Fields of Shit
Nothing at Frampton Marsh, Lincolnshire
14th December 2005
Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way!
Merry Christmas fellow birdspotters! On Monday I was in Manchester city centre, purchasing yuletide gifts for kith and kin (whoever the fuck they doth be), when the birdspotting pager unit of Birdnet Information Limited, under licence and patronage of Her Majesty Queen Victoria (God bless her soul), did tremor and squeal as it burst from Satans’s loin cloth with that most unholy of sounds - the Mega Alert.
“Fuck thy Bishop,” said I, “what un-Godly disturbance is this during the annual celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ our Saviour, son of God?” Thankfully I come from good stock, and a fully rounded education from Messrs Fuzzysnatch and Ringpiece have endowed your author with the learned attributes required to decipher the text of the birdspotting pager unit. It read as such:
MEGA ALERT
LINCS: BUFF-BELLIED PIPIT (RUBESCENS) IN A BIG SHITTY MUDDY FIELD JUST OUTSIDE BOSTON. BRING WELLINGTON BOOTS AND GENTLEMAN’S WARM ATTIRE.
“Hark the Herald Angel Sing!” A Buff-bellied Pipit, no less. Being of curious countenance, I utilised my mobile telegram machine and sent a message to a birdspotting acquaintance to see if he would be interested in gazing upon the mighty beauty of this transatlantic Christmas gift. He soon replied and informed me that our potential feathered bounty was causing concern to some gurus of birdspotting identification, and that its true identity was eluding confirmation. Indeed it was spoken of that the feathered beast may indeed be an ‘eastern’ Water Pipit. We decided that we would wait until further news.
For some reason (that your pained author is unable to recall or entertain) waiting on further news entailed waiting until Wednesday morning - a day after the bird had been devoured by the masses and its true identity no longer in any doubt (not that the original finder was ever in any doubt) - a Buff-bellied Pipit indeed. One is quite sure that there was sound reasoning behind such foolish decisions, but one is fucked if one can remember what that reasoning was! And so on Wednesday morning myself and Miss Cole (of course with permission from her father, the Earl of Scunthorpe, to be escorted by a gentleman such as myself) did journey to the village of Moulton in Cheshire where we did meet with Paul Brewster and Malcolm Curtin - two members of the infamous Comberbach Casuals Club. The CCCs are renowned for their bizarre initiation rites, which allegedly involve eating babies and stealing from the poor to give to the rich.
The weather was mightily foul with a hoar frost and bitter air. A gentleman could most certainly lose his bearings in weather such as this. At Frampton Marsh Malcolm’s chariot did arrive to a multitude of fellow birdspotter’s chariots parked upon the roadside. A kindly old gentleman of ruddy cheek and local dialect did direct the four of us towards the favoured feeding area of the Pipit. Slipping and splashing around in a load of old shit, your four heroes did do battle with the elements in an attempt to get across a big fucking field to stand at the edge of another big fucking field and gaze upon acres of open field.
And gaze we did. With field glasses and draw-tube brass telescopes mounted upon ivory stands we gazed upon field after field in search of the mighty Pipit. For five and a half fucking hours we gazed. Our reward? Water Pipits, a single Hen Harrier and hypothermia.
To coin a rather un-gentlemanly phrase, we ‘dipped’. Yes, we did ‘dip’. Despite being present for 10 days, the Pipit could clearly take no more of this barren post-apocalyptic Hell and decided to just go and fucketh off.
What a really shit way to end one’s highly enjoyable birdspotting year!
