I LIVE in a pleasant pocket of rural peace on the border between Douglas and Onchan. I’m not so far removed from urban encroachment that I can be woken up of a morning by a cock crowing. But Phil can do it just as well when he happens to be around.
He’s not a cockerel you underestand. He’s a cock pheasant and he’s been strutting his stuff and announcing his presence around the bijou residence all summer.
I should also explain that I have christened him Phil as a nod towards anthropomorphism.
There is no doubt that he’s a cock; cocks are far more beautiful than hen pheasants. But in case he’s confused about his gender orientation the name Phil can stand in for Philip or Philippa.
I like having him around with his trademark croaking (croak is one of the great examples of onomatopoeia) and I just hope there is no marksman within earshot who fancies Phil braised in cider with bacon, celeriac and game chips.
The fact is that I don’t go much on shooting anything or anybody these days.
For one thing I haven’t got a gun.
When my National Service ended in 1951 they wouldn’t let me keep my Short Lee Enfield .303 rifle which had been given to me as a first step towards making me a trained killer, not only by firing it but by using its bayonet.
The latter was not one of the long sword-type which British soldiers had to stick on in the First and Second World Wars. Ours was short and came to a nasty point.
It was a kind of spike and it was known as a pig-sticker. Our instructors told us it was better than the sword bayonet for more effective penetration of the guts, as they insisted on putting it, and easy withdrawal.
(My goodness, what ideas they used to put into the heads of impressionable boys of 18 in those days – and some people want to bring back National Service today in order to stop feral youth rioting in the streets. We were well trained for doing all that kind of physical violence ourselves in my day.)
Fortunately I never had to face up to another terrified nitwit with a rifle and bayonet.
I am sure that if some terrible mismanagement on his part led to me pig-sticking him I would have felt compelled to apologise profusely.
I must admit now that the foregoing has been, so to speak, rather off target.
The point, also so to speak, is that I do not want anybody to come round to the bijou residence and try to shoot Phil the Friendly Pheasant. I would miss him greatly, or her if that’s what he might prefer.
I don’t want him croaked.
• THE death of songwriter Hal David was reported on Manx Radio and Dr Linda Cottier enjoyed the listing of the titles of his big hits as ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head’, ‘I Say a Little Prayer’ and ‘Just Walk Away.’
Or run for it if necessary.
• LIZ Neeson draws attention to the small ads in the Isle of Man Courier listed as ‘Livestock General’ where a loaghtan lamb was offered for sale, sounding like the perfect birthday gift for a little girl. The ad continued: ‘Whole and half lambs cut and packed, freezer ready.’