Monday 22nd
With reports of a mass movement of Two Barred Crossbills on the continent, a Bridled Tern and a Lesser Sand Plover to the north, today I decided, with rather fanciful hope, to go to Spurn with my good pal Kobayashi. He's Russian so knows all about Two Barred Crossbills.
I bird Easington a lot more than I used to. I think it's since the official boundary of the recording area changed to include Easington too. I also think it's because I know Spurn has been pretty much covered by the time I get there thus giving me less hope of finding something. I limped around the area carefully saying "bowling green" in the deepest voice I could muster. "Bowwwwling greeeeen."
I did Easington, to no avail. Four Yellowhammers. Not even the village shop was willing to join my new protection racket so I left with some coconut macaroons. I'll show them what real will is. A Red Backed Shrike was reported north of Easington lagoon and I was only a few minutes away so I thought I'd check it out. Maybe some crazy day visitor had fucked up an Izzy or a Brown. I got there to find no one around. No Shrike. Nothing. It made me wonder if there really was a Red Backed Shrike that day but it's hard being a single observer when a decent record is found.
When I submitted that Alpine Swift over Gower Road the BBRC laughed at the submission as I'd done a load of childish scribble all over the paper and even drawn a comedy penis on my sketch of the bird. I was hit with a rejection. 'Not proven' they came back with. Who the fuck was they kidding? Okay, I'd scribbled a bit on the description but they didn't complain back in Skokie Illinois when I scribbled on my description of a mother fucking Warbling Vireo.
Gantlett came to us with the job, Millington got the vans, and Steve Palmer off Tilbury Road supplied the hardware, I came through with how to do it so no one got killed, but Evans... Evans put on the finishing touch. A little 'fuck you' from the five of us to the BBRC. It was his idea to hit the BBRC Taxi Service.
As I went back to the car near Easington Lagoon the local anti-terrorism police questioned me. They asked me things I didn't know. Things like why I was there and what time did I get there, I'd already told the DA everything I knew.
"Morning Sir, everything okay?" said the rozzer.
I said "Where's your head, PC Kujan? Where do you think the pressure's coming from? No Neck Ted off Benedict - or whatever you want to call him - he knows where I am right now. He's got the front burner under your ass to let me go so he can scoop me up ten minutes later outside Neppy. Immunity was just a deal with you assholes. I got a whole new problem when I post bail."
He said "So why play into his hands? We can protect you."
So I said to the rozzer "Oh, gee, thanks, Dave. Bang-up job so far. Rejections, suppression. You'll pardon me if I ask you to kiss my pucker. The same fuckers that rounded us up and sank us into this mess are gonna bail me out? Fuck you. You think you can catch No Neck Ted off Benedict? You think a guy like that comes this close to getting caught and sticks his head out? If he comes up for anything, it will be to get rid of me. After that... my guess is you'll never hear from him again even if the Bridled Tern moves south and gets relocated at Beacon Ponds."
Luckily PC Kujan ran some checks on my car and let me go. I limped down towards the obs and noticed some guys viz-migging up on Clubleys but what the cops never figured out, and what I know now, was that these men would never break, never lie down, never. They stay up there all day watching visible migration, they say one guy stayed up there for 14 days solid with no food apart from a packet of Golden Grahams, only coming down to run a hijacking job on a lorry load of steel just outside Queens.
At around 5pm I left the Spurn area and drove west. The police who had stopped me earlier drove past me in their pesky range rover in the opposite direction and gave a polite wave as I went.
Fucking cops.
..........................
Friday, 26 July 2013
Sunday, 30 June 2013
Guest entry from George Michael the popstar (you know where this is going)
George.
Crackers
It spent ages doing suchlike, in fact over two hours or more, quite often swimming to within four hundred metres of observers, Chris Birding obtaining the remarkable image below - the best image I have ever seen of the species.
Awesome.
At around 1220 hours, the RAF on training exercises flew low over Filey, spooking the Scoter and it dived strongly to the south. Some 45 minutes later, I and 437 others arrived from Arndale, after enduring a near 15 minute journey across from Brid Harbour in NE Yorkshire - and the mood went from exultation to despondency. Was it to be a repeat of the Spurn Icterine Warbler where both MJDRBD and I missed that mega by the same time period after trying to twitch 'on the cheap'?. Although I had seen two Surf Scoters before in Britain (both in the Northern Isles), I had resorted myself to a classic dip and was in depressive overload. A number of us split up and explored different areas but after four seconds of doing this, I eventually became so depressed (particularly after hearing of some blokes life-thrilling experiences) that I decided to wander back to town and commit suicide.
