Birds are bastards at the best of times, with all that undignified tweeting and flapping about the place, not to mention their stupid spindly legs. But at least they’re not that big, right?
Wrong!
Cryptozoology loves big versions of small animals. We’ve had big cats, spiders and monkeys and now YetiSmack is going to slap a massive bird around.
The ‘Thunderbird’ is a staple of Native American legend and is reputed to still be soaring in the vast American skyline to this day. Sightings differ wildly, with some people describing a dinosaur-like beastie, whilst others are basically gargantuan versions of normal birds.
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| This allegedly shows a Thunderbird stealing an elephant from a private zoo in the US. Unverified via email 2011. |
Coming from Aberdeen, I am no stranger to massive birds. The seagulls are like flying hyenas; screaming and fighting and crapping all over the shop. My mate once saw one dig up a corpse in the Kirkyard. It tried hauling the body away, but it was too heavy, so it just thieved the guy’s wedding ring and ate his eyes instead.
Seriously, this happened on a Friday night in Aberdeen about 11ish and he had two mates with him as witnesses. These guys work in another country and don’t have internet and don’t come back to Scotland often as they’re minted and have a big jet and a yacht with a helipad and two pool tables and the yacht’s guarded by a tiger, and they don’t have a phone cos the CIA are after them. So I can’t corroborate this event with them, but it seems perfectly likely.
As I said: birds are bastards.
So imagine a bird ten times the size of a Torrydactyl massivo (the Latin term for the Aberdonian seagull). This Thunderbird would be one mean predator, and perhaps the most dangerous thing on the planet! Should I really be going after thumping this thing?
Yes. I can’t fanny out of this challenge.
When I think of Thunderbirds I think of a shite TV show populated by wobbly puppets fudding around in Airfix models. Utter pish. I also think of the rubbish effort I made at creating the HQ of the stupid family. What a waste of time. I should have been preparing for more important pursuits. Like YetiSmack!
Frankly, the word ‘Thunderbird’ itself has been done a disservice by being eternally associated with these boring dead-eyed gonks, as it is an awesome term for a creature. Some birds are potentially cool; eagles and pelicans for example, and thunder is almost always badass.
Therefore, the very mention of a ‘Thunderbird’ conjures up thoughts of a truly epic creature.
It’s like if you heard about an ‘Ironwolf’ or a ‘Machinegunshark’. You’d think: Christ that sounds pretty impressive. And you’d be right.
‘Fuckdragon’ is another one.
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| Two species of Thunderbird: (L) giant predatory bird and (R) primordial pterosaur, apparently holding hands in harmony. Amy (age 5) 2011. |
For some reason I allowed my niece, Amy, to do a technical drawing to illustrate the two Thunderbird species. I gave her all the most up-to-date data and photographs and let her loose on Paint for an hour, despite it being her bedtime.
The above is the result. While not totally shite, it is mostly bollocks. Evidently, she's been watching a lot of Pingu lately, and there is no evidence for the use of wee pink bows, or any headgear, amongst Thunderbirds.
I've had to include it or she'll go ape-shit next time I'm looking after her. But let's just say that the sun is happier about this pic than I am.
Well, it seems that aside from the badass name, Thunderbirds have a badass reputation amongst pilots in particular. A contact with the USAF informed me that in the last thirty years there have been 84 unreported ‘incidents’ in US airspace involving Thunderbirds and aircraft.
It is an astonishing statistic, I know.
More shocking though is the nature of these ‘incidents’. It seems the Thunderbirds are randy little sods and will attempt to have it away with almost anything in the air; be it bird or machine.
I don’t normally report on such mucky subjects, and I promise to keep this as PG certificate as possible, but it seems the Thunderbirds are nympho sex-pests who want nothing more than to bang the arse off a 747.
This will come as no surprise to most people, as many plane journeys can feel like a giant bird is ragging the fuselage. And how would you know? You’re 30,000 feet up and no rear view mirror.
