                           Billy