BIRDMAGEDDON!
The boys were not very familiar with the Capital City. They’d heard rumours that breakfast didn’t even exist there, so they were sure they’d made the right decision to immerse themselves in a giant breakfast bowl on the way. However, with a full bath, and three passengers swishing around in its Readybix stew, the Tub Grub 2000 was now extremely heavy. And Declan’s motorbike was no Harley-Davidson*, so they struggled to reach the meagre speed of ten miles per hour. On stretches of downhill road, this would increase to around eighty miles per hour, making the weighty cargo almost impossible to control.
As they crawled through the countryside, they got hoots and hollers from passers-by. Not always positive. Natives from the towns of Dromod, Mullingar and Rathowen wolf-whistled them. A trio of speed-walking grannies from Kinnegad made obscene hand gestures as they passed. And a labradoodle* from Longford mistook the bath for a porta-potty.
Their progress was horribly slow. Time was against them. And soon, something else was against them too – birds!
For several miles, flocks of the feathered fellas had been gathering overhead, making Padraic anxious.
‘Why is that bunch of crows following us, Martin?’
‘Murder!’ Trevor blurted.
‘What?! Why would they want to kill me?’ Martin squealed.
‘No, it’s called a murder of crows, not a bunch.’
‘Oh. Well, you can’t just shout “murder!” like that. Not when I’m only wearing underpants.’
‘Yeah, Trev,’ Padraic agreed, ‘that’s the last thing we need, a fear of— Duck!’
‘Ducks?’ asked a confused Trevor. But when he saw Padraic and Martin quickly submerge themselves, he realized that ‘Duck’ was a command rather than a bird.
The crows were starting to attack, diving at the bath.
With their heads bobbing in and out of the water, the boys tried shooing them away with all their might.
‘Shoo off! Shoo off, for flip sake, ya mad birds!’ Padraic yelled. ‘What do they flippin’ want?’
‘It’s the Readybix!’ Martin soon realized. ‘They must know how delicious it is!’
‘Eat faster!’ urged Padraic, trying to force more of the sloppy cereal into his gob.
But the number of crows kept growing. There were hundreds of them. It was like a mass murder of crows. They dived at the bath, flapping and squawking, as they nabbed beakfuls of breakfast.
Other types of birds were joining the party too.
‘Look! Seagulls!’ I exclaimed, as I strolled alongside the bath.
‘Maybe that means we’re getting closer to dubby-Dublin!’ cheered Loopy Lou, bounding along in his clown shoes.
‘Or that every bird in the country has heard about the free Readybix,’ added Crunchie.
On the motorbike, Declan was getting distracted by the feathered fracas. ‘What the hell are ye doin’ back there? It’s not a flippin’ bird bath I’m carrying!’
Martin yelled back to him, ‘Give it everything ya got, Declan! It’s Birdmageddon back here!’
‘Hold on, here we go . . .’ said Padraic, who was holding a rock he’d snatched from the road. ‘Don’t fail me now . . . arm!’
He flung the rock desperately towards their aerial aggressors and – Whack! – he struck Declan square on the head.
‘What ya do that for?!’ Martin yelped.
‘I was trying to hit two birds with one stone.’
The blow knocked Declan forward, and the motorbike swerved violently across the road. They narrowly avoided a telephone pole before veering into a roadside ditch.
Splosh!
The boys groaned in a daze, and Trevor clutched his leg where he’d received a small bruise. ‘Well, at least now we know why they’re called a “murder” of crows,’ he muttered, as he pulled himself gingerly out of the tub.
The crash had scared off the birds for the moment, but the attack had left Team Trepdem with a new problem.
‘Me bike!’ Declan spluttered, as he shook his head clear.
They hauled the motorbike out of the dirty ditch and Declan pushed his foot repeatedly down on the starter pedal.
‘She won’t start,’ he grumbled.
‘Is the key in it?’ asked Padraic unhelpfully.
‘Yes, ya numpty, of course the key is in it. The engine is wrecked. Why wouldn’t the key be in it?’ barked Declan.
‘I was just making conversation, to be honest. I feel like we don’t have many conversations.’
Martin glanced at his watch, looking crestfallen. ‘Well, lads, we’ve had a good run. But there’s only half an hour left, and we’ve still got a long way to go. We’ll never make it there on time now, but I think we’ve all learned some wise lessons for the future from this experience.’
‘Like what?’ Trevor spurted. ‘When again in life will we need to know what not to put in a mobile bath to avoid an attack by birds?’
The boys slumped against the side of the tub – tired, defeated and dripping in milk.
‘Our day will come, boys,’ said Padraic cheerfully.
‘Maybe it won’t. How can you be sure we won’t always just be a bunch of losers?’ replied Trevor.
‘Padraic’s right,’ said Martin. ‘Every dog has his day. That’s what my mam always says.’
Suddenly Declan sat up. He had a determined look in his eye, and a plan on his mind. He hopped to his feet, stuck his fingers between his lips, and blew a long, strange, piercing whistle that washed over the countryside like a wave.
‘Me ears!’ complained Trevor. ‘Quit it, Mannion!’
‘Every dog has his day!’ Declan exclaimed. ‘And this dog’s day is today!’
He pulled out some rope from under the seat of his bike and grinned at them. ‘We’ve got rope! Do we still have hope?’
‘We’re hopeless at hopelessness!’ replied Martin defiantly.
‘Then let’s get this Grub-Tub to Dub!’
Moments later, the sound of dogs approaching filled the air – a sound they remembered very clearly from being chased around the Mannion home. Through the fields, the boys caught sight of an army of greyhounds galloping towards them.
Team Trepdem was back in action!
Soon, they were lashing the dogs to the front of the motorbike like skinny reindeer, and in no time they were road-ready. The boys bounded back into the bath, and Declan mounted his motorbike.
‘Mush! My beautiful hounds, mush!!!’ he called, imploring the dogs to move. And move they did. With incredible swiftness. In completely opposite directions!
‘Hold! My stupid hounds, hold!!!’
The team looked worried.
‘I guess they’re used to chasing something, not carrying something,’ observed Padraic.
‘Good idea, O’Dwyer!’ Declan agreed, putting his fingers to his lips for another weird whistle.
‘Was it?’ Padraic asked. ‘Yeah, it was, I suppose. I’m just the kind of lad who’s never far from a great idea.’
In no time, Declan’s horde of hares was racing towards them. The boys tied them to the front of the bike with longer ropes than they’d used on the greyhounds.
‘Mush, me beautiful hares, mush!’ yelled Declan. And finally they were off!
Martin, Padraic and Trevor clung to their chariot, followed by birds, being hauled by the bike, that was pulled by the dogs, who were chasing the hares, who were running because they . . . just love the wind in their hair. It was a carrot-and-horse scenario*. But at immense speed. And there was a mobile flavour bath involved.
They hung on for dear life as they raced towards Dublin. They screeched around corners with their tyres squealing and sparks flying as the bath grazed lamp posts and side-swiped post boxes. A couple of Taste Tanks got knocked off, but there was no time to stop.
‘Four minutes left!’ called Trevor, as they clattered through the city, causing cars to skid and swerve to avoid them. Dubliners stopped and stared at the sight, and Martin waved at them merrily.
‘We’re from the Countryside!’ he yelled proudly.
They swerved around another corner, nearly capsizing once more – but finally the Convention Centre came into view.
‘One minute to twelve!’ called Trevor.
With a mighty bash, they mounted the kerb, and young scientists leaped left and right as they burst through the main doors of the Convention Centre, led by hares, greyhounds, followed by birds, and covered in milk – just as the clock struck noon.