Naïve WW2 pilots thought they were just messing around and allowed the smaller Thunderbirds to have a 'backie' as they trained in air combat manoeuvres. The backies were, of course, far from innocent.
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| A young Thunderbird playing silly buggers with a US military plane in the 40s. Captain S archive. |
Like a wee puppy being a ‘naughty boy’, these antics were not taken seriously, until larger Thunderbirds caught onto the japes and joined in. The puppy on the leg had become a big massive shagging bear.
My USAF (retired) source, Captain S, tells me the problem came to a head in the 90s when Air Force One was given a serious rogering over the Rockies by a particularly determined Thunderbird. A Secret Service mannie had to hang out the window and shoo it away with a big rolled up newspaper.
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| A Thunderbird 'latches on' for re-entry. Similar to the infamous 'Air Force Dong' incident. Captain S archive. |
Thunderbird fancies its chances, then lead it off on a wild goose chase away from the main flight paths, until the Thunderbird is too tired to continue its advances and returns home to its nest all knackered and probably with some serious ball-ache.
It seems cruel to lead them on, but the decoy operation is estimated to have saved hundreds of lives, and they don't have to mop the planes down nearly as much. Frustrating these flying menaces is a necessity, and me punching one is a must!
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| Two rare white Thunderbirds 'double-team' an unsuspecting plane. Depraved. Captain S archive. |
Captain S met me at the airport in Arizona and whickled me off to a private airstrip out in the desert. He’d seen a nest and wanted to buzz me past it so I could get some photos.
He called them ‘T-birds’ which made me instantly dubious.
I tried explaining that I just wanted to punch the cryptid: that was the deal. I had nothing against its young, I simply wanted to give it a booting. I thought he’d understand this seeing as one had effectively molested his commander-in-chief, but he was annoyed at me, and told me he’d not let me do anything of the kind.
He wanted to preserve these horny beggars, and thought the decoy missions had tired them out to the point that they were no longer mating!
Good!
He reckoned it was like having too much nudiness on the internet, that the Thunderbirds were having too much fun chasing after the delights of man-made transport, and weren’t getting down to the proper business of making a good Christian home, and producing more little T-birds 'within the bonds of holy matrimony'.
I pointed out that rude stuff on the net hadn’t slowed our population any, but he was adamant. He was planning on baptising the creatures by dumping a bucket of holy water on them from above.
Why? Oh just because a new found spirituality would make them monogamous, and inclined to stay home of an evening and mate, rather than getting cheap thrills with an airborne fake floozy.
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| A decoy tempts a young Thunderbird. I have no idea why they've painted wabs on it. Captain S archive. |
It was around this time that I realised this man was insane. Totally mental.
I went along with proceedings, in the hope that I may be able to lean out and at least lob a shoe at a Thunderbird before the captain could bring it unto the Lord.
Aye, and the plane was an absolute pile of shit, by the way: a manky old thing held together by rust and luck. There were no seats, just a sofa stuffed inside, and a big bucket of water with a wooden cross floating in it.
The words ‘74Heaven’ were scrawled on the door, which was clearly from a shed.
A Thunderbird would have to be pissed as a fart to fancy this junk heap, but I was ever hopeful.
As we taxied onto the dirt-track runway, the captain began singing something about being an angel. It was so loud I almost didn’t hear the massive clunk as a panel on the wing came off and clattered along the runway behind us.
Faith and duct tape can only do so much, but he was undeterred.
The song continued: a home-made effort about Jesus riding a T-bird to heaven. Sod this, I thought. I opened the door and jumped out. I don’t think the captain even noticed. The plane skittered about a bit then took off into the skies with a loud bang from the engine.
Should I have stayed? Should I have chanced the flight?
All I can say is that I was utterly convinced I was going to die: either by a bumming from a Thunderbird or crashing to my death in the flying baptismal. I made a last minute decision and don’t regret it.
I haven’t heard from the captain since, but I’m sure I’ll tangle with a Thunderbird one day.
I live to smack another day.
