'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.

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