Nuts
Just as I was about to jump off the cliff, a middle aged man relocated it in Filey Bay, where it had been all morning, an astonishing 20 metres south of where it had last been seen. Pandemonium set in as we all lifted our bins to our eyeballs. This seemed to take a lifetime but finally my bins were actually at my eyeballs. I looked through them and there it was! A drake Surf Scoter! That's 178 for the year.
Cuckoo
At last it felt good to be alive, although sleep deprivation over the past 2 hours was having some serious affect. Also, the ice cream van beckoned at 1600 hours, and reluctant as it was, we had to pull ourselves away and leave this clown-billed perspicillata for others to enjoy.
Menthol
Thanks for that cracking read.
So yes, a drake Surf. A cracking bird that shows really well for a seaduck if you know what I mean.
I 'needed' Surf for Yorkshire. A bit tarty I know, but I was trying to think of other records. Not that many for a no-longer-a-BBRC-rarity I believe. Scarborough a few years ago. Not many though.
Similarities to living people used on this web shite are merely coincidental and the authors take no responsibility if George Michael is upset.
..........................
Friday, 28 June 2013
nnnnnnnnnnnnnnya
A swift flew at a windmill, the twitchers said Damn,
The windmill was winning it's hardly suprisin'
The twitcher who missed it said, "How unlucky I am,
Those fucking windmills should go down the pan"
I saw a Swift!
Rare?
Dead and ultra rare!
Where's the ultra rare?
Right there!
A needletail with his clogs popped
Well I declare!
Going flip-flappety-flap ultra rare
Oh yeah
Right there
Oh yeah...
It's been an amazing couple of weeks on the garden listing front. About three weeks ago I was barneying on the phone withfatty my darling when a Hobby flew past only twenty yards away! Jesus Christ! An adult, red trousers, I interrupted fatty shouting at me on the phone, "Hobby! Fuck me!"
She said "What?"
"Hobby! Fuck me!"
She said "What?"
"Hobby! Fuck me!"
It was like Crazy Chris Rea when he's trying to tell his bitch all about Texas and she hasn't got a fucking clue what he's on about.
I said Texas. She said what?
I said Texas. She said what?
I said Texas. She said what?
I said Texas. She said what?
At this point, if I were Chris Rea, I'd have lost it with her. What the fuck does she not understand? He's only telling her about Texas.
Crazy them women.
Fast forward three weeks after the Hobby shenanigans and there I am, alone, with a three litre bottle of White Lightning, a Tesco's own lasagne warming in the microwave, piss stains on the tea towel, no kids cos they now live with their mam and "Derek", Babestation on the black and white portable, a birds eye potato waffle still floating in the sink, and a strange call from over my shoulder. "Crayk" I said "What?" It said "Crayk" I said "Erm...what?". It said "Texas" I said "What?". It said "Texas"..... I was skywatching, as I always do. It was a Purple Heron! Shit me! Quite low. Erm..... shit! I watched it until out of view then wrote a description down on my phone:
Streaking on the breast down the full front (what?!) rufous on breast. stripey fucker along neck and head. distinct yet subtle. neat maybe better description. call "crayk" repeated four times. maybe crek. short. underwing uniformly dark. flight quicker than Grey. slim. looked like it was going down near the new flood area til mobbed by 2 herring gull which looked only 10-20% smaller when together. the bird took rapid evasive action with head and neck strangely out, neck almost anhinga like. that's how I would describe I but i'm a touch mental.
That's what I wrote. And that's what my official description is going to be when submitted.
Best I've had at Spurn just lately was one of many Red Backed Shrikes. And an Eider Ducky. Left.
Not North. Just "Left".
Nicola is out tonight. Earlier, I had a quick tidy of the bathroom cabinet. I found something that looked just like toothpaste. I picked it up thinking that we've got more toothpaste than I thought. Same lid and that. Same tube and that. I stood it up like a toothpaste-type-thing. Several hours later and she comes out of the bathroom shrieking that she'd just cleaned her teeth with hair removal cream!!! ha ha ha ha ha ha at least her minge will smell minty ha ha ha ha ha ha ha and she won't have hairy teeth anymore.
......................
The windmill was winning it's hardly suprisin'
The twitcher who missed it said, "How unlucky I am,
Those fucking windmills should go down the pan"
I saw a Swift!
Rare?
Dead and ultra rare!
Where's the ultra rare?
Right there!
A needletail with his clogs popped
Well I declare!
