No Neck Ted off Benedict

Good evening. How are you all?  Me?  Oh, I'm good thanks.  Thanks for asking though.
Drove past Benedict Road today, on the way to Sainsbury's to get the security tag removed from Olivia's new coat which we stole yesterday.  No sign of No Neck Ted though.  He was maybe on the graveyard shift at Bird's Eye. 

I'll let Verbal Kint take over from here:

Some say he's Hungarian.  All I know is if someone like that raises his head and gets that close to being caught, my guess is you'll never see him again.  I see he's on Birdforum now.  How anyone with the criminal mind such as his joins a public forum is beyond me.  Some say his father is German.  Some say he's started a protection racket on Boothferry Estate.  Apparently, he's never been the same since Gianni's at the top of Mollison Road stopped doing curries.  Some guy called Redfoot.  Big black guy. I mean porker fat.  Some say he had a hand in Mermaid pub shutting down.  They just couldn't keep up with the payments.  He'd seen an Alpine Swift once, over the playing fields on Gower Road.  Most people don't know if that's true.  The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world that that Alpine Swift didn't exist.  The new Sainsbury's Local on Bethune Ave didn't know what they was getting into.  When we were picking coffee beans in Guatemala we used to make coffee straight from the trees.  The coffee they sell in Sainsbury's Local is shit.  But then again, it is a shop I suppose. 

Kobayashi:

My employer, Mr Ted is most appalled at your behaviour gentlemen.  Not only do you not believe him about the Alpine Swift over Gower Road, you also did not collect the eighteen quid from the newsagents on North Side.  A most regrettable oversight gentlemen.  If you do not collect the eighteen quid then Miss Finneran will meet with a gruesome violation before she dies, as will your Uncle Randall in Arizona Mr Hockney, I may only castrate Steve Palmer's nephew, David.  Do I make myself clear gentlemen?  To be honest I haven't got a clue how I got from being an arch-villain's consort to running a small time brass band in west Yorkshire.

Verbal Kint:

When I was in the barbershop in Skokie, Illinois, the barber there spoke of an Alpine Swift over Gower Road.  I was there.  I mean, it was him, No Neck Ted, the devil himself.  He was looking through his binoculars and shouting "Alp!"

Agent Kujan: "But you had a gun"

Verbal:  It was No Neck Ted, Agent Kujan, I mean, the devil himself.  He used to deal Viagra to the kids for unprotected sex on the mounds on Tilbury Road.  How do you shoot the devil in the back?  I mean, what if you miss?  The biggest thing No Neck Ted is into at the minute is finding out who can say the words "bowling green" in the lowest possible voice.  I mean who can say "bowling green" in a really, really deep voice?.....









Now be honest.  You're doing it now aren't you?  You, the reader, are saying "bowwwwlinnnng greeeen in the lowest register you can!  What are you doing?!  Put it this way, you have just said "bowling green" in your lowest voice possible because an aging anti hero off Benedict was portraying a FICTIONAL crininal from a film 17 years ago published through a drunken birdwatching nerd on the internet that most of you don't even know!  The power of the  internet eh?

back to Verbal...

You know about the Alpine Swift over Gower Road playing field?  Well apparently they've drafted some Hungarians in to work at Bird's Eye.  Taking all the overtime so they say. They were on Gower Road when he's there, watching the Alpine Swift.  Some of the Hungarians say the record is s bit stringy.  To show what real will is, he lets the last Hungarian go. He waits until his wife and kids are in the ground and then he goes after the rest of the mob. He kills their kids, he kills their wives, he kills their parents and their parents' friends. He burns down the houses they live in and the stores they work in, he kills people that owe them money. And like that he was gone. Underground. Nobody has ever seen him since. He becomes a myth, a spook story that criminals tell their kids at night. "Rat on your pop, and No Neck Ted will get you." And no-one ever really believes.  No one really knows.  He's like a spook story, oh fuck I've already said that.  Steve Palmer once said that he doesn't believe in God but he's afraid of him.  Well I believe in God and the only thing I'm afraid of is No Neck Ted off Benedict.  I'm not sure why he's so obsessed with saying "bowling green" in the lowest voice but he is a super arch villain so I suppose he can do what the fuck he likes.


