Thursday, 1 April 2010

Blaggdovd Zandz.......

......RSPB reserve, which today stands for Really Sodden Paths Beware.  The paths were wet.  Proper wet.  The couple at reception just laughed when they saw me in trainers.  They got drenched.  My trainers, not the couple.

I started at the end and worked my way back.  The hides have got names. Sometimes the names are quite fitting.
Singleton Hide.  Fucking right it's 'Singeton' 'cos there was only a solitary fucking Coot on there.
Then onto Townsend hide.  As in Pete Townsend, as is The Who the fuck wants to sit in here and look at 2 Black-Headed Gulls?
Onto First Hide.  As in, I shouldn't have come here in the fucking 'First' place.
I then went into Xerox Hide, as in, erm, you need fucking copying if you want to sit in here.  Not that that makes any sense.

Pete Townshend was actually sat in his very own hide.
"Alright" I said as I walked in and went to sit down.
"You can't sit in here, this is my hide, can't you fucking read?" rock stars always swear.
"Well if this is just your hide, how come you've built it big enough to seat 15-20 people of medium build?" rock stars have more money than sense.

It actually got better from Xerox onwards.  Loads of Marsh Harrier of course, some displaying, Avocets, Bittern low across the reeds (I see one everywhere I go now), then Sand Martin, then a Buzzard flew in, fucked about with some Marshies then did a fly-past past the hide.  40 Blackwits and a Chiffy from Ousefleet Hide finished off the day in SPECTACULAR fashion.

This was the scene on the path to Xerox Hide today. 
Someone even had to carry a televsion on his head.
What the fuck is the bloke behind doing?
Whilst his mate struggles with a televsion on his head,
he's doing "I'm a little teapot short and stout".
Notice that he cannot put his arm onto his hip for the "handle" bit.


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