"There are a lot of lads out there with their heads in their hands because their birds haven't come back," a distraught person declared in an English newspaper last year - and he wasn't just some vulgarian referring to the Shirley Valentine phenomenon whereby holidaying ladies remain with their fancy Mediterranean men friends and fail to return to their pining, but dull, spouses.
No, he was complaining about the effects of solar eclipses on racing pigeons. Many pigeon people believe that because homing pigeons fly only in daylight, an eclipse actually "scrambles their brains" so they get lost. Also, in the latest edition of New Scientist, Dr Jon Hagstrum, a geophysicist at the US Geological Society in California, claims that Concorde's supersonic boom has confused the homing instincts of racing pigeons and tens of thousands have gone missing.
Great tradition
Whatever about these theories, the sport of pigeon fancying and racing has certainly been losing its way in recent years. And this despite the great tradition of Irish pigeon racing, of which we were again reminded last year when the heroic exploits of "Paddy the Pigeon" were recounted in all the newspapers. Paddy was the only Irish non-primate to receive a Dickin medal for valour, which he was awarded for being the first bird to bring the news back across the Channel to England that the second World War Normandy landings had been successful.
A friend recently enlightened me on the troubles and travails of his declining sport. A true aficionado, he travels the length and breadth of Ireland in his spare time to participate in his treasured sport. Unlikely though it may seem, one of his favourite locations for a visit is Portadown.
Because of the now annual crisis at nearby Drumcree, and a reputation for being the home town of some feared loyalist paramilitaries, Portadown has become a byword for bigotry and intolerance. But there's another side to it - a side you won't hear much about, mainly due to the aforementioned neglect of pigeons. This associate of mine, let's call him Frank, used to visit Portadown even at the height of the troubles when certain loyalist paramilitaries who revelled in nicknames such as the Jackal, King Rat and the Dog, were abroad at night. In the interests of personal security, Frank would park his southern-reg car well outside the district and his loyalist fellow-conspirator would pick him up and drive to his estate.
Frank's paramount interest is pigeons - not fame, fortune, women, not the National Question, not even the National Answer - drink.
Heart of darkness
"Pigeons? Pigeons?" you might say incredulously. What is it about pigeons that would make a man risk his mortal coil by going to the heart of darkness that was Portadown? The answer, of course, is simply to commune with fellow fanciers. To talk pigeon, as it were. (And I don't mean the Ulster Scots variety.) To gently admire the wing span of this gak or that Beller. To ponder the origins of a skray. To admire the exquisite colouring of a cheq, a grizzle, a mealy, a slaten, or a red, blue or cheq pied. To reminisce wistfully on the truly great pigeon races of times past. To compare the great heroes and heroines in the pantheon of pigeons. To curse the cruel peregrine falcons for killing so many racing pigeons. And, basking in the afterglow at the end of a long and glorious day, to warmly remember them over a dram or two of whiskey and fondly indulge in the Best Pigeon of All Time debate - once again.
Feather fanciers
Of course there are those among you who may harbour prejudices against the feather fanciers, but whatever arrows you sling at the likes of Frank and John, they at least have the maturity to engage with their fellow creatures in an entertaining and fulfilling way without having recourse to killing them. Incidentally, while fanciers are deadly serious about their sport, they also have a sense of humour and one weekly newspaper, Pigeon Sport, carries its own "Page 3 Bird".
Back in the old days I imagine there was a great romantic notion attached to pigeon racing - a free bird soaring off to far away places. And indeed one might easily imagine the exquisite frisson of excitement as the fancier lets the flock off on its rush to the sky. But, alas, these days the sport is threatened, not just by the peregrine falcon, or by the ubiquitous drug problem (I'm told this has resulted in elderly substance-enhanced pigeons with the musculatures of buzzards achieving previously undreamt of times in races). Now, with rising living standards and competition from dominant televised sports, pigeon racing is struggling somewhat. While it is the national sport in Belgium and very big in Holland, there are now just some 2,000 registered pigeon racers in Dublin, one-fifth of the total for the whole of Ireland. And pigeon lofts are banned in local authority housing.
But on the bright side, there are still stalwarts like Frank and John, fighting against the odds to keep their old culture alive, suspending standing orders and taking bold risks for their lofty cause in sweet Portadown - where in darker days two fanciers held illicit rendezvous . . . like love-birds.