Flamingogeddon: #Bristol Under Siege (and Slightly Irritated) by Plastic Avian Overlords.
I've lived a peripatetic life since my early twenties, and settling here in Bristol became a key point in my journey. It's now the longest I've ever stayed anywhere. In roughly a decade, I've seen it go from relatively sane to, well, whatever it is now—a city with a small-town mentality but big ideas, trying to become a real city like Manchester, for example. With the final destination looming somewhere on the horizon, I've long decided to look at life in two lanes: Lane one: shit happens. Lane two: shit doesn't happen. You know, keep it simple.
Bristol is, to me, at least, very much in the first lane. The daily news is full of it. The crime, the grime, the reason for no reason, and finding a reason in the rhythm of the ridiculous. So, I’d forgotten all about the flamingos appearing randomly on College Green until it was brought back to my attention. Perhaps because like most things that happen in Bristol, it floated by me at the time as nothing more than the hallucinatory effect of sleep deprivation, of which I’ve become accustomed nowadays.
So, Bristol's Light Festival 2025. A dazzling display of… well, something, if anyone could remember it past the existential dread it induced. Turns out, the city's collective "is this all there is?" moment was swiftly answered by a glorious plastic invasion. Yes, while the curated luminescence flickered in the twilight, a rogue flock of flamingos, presumably escaped from a suburban garden gnome convention, descended upon College Green. One might have mistaken it for a high-concept art installation, had the accompanying soundtrack not been the screeching of a thousand confused pigeons and the indignant squawks of the "Bristol vs. Everything" brigade, who, bless their cotton socks, can now add "flamingo rights" to their ever-growing list of grievances, eclipsing even Eddie Colston in sheer, unadulterated absurdity.
Because, let's face it, nothing says "cultural capital" quite like a swarm of plastic lawn ornaments sparking a civic meltdown. Move over, Banksy, the flamingos landed, and they brought with them the sort of performative outrage that makes one wonder if Bristolians secretly run on a battery of righteous indignation. Who needs cutting-edge light shows when you can have the delightful spectacle of a city collectively losing its marbles over a gaggle of plastic birds? It’s a testament to the sheer, unbridled chaos that is modern life, or, more likely, just another Tuesday in Bristol.
Apparently, these weren't your garden-variety, kitschy lawn ornaments. Oh no. These were "Ramandu's Table," a thousand-strong army of plastic avians, deployed by the artist Bruce Munro as a "vibrant depiction of some of nature’s most flamboyant and gregarious creatures."
Now, I'm no ornithologist, but I'm pretty sure real flamingos don't come with visible seam lines and a disconcerting tendency to reflect the harsh glare of the city's streetlights like a thousand tiny disco balls of doom.
The official line, as peddled by the Light Festival PR machine, was that these plastic pelicans are a "powerful statement" about single-use plastics. You know, by being single-use plastics. A bit like protesting deforestation by building a bonfire in the middle of a redwood forest. Subtlety, it seems, is not Mr. Munro's strong suit. However, fair play to him for artistic flair.
"But the hues!" cry the art critics, desperately trying to justify their existence. "The dawn hues! The ever-changing dawn hues!" Yes, the flamingos did change colour. So does my mood after a particularly long queue at the post office, but I don't demand a light festival in my honour.
And then there's the "consternation." Oh, the consternation! Apparently, some Bristolians, bless their cotton socks, were upset that these majestic plastic birds were, well, plastic. You'd think they'd never seen a Tupperware container before.
"It's hypocrisy!" screamed one outraged resident, brandishing a reusable coffee cup (presumably made from recycled unicorn tears). "They're supposed to be raising awareness about plastic waste, but they're made of plastic!"
Well, dear reader, you can't argue with that logic. It's like a vegan butcher selling tofu burgers shaped like sirloin steaks. A delicious, but philosophically confusing, paradox.
Meanwhile, the "C-Scales" installation, a shimmering wall of discarded CDs and DVDs, was apparently "painting the landscape and visitors with shimmering threads of light." Which, in reality, translates to blinding anyone who dares to look directly at it with a laser-like intensity. I'm told it was a "reimagining" of a Sydney Harbour installation, which causes me to imagine Sydney Harbour as now a giant, holographic landfill of discarded 1960-90s Rolf Harris ‘didgeridoo’ albums.
And let’s not forget the Don Featherstone inspiration. Yes, the man who brought us the original plastic flamingo. A man who, were he alive today, would surely have gazed upon this spectacle with a mixture of pride and utter bewilderment.
So, Bristol, braced itself. The plastic flamingo apocalypse was upon us, and we embraced the absurdity, as we squinted through the shimmering CD-induced blindness, while remembering: it's all art. Or something. Meanwhile…….
In other news:
Local pigeons started nesting in the plastic flamingo's hollow legs, creating a surprisingly effective avant-garde birdhouse.
The council considered issuing a warning about the risk of flamingo-related sunburn.
Someone was rumoured to have started selling "I survived Ramandu's Table" t-shirts. Made of organic cotton, naturally. You know about Ramadu, don’t you?
That celestial retiree with a serious case of morning star-itis? You'd think after a lifetime of, you know, being a star, he'd be a bit more chill about breakfast. But no, every dawn, he's up there, all glowy and demanding his fireberries like a toddler who's missed his nap. I imagine the other stars rolling their celestial eyes, muttering, "Here he goes again," as he throws a tantrum if they're not perfectly ripe. Honestly, you'd think he'd have learned a bit of patience after all those centuries, but apparently, even stardust can't cure a grumpy old star's breakfast cravings. So, maybe a few plastic flamingos would have cheered him up, if nothing else.
Remember, in the words of the great philosopher, Don Featherstone: "Pink is a state of mind." Especially when it's made of high-density polyethylene.
Meanwhile, for those still living the high life in their ’shit happens’ existence, this philosophy, favoured by the chronically disorganised and the perpetually late, posits that life is a capricious, fecal-strewn obstacle course. Proponents believe that meticulously planning a picnic simply invites a flock of rogue seagulls, each equipped with a tactical laxative created especially for them.
Not me though. Within the safe confines of my numerous walls I discovered the key that lies in the strategic deployment of a "shit-deflection aura." It’s simple. While you cannot control the universal toilet, you can certainly invest in a very sturdy, and aesthetically pleasing, umbrella. And this, dear friends is how ‘shit does not happen’.
