Walter Pigeon is a pigeon and lives in the sky above Trafalgar Square. He is bitterly opposed to pigeon persecution, humans and London’s Mayor, Ken Livingstone.

Mankind! You attempt to destroy us! And yet still we thrive. Seven years ago your tiny, moustachioed mayor banned the sale of seed to drive us from your Trafalgar Square. The he attacked us with trained falcons. Four years ago and the newt-loving Stalinist made it illegal to feed us. Yet still we come. Your cannot beat us! Behold! The commemorative statues of your leaders are covered with our excrement. Trafalgar Square is ours!

Yes! Trafalgar Square. Built to commemorate English victory in the battle of Trafalgar. But now it commemorates our pigeon brothers that you have slain. And soon it will commemorate not your victory over The French, but our victory over you! Your absurd military leader, Lord Nelson, stands atop his column, surveying the city, from his lofty perch. But look again, London! Your warrior’s hat is spattered with the dung of the feral dove! Your celebrated sea-lord’s face is streaked with the crusted droppings of the sky-lords, it expression of proud superiority rendered ridiculous! Do not imagine this toxic decoration happens by accident! Your idiot-seaman may have defeated The French but he cannot defeat us. And at your saviour’s feet four lions, a symbol of English power. Look again! Your lions are weak. We do not fear them. For us, they are just another receptacle for our refuse. You say Lion! I say My Toilet!

South west stands Sir Charles James Napier, forgotten, covered in excrement. South east stands Henry Havelock, forgotten, covered in excrement. North east stands George IV, remembered, but only by historians, and still covered in excrement, despite his kingly status. The pigeons’ droppings fall equally upon both rich and poor. All are our enemies.

To the east, George Washington, American, covered in excrement. Some pigeons said he should be spared, as we have no quarrel with the Americans. It was you that starved us and set birds of prey on us, not them. But the Americans are your allies, and so Washington must be desecrated too, just like all the others. And at Christmas, when your friends the Norwegians send you their Christmas tree, see how its verdant branches become encrusted with an unusual kind of Christmas decoration. The stain of your sin is upon them too.

North West stands Marc Quinn’s Alison Lapper Pregnant, a statue of a woman with no arms, an unborn human cub nestled in her belly. Quinn’s sculpture speaks of the dignity of ordinary humans, and asks us to consider who the real heroes are? The generals and admirals elsewhere in the square? Or someone like your Alison Lapper, battling every day against less celebrated foes than The French? It is a meaningful and moving work. Needless to say I take particular pleasure in dropping my sticky arse-mess on it whenever the opportunity presents itself. Our quarrel is with all of you! Old, young, men, women, leaders, civilians, able-bodied are armless, you will all feel the acid-kiss of our flying guano, raining down upon your faces like hot stinking justice! Do you like that? No! Of course not.

In the Northern wall of the square, the London Yard plaque sets Imperial Measurements in brass. The world was measured in British units. And those British units are covered in the bum-goo of pigeons.

Legislate all you like. Send out your attack dog Livingstone. We will send him back to you, defeated, shaken, and tarred and feathered with our filth.

Walter Pigeon was talking to Stewart Lee