Does Anyone Else Remember When Trafalgar Square Was a Happy Place?

Feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square 

(c. 1971)

 

 

I.

 

Six days later and still the row rumbles on about the Ramadan prayer event held in London's Trafalgar Square; a public gathering described by shadow justice secretary Nick Timothy as a provocative act of domination - prompting others to decry his remarks as Islamophobic and call for his head (figuratively speaking).     

 

I really don't want to comment on this matter, as I find it both depressing and tedious. 

 

However, as an anti-theist, I would quite happily ban all large-scale outdoor religious events; be they Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, or Sikh. I don't even like to see neo-pagans and old hippies gathered at Stonehenge for the solstice celebrations, to be perfectly honest. 

 

And, as an ornithophile, I would be delighted to see Trafalgar Square cleared of all believers, worshippers, devotees, etc. and made home once more to the thousands of pigeons who lived there for well over a century before Ken Livingstone decided they were a public nuisance and threat to human health (more on this shortly).

 

 

II.   

 

Feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square with seed bought from licensed vendors was an extremely popular thing to do in post-War decades; bringing joy and amusement to people of all ages and backgrounds, be they locals or tourists.

 

The birds were remarkably friendly and would perch on people, lions, and statues alike. Being pictured with a pigeon on one's head was an experience captured in countless family photos - such as the one above, taken in the early '70s, when I was a nipper and wearing my turquoise Fred Perry T-shirt and blue corduroy trousers held up with a classic snake belt. 

 

Readers might also note how, in the photo, the man, woman and young girl observing the scene are all smiling; a facial expression formed by flexing muscles at the sides of the mouth in order to signal happiness that is rarely seen in the UK today.       

 

 

III. 

 

As mentioned, the toxic transition from popular attraction to pest problem happened under Mayor Ken Livingstone, who famously branded the birds rats with wings and argued that their removal would result in a more pleasant environment. 

 

The last birdseed vendor was forced to stop trading after his license was revoked in 2001, terminating a tradition that had begun soon after the Square was completed and birds began flocking to it in 1844. Two years later feeding pigeons was officially banned in the main square to prevent damage to monuments and this ban was then extended to the North Terrace (near the National Gallery) in 2007, when fines for feeding the birds were increased from £50 to £500. 

 

There was some organised opposition to this, but, sadly, the writing was on the wall for our feathered friends and Red Ken was indifferent to the fact that suddenly removing a regular and abundant food source to 4000 birds would result in many of them starving to death. Today, Trafalgar Square is kept pigeon-free by the use of hawks patrolling the area to scare away any remaining birds that might wish to return to a once happy home and place of safety. 

 

 

IV. 

 

In conclusion ... 

 

The pigeon is a bird that links us to our past as Londoners; its association with the capital spans centuries and serves as a genuine symbol of a shared, non-sectarian history. As for the potential health risks they pose, I suspect these are greatly exaggerated to justify a sterile, overly controlled urban environment and, frankly, the preservation of imposing stone monuments is a secondary concern to me: 

 

"We have reached the stage where we are weary of huge stone erections, and we begin to realise that it is better to keep life fluid and changing, than try to hold it down in heavy monuments." [1] 

 

Only people of a malignant spirit - like Ken Livingstone - would wish harm upon birds, or believe - like the current Mayor Sadiq Khan - that the cry of Allahu Akbar is preferable to the gentle cooing of a rock dove ... 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, 'Tarquinia', in Sketches of Etruscan Places and Other Italian Essays, ed. Simonetta de Filippis (Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 32.  

What Was I Thinking? (8 April)

Images used for the posts published on

this date in 2014, 2021, and 2023

 

 

Sometimes - especially those times when, like today, I can't think of anything else to write about - it's convenient to be able to look back and see what one was thinking on the same date in years gone by ...

 

In Praise of the Pig

 

The interesting thing about this post from 8 April 2014 is that it cost me a very dear friendship with an amazing woman called Beatrice de Dia, who found it to be Islamophobic, whereas it was, rather - as the title surely indicates - simply an expression of my porcophilia.   

 

And so, whilst the post did challenge the dietary injunction against eating pork found within Islamic (as well as Jewish) religious culture, it mostly celebrated pigs as intelligent, social, and loveable creatures who are, of course, genetically very similar to human beings, sharing as we do 98% of our DNA with them (which is why they represent the best hope for the xenotransplantation of organs in the future).

 

The post was also a reading of the view put forward by Christopher Hitchens; namely, that the reason heaven hates ham has nothing to do with food hygiene, but because eating pork uncomfortably reminded the ancient Semites of a time when human sacrifice and cannibalism were de rigueur. 

 

Finally, the post ended by calling on non-Jews and non-Muslims to also reconsider their own vile treatment of the pig and end the disgusting cruelty of factory farming. 

 

For if, on the one hand, pigs deserve better than to be vilified by those who allow religious superstition to distort their relationship to the animal world, then on the other hand, so too do they deserve more than being confined, separated from their young, and forced to live in their own filth before being slaughtered in their hundreds of millions each year by the Chinese, Americans, and Europeans. 

It's such a shame that Beatrice couldn't process the post - despite smiling at its mock-epic quality - and seemed to think I was encouraging racial and religious intolerance (even hatred). I'll always think of her very fondly (and still miss her terribly). 

 

 

Notes on An American Werewolf in London

 

Fast forward seven years, to 8 April 2021, and I was offering thoughts on An American Werewolf in London (dir. John Landis, 1981). 

 

Well, I say that, but actually the post was less a film review and more an excuse to sing the praises of two women who have secured their place in the hearts (and erotic imagination) of many a male viewer: Jenny Agutter and Linzi Drew. 

 

The former, who plays Nurse Alex Price in the film, is still, in my view, one of the most beautiful English actresses ever to have graced the screen; whilst the latter, appearing as Brenda Bristols, may not quite have the same allure as Mary Millington, but she did have a successful (and varied) career in the UK sex industry during the 1980s, working as a stripper, model, and porn star.

 

One day, if I can ever see past the charms of the female stars, I must really get around to discussing the demonic Nazi stormtroopers that appear in a terrifying dream sequence that even the Chapman brothers would've been proud of and how the film is crucially tied to the question of Jewish identity and feelings of cultural estrangement ... 

 

 

In Memory of Two Dead Artists 

 

Was it really 14 years ago that Malcolm McLaren died, aged 64, and over 50 years ago that Picasso departed this life, aged 91? Apparently. 

 

As I noted in a post published last year on this date, McLaren may have acted with mock delight when told of the great Spanish painter's death, but he undoubtedly admired Picasso and was happy to pose by one of his works when being interviewed at the Guggenheim in 1984 for an episode of The South Bank Show. 

 

His friend from art school days, Fred Vermorel, wrote this in 2015:

 

"Considered as an artwork [...] McLaren's Sex Pistols was as seminal and resonant as Picasso's Guernica. Only this was a masterpiece made not of paint and canvas but of headlines and scandal, scams and factoids, rumour and fashion, slogans, fantasies and images and (I almost forgot) songs - all in a headlong scramble to auto-destruction."[1]     

 

I think that's not only a nice thing to say, but also very true.

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Fred Vermorel, 'Blowing Up the Bridges So There Is No Way Back', in Eyes for Blowing Up Bridges: Joining the Dots from the Situationist International to Malcolm McLaren (John Hansard Gallery, 2015). Quoted by Paul Gorman, The Life and Times of Malcolm McLaren (Constable, 2020), p. 292.