"Did you get the eighteen quid from north side?  How you doing Keaton?"


"I can't feel my legs.....Ted...."

Pete Postlethwaite in his latest movie "Brassed Off"

Which is about an arch villain who

strings an Alpine Swift over west Hull

.....................

'Lion' being searched for in South East.

The police have issued a statement:

Massive pussy, long nails, orange coloured skin Maneater on prowl in Essex.


I don't mean to be critical but that really doesn't narrow it down round there.








That was a good joke.
Wasn't it.



...............

Handbag sales slump as Alan Mince reveals kitchen slags.

You know that I never tell you anything about my birding adventures?  Well here's why.  I was thinking of telling you all about my last Spurn visit, which was last week sometime, when I thought that there's nothing really to tell you.  So when you despair at the lack of proper, subject matter related posts, just read what utter shite this weblog would sound like:

Hello.  Todays visit to Spurn was pretty quiet.  I had a short seawatch which produced only 14 Oystercatchers going south.  A look on the estuary produced common waders including Dunlin, Knot and some fantastic Curlew.  Down to chalk bank where 3 Swift went south as did 4 Goldfinch although they could've realistically been local birds just flying around randomly.

There.  What a shower of shit.  Now be thankful when I spew filth all around the world wide web, talk aboot are Cheryl Cole's minge pet, and ramble about football and jeez zandwidjes. 

Fuck off.

Just fuck off.

Ooof.

After shagging Cheryl Cole the other day, I need to share three things with the male population:
1  Her bangers aren't that great, probably implants,
2  Her hair is definitely a wig.  Honestly, I know for definite, it came right off in my hand.
3  The staff in Madam Tussauds are right miserable bastards.






That was a good joke.
Wasn't it?

Football's back.  Hooray!  Yesterday, I thought Robin van Persie was a good player.  I've rated him for a while.  Indeed, I backed him at 10s at the start of last season to be top scorer so you see I really did rate him.  Yet today I find myself thinking he's now just a useless fucking dutch bastard who stinks of stale skunk piss.  He is also a twat, a woman-beater, and he fucks about with kids.  There, I said it.

Brighton at home tomorrow.  The Seagulls.  I wonder how many other teams have bird related nicknames?  The Owls, there's an easy one (Sheff Wed)......erm.....Canaries ( Norwich City).....not bad......actually there's more than I thought....Eagles (Palace)...Bantams (Bradfud)...Harriers (Kiddy)...Magpies....Newcastle.....and maybe Notts County....is that right?  Fuck knows.  Bluebirds, Chardiff?  I suppose Chardiff aren't known as the bluebirds now with them going all red and that.  The bet the Chardiff fans BUMMED a load of sheep the day Chardiff changed their colours because that is clearly what they'd do, either in celebration or in opposition.  And if anyone spots the Vic n Bob Chardiff reference I'll be very surprised.  I bet Jim will actually.  Hull, the whole world!  I've just thought of another, Robins.  Swindon and Charlton (as well as addicks).  The last one I can think of without googling is The Tits (Leeds United).


Suck on that.



Ken Bates is fucking sound. 
I'll even  write a short verse, although I am proper pissed.

As usual.


As no one like Leeds,
And we are united,
At least you're not as bad
as Manchester United.

(did I really just rhyme 'united' with 'united'? v poor indeed)

You call yourself waccoe,
But you are not feared,
everyone loves Ken,
especially his beard.

So what's with the waccoe?
You never won it,
So get over it you bastards
As you've never done it.

Marching on together
Is the most annoying song
But you're 6 easy points
You know I'm not wrong.

When Ken was young
They called him 'master'
and now he's turning it
into a fucking disaster

We all like your beard,
you look like Terry Waite
But I'm more interested
in you being called Master Bates.......

...(up tempo)...

Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates,
Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates,
Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates,
Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates,
Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates,
Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates Master Bates,
Oh master Bates, we're behind you, never leave them........




I have no idea what I'm talking about.







...........................

Nice weather: good for rarities.

Seasons greetings.  Autumn is revving up albeit rather slowly.  I've a feeling the great British summertime is gonna fuck both peak migrations up, rarity-wise.  The Spring was nice.  Nice weather, warm, hot even, and definitely not the kind of weather that brings rare blighters crashing out of the sky for shelter at chalk bank.  Then the weather got shit, just when migration was gearing down and we really wanted a bit of sun for leisurely activities, beer gardens, childrens holidays, dogging and soforth.  As for autumn, I predict we'll have an Indian summer with warm cloudless skies through September into October when even with easterlies raging and rarities undoubtedly in the skies above chalk bank, if there's no shitty front of pissing stinking rain to ground the poor Siberian waifs then they just.....well.....carry on.  They probably carry on inland and settle just a few miles from the coast when they see a nice, lush cosy copse miles from anywhere where they will go undiscovered in the green and pleasant lands of blighty, feed up and carry on their epic journey instead of being chased all over a narrow strip of land covered with spikey, horrible bastard gorse, with sand blasting their tiny eyes, slightly acidic rain pissing all over them with circa 100 middle aged, overweight, balding men chasing them over dunes shouting 'stonking' much too loudly only to be netted, vetted, fingered, ringed, measured, violated, buggered then paraded in front of the very same circa 100 middle aged, overweight, balding men that had been chasing them earlier whom were still using the word 'stonking' yet this time were pointing big fuck-off shiny penis extensions on the end of a cameras in their poor bastard faces only to be released into more spikey, stinking, wet, dank, disgusting gorse with a ghastly pang and be chased by a different fucking sad set of circa 100 middle aged, overweight, balding men in green waxed jackets and nice shitty wellington boots and die of malnutrition/exhaustion/wetness overnight leaving circa 100 middle aged, overweight, balding men to retrace their long car journey the next morning, tutting and saying "It's gone" to each other when in reality as the poor Sibe lay there dying and alone, without a tear it drew its' parting groan.

Nice weather: definitely GOOD for rarities....



....themselves.

dead American Robin.  You can tell it's dead as all dead things

have their eyes crossed out immediately.

I realise I was talking about sibes and I've added an

image of a nearctic passerine but I'm not bothered,

so don't get all pedantic cos I already know

you monkey-spanks.

......................

jeez zandwidges and ravvle brizes

As this is a pure birding blog and only focusses on cutting edge birding ID features, the latest trip reports from around the globe, and how Man U are a set of bogus, glorified prima donnas then tonight I'm going to talk about cheese sandwiches.  And raffles. 

chapter 1.


A few days ago I awent (proper word) into a sandwich bar/shoppe.  I asked for a fairly standard type, the type which was clearly displayed on the 'menu'.  I can't think of a better word. 
"Cheese and Onion please gorgeous" said I, as I'm sexist.
"Great choice y'all, coming right up man" said she, as she was American.
Do you know what I was served?  Go on, guess.
Cheshire.

Fucking cheshire.

Now don't get me wrong, Cheshire is a fantastic cheese and is one of my favourites.  But when I order cheese 'n' onion from a sandwich maker selling their wares, then it's just not right.  Cheddar, mature cheddar, Red Leicester, Double Glossoustershire, yeah, I'm on it, it's all fine with onion.  But the creamy saltiness of Cheshire?  Good lord above, with an English white onion?  Maybe a red at a push.  Or even a Spanish white.

