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A bit of fiction (14-12-23)

A bit of fiction

I say it often, what makes pigeon sport attractive to me is that everyone can be 'the fellow fancier'. After all, pigeon fanciers are of all classes. You don't have to be young, athletic, handsome, strong or male to perform.
Because you can't really speak of a sport? Hmm.

-Take Limburg Jan, for example. Over 90, but still outstanding in the long distance.
-Also the two sisters, barely 15, but with already scoring ability and the billionaire, according to some even 'multi', who is crazy about pigeons.
-In the town of Ter Aar a 24-year-old excels in races such as Sint Vincent, Agen and even Barcelona.
-Once upon a time, even Prince Bernhard was a 'fancier', as old results show.
-One races with 400 pigeons, the other has 4 loft managers, yet another, like L from Itegem has no more than 7 racers.
-In Belgium you have that priest who still gets a few people in the church on Sundays. He is a pigeon fancier, plays sprint and that explains why his masses are shorter than Madonna's mini skirts.
-A special case is Edmond

I've known him since the time when you still called the teachers 'sir' instead of Frank and John. When you chose Lumoemba or Kasavubu. We were in the same class as Hannibal. That's what we called her, but her real name was Els, an 18-year-old with a breathtaking bosom, which she often flaunted exuberantly through a deep-cut cleavage.
For example, Edmond once had to write five English words on the blackboard with an 'o' in it that sounded different each time.
After 'no, son, do' it stopped and he dropped his chalk in despair. Els, who for some obscure reason sat in the front row of all the teachers, flew up, bent down to pick it up, with the result that Edmond had to cling to the board because his gaze had fallen into the fathomless depths of her cleavage.
Later, the principal would be surprised why so few pieces of chalk remained intact in our class.


Edmon had four hobbies: Expensive cars, beautiful women, beautiful women and pigeons, not necessarily in this order.
From what those cars must have cost, you could feed an entire village in Ethiopia for years. Because he had a great opinion of himself, he often looked in the mirror and it seemed as if he thought 'this is more or less how God must have intended it'.
When he visited me later, he was always accompanied by female 'beauty'.

Some of them weren't so squeaky anymore, but they did wear appropriate designer clothes and dangerously deep cleavage. As if to show that aging meat still mattered. One of them was so covered in mascara, eye-liner, lipstick and other make-up that it must have been sufficient for all the whores of Las Vegas to use it for a month. The younger conquests were not my type. The kind that drinks tea with a little finger up. They seemed more satisfied with their appearance with less need to display their wares.

Many thought Edmond had a thick neck, but I got along well with him. We went out together many times. I always had to laugh. A pauper who gave the impression of being overflowing with money. You accepted that, all the more so because he was also fair to the other person.
I still remember that trip in his 5 meter long Ford Mustang to Antwerp.
As soon as we parked, the female beauties rushed at us from all sides. Edmond pointed to me: 'You haven't seen HIS car, the car from that handsome guy over there. That's my friend. His father is immensely rich."
Immediately I had to comb the prettiest girls out of my hair, so to speak.
I liked a super beautiful American blonde best.
"Is your father really that rich?" she asked as she moved even closer to me. "Even richer," I said, "but I do feel a bit insecure now. With girls, I never know if they'll choose me or my father's money." She replied with a kiss.
When it was time to say goodbye, I whispered in her ear. "You know my father now, may I know who you are?"
"Clint Eastwood's daughter," she said. Those blondes aren't that stupid after all. Edmond and I kept in touch.

He would remain a womanizer first class.
Female beauties around? He seemed to undress them with his eyes.
The story went that in the street where he lived, all the young ladies over the age of 18 who were still virgins could run faster than him.
But that, like so many stories, will be exaggerated.
He was picky, though.
This had been the experience of many hungry but underprivileged housewives whom he did not give a glance and who had no other choice than to rely on the milkman and the greengrocer in daily life.

Edmond was getting older. He kept coming, but the feminine beauty would make way for a 'pigeon mate'. Well, 'mate?'.  Hmm.  
Actually, they were two opposites.
Edmond remained the cheerful optimist of yesteryear with the proverbial glass half full. His mate was a slanderer, always afraid of illness and even more so death.
Especially 'the dreaded disease', frightened him.
Despite the fact that Edmond had repeatedly assured him that he had never met anyone who had died from it.
When his mate was whining again, Edmond shouted: 'Stop it now, old chap, you survive everybody here.'
His mate: 'Bet for 5,000 euros that I would NOT?'
This caused Edmond to sink into deep contemplation for some time. 5,000 euros? Not bad, but something wasn't right. Then he got it. "How am I ever going to get that money if I win?" he wondered. Of course, he had a point there.

Today, there is nothing left from Edmond. He now walks a bit forward, limping a bit and puts leaflets in mailboxes.
He has lost everything. His youth, his pigeons, his cars, his wife and his reputation. He lives on welfare. All alone. In a very small house, in a very big city. And no woman even looks at him.
The moral? There is no such thing as the 'average pigeon fancier' or the 'average champion'. The ‘pigeon champ’ can be everybody. That's why you can be very wrong about them. But one piece of advice: Beware of those quiet ones who don't talk but listen. Those are the most dangerous ones.