The feral parakeets of London

The Feral Parakeets of London. I’ve always thought that would make a good band name or at least concept album title.

One of my absolutely favourite things about London are the parakeets. I first saw a couple in Regents Park when I was visiting for a few days with my then girlfriend. We were caught in a torrential rain storm with no umbrella and nowhere near to shelter so we stood still in the middle of the park and kissed and laughed in the rain. As we stopped we spotted a couple of tropical birds flying overhead. We thought we’d hallucinated. Then we saw the biggest woodpecker ever and seriously thought we’d entered an alternative realm. We expected to walk into a flamingo.

I hmmmed at the theory that the original pair belonged to Jimi Hendrix

I later read up on these park parakeets and realised that they are A London Thing. I hmmmed at the theory that the original pair belonged to Jimi Hendrix and that he – the big ole hippy – freed them. The idea that one pair (belonging to anyone) has spawned what is now a colony all over the city and beyond – seems far-fetched. But then, where did they come from? My favourite theory is that a load either escaped or were released when The African Queen was being shot at Ealing Studios in the fifties. I’m sure Bogie and Hepburn would have smirked at their legacy if this is true. I’ve thought about contacting bird experts, you know ornowhatsits, and investigating further as to how such a thing might have happened, but I actually love the mystery of these squawky gits.

After I moved back to London I began seeing them in pretty much every park or large green area I visited. Then when I saw them from the window of the ex-council flat I was living in I knew they were blanketing this city. Spotting these bright green creatures sitting in the trees where underneath you’d regularly find used condoms and crack wrappers, I thought to myself: “this is like seeing a unicorn on a rubbish heap”. These bastards will thrive anywhere. They own this burg. There are estimated to be upwards of 50,000 parakeets throughout London now. I’m not surprised; I think I’ve seen most of them.

Now I’m living in Clapham, I see these tropical critters everywhere. I hear them more than see them – they make a very specific racket. The other day I saw three separate massive flocks going from tree to tree on the edge of Clapham Common. Parakeets can number in the thousands in a single flock. They are literally awesome. I feel such comfort whenever I spot or hear these birds. They’re out of place and uncanny but they own their shit.

When I see anything feathered or furred in our streets and gardens I’m enchanted. It’s not only that I’m a sucker for animals and wildlife (I really am), but I identify with anything cute, yet wild, surviving in this city. When I lock eyes with a massive mangy fox I recognise something in its feral beauty; a bit battered, a bit scary – it’s a magical moment and an acknowledgement of a shared existence against the odds. The goofy yet resourceful squirrel bounding through the too-long grass falling ungracefully over its own feet is me. But mostly I recognise myself in the shock of green of the parakeet: slightly wrong, a bit of a mirage moment when you see me, but unquestionably utterly fabulous, owning it and the world around me, and making a god awful cackle letting everyone know that I am here. C