*****
And so I bid farewell to the year 2005. Although I’ve not had the chance to indulge in birdspotting as much as I would have liked, I’ve still thoroughly enjoyed the previous twelve month passing of the calendar. To all that I have met in the field and shared a bird (and later a beer) with I thank thee from the bottom of my heart for the pleasure of your acquaintance. In 2006 my birdspotting journal shall resume with more inane, insane and terrifyingly juvenile shite, but in the mean time Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
If you would like to get in touch you can email me at:
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tommckinney1979 |
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yahoo.co.uk |
If you want to get in touch to point out grammatical, speeling and punctuation errors, or just to slag me off, then you can email me at:
gofuckyourself AT pissoffanddie.com
Eco-twitching
Brunnich's Guillemot in Lerwick, Shetland
5th-11th December 2005
“Eighty four quid?” Are you shitting me? That’s how much I was about to fork out for a train to Aberdeen from Manchester Piccadilly, and I hadn’t even paid for the ferry to Shetland yet. But I have a conscience you see. I care about our planet. I fear for our children and their children. What kind of a world are we leaving them in destroying the ozone layer by driving everywhere when we could use public transport? What kind of lovers of birds and nature are those of us that chase endlessly up and down the roads of our green and pleasant land in search of the next tick for our birdspotting lists? So that’s why I decided to see the Brunnich’s Guillemot by public transport. And it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that a girlfriend of mine needed the car, thus rendering me without transport and I couldn’t find anyone to get a lift off because I couldn’t go at the weekend. I swear it had nothing to do with that…
With excitement and an empty wallet I boarded the train to Preston. I got off the train at Preston and then got on another one to Glasgow. I got off the train at Glasgow Central, walked across town to Queen Street station and then had a coffee. I promise you this gets better. Whilst having a coffee, which was actually a tea (but coffee sounds sexier), I decided to spill most of it down me. This was not good because I now had to wear these same tea stained clothes for the next two days. I decided that I’d spruce myself up on the train to Aberdeen, just incase there was a crash and the TV cameras caught me with tea stained clothes and bad hair - got to look good for the cameras. The train to Aberdeen didn’t crash.
Aberdeen was just as I remembered it from the the last time I was there - wet, and I got completely soaked on the way to the ferry terminal. Again, not good. Yet more cash spunked out for this bird and I boarded, heading straight for the bar. Not a great deal happened. I could lie and say that my dick got stuck in the captain’s ear, but I’ve already told you that it’s a lie, so you wouldn’t believe me. And besides, what on Earth would you think of me if I told you that I had my dick in the captain’s ear? No, instead of committing aural sexual assault on the captain, I just read my girly book (Atonement by Ian McEwan), supped a pint and had a chat with a few fellow twitcherers, before sleeping on the floor of the lounge. Rock and roll.
Next morning I walked to the Bressay ferry terminal in Lerwick with another birder Mike, and joined other birders as we began to look for the Brooneex Gillymot. Amazingly, it came out of nowhere surfacing right in front of us and showed extremely well. Cor blimey! It then dived and vanished for quite some time before resurfacing and repeating these monster dives throughout the day.
Now maybe I’m a sad, bird-nerd twat, but this bird gave me more pleasure than almost any other that I’ve seen this year. There were some birdspotters watching this bird that thought it was a bit shit, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder and this was a top drawer bird full of character. The only problem was that it was so fucking fucking fucking cold. The wind would make your eyes water, and then the water would freeze on your eyeballs so you’d have to chip it off with your house keys to see anything. Exaggeration? Yes, but you get the picture. So when my Shetland pal Jon turned up with a sassermeat roll covered in onions and brown sauce, I was rather happy. After a few more views of the Gillymot, Mike and myself headed north with Jon to Kirkabister and, hopefully, a wintering White-billed Diver.
After seeing the weirdest ever hybrid mutant Goose, Mike picked up a distant big diver. We drove closer to the bird and, sure enough, there it was. Doing all the usual stuff that divers do - such as diving, eating fish and that rising up on the water and opening their wings thing - the ethereal Shetland light created a magical Viking-esque aura around it (I don’t know what that means, but it sounds good) and I was reluctant to leave, but time was of the essence, and I had a pilgrimage to make...
Mecca? The Whaleing Wall (good gag)? Lourdes? Buttock biscuits to that say I, I want to make a pilgrimage to every place in the World called Twatt. Because I am a twat. I do have a photo of me stood by the Twatt road sign, but it’s on my phone and I can’t get it onto my computer, so you’ll just have to take it from me that it’s a fantastic photo. But here’s one of me outside Twatt post office on Orkney some time ago, when I was clearly very ill:
Jon returned us to Lerwick before dusk (3.20pm!) and I had distant views of the Bruneex, but a few birders had gone across to Bressay and I could clearly see them devouring it at very close range. Bollocks! I was pretty damn envious. From a distance I watched the Brunnich’s drift out into the Sound of Bressay until it was lit only by harbour floodlights, and then I walked back and boarded the ferry. Onboard, two of the birders that had gone to Bressay, James and Hugh, showed me their close-up shots of the bird (I really fucking hate digital cameras) and the journey back was nice, calm and again uneventful, although I did think quite a lot about the captain’s ear.
