Originally published in the Manchester Guardian on 17 December 1957
Birmingham Corporation has lost yet another round in the fight against the starlings that fly into the city every night. Now, after protests by the R.S.P.C.A., they are to stop using a sticky repellent, which has been their "most successful weapon so far." When municipal buildings were painted with it the birds kept off. Unfortunately, several birds have been found lying on the ground with wings and bodies covered in the sticky substance. When the corporation heard of this they agreed to call off the "smear campaign." Both they and the manufacturers have been disturbed by the protests. It is pointed out that the repellent is not intended to trap the birds, but merely to deny them a foothold.
A representative of the distributing company – the product is American and has been used in New York with some success – suggested that one or two birds "might have been pushed into the stuff during the fighting that goes on when thousands of starlings return to the ledges at night." They were quite satisfied that it was not a cruel way of repelling the birds. A "sticky" bird could always be washed. A corporation official said that the substance had been used for two months before any complaints were received.
Anyhow, this means yet another chapter will have to be added to a story that began ten years ago. It is estimated that 25,000 starlings, some flying for 30 miles, seek the warmth and bright lights of the city centre every night. The noise they make is cheerful enough, but the nuisance is considerable. Apart from individual complaints, it is argued that constant droppings are wearing away the stonework of some prized buildings.
Almost every conceivable stratagem has been used by the corporation in the fight. Rubber snakes and stuffed owls have been put on perches (familiarity bred contempt for these); ledges were electrified to give small electric shocks (this proved too expensive); firecrackers were let off (people rather than birds were frightened); perches were warmed for the birds on trees in suburban parks (few takers); searchlights were tried (but by then the birds were so used to the glare of the city that they just didn't care); and when, as a grand slam, the notes of a starling were recorded, multiplied, amplified, and relayed through the city centre by cruising lorries, Birmingham decided it would prefer the uninvited starlings to "the wailing of banshees." After that, slippery footholds seemed to be a silent and harmless remedy.
These archive extracts are compiled by members of the Guardian's research and information department. Email: research.department@guardian.co.uk