Going flip-flappety-flap ultra rare
Oh yeah
Right there
Oh yeah...
It's been an amazing couple of weeks on the garden listing front. About three weeks ago I was barneying on the phone with
She said "What?"
"Hobby! Fuck me!"
She said "What?"
"Hobby! Fuck me!"
It was like Crazy Chris Rea when he's trying to tell his bitch all about Texas and she hasn't got a fucking clue what he's on about.
I said Texas. She said what?
I said Texas. She said what?
I said Texas. She said what?
I said Texas. She said what?
At this point, if I were Chris Rea, I'd have lost it with her. What the fuck does she not understand? He's only telling her about Texas.
Crazy them women.
Nuts
Fast forward three weeks after the Hobby shenanigans and there I am, alone, with a three litre bottle of White Lightning, a Tesco's own lasagne warming in the microwave, piss stains on the tea towel, no kids cos they now live with their mam and "Derek", Babestation on the black and white portable, a birds eye potato waffle still floating in the sink, and a strange call from over my shoulder. "Crayk" I said "What?" It said "Crayk" I said "Erm...what?". It said "Texas" I said "What?". It said "Texas"..... I was skywatching, as I always do. It was a Purple Heron! Shit me! Quite low. Erm..... shit! I watched it until out of view then wrote a description down on my phone:
Streaking on the breast down the full front (what?!) rufous on breast. stripey fucker along neck and head. distinct yet subtle. neat maybe better description. call "crayk" repeated four times. maybe crek. short. underwing uniformly dark. flight quicker than Grey. slim. looked like it was going down near the new flood area til mobbed by 2 herring gull which looked only 10-20% smaller when together. the bird took rapid evasive action with head and neck strangely out, neck almost anhinga like. that's how I would describe I but i'm a touch mental.
That's what I wrote. And that's what my official description is going to be when submitted.
Best I've had at Spurn just lately was one of many Red Backed Shrikes. And an Eider Ducky. Left.
Not North. Just "Left".
Nicola is out tonight. Earlier, I had a quick tidy of the bathroom cabinet. I found something that looked just like toothpaste. I picked it up thinking that we've got more toothpaste than I thought. Same lid and that. Same tube and that. I stood it up like a toothpaste-type-thing. Several hours later and she comes out of the bathroom shrieking that she'd just cleaned her teeth with hair removal cream!!! ha ha ha ha ha ha at least her minge will smell minty ha ha ha ha ha ha ha and she won't have hairy teeth anymore.
......................
Sunday, 12 May 2013
Hull City's final day round up
Hull City needed to match Watford's score last Saturday.....
As we approached the stadium, I told my Dad about the Brentford/Donny penalty/Brentford promoted if they score/miss/Donny down the other end/score/champions/in the last minute sketch from League 1 the week previous. We then said "there'll be twists and turns today but hopefully not quite like that!"
Tempting fate? Hell yeah.
Kick off, we're up as it stands but we need to win. Anything less, I think we've blown it.
First goal in either our game or Watford's would echo around the oppositions ground within minutes and give the other a big lift or a big downer. First goal critical.
Halfway through first half a whisper goes 'round the ground that Watford are now down the their third choice 'keeper and 15 minutes behind us due to the injury! This fact made it all very interesting later on. Then Cardiff started singing "1-0 to the Watford.....1-0 to the Watford..." yeah right! Or is it? Ha ha ha, yeah, very good. Sheep shaggers. Ten minutes later, Cardiff started singing "2-0 to the Watford.....2-0 to the Watford..." very droll....great interplay between both sets of fans that remained throughout the day.
Another murmur from South East corner gathered momentum around the ground......Eddie's ringing me.......yes, Leeds have scored! We're up as it stands. Pandemonium at City over a fucking dirty white shite goal! Funny though. The irony was not lost anywhere in the ground.
City sing "We all love Leeds scum, we all love Leeds scum, we all love Leeds scum...." the paradox makes everyone smile as they sing it. Cardiff join in with "We all hate Leeds scum...." and the atmosphere progresses.
Half time, City 0, Chardiff 0. We're up as it stands.
On the concourse at (our) half time, Watford equalise via information from Super Saturday on Sky.
"We all hate Leeds scum, We all hate Leeds scum, We all hate Leeds scum...."
All sang with still a wry smile from everyone and a sudden sense that a goal either way and we've blown it.
A Chardiff goal 5 minutes into the second half and we have, indeed, blown it. As it stands. And it's Frazier fucking Campbell to cap it all! Bastard. News would've reverberated around Vicarage Road, a big boost to Watford confidence. We're NOT up as it stands. Shit.
