The pub where Pigeons meet their maker
Like most people, I’ve spent a lot of time in the pub. More so in my youth… and like most people, I have loads of stories about the people I’ve met during this time. However, it was more what the bar staff, me and a few mates who’d finished uni and didn’t know what to do with our lives, got up to while working behind the pumps that tells a better story.

So me and a good mate had finished our degrees at a p*ss poor uni in a hell hole of a town (which was locally know as: Hi? Why Come?) and worked for a chain brewery under the guidance of one of the best pub landlords I’ve ever come across. One of the many stories to come out of that time was that of our little pest problem. A pest problem in that the top floor (old and disused but with access via a skylight to the rest of the pub) had around a hundred pigeons living in it. We called the Environmental Health, who suggested we should ‘take care’ of the problem ourselves.

Bit of brain scratching and a car ride later and I was the proud owner of a high powered air rifle and telescopic site. Ooh, we’ll take care of the problem alright. So for the next few weeks, while not on duty (or at least when the pub was quiet during the day) me, my fellow assistant manager, the kitchen chef, and a couple of the bar staff with a blood lust, would sit and wait for a our pray, and mercilessly pick off the little buggers. Now, I’m not a hunter, I don’t like killing things for the sake of it, yet we had a problem and were advised this was the best solution.

In the weeks, a count of 30 confirmed killed and at least twice that unconfirmed had been clocked up by all. That was until one day, after a decent long range effort (we’d scared all the birds away by now, we were just taking pot shots in the street, nice and safe I know) and one bird looked done in. so, we went to confirm it and deal with the body but none was to be found. A blood trail led away and the flighty thing had disappeared. Hummn, Ok, back to work I guess. And all was forgotten about, until the next morning, when said bird had decided to pay us a visit, (which took some walking too) and sat outside the front doors of the pub looking rather cross with us. We had to finish him off, we knew, he knew it. And seven shots later, he still didn’t look happy, and it was becoming up-close-and-personal. We didn’t like that. So he was the last. We could no longer justify our marksmen skills, and it had got messy. So the pigeons could breathe a sigh of relief and we put the gun away. But for a few weeks during the summer of 2001, pigeons in the Bucks area would know the fear of that pub…
(CornishStanley can't post hyperlinks, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:25, 3 replies)

30? Over weeks?
You must have been a terrible shot. We used to despatch several fertiliser sacks full in the space of a few hours, one of us with an air pistol, the other with a catapult. Those that were still semi-alive had their necks wrung. It would probably be regarded as barbaric these days, but what better way to keep a couple of 12 year olds occupied over the summer holidays than ridding a neighbour's loft of pigeons.
( SteamedCleaner, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 14:26, closed)

*click*
Good.

I hate pigeons.
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 17:18, closed)

...
put out bird seed soaked in antifreeze, works on rats too.

Oh, you have to clean them up after their stomachs explode though.
(Gazebo will eat you on, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 15:41, closed)