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Listen: I just got back to Africa for the second time and I'm gonna tell you about a couple of days I spent in England before I got sick and all and had to fly back out here. I'm not going to give you my goddam autobiography or any of that personal stuff. Life's too short and all. Anyway I can't be bothered. I'm not even bothered if you're not bothered.

Did I tell you I was a Swallow? It doesn't really matter what I am. Nobody cares anyway except birdwatchers and nobody listens to them. I am not surprised. All they do is follow you around with long lenses like perverts.

I was hatched on a farm in Devon, England. We only stayed there for a few goddam weeks. It seemed okay out there I suppose. Then, for some reason, just after I had learnt to fly, my parents told me that we had to migrate about three million miles to Africa. My parents never told me why. Parents always tell you what to do but they never say why. But then they always say things like, “Why did you do that?” Parents are the worst hypocrites in the universe, they really are.

I asked my parents if it was any good in Africa. They said it was okay. So, we had to fly halfway round the world and all when I was still a kid just to go somewhere that was okay. They said we had to because it was the fall and that the flies in England slept during the winter. What I wanted to know is how all them other birds that stayed put managed to survive? They said those birds didn't eat flies. Now I was quite happy to eat something else. I hated flies anyway. Why did I have to like them just because I was a swallow? Flies were so small and so goddam fast. Other birds ate food put out by humans on tables and all. They seemed to do okay. My Dad said, “You'll eat what we eat and damn well like it”. Parents! Who'd have them? If they wanted me to live in Africa why didn't they wait a couple of months before laying? They were forever telling me to sort my life out and all when they couldn't even get their family planning organised.

What really got to me about migrating was the loss of my brother. My parents had four chicks that I knew of. I heard they had six eggs but what the heck, they were always losing things. They were completely useless. We flew off a cliff ledge at Start Point. My brother, who was called Einstein, flew like a lead balloon and ended up in the sea. It was a pity. He was a genius.

Apart from those first few weeks spent in England I have always lived in Africa. When we got to Africa that first time I thought that was the end of long haul flights and all. It turned out that Africa was pretty cool. I hardly ever rained and there were certainly fewer cars and aeroplanes. There were no telegraph wires and all so we perched on tall grasses and large animals. Everything went fine until I started to flunk out at school. I failed Migrating and Navigating, Fly Identification, Nest Building and Singing. The only thing I passed was Swahili. I was pretty good at Swahili. At school they also taught us about the Humans and the Bees. It was then that I got interested in chicks and all. The only drawback, as far as I could see was that there were no chicks and all in the Sahel. I asked my parents about the lack of chicks in Africa. They said “We don't have chicks in Africa. We only have sex in England.” My parents were so straight laced normally. To hear them talking about sex made me want to puke. Parents who talk about sex kill me, they really do.

The only thing I really hated about Africa was the Parrots. There were no Parrots and all in England, at least not outdoors. The English had got it right. They put them all in jail. That was a complete Godsend. I hated Parrots. They were so phoney. Birds that try to talk like Humans kill me, they really do. But Humans were just the same; they hated other Humans who whistled like birds all the goddam time. That was about the only thing I liked about the English; the fact that they were cruel to Parrots.

The swallows were more relaxed in Africa and all than in England. The weather was great and the flies and all were much bigger. You didn't have to fly so much to get full. There was time to hang out. But my parents kept going on and on talking about England every three seconds. It was England this, England that; every sentence seemed to start with “When we get back to England.” It made me sick. I asked them why they liked goddam England so much. They said I should be more patriotic, that I should yearn for my birthplace. All I remembered was the all those goddam aeroplanes, pylons, motorways and wind farms. It was no place for a bird. It was then that my parents announced that we were all to fly back to England and all. I asked them why. My dad told me, “We got to breed.” So, they wanted me to fly halfway round the world again just so they could do it. I told them, “No way.” My parents were so goddam selfish. Surely they could do it without me. What did they want me to do, watch? My Mom told me, “You've got to come. We are the envy of the Swallow world. We come from a barn on a stately home. It is not just a farm. Anyway, you can breed too.” They told me I was born in Dartmoor National Park as if I would care. All I remembered from England were those goddam House Martins stealing our food. I looked at my parents and felt like committing suicide. Patriotic people kill me, they really do.

I wouldn't have minded doing it and all but it was the travel and I couldn't be bothered with all that responsibility. I heard that you had to build a nest, sit on eggs and then catch flies and all to feed up to six mouths. It seemed like a lot of work for two seconds of fun. I didn't want to be a parent. I hated parents. I'd end up hating myself.

Anyway, before the migration I flew away from home. I looked around for chicks but my parents were right. I couldn't find any. In fact after a coupe of weeks I couldn't even find another Swallow. The mugs had all gone to England. I was ashamed to be a Swallow. They were nothing more than flying sheep. I tried not to look concerned. Birds who look concerned kill me, they really do.

It was then that Humans in safari jackets and all started to follow me around. They trained binoculars and telephoto lenses on me and wrote frantically in little notebooks. I got fed up with it and hooked up with an African Warbler I met on a water buffalo. We flew to Nairobi and toured the barns. Then I saw a bird magazine with my picture and all on the front. It said that I was the only Swallow in all of Africa. I was a goddam celebrity. We found a barn with a basement to avoid the Paparazzi. There were all these rows of dusty bottles and all lying on their sides. One of them was leaking a red liquid. We drank and we drank some more. We went back there night after night until it was all gone. This was the life I thought. I got pretty sick and all and ended up in a fight with a local town bird. After a couple of weeks we flew back to the Sahel in a haze and hid in the grass.