Whisper from North East Corner goes 'round the ground.....Leeds have scored again! Have they? Erm....really? Rang Eddie. They don't know about it. Shite. Leeds haven't scored. They never do.
Ten minutes of doom and despair is suddenly rectified with a Protchthvwitzz equaliser! Crazy scenes again! But after the last 15 minutes we've witnessed, the realisation is that things can change pretty quickly. Still nervy.
Nerves are somewhat restored with a scrambled shitty goal from one time boo boy (he WAS shit) Paul Mcshane! Pandemonium as we sort of realise that we're up. Nearly. But it's been nearly for three weeks now.
Jesus Holy Mary Mother of God.
80 minutes gone. We're sorted. Well in control. Strolling to promotion.
Minute of injury time left. City going mental all around. Probably get another one to seal it.......Prottchstchszvwvitsctz goes down in the box! Penalty! Yes, that's it, it's done, yes, get in you bastards, yes......come on....people on the pitch....they think it's all over and that...
At this point, we KNEW we were up. We KNEW. But we weren't.....
Meyler had the ball to take the pen in Koren and Brady's absence. With people still on the pitch, players ask who should take it. Word on the street now says that the DVD of Protcschwvshcthwitz shows him as the penalty taker for his former German club. Bruce goes with this and orders Protcschthwitchitchsz take the pen. Protcscsrwitsz is shite by the way. We're up, done.
Protschshwitszch's penalty is saved! Bastard wank sticks! Actually it doesn't matter.....34 seconds later.....penalty to Cardiff! Good lord above! Brentford/Donny......oh shit, Watford still have 15 minutes to score against a very very very shit fucking L***s side! We've fucked it again, again, again. Again. Even Cardiff, who had been celebrating with us, didn't really react to their pen and didn't even take the piss that we're now "staying down". Everyone looked at each other. I mean everyone. I looked everyone in the eye. Everyone in the ground. Everyone looked at each other. Time stood still. Everyone looking at everyone else. Spellbound. Everyone was looking at everyone else not knowing what the fuck was going on. In the eye. I was looking at everyone else. Everyone else was looking at me and everyone else. Everyone else just looked at everyone else. It was not pandemonium as everyone else sat staring at everyone else. In the eye. It was awkward for everyone. I had a particularly awkward moment when I looked at the bird sat in E3, Block 6, Row 4, Seat 14 as I'm sure I'd fucked about with her at some point in my life but couldn't remember where or when. Or her name, obviously. The bloke in North Stand who was sat in N1, Block 3, Row 8, Seat 2 can just fuck off and stare at some fucker else. "What you fucking looking at?" I shouted across the stands to N1Block3Row8Seat2 boy. "Everyone's looking at everyone" he shouted from North Stand as it carried across the silence. "Alright then".
That showed him.
Fourteen hours later once everyone had looked at everyone else, in the eye, and their penalty was taken. Goal. Shit. The whole ground looked at each other not knowing quite what that meant. Everyone looked at everyone else again. In the eye. Time stood still.
We all looked at each other until it became uncomfortable and broke eye contact. Another 14 hours later, although this time I blanked E3, Block 6, Row 4, Seat 14 burger, and we all realised that Watford definitely did still have 15 minutes to score against the uncle fuckers that are L***s.
Holy mother of God's big bangers.
There were about 25 thou there and at this point I reckon around 10,000 people were stood up on their phone getting direct updates from someone who could see a TV. I rang Paul O'Grady's bitch as he was bound to be watching a TV. What a good joke. Great joke that one. Unbelievable gag that one. Thanks to Pauline for sending that one in. Keep em coming in, a new fountain pen is on it's way.
A murmur......right 'round the ground....Leeds have scored! They're shit! But they've scored! That's it, we're up! As long as we fuck Man U next year. Sorted. "We all love L***s, scum, we all loves L***s scum..." reverbree.....reverbarbat....reverbibr.......echoed 'round the ground. Smiles again. That was close.
Crazy day in all seriousness. Great day.
Hindsight says that it was the best way to go up after a rollercoaster ride.....at the time it felt like I just wanted an easy 2-0 thanks! Glory. You L***s bastards will be trying to get tickets to see the Tigers next season. Don't. My L***s "friends" tried to take all the glory, saying that if they hadn't scored that winner we'd still be in the Championship. Nah, we we're up without it thanks.....come on City....
.............
