Wednesday, 14 April 2010


Or should that be "hello?"
With a sharp north easterly it was cold.  One of those winds that goes right through you.
Firststop (alloneword), Sammy's Point.  Walked the full length of it which is about, ooh, 82 miles at least.  A Ring Ouzel, a male bastard, nice migrant and a year tick.  5 Chiffy's and, erm, not a lot else mamma.  A Long-eared Owl....ha, I just did a typo (syntax) error and spelt it 'Log-eared Owl' which is a much better name I find....anyway, a Long-eared Owl had been frequenting said area for several of the preceding diurnal courses and was again reported today over the tannoy.  I mean radio but it would be good if there was a tannoy system wouldn't it? 
Wouldn't it?  All units to Post 42 please, all units to Post 42 please, thankyou.
The radio said it was "in the fucking bushes near the fucking car park, you fuckers" and I swear that's what it said and definitely not just my foul mouth kicking in.  After climbing into and through every bush even remotely near the car park and being ripped apart and shredded by the buckthorn, I ended up slipping in-and-out of consciousness before bleeding to death like the bloke in Saw I who had to escape through the razor wire.  There was no Log-eared Owl in these bushes.  Well, not any more anyway.  Ha.

Down to Ye Olde Spurneth Pointeth.  Up 'Big Hedge' which is now a shadow of it's former glories.  Hedges these days - honestly.  Tut.
A 'Continental' Stonechat that's been around for a while showed very well for a short while. It's collar as white as snow and it's rump with a pale glow...hang on, that rhymes.  Could be a poem....

The Stonechat.

Twas on the eve of a thousand stories,
A hedge beyond it's former glories,
A Chat of Stone, made haste in vain,
Ne'erless a year tick gain,
It's collar as white as snow,
It's rump with a pale glow,
Not as clean or as pale as a 'Siberian' race,
The further east you go the whiter the rump,
That's my theory anyway,
Not that it's a theory with any substance.
Or perhaps it might be.
And only on males with big black cocks.

by Thomas Hardy, c1894.

Seven Eider duckies (oooh!) went south, 3 Drakes duckies and 4 bee-atches.  Not really much after that.  A Linnet started staring at me, so I bricked the fucker. It went down in one, the big tart of a Linnet.  "Not staring at me now are you?" I shouted at the poor tiny bald baby Linnet.

Thomas Hardy was fucking rock hard


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