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“Aarrgghh,” I said.

“Fuck,” I followed it up with.

“Aarrgghh,” I said again.

Holy motherfuck I felt shit. Some invisible person was repeatedly kicking me in the stomach whilst chiselling into the back of my head and then trying to rip my eyeballs out of their sockets. Well, either that or I had a real shitkicker of a hangover. Thinking about it, a night of revelry into the small hours in Shanleys bar, Clonakilty, County Cork was probably the reason my insides felt as though I’d been tag-team arse raped by the Incredible Hulk and Andre the Giant. Then, suddenly, I let out a blood curdling scream:

“Aarrgghh! No, fuck off, it can’t be. No!”

But it was: I’d got Bon Jovi's seminal masterpiece Livin’ on a Prayer going round and round in my head. “Why did that bastard band last night have to play Bon-fucking-Jovi? Aarrgghh!”

Actually, come to think of it, what the flying fuck was I doing in Ireland anyway? Oh yeah, it was all the idea of my great mate Lyndon (wanker) to get us all over to Ireland to celebrate his girlfriend - and our dear friend - Emma’s (bitch) 30th birthday. So here I was with my great mates Michelle (slag), Joel (prick), Alex (twat) and a load of Emma’s friends (cunts).

After I’d come to terms with the trauma of realising that I was going to have to travel back to Manchester from Clonakilty with a bastard of a hangover, I then had to contemplate Murphy’s Law: the universal law of physics devised by Newton - and later refined by Rutherford and Oppenheimer - that states that if one over indulges in the finest tipple of the Emerald Isle, one stands a 99.97469% chance of developing Stout Bowel Syndrome. In fact, it’s a huge historical lie that Newton devised his theory of gravity by being hit on the head by a falling apple. In actual fact he went out on the razz in Ireland and drank 27 pints of Murphy’s (Newton was rock). The next day his arsehole simply fell out, just like that. It just fell out and hit the floor. And that is how Newton came up with the theory of gravity or whatever the fuck he did etc…

I’d been having problems with Murphy’s Law ever since we arrived in Clonakilty on the Friday evening and I tucked into my first pint, but now I feared that it had developed into Stout Bowel Syndrome. I’d almost been caught out by Murphy’s Law the night before, when - whilst stood in The Stone Kilty public house - I had the alarming sensation of internal ripping, tearing and stretching and I seriously feared I was about to have a major colonic/rectal prolapse. But thankfully it was just Murphy’s Scam and I only needed a massive piss. Well this morning I wasn't taking any chances, but a sudden dash to the toilet revealed that yet again I’d been caught out by Murphy’s Scam and I only needed a big slash. But at the back of my mind I knew that just as a cold wind blows from the north, or that night will follow day will follow night, Stout Bowel debilitation was inevitable.

After such a satisfying big piss I couldn't face going back to my kip, so instead I decided to get up, get everyone else up and piss them all off by complaining about how ill I felt. Within five minutes I’d successfully achieved all three tasks.

“Aarrgghh!” I said, when I was told that I had to make all 300 members of our birthday team a cup of tea.

“Aaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh!!!!!” I then said, before passing out and vomitting out of my ears, when I was told that I had to help cook a full Irish fry-up for 400 people. Why couldn’t we just have a nice salad and a glass of water? Why did we have to have dried blood sausage and half a ton of swine? And why did it have to be washed down with plum tomatoes, beans and scrambled eggs? And why did my own plums feel as though they’d been scrambled? WHY?

Thankfully, chef Alex isn’t such a retarded, flaking bell-end like me, and he managed to get 17,000 rashers of bacon in and out of the grill without burning himself once, whereas I had a couple of tries at getting the bacon out and burnt myself. So instead I was just relegated to slave jobs such as, “Open this tin of tomatoes servant boy,” and, “Clean that bit of egg off the floor or else you’ll get no dried pig’s blood, dead slices of salty pig and chicken foetus.” Miraculously, I managed not to throw up over the plates as I dished up the 11,000,000 rashers of bacon to feed our party of 730 birthday revellers, but believe me it was a close call.