As we approached the stadium, I told my Dad about the Brentford/Donny penalty/Brentford promoted if they score/miss/Donny down the other end/score/champions/in the last minute sketch from League 1 the week previous. We then said "there'll be twists and turns today but hopefully not quite like that!"
Tempting fate? Hell yeah.
Kick off, we're up as it stands but we need to win. Anything less, I think we've blown it.
First goal in either our game or Watford's would echo around the oppositions ground within minutes and give the other a big lift or a big downer. First goal critical.
Halfway through first half a whisper goes 'round the ground that Watford are now down the their third choice 'keeper and 15 minutes behind us due to the injury! This fact made it all very interesting later on. Then Cardiff started singing "1-0 to the Watford.....1-0 to the Watford..." yeah right! Or is it? Ha ha ha, yeah, very good. Sheep shaggers. Ten minutes later, Cardiff started singing "2-0 to the Watford.....2-0 to the Watford..." very droll....great interplay between both sets of fans that remained throughout the day.
Another murmur from South East corner gathered momentum around the ground......Eddie's ringing me.......yes, Leeds have scored! We're up as it stands. Pandemonium at City over a fucking dirty white shite goal! Funny though. The irony was not lost anywhere in the ground.
City sing "We all love Leeds scum, we all love Leeds scum, we all love Leeds scum...." the paradox makes everyone smile as they sing it. Cardiff join in with "We all hate Leeds scum...." and the atmosphere progresses.
Half time, City 0, Chardiff 0. We're up as it stands.
On the concourse at (our) half time, Watford equalise via information from Super Saturday on Sky.
"We all hate Leeds scum, We all hate Leeds scum, We all hate Leeds scum...."
All sang with still a wry smile from everyone and a sudden sense that a goal either way and we've blown it.
A Chardiff goal 5 minutes into the second half and we have, indeed, blown it. As it stands. And it's Frazier fucking Campbell to cap it all! Bastard. News would've reverberated around Vicarage Road, a big boost to Watford confidence. We're NOT up as it stands. Shit.
Whisper from North East Corner goes 'round the ground.....Leeds have scored again! Have they? Erm....really? Rang Eddie. They don't know about it. Shite. Leeds haven't scored. They never do.
Ten minutes of doom and despair is suddenly rectified with a Protchthvwitzz equaliser! Crazy scenes again! But after the last 15 minutes we've witnessed, the realisation is that things can change pretty quickly. Still nervy.
Nerves are somewhat restored with a scrambled shitty goal from one time boo boy (he WAS shit) Paul Mcshane! Pandemonium as we sort of realise that we're up. Nearly. But it's been nearly for three weeks now.
baby, baby!
Jesus Holy Mary Mother of God.
80 minutes gone. We're sorted. Well in control. Strolling to promotion.
Minute of injury time left. City going mental all around. Probably get another one to seal it.......Prottchstchszvwvitsctz goes down in the box! Penalty! Yes, that's it, it's done, yes, get in you bastards, yes......come on....people on the pitch....they think it's all over and that...
At this point, we KNEW we were up. We KNEW. But we weren't.....
Meyler had the ball to take the pen in Koren and Brady's absence. With people still on the pitch, players ask who should take it. Word on the street now says that the DVD of Protcschwvshcthwitz shows him as the penalty taker for his former German club. Bruce goes with this and orders Protcschthwitchitchsz take the pen. Protcscsrwitsz is shite by the way. We're up, done.
Protschshwitszch's penalty is saved! Bastard wank sticks! Actually it doesn't matter.....34 seconds later.....penalty to Cardiff! Good lord above! Brentford/Donny......oh shit, Watford still have 15 minutes to score against a very very very shit fucking L***s side! We've fucked it again, again, again. Again. Even Cardiff, who had been celebrating with us, didn't really react to their pen and didn't even take the piss that we're now "staying down". Everyone looked at each other. I mean everyone. I looked everyone in the eye. Everyone in the ground. Everyone looked at each other. Time stood still. Everyone looking at everyone else. Spellbound. Everyone was looking at everyone else not knowing what the fuck was going on. In the eye. I was looking at everyone else. Everyone else was looking at me and everyone else. Everyone else just looked at everyone else. It was not pandemonium as everyone else sat staring at everyone else. In the eye. It was awkward for everyone. I had a particularly awkward moment when I looked at the bird sat in E3, Block 6, Row 4, Seat 14 as I'm sure I'd fucked about with her at some point in my life but couldn't remember where or when. Or her name, obviously. The bloke in North Stand who was sat in N1, Block 3, Row 8, Seat 2 can just fuck off and stare at some fucker else. "What you fucking looking at?" I shouted across the stands to N1Block3Row8Seat2 boy. "Everyone's looking at everyone" he shouted from North Stand as it carried across the silence. "Alright then".