After a greasy spoon breakfast near the train station with James (a fellow eco-twitcher), I spent the next 7 hours on a train feeling and looking like shit, covered in tea. I won’t be doing that again for a while, or so I thought…
Part Deux
... after getting back from three days roughing it with the plebs on public transport, I had a good night sleep (in a bed of all places) and then on Thursday a concert with the avant-garde music ensemble Psappha in a rare performance of Pierre Boulez’s seminal 1950s masterpiece Le Marteau sans Maitre. Do you know it? No? Yes? Well fuck off either way, because I don’t give a shit. After three days on the road (a la Jack Kerouac, but without the mind bending drugs) and a performance of Pierre Cuntface’s Le Marteau sans Fuckoff, the last thing I wanted to do was to go birdspotting on Shetland. But Fate is a cruel fucker at times, and when it was suggested to me by a regular female birdspotting companion of mine that she would like to go and see the Brunnich’s Guillemot, I couldn’t really say no. Well actually I could, but it just sounds better if I say I had no choice, even though I’ve now told you that I did have a choice. Shit! Forget what you’ve just read (forgotten it? forgotten what? good, carry on…) and now read this: I had no choice when asked if I wanted to go to Shetland again.
What the fuck am I talking about? No idea, but I need to go for a piss…
…that’s better. Anyway, like I was saying, I had no choice. Fuck it, this is going nowhere. Read on…
Feeling guilty about driving this time and not catching the train, I consoled myself by thinking that at least that Branson cunt wasn’t going to get anymore wedge off me this week (‘wedge’ is cool slang for dosh, it’s what us cool Manc immigrants say) and we set off north for Aberdeen.
Arriving in only an amazing 5.5 hours (and not even doing crazy speeds) we got straight on the ferry and made ourselves at home in the boozer. The barman asked me if I’d like a job on board, seeing as I’m such a regular face (what, twice in the whole of 2005?), and I politely told him to fuck off. A load of big bastard Rugby players were in the bar, but I overheard their manager (it was difficult not to, seeing as he was shouting) telling them they were only allowed four pints and then had to be in bed by 10.30pm - and they were. Good boys.
Another night in a sleeping bag on the lounge floor (a very comfortable floor, it has to be said) and we were up at dawn and ready for action. The same thing happened: arrive at Bressay ferry terminal; wait two minutes; watch the Guillemot surface from out of nowhere right in front of you; lose it; find it again half way over to Bressay. Brilliant bird. This time I wasn’t going to be outdone in views, so we got the ferry across to Bressay and soon relocated it diving very close to the boat in the harbour. The cold wind and rain was very annoying, especially for the birders trying to get piccies, but the close range of the views were a real privilege.
Back on the mainland we punished our arteries with a mega greasy spoon breakfast before walking to nearby Clickimin Loch, once home to the legendary Clickimin American Coot, the greatest bird in British ornithological history and my all time favourite twitch. No sign of any Coot, but plenty of Whooper Swans. A Morrison’s coffee (which was actually a hot chocolate) preceded close views of crazy Long-tailed Ducks in the bay behind, as well as some exceptionally stupid seals sat on rocks that seemed to have a phobia of water. Back in Lerwick town we searched for what was the greatest pancake house ever, but the fucker has now been turned into a shit Italian bistro. Twats. More distant views of the Guillemot from the Bressay ferry terminal until dusk (3pm today!) and then more coffee (which was actually tea) in a café with a group of birders from Norfolk.
There’s not a great deal to do in Lerwick after dark when you’re waiting for a ferry at 7pm but we had to do something. So, looking like shit, we were treated with snobbish disdain when we asked for a table for two in an Indian restaurant, but an excellent Madras and Biryani made up for our lukewarm reception. To be fair you can’t really blame the staff when we clearly looked so shit. By now we’d managed to waste enough time to get back on the ferry and I fell into a deep sleep as soon as my arse hit the recliner chairs. Waking up feeling shit, I was ready to hit the bar as well as some small annoying children.
After punching myself out of breath (the little bastards wouldn’t be running around shouting and screaming anymore) I noticed that the rugby team were back onboard and absolutely hammered. I never managed to work out if the match with Lerwick RFC had been in their favour or not, but they were clearly in the mood to drink regardless. Sporting comedy inflatable breasts, maids outfits and singing indecipherable songs about ‘sticky wickets’ and ‘three headers’ they were the perfect stereotypical caricature of a drunken rugby team, or ‘arseholes’ as I like to call them. The barman was taking no shit and soon refused to serve them until they could sober up and indeed stand up, but us hardcore twitcherers stood our ground and outlasted them all, although one lad came running into the bar in the early hours with no clothes on - very original.
And that was that. Another comfortable night on the floor and a long drive home left me feeling like a big wheelbarrow full of shit. Merry Christmas.
Pictures of the Brunnich's Guillemot and White-billed Diver