I'm back swearing again.

After last nights shenanigans, I waited on news of the Flying Chicken Barn Door KFC Family Bucket as I call them, when mid-morn a message appears over the world-wide information super highway:

White-Tailed Eagle...Lincolnshire...Whitton Sands......Immature present to 10:15 when flew north.

Erm, come again?  It was in the same fucking spot?  Are you fucking kidding me?
What is the fucking point of reporting it as soon as it's fucked off?
Eh?
It might as well have said:

White-Tailed Eagle...Lincolnshire...Whitton Sands...Immature been here all morning eating dead geese, showing really fucking well, but I've only decided to report it now that it's gone.

Cheers.
Fucking cheers, cock.
"Yeah, I've been watching it all morning but now it's gone I've decided to tell you all. It was great, but now it's gone" said Ken 'Sixfingers' Jackson of Lincolnshire.
Now you're all thinking that I'm stereotyping people of Lincs as in-bred backward types.  Well, I'm not.  Ken is actually a mad-fuck gangster and has lost 4 of his original 10 fingers to gambling debts, other mobsters, and raging combine harvester incidents.  You thought I meant 6 fingers on each hand didn't you?  Didn't you?  Go on, admit it, I caught you out.

A typical Lincs wedding.

A-ha!  Caught you out again.  You thought I was definitely stereotyping then.  Well read the caption again carefully.  That's right, it's an a-typical Lincs wedding, as in, they're not like this at all.
Bored.
Need something good to turn up.  Something like a Harlequin at Filey, something like that.  That would be good wouldn't it?




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