That showed him.
Fourteen hours later once everyone had looked at everyone else, in the eye, and their penalty was taken. Goal. Shit. The whole ground looked at each other not knowing quite what that meant. Everyone looked at everyone else again. In the eye. Time stood still.
We all looked at each other until it became uncomfortable and broke eye contact. Another 14 hours later, although this time I blanked E3, Block 6, Row 4, Seat 14 burger, and we all realised that Watford definitely did still have 15 minutes to score against the uncle fuckers that are L***s.
Holy mother of God's big bangers.
There were about 25 thou there and at this point I reckon around 10,000 people were stood up on their phone getting direct updates from someone who could see a TV. I rang Paul O'Grady's bitch as he was bound to be watching a TV. What a good joke. Great joke that one. Unbelievable gag that one. Thanks to Pauline for sending that one in. Keep em coming in, a new fountain pen is on it's way.
A murmur......right 'round the ground....Leeds have scored! They're shit! But they've scored! That's it, we're up! As long as we fuck Man U next year. Sorted. "We all love L***s, scum, we all loves L***s scum..." reverbree.....reverbarbat....reverbibr.......echoed 'round the ground. Smiles again. That was close.
Crazy day in all seriousness. Great day.
Hindsight says that it was the best way to go up after a rollercoaster ride.....at the time it felt like I just wanted an easy 2-0 thanks! Glory. You L***s bastards will be trying to get tickets to see the Tigers next season. Don't. My L***s "friends" tried to take all the glory, saying that if they hadn't scored that winner we'd still be in the Championship. Nah, we we're up without it thanks.....come on City....
S. G.
.............
Tuesday, 7 May 2013
Trevor.
I haven't been able to blog lately. Some of you know why.
But I've popped back into blogland just for me.
I haven't been able to blog lately? Surely that should read 'lately, I have been unable to blog'? Or are both correct? Not really bothered, like.
When in Bordugal for the Euros in '04, we followed Engerland obviously and ended up in several places where you'd just never go. One night of high alchoholic intake we were in a bar in which there was:
a) the second tallest man in Bordugal
b) the tallest man in Bordugal's brother, and
c) a live band.
And that is all absolutely true. Although a) and b) is the same thing. Person.
We watched and listened to the live band, they played a bit of soft rock type shite and the likes of Steppenwolf, you know the type of gig. Upside down Ollie and I were perched up near the set at the end of the gig. The band had a random, bits-and-pieces sort of bag. The sort of holdall where you put odd drumsticks, Powerslave-type masks, plectrums and sweat bands for the sweaty bassist.
The bag was black.
On the side, in printed white letters, it read:
Rock bag! ROCK.....................bag. The sort of bag in which you put Quo, Motorhead.......erm......Saxon.....just fucking ROCK things alright? Like Lemmy and dry ice. The drummer came off stage and garbled something in Borduguese and a roadie asked him where he should put something ROCK like spare petula oil and he replied (with a massive pause in the middle) "Rock...............................bag".
So what turns up at Spurn?
Oh fuck me, you've guessed it......
ROCK............................Thrush!
Quo.........Motorhead etc....
Rock..............Thrush. Female Rock Thrush are easy to identify with their scaly bastard plumage, a red tail and purely mental back-combed hair like Whitesnake (Rock).
Mr Hutt and his thousand eyes were, again, responsible for this second record for Spurn. I missed the first record back in '84 due to fingering Caz Tanton in her money box beneath her "Thursday" knickers, and the fact that I was only twelve and unable to drive. Should Twelve have a capital? Don't think so. I'll go back and edit it.
A thought for our little neice Evie if you will.
Thankyou.
.....................
But I've popped back into blogland just for me.
I haven't been able to blog lately? Surely that should read 'lately, I have been unable to blog'? Or are both correct? Not really bothered, like.
When in Bordugal for the Euros in '04, we followed Engerland obviously and ended up in several places where you'd just never go. One night of high alchoholic intake we were in a bar in which there was:
a) the second tallest man in Bordugal
b) the tallest man in Bordugal's brother, and
c) a live band.
And that is all absolutely true. Although a) and b) is the same thing. Person.
We watched and listened to the live band, they played a bit of soft rock type shite and the likes of Steppenwolf, you know the type of gig. Upside down Ollie and I were perched up near the set at the end of the gig. The band had a random, bits-and-pieces sort of bag. The sort of holdall where you put odd drumsticks, Powerslave-type masks, plectrums and sweat bands for the sweaty bassist.
