Nice one, Matthew.

When I lived in Brancepeth Castle I used to get doos coming down the chimney regularly. One time, I got back to find doo shit everywhere - but no sign o' the culprit. A few days later there arose a bad smell, and, following my nose, I found the maggot-ridden corpse of the hapless intruder snuggled up in my Morrocan bendir, which has been known as the Doo Drum ever since.

Another time, tired and emotional having just realised just how hopeless it was being in love with a girl who lived 400 miles away, I arrived home, poured myself a very stiff Talisker, lit my fire only to have a blazing doo come fleein' doon the lum. I was hopeless; pissed, in tears, calling on my housemate (hurdy-gurdy supremo Steve Tyler as it happens) to put the hapless bird out of its misery. He rose to the occasion; sterling fellow that he was, but balked at my suggestions for pigeon pie.

I did write a surreal parody opf TKOR once, in which the West End of Derby was home to a visionary shaman / pigeon fancier who claimed one of his birds was the reincarnated soul of Pope John XIII (hence the name) and started making plans for Vatican 3, but it didn't come to much. Ho hum.

And what hapened to that long-distance girlfriend I hear you ask? Reader, I married her.