Just as I sat down to eat I heard the unfamiliar sound of my mobile phone text message alert alarm notification system thing (unfamiliar because nobody ever texts me because everyone hates me… out of jealousy). Anyway, I was shocked, especially seeing as it was Sunday morning and everyone knows that I’m Jewish. But if the sound of my mobile phone was shocking, then the text within the message that I’d just been informed of was truly blow-up-your-grandmother’s-tits sensationally explicitly shocking. For it said the following:

“Chimney Swift around the church in Clonakilty”

What the fuck? What the fuck? What? The? Fuck? It was sent by Harry Hussey (God) and for a split second I assumed I was dreaming. Because surely a Chimney Swift being in Clonakilty whilst I was here was clearly a dream? Not in Skibereen, Rosscarbery or even Cork City, but in Clonakilty on one of three days that I happened to be here. Seriously?

I stabbed myself in the testicles with my fork to see if I was dreaming; it really really hurt, so I was obviously awake. “Ejaculate all over my decaying great-grandmother’s corpse,” I yelped. I kicked the table over, threw my tea over the sofa (for dramatic effect), sprinted up the stairs, grabbed my bins, jumped out of the bedroom window, broke both my legs on the pavement, fractured my skull and then belted across the grass towards a church spire that I could see in the distance.

Whhhooooaaahhh, now just hold on there for a minute. This is a fackin’ wind up. Arry’s avin’ a bleedin’ larf? Apples and fackin pears? I always talk like a cockney twat when I’m panicked. And besides, how many fackin’ churches are there around here? I text Harry asking him for further gen (whatever that means) and within seconds the Irish birding oracle himself was replying with the finder’s mobile number. I frantically text Paul Moore (the finder) asking him where he was? did I have the right place? what was my name? where was I? why did I feel so ill?

Paul’s reply said simply:

"walk to bypass"

Walk? Arse to that. I was going to run! I live life on the edge. I’m one of life’s risk takers. I have no time for rules and regulations. Mediocre is not in my vocabulary. In fact, I don’t even know what mediocre means. So, run I did. Through the picturesque streets of old Clonakilty town did your dear author run in his skimpy little AC/DC t-shirt (AC/DC the band, and not a declaration of my alleged confused sexuality which is just a nasty, vicious and wholly unfounded rumour, so fuck off) which he’d still got on from the night before.

Two shifty looking blokes were skulking around on the roadside - clearly birders. After getting hit by a lorry and dying of a massive head injury as I tried to cross the bypass, I was stood with Paul and another local birder watching a Chimney Swift flying over the chimney pots of old Clonakilty town. Absolutely brilliant! Not to mention somewhat unbelievable.

After a few phone calls of joy (including a gloating one to Miss Cole who was stuck in Manc), the birthday crew came down and added Chimney Swift to their British and Irish lists along with Raven and Jackdaw - most amusing.

And that was that. I left Clonakilty having discovered the best hangover cure ever - a Chimney Swift. I also had a huge emergency bowel evacuation at Cork airport and managed to rid my myself of Murphy’s Law. There was, of course, only one way to celebrate a Chimney Swift and a big shit, and that was a pint of Murphy’s.

I love Ireland!

(A million thanks to Harry and Paul for helping me get the bird)

Yellow Warbler on Shetland

Part 1

Whoooah! Fuck me with a big stick! Yellow Warbler on Shetland? Fuck the Bishop! Blinkin’ flip! Desperate to get this bird’s name illegibly scribbled in my bird-spotting jotter, I immediately set about getting a means of transport to this far northern location that is somewhere near Iceland. I’d have driven up to Aberdeen myself to catch a ferry, but unfortunately I recently lost my licence when I was pulled over by the rozzers driving on the motorway at 3am with no headlights on. A breath test confirmed my worst fears, I was found to be eleven times over the legal limit. I pleaded with them, but the bastards got me on a technicality - manslaughter (I knew that was a strange speed bump that I'd smashed into earlier in the night). However, they let me off with just a metaphorical slap on the wrist (actually it was a kick in the testicles and a head slammed in the car door) because they were so impressed with my drinking prowess - eleven times over the limit and still able to get a stolen Fiat Seicento up to 105mph! I digress…

So, I phoned around a few mates and eventually got a call back from my old deceased pal John  Audubon. “John!” I said, somewhat surprised to hear from him seeing as he allegedly died some time ago. “I thought you were dead?”

“No, I’ve just been locked away illustrating a new book,” he said. “I’m going to call it ‘The Birds of Britain and Europe’ and it’s going to be the first full-colour field guide to your region. What do you think about that?”

Not wanting to let him down too badly, I replied, “Err… look, we need to talk about this. A few things have happened in your faux-deceased absence that you don’t seem to be aware of. Anyway, fancy going for this Yellow Warbler? Apparently it’s a cosmic mind-fucker, whatever that means.”

“Sounds great,” said John. “The only problem is that I’ve lost my driving licence. The rozzers got me the other night. You know what it's like.” I certainly do! “But I’ve got this mate who dipped the last bird on Barra and he’s got wheels. Four of them.”

“Awesome!” I exclaimed. “Who’s that then?”

“George Bristow.”

“Bristles?” I offered his nickname to confirm that I knew him well, even though I'd never met him.

“The very one!” John said.

“Wow, I’ve not heard about him for ages, infact…”

“Yes, we all thought he was dead too!” said Johnny A (John Audubon’s nickname, if you didn’t know already).

And so it was arranged; Bristles was driving up from Hastings and picking up Johnny A, plus some other guy I didn’t know called Dicky M, and then I was jumping in with them at junction 19 of the M6. I was so excited, mainly about meeting Bristles. As the most controversial character in British ornithological history, I had so many probing questions to ask George “Bristles” Bristow. I went to bed and dreamt of Yellow Warblers, Oriental Plovers and naked girls with big breasts.

What would tomorrow bring?

******************

Part 2

I awoke early - good job, because I had a 14 mile walk ahead of me to get to junction 19. I stocked up on all the necessary items for the long journey ahead: four pack of Red Bull, Mars bar, baccy, rizlas, lighter, field glasses, fieldscope, bird-spotting jotter, woollen hat with bird-spotting badges on, wax jacket with bird-spotting badges on and Wellington boots incase we had to thrash any dykes (what a great phrase!).

“Shit!” I said when I eventually arrived at junction 19 and noticed that Bristles had only got an old-style Mini Cooper - four blokes crammed into a Mini and about to embark on a 2,000 mile drive. Fuck! I saw Johnny A sat in the passenger seat, so deduced that it was Bristles having a slash in the bushes. Angrily, I squashed into the back seat and noticed an unfamiliar face next to me. So this must be Dicky M, I concluded to myself.

“Tom,” Johnny A piped up, “meet Colonel Richard Meinertzhagen, or Dicky M as he’s known to his mates.”

“Wow!” I remarked, totally in awe of the legendary figure before me. I offered him my hand and blubbered, “Hi legendary explorer, controversial ornithological figure and gun toting maniac Colonel Richard Meinertzhagen.”

Breaking my hand in his enormous bear-like grasp, I was amazed to hear him reply, “Hi Tommo. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Have you?” I said somewhat shocked.

“Well, no, actually that was a lie. But, as you know, I tend to lie quite a lot. Especially when it comes to records of dead rare birds. Speaking of which, may I introduce you to George 'Bristles' Bristow.”

Bristles was stumbling into the car still doing up his flies and complaining about having pissed all over his new shoes. “Fuck me,” I said, “controversial Sussex-based taxidermist and ornithological shyster/lying bastard George Bristow.” With basic pleasantries exchanged I was bursting to ask Bristles so many questions. I figured that he was probably being quizzed all the time, so I decided to ask just one question only. It would have to be one hell of a question. I thought long and hard about what to ask, and then finally decided that there was only one thing that I needed to know about this legendary figure driving John Audubon, Col.Richard Meinertzhagen and myself to Shetland to see a Yellow Warbler.

“Bristles?” I asked with a questioning intonation in my voice. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Oh, here we go,” the other two joked.

“Well, I was wondering if…” I hesitated, wanting to get my wording just perfect to not insult the man, but to simultaneously extract the answer to the burning question on every British birder’s lips. “Now, I’m only asking out of interest, and please don’t think I’m trying to infer anything here…”

“Just get on with it,” the other two jokingly ordered.

“Okay, well I’ve always wanted to know something about you.”

“Go on. Just ask,” Bristles kindly reassured me.

“Well, I’ve always wanted to know if you are related to Eric Bristow the darts player.”

I don’t remember much after that other than a surging pain in the centre of my face, a mouthful of splintered teeth and blood, and occasionally slipping in and out of consciousness. But as I became fully conscious I was overjoyed to see that we had arrived at Aberdeen ferry terminal. “Thank fuck for that,” I spluttered, spitting out half of my dismembered lips and a few more loose teeth, and I leapt out of the car announcing, “I’m dying for a shit!”

