The Pigeon, The Prince, and The Perilous Pint

Barry Butterfield from Columbus, Ohio, had a plan for London. It was a meticulous, laminated, three-day itinerary that accounted for everything from optimal selfie angles to scheduled scone-breaks. What it didn’t account for was a pigeon with a personal grudge.

His first stop was Trafalgar Square. Standing before Nelson’s Column, Barry felt a surge of historical significance. He’d get a picture, a majestic one, with a lion. He bought a small bag of birdseed from a vendor, thinking a few feathered friends would add a touch of authentic local colour. The vendor smirked. “Good luck, mate.”

Barry hadn’t realised this was less an invitation and more of a challenge. The moment the first seed left his hand, he was no longer Barry Butterfield, tourist. He was The Feeder. A feathered vortex descended. Pigeons landed on his head, his shoulders, and one particularly bold specimen tried to wrestle his laminated itinerary out of his top pocket. In the feathered chaos, his brand-new “I love London” hat was snatched from his head, last seen soaring towards the National Gallery on the head of a triumphant pigeon king.

Slightly dishevelled and hatless, Barry retreated to the Tube, seeking the calm, orderly world of underground transport. He confidently strode onto the first available carriage, heading for the Tower of London. He was puzzled when, twenty minutes later, the automated voice announced, “This is Cockfosters.” It did not sound like a medieval fortress.

After a confusing journey involving two line changes and accidentally ending up on a train to Epping, he finally arrived at Tower Hill, flustered but resolute. He saw a Beefeater, glorious in his red and gold uniform, standing guard. This was it. A real piece of history.

“Excuse me!” Barry said, approaching with his camera. “Your hat, sir. It’s magnificent. It reminds me of my Aunt Mildred’s favourite tea cosy.”

The Beefeater, a man whose stony expression suggested he’d seen invasions, plagues, and hen parties, did not move a muscle. He simply blinked. Slowly. The silence was so profound that Barry could hear a child asking for an ice cream three postcodes away. He backed away, smiling weakly.

To recover, Barry found a proper London pub, all dark wood and the smell of spilled history. He strode to the bar. “A pint of your finest ale, my good man!” he boomed, trying to sound like a character from Dickens.

The bartender, who looked about nineteen and was scrolling through his phone, grunted and pulled a pint. Barry, swelling with a misplaced sense of British camaraderie, grabbed the full, frothy glass with gusto. A little too much gusto. The glass, slick with condensation, shot from his grasp like a bar of soap in a prison break. It slid gracefully down the polished bar, collided with a stack of beer mats, launched into the air in a perfect arc, and landed squarely in the lap of a bulldog sleeping under a table.

The dog, whose name was Winston, awoke with a snort, looked at his now beer-soaked belly, gave Barry a look of profound disappointment, and began to noisily lick himself dry.

The pub went silent. Every eye was on Barry. He stood there, dripping with failure, his itinerary a mockery in his pocket. He did the only thing a man in his position could do. He pointed at the dog and said, “He’ll have what I was having.”