Tipplerman
By: Ken Burgess
Date: NTU Yearbook 1984
Category: General
What is a Tipplerman? I'll tell you what he is - he's a breed on his own, a
Psychiatrist would have a field day prying into his mind, to see what makes
him tick. What a nutcase people might well think when they see this lonely
figure gazing hopefully up into a black sky clucking and whistling or
shaking a corn tin, whilst he drives white pigeons from the top of his shed,
then curses because they don't come back to it. He's a loner, this man,
probably because he doesn't want anyone else to see him making a fool of
himself as he goes through his antics. When our man has finally achieved his
object by getting his flying kit down and into the shed, fed and watered
them, he will make his way into the house red nosed and shivering, declaring
to anyone in the household how much he enjoyed that training session. Kind
people make allowances for idiots, that's why our man's family will pretend
to listen to an action replay of the training flight supplying the hot tea
treatment: all our man needs is plenty of "tut tuts", and "well I never"
comments to keep him happy.
He's a bit of a lad at the pub is our man (another aspect of him is that the
place he decides to fly from is not very far from a pub) in the middle of a
debate at the bar he will suddenly leave his company and rush outside and
stand gazing skywards. Human nature being what it is passersby will stop and
also gaze upwards to see what's so important up there, but they don't see
the tiny dots that makes our man so happy, they think he's nutty gazing up
into the empty expanse of the sky, smiling away to himself. Beware anyone
who should happen to ask what he's looking for because a lecturer on the
merits of Tippler pigeons is never far away. On his return to the bar our
man will bore anyone who cares to listen, or is not quick enough to escape
in time on the merits of his kit of birds, "Nothing to touch 'em, doing
their training time a treat, National winners, if I ever saw better I can't
remember them, etc., etc." "Good for you!", says the bemused chap edging his
way to the safety of the door, "Hope they do you proud, should like to see
these Champions one day". A few days later our man enters the pub and
shooflies to the bar. "How them Champions of yours now mate" says the fellow
who received the lecture, he's not really interested, but opening the small
talk on a safe subject. "Pulled their necks" says our man, "They wasn't much
good after all". "What, didn't they, or couldn't they fly long enough for
you" says the now interested questioner. "They flew alright" says our man,
"But too long. I waited up until 2.00 a.m. and still couldn't get them down,
so I went to bed and got up at 5.00 a.m., then I got them down and in before
necking them". Now the question arises from smarty pants. "You tell me that
your hopes were for these birds to fly a long time, you train them to make
them fit enough to fly a long time, then when they do this time, you kill
them! Good game, good game.
Our Tipplerman is a very patient one, he will spend hours telling anyone he
can get to listen the arts and crafts of flying a kit of tipplers; he will
give it the full treatment and will only receive the odd nod as a response.
"Yes mate you let 'em out in the afternoon on their barley supper, and they
fly in the top until it's dark then they lower out. You put on your lights
and out with the droppers, this brings the kit down, then you trap and feed
them. This is training the birds for the `Big One', Competition Day. On this
day under the eye of your appointed referee you release your birds very
early in the morning and they are sown to rules laid down by the union. When
you think your birds have had enough you tell your referee, put your lights
on and get your birds down, and in within the hour, rings are checked by the
ref and time sheet completed." This one sided conversation usually takes
place at a bar, and the more ale going down means the story getting enlarged
by the minute. Our man is so pleased he has someone to listen to him, must
be a bright fella to be interested in Tipplerman talk. As our man pauses to
have a swig at his beer, his subject, not believing his luck at having a
chance to speak asks, "Where did you say the birds were racing from?" Thump
! !
Let's examine our Tipplerman in his role of head of the household, he's the
tops! As the family settles down after the tea meal our hero gets dressed
and off out for his pleasure: he'll spend the next couple of hours standing
about in the garden peering upwards, if he's lucky it won't be raining too
hard, or the wind blowing from the East, with its icy bite. Maybe he'll have
a bit of company, another Tipplerman with no birds to fly, and with no
excuse to stand in his own garden in the cold, may join in the fun, if he's
allowed. In some areas where there is high ground, groups of Tipplermen have
been known to gather, all gazing skywards, and having a private game of who
will catch the flu first. The head of the house will at intervals trudge
into the house leaving his badge of the sport all over the floor, feathers,
mud and droppings, demanding hot tea and sympathy. As his mind is on his
birds, doors are very often left open en route. "Why don't we go out" voices
wifey. "Good idea" says our man, "I've been wanting to see where my kit
rakes out over the other side of the estate, put your wellies on and I'll
take you." He's a joy in the summer months: "Don't want you kids in the
garden today, I've got youngsters out and I don't want them frightened by
your noise; no you can't hang the washing out either. Yes you can have some
scrubs in the garden, providing they don't grow tall and are not bright
colours". Rue is a good one to have!
"Sweetheart", says our man (part of the Tipplerman training is to be able to
say things like this when he wants a favour done). "My kit needs to go out
at three and as I won't be home perhaps you'll release them for me. I'll put
them in the basket, just open it up and they will fly out, Keep an eye on
them and if for any reason they should 'look in' (now follows a lecture on
the statement 'looking in' signs), open the other basket and the droppers
will go on the shed." Wifey is now on a loser. Our man comes home and sees
two of his kit flying, and one missing. Why didn't she see one split, a good
kit ruined, HELL. Or when he comes home kit is down in the flight with the
droppers. Why did you drop the kit, they were only bluffing, now the cock
droppers have been at the kit of hens, and they are ruined, HELL.
Ritchens are for preparing the rations during 'feed up' time. Peas are
counted out very carefully and a spoonful of this and that added. Water is
boiled then cooled, maybe some rue tea is made. The Tipplerman who is a good
cook has made a 'cake' and dried out some bread for crumbs; most of this can
be found in, and around, the oven when he's finished. Tonics are prepared in
the sink, they stain rather well with practice. Strange how `things' from
the water fountain won't go down the plughole. With his magic mixtures on
the best tray our man shooflies down the garden to his beloved ones. Wifey
joins in the ritual at this stage, sweeping up the spilt canary mix, etc.
Competention Day. The Saturday night has been anxious times for our man:
he's been searching his soul, "Have I done everything I could or should have
done to ensure a good effort from the kit". He won't be able to stand the
suspense of waiting to give the birds their final feed, so he'll have to go
the pub for an hour, or two. "Topped up" he'll go straight to the shed to
feed and water the chosen kit; he may spend an hour or so deciding which one
to drop out if he's trained more than required. And so to bed, alarm tested
and set.
Wifey of course will be responsible that the alarm is heard. Alarm goes off,
straight down the garden and the shed lights on, a good look at the birds
and fresh water offered. Tea will be drank by the gallon this day, and
release time. As the ref arrives, the dog goes potty ensuring that everyone
should be able to join in!
This is the Tippler Man - recognise yourself?
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