The bag was black.
On the side, in printed white letters, it read:
Rock Bag.
Rock bag! ROCK.....................bag. The sort of bag in which you put Quo, Motorhead.......erm......Saxon.....just fucking ROCK things alright? Like Lemmy and dry ice. The drummer came off stage and garbled something in Borduguese and a roadie asked him where he should put something ROCK like spare petula oil and he replied (with a massive pause in the middle) "Rock...............................bag".
So what turns up at Spurn?
Oh fuck me, you've guessed it......
ROCK............................Thrush!
Quo.........Motorhead etc....
Colin Occupantsofinterplanitarycraft
Rock..............Thrush. Female Rock Thrush are easy to identify with their scaly bastard plumage, a red tail and purely mental back-combed hair like Whitesnake (Rock).
Mr Hutt and his thousand eyes were, again, responsible for this second record for Spurn. I missed the first record back in '84 due to fingering Caz Tanton in her money box beneath her "Thursday" knickers, and the fact that I was only twelve and unable to drive. Should Twelve have a capital? Don't think so. I'll go back and edit it.
A thought for our little neice Evie if you will.
Thankyou.
.....................
Wednesday, 13 February 2013
Year-Tick Work Action-Packed Post
Word up home boys. I've been installing some cabins onto a building site down in Sarf Landan where they are about to flatten a load of high rise flats. I managed to year tick Ring Necked Parakeet - loads of them. The site gaffer commented "fackin vermin they are" as he was a cockerney chap, to which I launched in to explain that while they clearly aren't a native British bird, they have a self sustaining population and before I blurted out the phrase "Category C" I managed to realise that I was stood before several broad hairy stinking builders. In rigger boots. On a butch building site.
Talking about non-native bird species and knowing such dross as they are established enough to be recognised as a bonafide British bird (almost) albeit in Category C is probably a no-no......
"....fucking vermin...." muttered I. "Anyone see that program about lorries the other night?" I said, changing the subject as real men always talk about things like lorries. I know one bloke whose first (and last) day on a building site surrounded by sweaty horrible bastard hairy butch men in rigger boots consisted of him opening his packed lunch up at dinner and pulling out........a 6 pack of Jam Tarts! The hairy stinking butch builder-types let him know that it's probably not the most butch pack-up to reveal on site. Chips? No problem. You've got to eat them without washing your hands though.
I also helped to install some cabins onto a site on Worthing seafront, surrounded by stinking...etc...men. I was up a ladder with a four tonne cab being lifted over my head by a crane when I noticed something "chat-like" flick around the corner. Black Red?! Really? I leaned out beyond the bottom cabin to try and see where it went. The four tonne thing over my swede can wait. Poor Health and Safety skills, but it looked like a Black Red so I think you're allowed to. I did not see the chat-like thing again until the next day when a dapper, spanking male Black Red flew towards me and perched up not far away. It payed no attention to the bright orange high-viz jacket I....
......and it came closer still and perched close enough for me to see brown tertials and primaries, so as a first winter (2nd calendar year) male? Bonser.
There.
...........................
Talking about non-native bird species and knowing such dross as they are established enough to be recognised as a bonafide British bird (almost) albeit in Category C is probably a no-no......
"....fucking vermin...." muttered I. "Anyone see that program about lorries the other night?" I said, changing the subject as real men always talk about things like lorries. I know one bloke whose first (and last) day on a building site surrounded by sweaty horrible bastard hairy butch men in rigger boots consisted of him opening his packed lunch up at dinner and pulling out........a 6 pack of Jam Tarts! The hairy stinking butch builder-types let him know that it's probably not the most butch pack-up to reveal on site. Chips? No problem. You've got to eat them without washing your hands though.
Will it be chips or jacket spuds?
Will it be salad or frooowzen peas?
I also helped to install some cabins onto a site on Worthing seafront, surrounded by stinking...etc...men. I was up a ladder with a four tonne cab being lifted over my head by a crane when I noticed something "chat-like" flick around the corner. Black Red?! Really? I leaned out beyond the bottom cabin to try and see where it went. The four tonne thing over my swede can wait. Poor Health and Safety skills, but it looked like a Black Red so I think you're allowed to. I did not see the chat-like thing again until the next day when a dapper, spanking male Black Red flew towards me and perched up not far away. It payed no attention to the bright orange high-viz jacket I....
....was wearing.....