*****************

Part 3

Bowels taken care of, we boarded the overnight ferry as foot passengers. Being such rock n’ roll hardcore golden age twitchers of the late 1970s-early 1990s (when pagers and birdlines took over and spoilt everything and everything went tits up etc…) we obviously weren’t going to embarrass ourselves by having a cabin. Fuck that! Nor were we going to sleep on the relatively comfortable reclining chairs or even the carpeted floor. Stick that straight up your arse! We were going to properly rough it, so that when we got back we would have stories that would become legendary birding folklore - we were going to sleep on the freezing cold deck in a puddle of water in soggy sleeping bags. First things first though: before anything else we had to get skull splittingly hammered bastard drunk in the bar.

After 16 tequila slammers and a few pints (and I hadn’t even gone for a piss yet because I can drink so much) it was my round. At the bar I accidentally nudged the elbow of a huge, burly Shetland oil worker in orange oilskins and a lumberjack shirt. “Yiz ‘ave spilt ma fuckin’ paint.” (trans: Hello, you have inadvertently knocked into my elbow and caused my Tennents to spill from the sides of my pint glass.)

“Sorry about that pal,” I reasoned, “me and my great pals over there are having a bit of a booze cruise and things are getting a bit wobbly on the old legs if you know what I mean. Can I get you a drink to apologise for my unsteadiness?”

“I don’t believe it,” he grumbled. I half expected the next thing he was going to say would be something like ‘wow, you’re so right, let’s be best friends’ but how wrong I was! Instead, he growled, “Thiz anly one theng a heet mooer than a bastad spillin’ ma paint, and tha’s an English bastad spillin’ ma paint.”

The bar fell silent. I knew well what was coming. The burly fucker dropped his glass on the floor, closed his enormous fists and launched a punch propelled by years of labour intensive force into my dashing good looks. I didn’t flinch. He stood open-jawed and in shock. He tried again but the blow merely made me stronger. Decades of bare knuckle fist fights on docksides throughout the world had left this man with a confidence that one blow could floor a man and leave him cowering on the floor in a pool of blood, teeth and shattered facial bones. He tried unsuccessfully one more time and then fell back in fear against a bar stool.

“Violence solves nothing my friend,” I said calmly. “You may think that you’re dead hard, but I’m from Stoke-on-Trent and we eat people like you for brunch.” He was shocked to see that someone as intelligent and handsome as myself could come from Stoke. “Now,” I said, “let me get you that drink. Barman, get this gentleman whatever he would like. Actually, bollocks to it, drinks on me for everyone!”

Soon the bar was filled with joy and laughter as we exchanged stories of our great maritime exploits and sang many a merry sea shanty. I showed everyone my huge scars from violent encounters at sea, and at one stage it felt as though a huge remote-control shark was smashing into the side of the ferry. Johnny A and Bristles were exhibiting clear signs of "Game Over" and had thrown up over each other, but still they kept on drinking - good lads. Dicky M was showing off his blunderbuss shotgun, proudly boasting that it could, “endanger the world population of any single species in 25 minutes of shooting.” After the final chorus of Drunken Sailor at 4am, I took my first piss of the evening. Exiting the toilets (without washing my hands because real men don't wash their hands after having a piss) I glanced in the mirror and noticed my pallid and emaciated, but handsome, complexion. Clearly years of chemical excess were beginning to take a toll on my boyish good looks. I needed nutrition. Fast. So, after a can of Red Bull and a Mars bar, it was off to the outside deck as us four merry men staggered and belched to our uncomfortable wet beds.

I woke up to a grim, rainy morning. “Bblleeuurrgghh,” I said as I threw up on Johnny A’s head. “Shit mate, sorry about that, must have been a bad pint or 25,” I apologised. “John?” I said, somewhat concerned by the fact that he was blue and encased in a block of ice. The others soon stirred and shared similar concerns. “Gentlemen,” I announced, “John Audubon has died. Again.”

The remaining three of us stood at the front of the boat in shock. The sun was rising and the magical Shetland Isles were drawing ever nearer, but we had lost something very dear to us all: John was the only one of us with any money and none of us knew his cash card PIN number - we were fucked!

***************

Part 4

We all agreed that John would have wanted us to see this bird, so we put his tragic re-demise to the back of our minds and decided to hitch our way to the bird seeing as we'd all blown our cash on a monster lash-up in the boozer last night. I suggested Dicky M should hide his shotgun to make us look more appealing to any potential lift givers. Stood on the outskirts of Lerwick in the pouring rain, we stood with thumbs out hoping for a lift to see this trans-planetary vagrant of which we still didn’t know was present or not.

