Hawkman

It isn’t every day that one passes through the portal of a friend’s abode and is confronted with a tableau reminiscent of a frieze from classical antiquity. I mean, there was I, responding to the insistent telephonic summons of Phil, my tame millionaire, demanding delivery of the latest shoot video, and clutching said DVD in my sweaty paw, I opened the door, and there they were, cuddling a swan. Well, I say they were cuddling a swan, but in actuality only one member of the trio in the kitchen was actually cuddling it. The swan didn’t seem to mind.

My Falconry buddy, Bill, a wildlife expert, whose expertise has been largely gleaned from years of killing and eating it, was the bunny with the bird reclining on his lap. Kneeling on the cold hard flagstones in front of him, his girlfriend Karen, a veterinary nurse, was tending to a wound on what I suppose equates roughly with the human ankle, while Phil stood by, smirking at Bill’s complaints that flat flies were migrating from the bird onto his scalp. Flat flies are small parasitic nasties which like to suck the blood from birds.

Ostentatiously peering into Bill’s thinning locks, Phil would periodically say something encouraging like, “Ooo, look at that,” and “Oh yeah, I can see the little bugger,” with a really evil smile on his face.

Nobody can do an evil smile like Phil.

Naturally, I had to join in, so I too stood behind Bill and peered at his scalp making similarly fascinated noises, even though I couldn’t see anything except small portions of shed adhering to the sparse vegetation on his pate. Bill, it should be noted, is a fairly placid sort of guy, as he has no need for violence. All his bestial impulses are satisfied by the willing compliance of various women and the fact that he gets to kill something on a regular basis. Consequently, he is probably the most well adjusted man I know. As a result he bore these indignities with habitual good humour, even though flat flies were indeed infesting his thatch, as the subsequent capture and dispatch of one by Phil, proved to be the case.

Phil, as well as being a millionaire big game hunter and owner of a substantial slice of the South Hams, responded, “Well, I did think about it,” to my initial enquiry as to whether he was going to eat the swan. However, for the benefit of those unfamiliar with domestic UK legislation regarding the ingestion of certain species inhabiting these shores, I should point out, that, like sturgeons, swans are reserved for the table of the reigning monarch. The swan regarded us with resigned tolerance during this exchange but continued to endure the indignity of restraint and Karen’s investigation of the injury without complaint.

Once the novelty of the situation had worn off I duly delivered the film, and as Phil was leaving shortly to stay with friends with whom he would be shooting on the morrow, he thanked me and hastened my departure from his keep with a bottle of scotch. Whilst this was most welcome, I did point out that he hadn’t seen the film yet, but he replied that if it wasn’t any good he’d have the scotch back, preferably before I’d drunk it. Therefore I can only hope that he won’t take exception to The Godfather music which accompanies his appearances on screen. He should be used to my sense of humour by now, as in a previous film, “Farm Wars,” his presence was heralded by the Imperial March, and the title, “Darth,” before his name in the credits.

I shall now close by informing the reader that the names of those parties mentioned herein have been changed to protect their privacy and avoid prosecution for their many crimes. Even I am someone else. In case anyone is wondering about the swan, they may rest assured that it’s doing very nicely, having suffered no serious harm.