Taking a pop at the pigeons

Sim days are here to stay, but Blue Zulu would much prefer to be experiencing the real thing

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One of the less common species now encountered on the Tube is the goth, perhaps because, in these dreary COVID-19 times, being deeply miserable now is the norm, especially if you’re fond of football.

I rather miss them. Their deathly pallor, spiky hair, heavy eyeshadow and torn fishnet stockings gave hope that not every millennial had chosen a career in law or accounting. Though I suspect that gothic plumage is now totally acceptable in the professions — but not, of course, in IT, where cargo shorts, flip-flops and Fat Face shirts remain de rigueur.

I spotted one a week ago on the District line, staring into space and nodding quietly to a soundtrack, and wondered what sad songs appeal to goths. Lots by The Smiths, of course, and doubtless a dollop of Lou Reed. But the most depressing song would not have been on her iPhone because it’s only heard in the countryside. And it’s a sound rather than a track.

No, it’s not the plaintive cry of the curlew nor the soulful lament of the turtle dove. It’s the steady ‘pop pop-pop’ of someone else enjoying a great day’s shooting. Round here, where I’m surrounded by shoots, you get accustomed to it in the season. Though it rankles, you have the solace of knowing you’ll be out with the gun later in the week. In the late summer, it’s torture, as it signals some other bugger is having a big day on the pigeons, while your farms, which you’ve visited constantly for a week, are utterly ignored by the grey hordes.

I heard it only last week, after I’d trekked over to inspect the 30 acres of peas that have yet to attract anything more than a flutter of cabbage whites. ‘Pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop