|
28th August
Black Stork
Twitched a Black Stork in Yorkshire, great bird, but I
pretty much hated every second of it. The reason? All
that great stuff in south-west Ireland that turned up
just as we left. Pig sick. And at the moment I'm as
broke as Richard Blackwood ("who da bankrupt man?").
Whimsical verse shall suffice:
The valiant Black Stork south of York,
Made the ladies observing all talk.
For whilst dressed in fine fettle,
He showed them his mettle,
And released his vast manhood of pork.
19th-26th August
The Bridges
of Madison County
Guinness - worth waiting for. And
paying for. And then drinking. And then going for a
piss. And so forth...
The Bridges of Madison County is the best film
ever made. Starring Clint Eastwood and Meryl Streep ("Dingo's
got my baby!"), it tells the story of a woman and a
man (played by an actress and an actor) and has bits
with people crying in it and lots of acting in it as
well. It was originally supposed to be called The
Bridges of Madison Square Garden, only that made no
sense, so then they called it The Bridges of Madison
County and the rest, as they say, is history. Film
history. Annals of film history. And Oscars too. Good
film. Nice to watch with a cup-a-soup and a pack of fig
rolls. It's wank really. I fucking hate Meryl Streep.
So, all of that stuff above has been leading to this...
... keep scrolling down ...
... wait for it ...
... almost there ...
... nearly ...
... wahey! You have arrived. Only now I can't remember
what it was all leading to. Something to do with Blue
Dragon 3 minute chicken and chilli noodles? No, that's
for later. Much later. Now is the time for this bit: the
Bridges of Madison Square Garden. No, that's
wrong, I mean:
The Bridges
of Ross
That's right, the Bridges of Ross. THE BRIDGES OF
ROSS. Think lighting and thunder, or even thunder
and lightning, think horses rising up on their back legs
in terror, creaking doors, think castles and sucking
blood, and all to the backdrop of a church organ playing
Bach's Toccata and Fugue. The Briiidddges of
Rossssssssss...
One of the less inclement moments of
weather at the Bridges of Madison Ross Square
The Bridges of Ross are widely regarded as one of
Europe's premier seawatching sites, which is odd seeing
as there's only one bridge, the Bridge of Ross, so there
you go. But whatever you do, and I really, really,
really mean this - I'm genuinely being serious here,
this is serious time, this is like really, really
serious, so no fucking about - whatever you do, never
ever, EVER, say that the Bridge(s) of Ross is (are)
Britain's premier seawatching site. NEVER! And if
you do decide to say that, then make sure there are no
Irish birders within earshot, because if there are, you
will most certainly not be leaving Ireland with as many
teeth as you came over with. The Bridge(s) of Ross is
(are) in Ireland, Eire, and that isn't Britain, or the
UK, or even England. I know, I was just as surprised
myself! It was like finding out about that woman in
Eurovision a few years ago who was really a man.
The only remaining Bridge of Ross. The
other two collapsed under the weight of discarded broken
fold-up camping chairs, umbrellas, wind breaks and
wrecked tripods
Seven full days of birding at one of Europe's
premier seawatching sites surely had to yield a monster
tally of sexually arousing maritime beasts? Definitely!
Indeed whilst we were there 2 Fea's Petrels and a Little
Shearwater came past. And do you know how many of them I
managed to see? Take a really wild guess. That's right,
all three of them!!! 2 Fea's Petrels and a Little
Shearwater - what a fucking week!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Some parts of the above paragraph are not entirely true,
namely bits about seeing 2 Fea's Petrels and a Little
Shearwater.
The Maginot Line. I don't even know
what the Maginot Line is. Sounds good though
On our first night there 11 birders, sitting close
together, somehow managed to miss 2 Fea's Petrels (or
possibly one doing a loop?), in fact we missed them by
nearly 12 hours, not even finding out until the next
morning. That's quite some miss! What happened was a
classic case of Wank Biscuits, in which two
birders (shit hot birders as well - these were no
stringy Fea's) were sat by themselves out of view from
us, and they were blessed with 2 Fea's that swept by
just under our noses. Jesus Titty-fucking Christ!
And the Little Shearwater? Well Sarah and I were 6 miles
away eating a ton of fried swine when that fluttered
through. What happened there was also another classic
case of Wank Biscuits, and after the most
convoluted series of knotted Chinese Whispers and
rumours, I'm not even sure whether anybody saw it, or
whether I've even just made it up. The only details I do
know for certain was that a group of somewhere between
4-15 birders from either Belgium, Holland, Finland or
Wales, saw a Little Shearwater somewhere in Ireland at
some point over the last 7 days, though I may not have
got all of those details correct.
Night or day? It all just seemed to
blend into one.
Someone once said, I can't remember who it was, that
birds themselves are only a small part of the birding
experience. Well that's actually complete bollocks, I'd
say that birds tend to constitute a pretty fucking huge
part of the birding experience, unless you're one of
those bellends who stand around talking loudly on your
mobile all the time, selling heather and promising the
coming of the Apocalypse. Maybe you scrotal
protuberances really do think that birds themselves are
only a small part of the birding experience, I don't
know whether you do or don't, I don't even know who
"you" are. You could be lepers for all I know. But...
... someone once said, I can't remember who it was, that
birds themselves are only a small part of the birding
experience. And that's very true is that. The birding
over the last week wasn't really all that good, add to
that pretty horrendous weather, the sea often vanishing
behind a veil of damp that will probably shave a few
years off our life expectancy through respiratory
illnesses, and yet we had an absolutely brilliant time.
And that was, by and large, because of the people - our
fellow birdspotting comrades, united in their quest to
escape reality and sit on plastic chairs for over 10
hours a day, 9 of which were spent trying to keep dry
under broken wind-fucked umbrellas. I've done a lot of
laughing over the last week, a reasonable percentage of
it in Kilbaha's two excellent pubs with some great
people, and laughing is good, it helps to dull the pain.
Birders tend to get a bad name, the outside world look
upon us as a collection of socially inept loners and
miscreants with moderate learning difficulties, and
they're probably right. But the world needs socially
inept loners and miscreants with moderate learning
difficulties. Long live birdspotting! Only perhaps with
a few more birds to spot next time.
Cow with the most disproportionately
large head I've ever seen. You had to see it in the
flesh to really appreciate it. The word
disproportionately has a hell of a lot of letters in it.
Like 80 letters or something. Cow only has 3 (letters in
it).
14th August
I met this bloke the other day...
The Leicester Llama seems to have got himself a bit
wound up over a
twat he met at Rutland Water, and it made me realise
that from time to time the world of birdspotting really
does throw some exceptional wrecks of Human beings in
your direction. Here are some of my own personal
favourite lunatics I've met over the years:
1) "Martin"
Cornwall, 2001. Myself and the then Miss Cole are
walking around a reservoir when we are joined by a
non-birder who asked us what interesting birds are
around. Presuming that all birds would be of some
interest to him, I told him about the first bird I saw
just by the side of him, which was a lovely little Sedge
Warbler.
"Sedge Warbler?" the non-birder asked.
"There's a Sedge Warbler here?"
"Indeed there is, in fact there's quite a lot,"
said I, to which the non-birder took off his rucksack
and took out a pair of binoculars (still in their
leather case). Ah, so he IS interested in birds,
thought I to myself.
"Where was it?" asked he, now becoming a bit
excitable.
"Just there," said I pointing, when suddenly the
Sedge Warbler flew out of the top of a small bush.
"There it goes," said I, at which point the
non-birder ran like a maniac along the path to where the
bird landed. After pacing about and trying to peer into
the bush, he shouted back that he couldn't find it.
Sensing that socially uncomfortable times were fast
approaching, I took a deep breath and walked over to him
to explain that the best way to see the bird would
undoubtedly be to not try and climb into the bush. And
you'll never guess what happened next...
... go on, guess ...
... that's right! That all too annoyingly familiar sound
of a birdspotting pager went off, and the presumed
non-birder pulled a shiny new birdspotting pager out of
his pocket. So he was a birder? And then guess
what happened next...
... go on, guess...
... that's right! For some unknown reason, completely
out of the blue, he called me Martin.
"Martin," he began, "I've been here six times
looking for the Green Sandpiper. I keep reading about it
on my pager. Why hasn't there been any news about the
Sedge Warbler, Martin?"
I'm not entirely sure why, but I didn't quite have the
heart to tell him that my name wasn't Martin, and so I
just went along with it. "Well," said I,
"Sedge Warblers are too common to be broadcast on the
pager. If birds like Sedge Warblers were being reported
then your pager would never stop going off."
Logical!
To which he said: "I've never seen a Sedge Warbler,
Martin."
Now I know what you're thinking, but I swear this is all
true. It's as true and pure as Hilary Clinton after
showering herself in elderflower cordial. So I, Martin
McKinney, promised the maniac that I'd not only show him
a Sedge Warbler, but that I'd also show him a Green
Sandpiper, or four of them if he wanted. Delighted, he
shook my hand and then put his binoculars away into his
leather case and then back into his rucksack.
"You might want to keep them out," I advised him.
"It's okay, I'll take them out when we stop next,
Martin," he said.
7 metres further along the path I saw another Sedge
Warbler, so we stopped and the maniac took off his
rucksack, took out his binoculars and missed the bird by
about 35 seconds. Binoculars packed away again, advance
a further 15 metres, another Sedge Warbler, binoculars
taken back out, bird missed again, binoculars packed
away again.
By now there was absolutely no way out of my name being
Martin, so when Miss Cole picked up a Green Sandpiper,
she now had to address me as Martin, and then fell to
the floor in a slightly concerning fit of uncontrollable
laughter. I eventually pointed to where the Green
Sandpiper was and then we made a run for it. I've never
seen him since. Unfortunately. Not.
2) Sanderling Man
Many of you will have met Sanderling Man, he haunts one
of Britain's most famous reserves. I assume he lives
nearby, he may even live in a ditch on the reserve. In
the 3 times I've actually spoken to Sanderling Man, he's
never once correctly identified a Sanderling. The first
time he ever called me over was to show me a Temminck's
Stint - it was a Sanderling; he then showed me 3 Little
Stints - 3 Sanderlings; later that same morning on the
way back to the car he showed me the Temminck's Stint
again - it was a Sanderling.
The next time I met Sanderling Man was on the reserve's
beach looking for sea duck. There was a Purple Sandpiper
on the beach which he could see and nobody else could
find. "It's in with the Dunlin flock," he
shouted, becoming increasingly frustrated at everyone's
incompetence. Eventually I worked out what was going on
- the Dunlin flock were Sanderling. What makes
Sanderling Man so special is that he's actually not a
bad birder, whilst seawatching he was pretty sharp, but
he seems to have developed a curious mental block with
Sanderlings.
The third time I spoke to Sanderling Man was in the
middle of a field looking for a Ross's Goose. There were
no Sanderling present, but if there were he would
undoubtedly have mistaken them for something else.
3) Dead Rabbit Man
Dead Rabbit Man is actually a friend of mine, so I'll
shall attempt to preserve his anonymity as best I can.
However, despite being a thoroughly decent chap, Dead
Rabbit Man does have this peculiar habit of deliberately
driving over rabbits and then dumping them in his back
garden, which in turn brings in the Ravens. In huge
numbers. The last time I visited Dead Rabbit Man he was
attracting over 30 Ravens which were roosting on the
roof of his house each evening. Dead Rabbit Man once
gave myself and Mrs McKinney a lift in his car. Before
he set off he asked, "Are either of you squeamish?"
and then tear-arsed along the road before swerving off
into a ditch yelling, "Fucking hedgehog!"
Dead Rabbit Man lives in a very (very very) isolated
part of the British Isles, and the introduced hedgehogs
and rabbits are a menace to the ground nesting birds
there, though why he takes the corpses home with him to
dump in his garden is anyone's guess. There must be
local rivalry as to who can get the most Ravens on their
roof.
4) Eyeball Paul
It's unfair to mock Eyeball Paul (I don't know if his
name really is Paul), as God the almighty creator and
giver of the precious gift of life was clearly having a
bit of a laugh and joke the day he made Eyeball Paul.
Again, some of you may well have met Eyeball Paul, or at
least met his left eye, which has this peculiar tendency
to roll all over the fucking place whilst his right eye
remains completely motionless. But don't pity Eyeball
Paul, he's always out and about with friends, though
whether they're there just to laugh at him I'm not too
sure.
5) Dave Tourette
"The fucker's just by the yellow fucker. It's flying
over the yellow fucker now. Are you on it, you cunt?
It's fucking off like a right fucker of a bastard. The
fucker's going over the blue fucking thing. Fuck me it's
fucking off fucking fast. Are you on it yet, you fucker?
It definitely fucking was one. You saw the fucker, yeah?
The twat just wouldn't fucking sit still. What a
fucker!"
The above is a rough transcript of a standard Dave
Tourette oration, as if composed by The Bard's very own
hand. He is yet to form a sentence without at least one
profane word in it. He is my hero.
12th August
Excessive seawatching is bad for your health
The following extracts are from Tom McKinney's
birdspotting jotter found at Porthgwarra in Cornwall,
along with a Staedtler black and yellow HB pencil, a
copy of The Racing Post and a street map of
Carlisle.
Tom has not made contact with anyone since Saturday
afternoon. Police believe that 87 hours of seawatching
in 7 days may have finally have tipped TM over the edge.
He was seen by a number of birders on Saturday afternoon
at Porthgwarra, proclaiming that he was being attacked
by a wardrobe and threatening to leave for Denmark in
order to begin a horseshoe repair business. He was last
seen on CCTV in London boarding the Eurostar wearing an
I've been to Majorca T-shirt. He is now believed
to be somewhere in northern Germany scouring souvenir
shops and claiming to be Anthony Eden.
***
2nd August
Night in Leeds on JS's stag weekend. It
was supposed to have been just a quiet one. Got back to
hotel 3am. Threw up next morning. Oh well, I'd rather
stay young, go out and play! Had to drive to Cornwall
from Leeds with very bad hangover. Weather poor. At
least the birds should be good.
3rd August
Not a bad day. I kicked off at 6am and a
Cory's Shearwater came through 11.55am. I skipped lunch
hoping that the Cory's would be the first of many. It
wasn't. Finished 8pm. Walked back to B+B. Knackered.
Watched Kevin and Perry the movie and had a
chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle. Life don't get better
than this.
4th August
Great Shearwater came through 6.28am.
Should have been the start of big things to come. It
wasn't. Still, both the big Shearwaters for the year.
Nice. I swear the fisherman on the little white boat
keeps giving me funny looks.
5th August
Tried my best not to look at the
fisherman today, but he kept coming really close. I
think he may even have exposed himself to me. I'm
starting to worry that I might be invading his privacy.
Are there privacy laws regarding watching a fisherman
catch fish?
Note to self: check Wikipedia when
back home for privacy laws regarding fishermen.
6th August
There was a helicopter out all day today.
Someone told me it was a training exercise, but how did
they know for certain? And why did someone bother to
come and tell me that the helicopter was on a training
exercise? To divert me from the truth? No sign of the
fisherman today. Coincidence? A helicopter and no
fisherman? There's something going on. Can't get my head
around it. Need to sleep.
7th August
Spent seven hours behind a rock hiding
from the helicopter. I swear it's the RAF. Can you
believe that they train young men to drop fire on
people, but their commanders won't allow them to write
fuck on their aeroplane because it's obscene! Oh
Kurtz, why are the greatest always the maddest? There's
you, and then there's that bloke who wrote all that
bollocks about cats. It was a rhetorical question. I
think. I'm not even sure what a rhetorical question is.
The Germans call a dictionary a lexicon. Ha! No, you're
wrong. It's every Tuesday apparently. Other than in leap
years when it's usually on a Wednesday.
I read, much of the night, and go south
in the winter.
8th August
I'm cold. I need a crispy pancake. Or
some cheese. Anything. Cheese melts snow. There's a
wardrobe floating about on the water. I would suggest
that it got there by boat. If I had a boat I'd just go
out in it and float about and sometimes use the engine.
Or if it had a sail I'd just kill a load of people. I'd
call my boat the Celine Dion, and God bless all
who may sail in her! No, I'd call it the Happy Dead
Pig Warrior. No, I'd definitely call it the Fat
Dead Dog Chicken Fucking a Pig.
So cold.
Need sleep.
Happiness is only real ...
9th August
... when shared.
I swear I didn't do it. It was some
foreigner. Probably a rummy vagrant. Eyes too close
together. You know the type. They eat too much pork, you
see. Shhhhhh! Don't say it too loud! (You're not
supposed to mention their eyes.) [Something about
superstition.]
Look, I didn't push him!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I fucking swear I didn't do it!!!!!!!!
You! hypocrite lecteur! - mon
semblable, - mon frere!
|
