Albert Stratton has 80 pigeons, 56 medals, and two bird sheds. His garden isn’t much bigger than a bus shelter but over the years he’s bred more than 200 of London’s favourite pests.
He doesn’t just breed them. He races them. “Back in the day I was a force to be reckoned with!” he exclaims. “All them plaques up there - we boshed them! Cups and everything! We really gave them a run for their money.”
It’s true. The window sill is jammed with shiny dove effigies and bird busts. Instead of family photos there is a keepsake box with the homing pigeons’ ankle rings. When I ask about his children Albert pauses for a second: “Kids? Oh yeah. I’ve got one pest at university.” The humour passes him right by.
Pigeon racing is a dying sport and with it go Albert’s friends. “When I started in 1983, there were over 20 of us at the clubhouse. Now there are only three left.” He looks up at the heavy sky waiting for the answer to drop down and lighten his load. “It’s just Ixy, Smivvy and me… We’re old now, that’s the trouble.”
Two years ago Albert had a stroke; his left leg straggles behind the rest of his body and he uses a walking stick to get around. He leaves one at the bottom of the stairs and one outside the back door next to the lofts. Albert, 64, used to be a plumber but these days getting up and dressed is a morning’s work.
“I spend more time with the pigeons now. It gives me something to do.” As he struggles to get off the loft step he lets out a frustrated sigh. It’s the first time I hear him complain and he masks his words in a whisper. “I tell you, what you don’t want is a stroke. It’s completely debilitating.”