My parents eventually came back. Boy I was glad to see them. I had been hidden away for three months like Howard Hughes. They told me I had to migrate the next spring. Then, one day at college, I got talking to this friend of mine. Well, he wasn't really a friend. In fact I hated him really. It was just that I hated him slightly less than any other Swallow I knew. I really couldn't be doing with swallows by then. For a start they didn't drink or know anything about enjoying themselves. In fact, I couldn't understand Swallows at all. They seemed to have made life as difficult as they possibly could just so Humans could marvel at them. Anyway, my friend told me how he once went to England and stayed the winter. He had raised chicks and all in Cheshire. On migration he stopped off in London. It was buzzing so he stayed. He survived by hanging around hotels and feeding off the fly electocutors in the lobbies or he'd find a vacant room, leave all the windows open, and keep the lights on for the winter moths. I decided to go back to England and have a try. To be honest I couldn't be doing with flying low over lakes. Skimming the surface of ponds and all seemed like pure torture. Birds that skimmed ponds kill me, they really do.

Anyway I flew back to Devon. There were so many Swallows going to Devon that we had to taxi and all just to land on a farm for Christ's sake. How stupid is that. God knows what I would have done if I was hatched in Hounslow. The only reason Devon was sufferable was that it didn't have a cinema. I had heard about places like Leicester Square and all. How I would hate to have to catch flies and all there. All those cinemas would kill me. How I hated the movies. They were so phoney. Okay, the whole world was phoney but the movies took being phoney to new heights. But Leicester Square probably didn't have any flies. I had come to respect flies in a way. You could kill them by the million but the numbers stayed the same. Honestly, they were like the Chinese. It was a good job they could be bothered to breed. I certainly wouldn't bother if I was a fly. Hell, I couldn't even be bothered as a Swallow. But those flies, I kinda respected them. They would steer well clear of the movies. I knew they would. The movies killed me, they really did. They were so bad they even killed the flies.

Anyway, we landed in Devon. There was this lake nearby. It wasn't a real lake as in natural. Somebody had dug a hole in the ground for gravel and it had filled with water and all. The flies didn't care. They were only interested in water.

My parents sorted out a partner for me. She was pretty enough, had a good forked tail and all, but looked the same to me as all swallows. I had sort of become independent and all in Africa and had never been with a chick. We were supposed to accept the first one that flew along. I wanted to do it but I didn't. Why didn't Swallows play the field? I wanted to talk a while first. But there wasn't time. We had to commit and get the whole thing done in three months. It took Humans twenty years to finish a brood and they had taken over the planet and all. Why hadn't Swallows taken over the planet, goddam it?

It was then that I met up with my friend at a prearranged rendezvous. I flew away from home for a second time. We went to London.

“Where are we going Bud,” That was his name.

“We are going to Soho Holden.” That was my name. Didn't I tell you that?

“Is that near Leicester Square?”

“About three blocks away.”

“Okay. Let's make sure we keep away from the phonies.”

“We will. We're going to a little bar I know downtown.”

We flew into a dark room. There were bottles and all lying on their sides and others were upside down held by metal brackets. We found a leaking bottle on its side and took a drink, kept on drinking until it stopped goddam leaking. We moved on to the upside down bottles. We took a slug, then another. Soon the room was buzzing and all. It was the best feeling I ever had in all my life. One was called Vodka, another Whiskey, and another Remy Martin. I thought of the House Martins. The bastards! How I hated them. They always stole our flies and all even though they flew like paperweights. They felt inferior just because Human's never said, “One House Martin doesn't make a summer.” How petty is that? If one flew in here now would put him in the ground. House Martins kill me, they really do.

We were both completely wrecked and all by the time a couple of local birds flew in. They looked like down and outs and all on Skid Row. I didn't know anything about down and outs on Skid Row. Hell, I'm a swallow for God's sake. How would I know about that stuff? But if I did know about down and outs I'm pretty damned sure they would have looked like down and outs from someplace like that.

“Are you drinking you sonofabitches? It's on the house.” I asked the locals.

“No,”

“What do punks do then?”

“We eat Oliver Reeds.”

“Oliver Reeds? What the hell kinda food is that?”

“Seeds.”

“Why the hell didn't you say that then?”

“It's cockney rhyming slang.”

“And what the hell kinda talk is that?”

“And what the hell kinda bird are you?”

“A Swallow. And what the hell kinda bird are you?”

“Who's askin?”

“I am. Someone who's been around. I've been to Nairobi.”

“Well I av'nt. I was born and bred in Trafalgar Square. I'm a Feral Pigeon. Fancy ya chances. Aye. Aye. What did you say you were?”

I stared scared.

“I'm a Swallow.” I said.

“Chicken more like. As soon as it gets cold off you go. I'm gonna give you a good hiding.”

He did. I got a pretty bad beating. I looked pretty awful. Not at all like a Swallow. I looked like a House Martin and all right then.

I flew back to Africa early. The yob culture in England had shocked me. I thought they were supposed to be civilised and all. That's about it really. I can't be bothered to tell you any more. You probably wouldn't want to know anyhow what with attention spans these days. Anyway, War and Peace type stories kill me, they really do.

P.S Any similarity in style between this piece and The Catcher in the Rye by J.D Salinger is purely intentional. Okay, it may not be a classic in the traditional sense but it is a unique book that everyone should read.

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