Ian Corby

…The long an’ the short of it is: Ian Corby at yer surrvice.”

“Uneasy lies the heed that wears the croon,” said Mr Ian Corby, “yes indeed. Ah do notice that, though but ah’ve no been lang in this toon.”

The roost whereunto Mr Ian Corby betook himself was an eclectic not to say catholic affair, being a place whither birds of very different feather were in the habit of keeping the most intimate company. It was not, as might have been expected, upon Windmill Hill, where Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet upon his first arrival in Bristol all those years previously had built his very first bower of bliss. In point…

Mr Ian Corby would fain have passed the night in Dogging Woods, his departure thence being precipitated by nothing more than a very nice reluctance to offend the dignity of that pair of new acquaintances. Alas! Upon his return to town, an incident befell him, which greatly offended his dignity.

“Ah hev to seh,” said Mr Ian Corby at last, “that ah hev bin scunnered the last few dees. Thee canna discuss aught wi’ yon cankert Russkie nor nae mare wi’ yon doctor fella as bought me frae Mayster Francis up yonder in Montypelly.”

“Aye,” said Mr Ian Corby with a note of regret in his cawing, “morayver, since mah sojourn wi’ these loony hipsters, who have taxed e’en mah famously sanguine an’ catholic neechurr, ah’ve no bin able to mek any heidway in relation to crystaw methodism.”

Mr Ian Corby rematerialised, not more than a quarter of an hour following, perched upon another chimney pot. It so happens that the reader has already entered into acquaintance with the edifice whereof the article in question formed the summit, this being none other than … er … Squattocrat Towers, the town residence of Lord and Lady Snatch and their disappointing tiger St Just. Mr Ian Corby to his modest…

As he had expected, that mustard-keen crow Mr Ian Corby was early at his desk. Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet, momentarily paused before rapping the door with his beak, and overheard that familiar brogue cawing something about ingredients and muttigeetin’ hazurrrds, then did knock and most judiciously exercised his Mayoral prerogative of not waiting to be invited in.

…successive Babylonian captivities in the lock-up of Mr Francis MacMahon and the inner sanctum of Dr Mark Wankstain, Mr Ian Corby did not perch on ceremony, and saw no need to exchange his roost in Dogging Woods for a more salubrious habitation. However, there was upon the evening of his release a lock-in at the Fruit & Nut Flake, and I rather think that Mr Ian Corby, after making his…

…For this, or perhaps rather these, reasons, he determined that he would follow the advice of Mr Ian Corby, and place his renewed acquaintance with Mrs Arabella Melopsittaca upon a respectable footing.

Arriving at the rookery in question, Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet was greatly discombobulated to come upon Mr Ian Corby in the company of none other than the fruit of his own loins viz. Miss Isolde Perroquet whom that crow was serenading with some song which he must have cadged off a nightingale.

Mr Ian Corby was just then passing a perfectly pleasant evening in the garden of the Fruit & Nut Flake in Richmond Road, where he devoured with relish the grilled chops which the chef for his delectation caused to be sent out to him from the kitchen of that place. True it was that Mr Francis MacMahon had dropped by in order to convert some of the red wine previously…