After a seven hour wait on the roadside, and all three of us having experienced some form of hypothermia, it was looking as though this was the worst dip of all time. We’d re-lost a close friend, got no money or transport and we probably weren’t even going to get to the site to even dip the bird properly. Life really is one pointy-shoed kick in the nuts after another! But then the rain suddenly stopped, the clouds parted and rays of light shone down on a fast moving vehicle speeding towards us. It’s awesome breaking system came into full effect as it screeched to a halt before us. A fucking red Ferrari. The window glided down and a beautiful blonde beckoned us in. “Come on lads, we’re sorted!” I shouted to the others.

We all jumped in and the gorgeous, ample-chested blonde gave us each a cup of Bovril to warm us and told us that the Yellow Warbler was showing well and that it had been joined by a Siberian Blue Robin and that she would take us there straight away to see them both, and then after she would take me to her place and insist that I watch her cooking me spaghetti Bolognese in the nude. “This has turned out alright, eh lads?” I said to the others, who were now looking at me with concern and deep frowns.

“Tom. Tom. Tom. Are you alright mate?” said Bristles. Suddenly I awoke in a puddle on the roadside. Fuck it! It was that wanking hypothermia making me hallucinate again - bollocks!

“Tom,” Bristles beckoned, “we’ve got a lift!” Arse flaps I thought to myself as I saw them squeeze into an old-style Mini Cooper driven by a Nun. Still, a lift is a lift, and if you’re a golden age twitcher of the late 1970s-early 1990s like us, then beggars can’t be choosers.

“You off to the Yellow Warbler?” the old cow said.

“We sure are. Are you a birder?” I enquired.

“Of course I am. Everyone is a birder on Shetland - only 7 people live on the entire Shetland archipelago.”

“Have you seen the bird today?” Dicky M excitedly asked.

“No. I’m afraid it got fucked over by a cat yesterday.” She said with an evil glint in her eye.

“WHAT!?!” we all screamed.

“Only kidding, it’s been showing well all day and even coming to bread in the hand. Some of us think it’s an escape.” Was she teasing us yet again?

After about thirty seconds in the car we pulled up. Fuck! The site was just a short walk from where we had been standing all day. “Thanks for the lift, you crazy old bitch,” I shouted, and then ran towards the only bush on the whole of Shetland where I assumed the bird would be. Wow! There it was as large as life. “Lads, lads, I’ve got it!” I shouted in delirious excitement.

“Tom, that’s a workman’s hard hat, you prick,” Dicky said correcting me, “you’re hallucinating again. The bird’s here.” I turned and saw Bristles holding the bird as it fed on bread in his hand. Fuck! Definitely the best bird I’d ever seen. I made copious field notes in my bird-spotting jotter, some of which are below:

After we’d had our fill of this magnificent bird we tucked into the bread - it was Tesco Value white, and thick sliced to boot. With no money or accomodation life was going to be a struggle for the next 24 hours until our boat took us home. But suddenly - whilst trying to shoot the bird for Bristles to later stuff and claim it was found near Rye Harbour - Dicky M chanced upon a wallet full of cash - at least £2,000! We ran back into Lerwick to the Tourist Information Centre and demanded the bitch behind the counter find us top class accommodation, money being no problem whatsoever. “I’m sorry gentlemen,” she said worryingly, “but Mariah Carey is in town opening a new veterinary surgery and all hotels, B+Bs, hostels and campsites in Shetland are fully booked with her fans who have come to spit in her face and throw plastic cups full of vomit at her.”

Fuck! What the fuck were we to do now? Suddenly I remembered that I’d recently seen the film Hitch starring Will Smith. In the film the eponymous character, played by Will Smith, had this amazing ability to pull any woman he wanted and this really reverberated with me, being someone who also possesses similar talents. So I explained to Bristles and Dicky M that…

…oh fuck this. I can’t be bothered writing any more. Basically, I’ve not been birding for a while because I‘m dead busy at the moment. However, if I had been free and gone birding then that is exactly what I would have done. So, if you think about it, it’s not really a lie. What do you think about that? To be honest, I couldn’t give a fuck what you think.

Fuck off.

PS Bollocks.