......and it came closer still and perched close enough for me to see brown tertials and primaries, so as a first winter (2nd calendar year) male? Bonser.
There.
...........................
Wednesday, 9 January 2013
Guest Entry from John
I've just been looking through my drafts that get saved when I either don't finish a post or don't think it's worthy (yeah right) of posting to the general public when I came across this. I cannot remember writing it so I was clearly drunken. Anyway, have a look:
Following on from Lee's guest entry (here) and Dave the Lorry Driver's guest entry (here) today we've got someone from the world of fishing to give us an insightful account of his day on the river Trent yesterday.
Now then.
My name's John and I live in Nottingham. Not too far from my house is a river called the Trent and it has some fish in it. Yesterday I decided to go down to the Trent fishing as it's not far from me. Fishing's something I love and I've been doing it for as long as I can remember. Some of you people interested in birds will relate to me in that it's a great escape from every day life and it's just great to be out in the fresh air in the peaceful, idyllic and often beautiful natural surroundings. I loaded my rod, bait and hooks and that onto the car. It's not far to the Trent from my house. After driving not too far I arrived at my 'peg', that's what we in the fishing world call it. I unpacked my rod, bait hooks and that, and started getting set up. Then disaster! I'd forgotten my little chair that I sit on! Good job it's not too far to my house, heh heh. I had to pop back for it. I returned to the Trent pretty soon cos it's not too far away and unpacked my rod, bait and hooks and that again. Finally, I was set up. Great. Looks a nice day. Nice and calm, not too many fishing. Looking good. A Swan swam upto me so I fed it some bread then discarded a couple of hooks and some line directly into it's stupid fucking orange beak. That'll teach the fucker.
Finally, I cast out......waited.......waited....then caught a fucking FISH! Then I cast out again and waited.....then waited..... then caught a fucking FISH! I cast out again and waited, and caught a fucking FISH! I cast out a bit further this time and waited and waited and I caught a fucking FISH! Then I waited again and caught a FISH! Then I caught another FISH! Then I caught a FISH! Then I caught another fucking FISH! What a great day.
Well, thanks for that John, sounds like a great fucking hobby.
..................
Well was it really worth posting? I'm not sure. But anyway, it pads this shite out a bit doesn't it? As for birding, I have nothing to say. As for Christmas, I have nothing to say. As for New Year, not a jot. It seems every year of blogging I refuse to be drawn into the merriment of Yuletide with absolutely no Christmas messages for you all. Does this make me a miser?
...............................
Following on from Lee's guest entry (here) and Dave the Lorry Driver's guest entry (here) today we've got someone from the world of fishing to give us an insightful account of his day on the river Trent yesterday.
Now then.
My name's John and I live in Nottingham. Not too far from my house is a river called the Trent and it has some fish in it. Yesterday I decided to go down to the Trent fishing as it's not far from me. Fishing's something I love and I've been doing it for as long as I can remember. Some of you people interested in birds will relate to me in that it's a great escape from every day life and it's just great to be out in the fresh air in the peaceful, idyllic and often beautiful natural surroundings. I loaded my rod, bait and hooks and that onto the car. It's not far to the Trent from my house. After driving not too far I arrived at my 'peg', that's what we in the fishing world call it. I unpacked my rod, bait hooks and that, and started getting set up. Then disaster! I'd forgotten my little chair that I sit on! Good job it's not too far to my house, heh heh. I had to pop back for it. I returned to the Trent pretty soon cos it's not too far away and unpacked my rod, bait and hooks and that again. Finally, I was set up. Great. Looks a nice day. Nice and calm, not too many fishing. Looking good. A Swan swam upto me so I fed it some bread then discarded a couple of hooks and some line directly into it's stupid fucking orange beak. That'll teach the fucker.
Finally, I cast out......waited.......waited....then caught a fucking FISH! Then I cast out again and waited.....then waited..... then caught a fucking FISH! I cast out again and waited, and caught a fucking FISH! I cast out a bit further this time and waited and waited and I caught a fucking FISH! Then I waited again and caught a FISH! Then I caught another FISH! Then I caught a FISH! Then I caught another fucking FISH! What a great day.
Well, thanks for that John, sounds like a great fucking hobby.
..................
Well was it really worth posting? I'm not sure. But anyway, it pads this shite out a bit doesn't it? As for birding, I have nothing to say. As for Christmas, I have nothing to say. As for New Year, not a jot. It seems every year of blogging I refuse to be drawn into the merriment of Yuletide with absolutely no Christmas messages for you all. Does this make me a miser?
...............................
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