"What the fuck is this?" said I, as I swear a lot.
"Cheese and Onion.  It's what you asked for man" said she, being American.
"Fucking Cheshire?" said I, as I still swear a lot.
"Cheshire?" said she, and unbuttoned her blouse.
"Everyone knows that Cheshire doesn't go with onion, especially an English white onion in mid July and I'm not sure where the fuck this story is heading as I am, once again, paraletic".
"Which cheese were you expecting Sir, missing you already" said she as she lobbed her tits out.
"Well, pretty standard Cheddar to be honest.  Nice fucking tits, though" said I, as I'm sexist and swear a lot.
"Are you looking for compensation, y'all?" said she as she's still American.
"Any sort of recompense is futile when it comes to cheese 'n' onion and the only ending to this story that I can think of is probably that I end up punching you clean in the teeth which I neither practice nor condone" said I, as I no longer swear as much.
"Have a nice day then Sir" said she and put her bangers away much to my lament.  Lament?  Is that in the right context?  Jimmy, check that one out for me.
At this point I quite predictably punched her square in the teeth, sending shards in all directions and simply walked out of the sandwich parlour.
Cheshire?  With Onion?  I tell ya.  It's like putting Stilton with dog wee wee.

chapter 2.


Went to the Jesus Christian Movement "Summer Fair" t'other day.  Bouncy castles were advertised.  There were no bouncy castles.
"Hey, Christian.  Where the fuck are all the bouncy castles?" said I, as I swear a lot....

.......Let's stop that right there.
There really were NO bouncy castles.  Jesus.  All there that was there was three raffles, a cake stall, bric-a-brac, a white elephant stall and a booth that offered 'free money and sex'.  A choir audition then. 

I had a go on the raffle for the children.  One quid for five attempts or two quid for ten attempts.  I went for the two quid option as it was clearly the better value for money.  The girls had two winners!  Sorted.  Hopefully a big fuck off teddy they can share plus a bottle of JD that I could 'buy' off them.  Even a 75cl would do.  All prizes were encased in those decorative bags you put your neices present in when you have NO wrapping paper.  That's definitely NO (NONE) wrapping paper.  Intrugued, eldest took out the first prize.... A teddy!  A small teddy to be fair, but at least they could share it.  Now for the bottle of Jack.....

Youngest unwrapped this one....

This is exciting....


Olivia pulled out this:

Surely the worst prize ever on any raffle ever?  To make the most of it, I ate it all in one go on the way home.  Thanks for that, the Christian community.  Seriously, that really was the prize!  Excellent.



ALL vicars fuck about with the choirboys.  Every single one of them.


There, I said it.




..........................

Tennis, Football and some Music...

Andy Murray scraped through I see.  Every year he's the great British hope until he loses when he returns to being a Scottish cunt.  Wimbledon has been rained off every day due to the wettest summer for 250 years.  In Murray's Scotland it's been the wettest on record since last summer. 
I'll tell you right now, I don't want him to win.  Why should I?  He's Scottish.  All you Scots out there will back me on this one.  Let's face it the Scots never want England or an Englishman to win anything.  Why should they?  I can't blame them, they're Scottish.  Ask a Scotsman if he's British and you best expect a twist on the cheek from a pint of McEwan's Export.  But only if it's empty.  The Scots are apparently mortified with the plan for supermarkets to charge for carrier bags.  With this coming straight after an increase on the price of glue it really has been a double whammy for the Glaswegian population.

The Scots don't want us to win.  I totally agree.  Same with the Welsh.  I'm fine with it.  I'm English not British.  They're Welsh not British.  As for the six counties across the Irish Sea I'm not touching that one with a forty foot pole.  Made out of potato.

Is it me or is Murray's celebration of clenched fist whilst staring at his box a little bit annoying?  His box in the crowd obviously.  Saying that, I suppose it would be a GREAT celebration if he clenched his fist then bent double and stared at his box following every victorious point. 

The Scots were celebrating at Euro 2012 when England got beat by Italy on the usual pens.  To be honest, thank fuck we never made it to the final against a Spanish side that don't even need a striker on the pitch to beat you.  I didn't like their set up at first, six in midfield, even though Barca had played like that a few times last season.  The difference is, Barca have a certain person named Lionel Messi.  Still, they did it again and fair play to them.  Great side.  I think, nay know, they could put another eleven on the pitch that would still beat us. Those not included (on the bench or injured) in Sunday's final and would feature in my fantasy Spanish second XI to beat England includes Valdes between the sticks, Puyol and Albiol at the back, Juan Mata, Pedro as attacking midfielders, with Torres and a certain David Villa up front.  Jesus Holy Mary mother of God, the THIRD string would have Pepe Reina with the gloves and Llorente up top.  I sort of wish Messi was Spanish just to see it.

