My ex-wife and I were dividing our possessions during the divorce when she suddenly declared, “You take this one! You two are cut from the same cloth!”
And so, a magnificent cockatoo with the feline name Marquis—promptly renamed Kipper by my mum—ended up in our home.
Technically, the parrot wasn’t part of our shared assets since he’d lived in her house long before me. Kipper was perfect in every way, except for one glaring flaw: he refused to speak. No matter how hard we tried, coaxing a single word out of him was hopeless. He stayed as silent as a spy under interrogation. Only my grandfather disapproved of our efforts.
“Leave the bird alone!” he’d grumble. “Don’t you have anyone else to talk to?”
Perhaps that’s why the two of them got along so well. Grandad appreciated Kipper as a quiet, attentive companion, and Kipper adored tilting his head to listen whenever Grandad tinkered in the shed or settled down with a pint in the evening.
Eventually, we decided to consult our neighbour Margaret, who kept a pair of chatty budgies and fancied herself an expert in teaching birds to talk. Needless to say, Kipper left her speechless—though not in the way we expected.
She was absolutely smitten! For ages, she circled him, clapping her hands and muttering encouragement before reaching out to pat his head while he dozed.
Kipper cracked one eye open, shot her a withering look, and suddenly announced in crisp, clear English:
“Bugger off, you daft old bat!”
Margaret nearly fainted, but from that moment on, Kipper wouldn’t stop talking. It was like the joke about the mute boy who, after ten years of silence, finally complained, “This soup’s too salty!” When asked why he’d never spoken before, he replied, “Well, it was alright till now!”
And so it was with Kipper. Silent for years, then suddenly, he found his voice—or rather, Grandad’s. My grandfather, a tough old bloke who’d driven lorries in the war and spent his life as a carpenter, had a vocabulary as colourful as his temper. Why Kipper chose *him* to mimic, no one knew—but the parrot swore like a navvy, with perfect rhythm and gusto.
Margaret was horrified but undeterred. She took it upon herself to reform him, arriving almost daily to drill him in proper English manners using some fancy foreign technique she’d read about.
Grandad was livid but gritted his teeth, only muttering under his breath once she’d left. And—no surprises—her lessons did nothing. After months of failure, she finally gave up, much to his relief.
Then one evening, as we sat having tea, Margaret dropped by to check on Kipper. The moment he spotted her, he perked up and declared, “Be kind to your bird! Kipper’s a treasure!”
It was the exact phrase she’d spent months trying to teach him. Even delivered in Grandad’s gravelly tone, her joy was uncontainable—she practically wept with pride. Kipper, however, just squinted at her and added, same as ever:
“Should’ve taught the bloody cat instead, you barmy old trout.”
