Mervin Griffin is a mythological heraldic beast with the body of a Lion and the wings and head of an Eagle. He lives in a nest in a tree on a small island on the River Thames in the South West London borough of Brentford, eating mainly dead rats and discarded MacDonalds packaging, and was first spotted by local resident Kevin Chippendale twenty three years ago.

Older What’s On readers may remember, in the Summer of 1984, that the inhabitants of Brentford started seeing a flying eagle-headed lion sitting on the gasometer next to the Waterman’s Arts Centre. The Brentford Griffin. That was me. Yes, I do find it difficult to meet other flying eagle-headed lions, thank-you for asking, even in a city as supposedly culturally diverse as London.

At the time, of course, the whole thing was treated as a joke. If I am honest, I can see why people might find the notion of a Brentford Griffin amusing. I suppose there is a certain amount of humour innate in adding the name of mythic being to the name of a mundane London borough. The Brentford Griffin – companion of The Acton Sasquatch. Associate of The Earlsfield Cyclops. Hilarious, I suppose, but not if you actually are the Brentford Griffin.

And I am The Brentford Griffin, as I believe I made clear. What is so funny? What are you? A Listings Magazine Journalist? And where do you live? Stoke Newington? You are The Stoke Newington Listings Magazine Journalist. I am the Brentford Griffin. Who is weeping now? It is you. Well, go on then, weep. You live in a tiny overpriced flat next to a cemetery that is collapsing from subsidence. I live in a tree in the River Thames. You cannot even fly! Does your head match your body? How tedious for you.

Stop sniggering. Is it the fact that I am a flying eagle-headed lion that amuses you? Or the fact that I chose to dwell in Brentford? If it is the latter, then you are an idiot. You know nothing! Brentford has changed a great deal in the quarter of a century since man first sighted my flying eagle-lion form. It might have seemed funny to imagine a majestic eagle-headed lion living in a tree in Brentford twenty five years ago, but now Brentford is different. You’re looking at nearly half a million for a three bedroom apartment.

But why? Brentford’s crime rate is above the national average, and many of the primary schools are under-performing. Admittedly there are luxurious apartments going up on the site of the old gasworks, where once I perched in my unassailable might, but it cannot be the lure of the Steam Museum that is sending Brentford prices skyrocketing. Nor can it be the much trumpeted reliability of the 237 and 267 bus routes! Nor the fact that Brentford is home to the headquarters of Tie Rack, the men’s neckwear manufacturer. Men will always need neckwear, and Brentford will always be the centre of British neckwear excellence. But that is not what has made it such a desirable address, nor is it the efforts of The Brentford Regeneration Partnership. No! No! And thrice No! Brentford blooms because of the memory of the Brentford Griffin!

A shadow falls across Brentford, the non-descript suburb of Hounslow! And it is my shadow! Brentford – eyrie of the Griffin! Brentford – cradle of legend! Brentford – suburb of the fantastic! Brentford… Oh, all this excitement has exhausted me. You haven’t got any dead rats have you? I left mine in the tree.

Mervin Griffin was talking to Stewart Lee