The parrot in short order found himself most unceremoniously bundled from the building, much to the hilarity of the topers congregating still across the road on Turbo Island. Affecting to ignore the foul execrations flung at him by those gentlefolk, he levered himself upright and, by now without his scooter, which had presumably been appropriated by some wave-particle in the fusion of anarchy, on clawed foot took his disconsolate way down the shallow slope into the city centre. What ensued as the shadows lengthened is lost to this chronicle. —
Turbo Island
Suffice to say, at an unforgiving hour the following morning, he was to be observed in the purlieus of Easton - Robertson Road, to be precise, where it adjoined Foster Street - perched on a telegraph pole and eyeing the entrance to the premises on the corner across the road. The rain had not stinted since the prior forenoon, but had rather increased in both intensity and oleaginousness, now manifesting itself as an unremittingly nasty and viscous affair, and seeming by this means to answer to the despondency which the parrot published to the world, as he hunched up there in silhouette amongst the tree’s scanty twigs. The establishment opposite which he kept his vigil rejoiced in the name ‘Club Autonomie’, and announced itself - misleadingly, it has been said - as a community centre. —
Club Autonomie
“Splendid establishment you have here. You wouldn’t happen to have about the place a copy of the Anarchist Bible? I did hear that you might.” —
Anarchist Bible
“Well,” replied the nymph of the grove, “the Book of Hautonomous Hactions be nearly complete, hand honely zlightly zinjed, withal hoy doubt that hit be sweary henough to meet thy needs.” —
The Book of Autonomous Actions
“I, Hawksmoor Perroquet, on this April Fool’s Day do take an oath before Bakunin, Kropotkin and Proudhon, the presiding spirits of non-hierarchical social organisation, here in this profane temple, that I will refrain from all equine anaesthetics, talcums of Medellin, and amphetamine-based substances for a period of twenty-one years to come. And this I swear upon the Book of Autonomous Actions now lying open before me, and may I be robbed of my remarkable linguistic and cognitive abilities if I break this my oath.” —
The Book of Autonomous Actions, Hawksmoor Perroquet
The fruitlessness of this endeavour became swiftly apparent. The gentleman with whom he had misguidedly transacted had dropped certain hints as to his being occupied as some kind of animal behaviour scientist, perhaps even the ‘hornotholojit’ of the Infirmary nurse’s divination. Nevertheless, he had left no name or forwarding particulars, email address, mobile number, or other means by which he might be contacted. Furthermore, Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet was exceeding loth to make enquiries at the municipal zoo up on the edge of Durdham Downs, lest the panjandrums of that bestiary view him under the specie of an acquisition, and lay rough hands upon him, and by main force incorporate him into the aviary which they maintained in that place. Being nonetheless reluctant to derogate from his duty of reuniting himself with his forsaken consort, he made his way into the centre of the metropolis, and then up the hill at the top of which, like some Benthamite speculum surveying the life seething below it, brooded the University. Alas! withal it was an oracle of many mouths, very many of the mouths in question were stoppered by beadles officiating most punctiliously as the corks of those orifices, who drove Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet thence with bills and staves and execrations, considering it not mete nor condign that a bird should be afforded the considerations due to an erect hominid. Other portals, in principle more willing to be of assistance, were perforce gnomic and unavailing in their efforts, Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet contributing to this lamentable state of affairs in view of being unable to supply name, nor department, nor faculty pertaining to the personage who had made off with his spouse. —
Durdham Downs, The University
Eventually, all roads leading to culs de sac and stoppered mouths, Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet was forced to concede the futility of his quest. Reluctantly, he determined that he would secure himself a perch in a district of Bristol which he had for some time had his eye on, and there seek by honest swinking to ascend the greasy pole of human endeavour. Reaching this determination, he demurred not but straightaway took wing, and flew from the centre of the metropolis out over Spike Island, until he came to Windmill Hill, where he foraged and scratched around amongst the scanty twigs and grasses of that meadow, and gradually built himself a most comely bower. —
Windmill Hill
This site would like to use cookies to count visits and measure advertising. Nothing is set unless you accept.