I watched the final on Monday afternoon and, amazingly, hadn't heard the result which was a result in itself.  Why hadn't I seen it on Sunday you cry?  Because I was....

......somewhere near Manchester.........watching.....


........the one and only....

You heard it right, The fucking Stone Roses!
Get in.


They came on to Adored.  They had to.  They just had to.  Fucking get in!  I saw more than a few blokes wipe a tear away.  One big bloke was just stood there with his hands on his head and his mouth open, aghast, with tears streaming down his face when they did This is the One.  I never thought I'd see them together again.  WE, collectively, never thought we'd see them together again.  Let's have it!  Browny's pretty shite live but that's part of it.  Reni backs him all the time to stop him going flat.  But they are the greatest band.  The greatest.  They were fucking brilliant.  Apart from Mani swapping to a yellow and green bass with the words Mani United written on the back.  The Mancs bastard.  And they never did either of my favourite tracks, Tears and Daybreak, the fucking bastards.  I was sure they'd go straight into Daybreak when they were doing Ten Storey Love Song.  They didn't.  Then Squire went off stage.  I was sure he was swapping to acoustic, surely to do Tears?  They didn't.  Ollie should've been with us.  Ollie WOULD'VE been with us if he wasn't upside-down 12,000 miles away.  (Me Darren and Fraz by the way Ol)

Tears.  Studio version.  Have a bit of that.

Bejaysus it was muddy.  And getting out was a nightmare.  I rang a radio-controlled taxi to get back to the digs.  When I got in there was a driver in the driver's seat.  False advertising surely?  And evaporated milk.  I bought some evaporated milk only to find the tin still full.  While I'm on a rant, can someone please answer me this;  What is the point of Soft Porn?  People who like porn don't like it.  And people who don't like porn don't like it.  So what's the point?

No point whatsoever.

At all.

She's a Roller...

Now then. Blog land has been awash with Roll/Roller/Rolling related titles, so today I thought I'd chuck my ring into the cat. I was gonna go with Roll With It after the Oasis number but I thought I'd take my time and say what I say and don't let anybody get in my way cos its all too much for me to take. To be fair I never stand aside I never be denied I wanna be what I be and I'm going with him apparently. So. She's a Roller. Urchin. Adrian Smith's band before he joined Maiden. And he sings it. It's a bit lame really.

There.

The Roller, as you all know by now, is mint and shows great and is cracking stonking and crippling, corking and spanking. I cannot add any more.

Whilst cooking a curry last night that would've melted steel I thought of a great joke. The funniest joke ever. It really is great:

I went to an Indian restaurant last night and the waiter asked what I'd like.
I said 'Well I want a dish but I can't remember the name of it'.
'Tell me what it's like' said he.
'Well it's a dirty story of a dirty man with vegetables and fruit in a yoghurt' I told him.
'Ah, you must mean a Paperback Raita'.

Now you've got to admit that that was probably the greatest joke ever told. Ever.

Sigh.

Went to see controversial Harriers today. Pallid/Monty's and all sorts of rumours. I spoke in depth to one of the Lincs birders and they're trying to piece it all together. As for me, I saw 'it' briefly and at distance, through bins. My description would be submitted as follows:

Weather : overcast, rain at times, shit light.
Optics used : Aldi's own 6 x 22 plastic bins (not waterproof).
Description : it looked like a bird. It was sort of brownish. It could fly. Seen very well from c3-5 miles range for 4 seconds.

I'm not sure if that would get it past a rarities committee but it is useful in that it rules out all birds that are not brownish and also all flightless birds so all is not lost.





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