With the launch at last week’s Birdfair of a bafflingly
pointless quest to find a new ‘national bird’ for Britain, a nation cries
“enough of this shit” and “for fuck’s sake, not yet more fucking Puffins”.
The inclusion of Puffins on the shortlist for a bird to
replace Britain’s current national bird, the enduring and resilient Robin, is
proving hard to swallow for a general public that’s frankly had enough Puffins
to last them a lifetime. “If I see another bastard Puffin being pointlessly
cute and anthropomorphised by the RSPB and the media, I might just shoot myself
and put an end to it all,” said Nikki Hollis, a mother of two from Basildon.
“The little bastards are everywhere at the moment. On telly,
online, on my kids’ beds at night – I don’t know what sorts of batteries the
RSPB are putting in those cuddly Puffins, but they seem to have the half-life
of plutonium – I wake up to a chorus of Puffin voices, they’re the soundtrack
to the day, and I can still hear them ringing in my ears when the kids finally
go to sleep in the evening.”
Tom Logan, a wildlife tour guide from the Western Isles, had
the grace to look embarrassed when asked about how important Puffins were to
his business. “There was a time when they were all people wanted to see,” he
said, “but now nobody gives a flying fuck about them. Everyone’s sick to death
of the sight of their cheerful, gormless faces. I blame overexposure – you can
have too much of a good thing.
“Speaking for myself, when I hear someone call a young
Puffin a ‘puffling’ it makes me want to punch them repeatedly in the face. Or
vomit. They still eat them in Iceland, and that’s maybe not such a bad idea. I
wonder how they harvest them...
“I’d love to hit a Puffin with a stick.”
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