The dirtbirds

The avian enemyIt's official. I am at war. My foe? The avian army that congregates over my house, tormenting me with its daily guano attacks on the Duchess, (my classic BMW for those who don't know). Each evening it's the same - her lush red paintwork is coated in nastiness.

Usually, it's a random smattering of gunk. Sometimes it's so bad, it looks like Jackson Pollack has pimped my ride.

Other than the aesthetic, hygienic reasons for being appalled at her predicatment, there are practical concerns. The Duchess, hardy ould wagon that she is, is in grave danger. Corrosive stuff, bird dung. It'll chew through paintwork like an American through the contents of a fridge.

At first, the state of my car was a mystery to me. How was it happening? The Duchess is always parked in the open. There isn't a tree within shouting distance, nor are there overhead lines on which the vile creatures can rest their spindly bones. To compound matters, a little investigative work revealed the neighbours' cars appeared to largely escape the bombardment, unless, of course, they were parked within splashing distance of mine.

Thus, I came to the only logical conclusion available to a rational man like myself - I am being deliberately targeted. The birds are after me.

Why they determined to dissolve the Duchess with their Stuka-bombing Blitzkrieg raids, I know not. It's immaterial anyway. There's no reasoning with them. The only solution is to fight back. I watch them, eerie, prehistoric creatures that they are, as they chatter conspiratorially on the rooftops. Gulls, crows, pigeons and sundry stragglers united in a common cause.

I can win this, I think. I'm cleverer than a bunch of birdbrains. Aren't I?

I am consumed by the conflict. I have become addled with autoornicoprophobia - fear of birds pooping on one's car. My sanity is teetering on the edge of the abyss. I've yet to shave my head into a mohican and pose in front of a mirror, à la Robert De Niro.

But it can't be far off now.

At first I thought of shooting a few of them. Take out the ringleaders, the minions will skulk off sharpish. But Crumlin isn't the sort of place you want to wave a gun around without carefully considering the possible consequences. No point accidentally getting myself involved in a drugs gang shootout.

I must be more devious. I considered erecting a canopy of clingfilm over the car to bounce the badness back at them. That, they wouldn't expect. But that could only be a temporary respite. Knowing them, they'd band together to do a formation overfly whilst dangling a cow. No clingfilm could withstand such a pummelling. I wasn't prepared to risk it.

Instead, I opted for a plan I thought was so mind-blowingly brilliant, I'd be feted for generations to come.

I grabbed the cat. She's 14, weighs as much as a six-year-old human child, and is lazy as a brick. This was my secret weapon.

I strapped her into the harness I'd fashioned from a few old fanbelts and dangled her under the remote-control model helicopter I'd bought specially for the purpose. She was unimpressed. I told her there was a pork chop in it for her. She shrugged her shoulders and stopped struggling.

I briefly considered arming her with a small submachinegun until she pointed out to me that she had no opposable thumbs. I instead resorted to strapping a handheld hedge-strimmer to each of her paws. It'd make landing a bit tricky, but we'd cross that bridge when we came to it.

I sent her out into the sky, hunting my nemeses. This, I said to myself proudly, was brilliant. I was a genius. For about seven seconds. The cat was 20 feet into the air when the helicopter gave up and she plummeted - strimmers-first - onto the roof of the Duchess.

The sound of scraping and yowling was almost loud enough to drown out the cackles from the rooftops. But not quite.

Time for a new strategy. If anyone needs me, I'll be in the attic.

Watching. Waiting. I can win this.