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Strange fellow fanciers (25-01-2023)

Friday morning January 20, 2023. It is snowing heavily outside. I used to kill time updating pedigrees. Because the fuller they are, the less voids, the more eager people become for your pigeons, I soon found out.
Now it hardly interests me and I prefer to read a Scandinavian thriller, especially when the knees play up again.
So I was sitting behind the window with a Lars Keppler in hand when my attention was caught by a passing, slow-moving fat Mercedes.


Was he supposed to be here or was he holding back because of the snow? I would soon know and stretched my neck in such a way that it would not have been out of place for a giraffe.
"You look like Louis Janssen," said my wife, who had not lost my curiosity.
Louis would have been happy with a big Mercedes, although he would rather have a German license plate. Sighing, I stood up and made my way to the front door.
I estimated him in his late thirties. Face boyishly handsome but also a bit lived-in like a rock star.
Because of 'sex, drugs and rock and roll?'
And she? I had never seen anything more beautiful. Luscious build with legs up to her armpits. She made you gasp, the kind of girl your mother used to warn you about.
Or what she was always warned about in the pulpit. You could find bad girls in abundance, according to the pastor, in the local dance hall 'Den Bonten Os'.
So you can guess where you could find us on Sunday night.
A better advertisement was unthinkable. Sometimes the wicked thought occurred to me that the pastor was being paid for it.
In order to stay focused, I decided not to look at the woman anymore.

'Ha Schaerlaeckens' the not unhandsome young guest greeted me.
"That's my name too," I said. Apparently he had never heard of introducing himself. “Maybe I missed something?” I continued. He looked at me questioning ly. I again: 'You could have e-mailed, for example, whether it was convenient'.
“Is it convenient?” he asked now. I didn't get a chance to answer. My wife tugged at my sleeve: "Don't stand there in the cold without a coat."
I beckoned the visit to follow. Even though they came unannounced, you could hardly leave them in the snow.

The handsome young man took off his coat and sat down. She also took off her coat, but should not have done so.
Involuntarily and unconsciously my eye fell into the fathomless depth of her decollete, which made me dizzy so much that I had to cling to the corner of a table.
But that did not end my suffering.
I saw how she struggled to control a breast that threatened to escape from her blouse at any moment.
I turned around, decided to concern myself only with the good-looking but slightly decrepit young man and asked, as some doctors do,
"What can I do for you?" He produced a note, read off two well-known ring numbers and asked if he could buy a youngster from each. A cock and a hen. Because, he asked, if he mated them together, it really couldn't go wrong, could it? And he looked at me with a look as tense as the elastic in Princess Megan's underwear. The wife of the other Harry, you know. He also understood that he had to pay for it, but quality could cost something and money was his least problem.

I now sat with my face towards him, so I could fully concentrate and decided to make him wiser. I said he was doing it all wrong and gave some examples of famous pigeons, supers so to speak, that he should also know.
They were pigeons that had performed enormously before and now served as breeders. You can easily breed 5 rounds from a pigeon every year and suppose there were two supers out of every 10 youngsters, that would mean 10 supers in five years. And, I asked, who has 10 supers?
And now I'm only talking about the offspring of ONE excellent pigeon. What I want to say should be clear: You have a better chance with a youngster from excellent racers, but no more than a chance. You never have certainty.
In other words, giving a lot of money for a beeper that has not yet proven anything is little less than Russian roulette. That's why you better act differently.

What I advised the good looking fancier was this: Don't give an excessive amount of money to a single youngster that has not yet proved anything, but buy several and cheaper youngsters. Compare it to a lottery, more tickets more chances.
It is understandable that a champion is different and only interested in a youngster of the 'top pigeon'. He also usually sells himself and then a 'lost' investment hurts less. Moreover, one good pigeon does not make all the difference to him.
Because he already has good ones; that's why he's a champion. The non champion, however, would do better to increase his chances by buying several and cheaper pigeons or eggs. At least, that's my idea.

If you can get a pigeon somewhere for a voucher, don't pretend you know anything about it, but leave it to the donor.Because if you choose yourself and it is rubbish, the chance of that is by far the greatest, then the donor can always say 'you chose yourself'.
You shouldn't give him that opportunity.Bringing my receipts is always expensive and I am far from happy with that.Because every time someone comes to exchange such an expensive voucher for a pigeon I get the jitters.Because it is almost impossible to meet the high expectations of the man.Because of course he expects a super for the amount of money he paid.And you can only try to give someone a good one.


You think otherwise? No problem. I really don't own the (pigeon) wisdom. But then do me a favor. Picture a famous pigeon, a true super, and ask the owner how many brothers or sisters of that pigeon he has who are just as good.

He left and had a last question. ‘If I had ever met Leo Heremans in person?'’
‘Yes' I said. "Then you must say hello to him."
"I will," I promised.(This cannot be true, it crossed my mind. Seen Leo in person? So what? I also saw my grandfather alive when he fell off his bicycle as drunk as three Swiss together. Those are completely unimportant things.)
'Do you know me?' asked the man.
'No why?' "Don't you need to know my name to say hello to Heremans?"
'What's your name?'
"Okay Sjef," I said. Completely distraught, I showed both the door and they were gone. Leaving me in a cloud of perfume.