The Birds

I write radio scripts because they are fun to write. I might get people far more skilled behind a microphone than me to perform them. Here's a new radio script that is a true-ish story.

SCENE BRIEFING
SETTING: A suburban back garden. Mid-afternoon breeze, distant mowers.
CHARACTERS:
• ANDY: Middle-aged man having a quiet crisis in the back garden.
• MAGPIE: Fast-talking, cynical Londoner (or cheeky Cockney chancer). Sharp and slightly unimpressed.
• OLIVERO: A Spanish pigeon. Only speaks pigeon Spanish.

---

FX: Suburban garden ambience. Distant lawnmower, light breeze, occasional tweeting.

ANDY:
(SIGHING HEAVILY)
Right. Fresh air. Clear the head. Ten minutes away from the spreadsheets and nobody dies.

FX: Pigeon wing flutter onto wooden fence.

OLIVERO:
(COOING, RATHER MELANCHOLY)
Coo.

ANDY:
Hello. You look about as cheerful as I feel. How’s the family, mate?

OLIVERO:
Coo.

ANDY:
Come on, your secret’s safe with me. I know you lot can talk.

FX: Shuffle of claws on wooden panels, slight shift away.

OLIVERO:
(DISTANT, SUSPICIOUS)
Coo.

ANDY:
Charming. Five minutes of peace and I get the cold shoulder from vermin with wings.

FX: Sharp, sudden flutter of larger wings. Landing thud on wood.

MAGPIE:
(SNIFFS)
You bothering Olivero, mate?

ANDY:
(STARTLED)
Bloody hell! Did you just—?

MAGPIE:
I asked you a question. You giving him grief? He’s delicate.

ANDY:
I was just trying to be friendly! But he’s not exactly giving much back, is he?

MAGPIE:
Well, of course he ain’t. He doesn’t speak a word of English, does he? He’s from Seville.

ANDY:
Spain? Blimey. Bit of a long flight for a pigeon.

MAGPIE:
Flight? You joking? He got a hand-luggage-only deal with British Airways out of Malaga. Forty-two quid return.

ANDY:
Hang on. Are you trying to tell me a bird—a feathered creature with functional wings—booked a seat on a commercial airliner?

MAGPIE:
(BEAT)
Wait. Are you telling me you actually believe all that ‘migrating’ bollocks?

ANDY:
Well... yes! Attenborough’s done whole series on it!

MAGPIE:
(BURSTS OUT LAUGHING, CALLOUS AND RASPY)
David Attenborough! Oh, leave it out! You think we fly three thousand miles over open ocean flapping our arms like lunatics when there’s a Ryanair to Alicante leaving every twenty minutes?

ANDY:
But the aerodynamics—

MAGPIE:
Do I look stupid? It’s two hours in the pressurised hold, a quick nap behind a Samsonite suitcase, and boom—sunshine, tapas, and half a stale churro outside a train station. Nobody flaps anymore, mate. It’s bad for the joints.

FX: A sharp, tiny bird-fart followed by a loud squawk.

MAGPIE:
Oof. Must dash. Shift change. Mrs is sitting on the eggs and if I’m five minutes late she pecks my ear off.

FX: Violent flap of wings taking off quickly.

MAGPIE:
(FADING FAST INTO THE DISTANCE)
Keep your hands off Olivero! He’s jet-lagged!

FX: Garden settles back to quiet breeze.

ANDY:
(UTTERLY STUNNED PAUSE)
I need a lie down. Or an optician.

OLIVERO:
(BEAT)
¿Coo?

FX: Flutter of pigeon wings as he takes off toward Birmingham Airport.