Cross-species love

Things have been quiet around here recently. I've been working quite hard in the week and drinking too much at the weekends, rendering me even more useless and lazy than usual. But I've been roused from my lethergy by the latest in one of the oddest advert series ever conceived - the bed company ones where a man hippo and a yellow woman duck share a bed and appear to be in a stable relationship.

There are so many problems with the basic concept. Mr Hippo wears pyjamas but Mrs Duck doesn't, the tart. It is never explained why they choose to sleep in a low-quality human bed - perhaps they had the old "I'd be far happier in a nest, darling"/"Shut it you slagbag, I'm sleeping in a big pile of mud and that's that" argument and this was the compromise. The logistics of what goes on after the light goes out (I imagine by the duck pulling the cord with her beak) are too alarming to analyse in detail but would surely be considered to be a bit strong by even the most open minded.

But something has changed in the latest installment. He's always been a lot larger than her, as you'd expect. Now, presumably after extensive market research into how much reality-bending the public can cope with in an onscreen cross-species bunk up, the size difference has been reduced - she seems to have grown in size to about goose proportions. Which is closer to the size of a hippo, but not that close.

So why make the change? One attack of flailing hippo night terrors will still obliterate her. It's still an unacceptably weird set up. But there will have been meetings, conference calls, pie and flip charts, advertising briefings and hundreds of man hours devoted to enlarging the duck. I guarantee that not one extra crappy bed has been sold as a result.

Airborne terror

In the silly season there is often a light relief news story about a bird that, having taken a seemingly random dislike to a particular person, amuses itself by swooping down on the poor wretch's head whenever they leave their house. This is hilarious because the story is often accompanied by shaky camcorder footage of said avian hooliganism as the victim screeches and flails. But I don't think it's funny. I think it's utterly terrifying.

I would happily stroke a snake, tickle a tarantula or mollycoddle a mouse. I'm happy with heights and cool with confined spaces. But I absolutely cannot bear anything with feathers. I hate their eyes, their beaks, their claws, their wings - particularly their wings. The sight and sound of them flapping.....euurrrgh. The idea of any physical contact with one makes me feel nauseous; the sight of deranged pigeon feeders swarmed head to toe with them has sometimes made me break into a near run. Once every couple of weeks I have birdmares - recently I dreamt that a large goose kept jumping into my arms whilst delivering a rather withering monologue.

The one thing I will say about birds is that they mostly do a good job of moving in the opposite direction of humans, I assume out of a sense of self-disgust at their intrinsic horribleness. But one kind of bird doesn't even have the decency to do that - dead ones. All the things I am repelled by splayed out on the pavement, beady eyes following me all the way down the road. I few months ago I came home to find a large pigeon had been ripped to shreds and flung around my roof terrace, which is equivalent to a claustrophobic waking up to find they've been walled into the chimney. I spent an hour or so gibbering before my girlfriend came home, took in the scene and strode outside with a bin bag, a dust pan and a grim expression as I babbled encouragement from the furthest part of the flat.

This unmanly neuroses has Freudian roots. My father was an award winning exotic bird exhibitor in his younger days, and for the first 12 or so years of my life kept birds in the house. They would occasionally escape and hurl themselves repeatedly at the nearest window until they smashed their heads in, which I maintain created my phobia. My poor Dad is understandably disappointed that one of his great passions causes his eldest son to nearly faint with terror.

I am happy to take suggestions on how to beat this. It's hugely inconvenient shrieking like a girl at every feathery corpse and I'm not sure I can ever own a cat, unless there are breeds that don't ever proudly drop my absolute worst nightmare on the kitchen floor. Please don't offer any solutions that involve any form of contact - hypnotism or magic pills only.

As this blog believes in the right to reply, here's Mr E of the Eels offering an alternative viewpoint. He's wrong.