War on ptera

Who would have thought in the early years of the 21^st century that mankind was being watched by envious eyes from on high? Far across the wide gulf of twig and branch, intelligences alien to us have watched our every move, biding their time, and laying their eggs.

Fascists, communists, terrorists, Branch Davidians – even Martians don't seem such a far fetch in retrospect, but now it appears that mankind's nemesis is a far fowler* foe: the humble bird.

Now, I have an extremely healthy fear of death, but if there's one way of biting the big one that I'd be almost okay with, it would be fighting as part of the brotherhood of man against an alien invasion force so superior to us in numbers and weaponry that it'd be like the U.S. invading Princes Risborough on pension day. For, just before my head was loped off by some ferocious clawed denizen from beyond the stars and my brain melted out of my eyes by an alien heat-ray, I'd take succor in knowing that the human race had for once in its ignominious history been united as one, despite the insurmountable odds.

But no, instead I'm likely to find myself fighting beak by jowl** with a Neighbourhood Watch

militia, staking out bird tables, genociding Starlings and weeding out enemy sympathisers (Bill Oddie: we're watching you).

It's tenuously ironic that the aliens in War of the Worlds died of a common illness, whereas that is the weapon our feathered enemy will defeat us with. Through an intensive course of chicken-baiting, duck-rubbing and general inappropriate behaviour with birds, I'm doing my best to contract The Flu while we still have the vaccinations and medical personnel to spare to treat expendable members of society such as myself. Then when the epidemic hits, I'll wander through the fields of sick and dying like a bearded Florence Nightingale telling people to “buck up, it's just a touch of virulent vaccine-resistant flu” and to drink plenty of fluids (nothing egg-based, though).

At least Jeff Wayne could perhaps write us a stirring prog-rock soundtrack to play when marching into battle against the avians. In fact, who better to re-write the national anthem?

*for every reprehensible 'pun' I make, I promise to tip the next underpaid, over-hassled waitress I'm served by.

**I'll say 'yes' when she asks me whether I'd like a pastry with my beverage.