skills-bills.co.uk

2005 Diary

Birds

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!

*****

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

A Nice Trip to Somerset and Potters Bar

Upland Sandpiper at Kingston Seymour, Somerset  and Grey-cheeked Thrush near Cuffley, Herts

22nd November 2005

Although I’m not a year lister (not out of choice, but out of finance), some birds are just too good to miss, Upland Sandpiper and Grey-cheeked Thrush being two of them. Time was at a premium at the end of November so we thought bollocks to it and did both in a day. Despite the heavy driving schedule we were still allowed ample amounts of time with both birds, and treated to excellent views as well. Nothing much else happened really. Erm… no, that’s about it. Oh, good job we didn’t take the dog to see the Upland Sand ... even though we haven’t got a dog.

Green Heron and Laughing Gull

Anglesey and Porthmadog, North Wales

15th November 2005

It's September 2001. Not really, obviously, but just humour me and pretend it is. So think back. Remember? No? Well, anyway, there was a Green Heron in Lincolnshire. It was the first since 1982. I saw it - it rocked. But it had the extremely bad manners to turn up at Messingham Sands near Scunthorpe, birthplace of Miss Cole.

“Bad manners?” I hear you say. “Come on, Tom, tell us why it’s bad manners,” I’m sure you’re all screaming at your monitors. Well just hold the fuck on, stop being so impatient and I’ll tell you why. Okay? It was bad manners because… err… I’ve forgotten. Anyway, fuck that, the fact is that I saw it but Miss Cole didn’t. And Miss Cole loves Herons/Egrets/Spoonbills/Cows/Otters etc… So when this corker (geddit? corker=County Cork=where the bird first turned up. Clever eh? No? Well fuck off then) turned up just a couple of hours away on Anglesey, it was too good not to get out of bed for.

So setting the alarm for some time that was early in the morning, we went to bed and slept, using pillows and duvets. We woke up when the alarm went off and then got up, dressed and then drove in our car to Wales. (“Tom this is really fucking boring,” I hear you cry.) I had a sudden panic when I realised that the petrol tank was low on fuel, but this was rectified by a quick trip to the petrol station where I filled up on unleaded petrol and bought some pornographic literature to pass the time later in the day.

Passing LLllaannffaaiirrffeecchhaann we decided on a quick stop at the road bridge to score Black Scoter for our pathetically small year lists. Unfortunately there were far too many Scoter offshore today, and nobody present to point the bird out for us, so we gave up after less than 5 seconds and headed to Red Dwarf Bay to see the Green Heron.

Arriving at Red Dwarf Bay we realised that it was actually called Red Wharf Bay - oh how we laughed. Oh yeah, and we saw the Heron as well. Below are some photos taken by me showing that: a) ‘Green’ Heron is a shit name; b) it was so tame that even chucking bricks at it wouldn’t make it move.

After such a laugh, we decided to consolidate our laughter with the Laugher (Laughing Gull) at Porthmadog. It was hilarious, in fact I lost a testicle from laughing so hard.

A Swift Trip up Toon

Friday night, and we (Miss Cole, Miss Cole’s sister, Miss Cole’s sister’s bloke Craig and me) were gannin’ up the Bigg Market in Toon (Newcastle-upon-Tyne, just in case you don’t know) to visit the notorious Pig and Whistle nightclub/anthropological experiment, for a bit drink and a fight. Winner!

Saturday night, and we were off to Sunderland with mother Cole to see Carmen - an opera by Bizet about a Spanish slag that shags a load of soldiers and then gets killed for being a filthy auld whore. This particular production had two horses in it and a load of sopranos with massive tits. Winner!

Sunday, and we all headed off to Newbiggin to see a Pallid Swift that had been shooting about all over the town centre. Another Sunday jam-in on a quality Swift! To be quite honest, it’s just getting a bit boring now. I actually long for a Sunday when I don’t jam-in on a good Swift.

I’ve always been a big Swift fan and this showy bird was a real cracker. Giving stunning, prolonged and close views, it kindly allowed all the ID features to be noted in order to eliminate Common Swift, such as the fact that it said it was a Pallid Swift on the pager and the presence of a BBRC member. I hadn’t seen a Pallid Swift since 2002 in Portugal and I’d forgotten how noticeably bigger they are than Common. But, without these privileged views that we were all treated to, I still think that Pallid/Common Swift are monstrously difficult to ID and I’m very glad I saw this classic bird, because I reckon a good percentage of claimed Pallids are fuck ups.

Newbiggin is a bit of a shit hole (apologies to any Newbigginers but, come on, it is!) and it was a huge relief to find a reasonable crowd of birders to hide amongst. Especially when some radgee wife kicked off and started shouting, “Oi, all ye fuckers, look at fuckin’ me. I’m a fuckin’ bord. Have a fuckin’ good look at me.” A meal at the Radley Arms pub (highly recommended) and then 4 Waxwings at dusk in nearby Morpeth finished off a great weekend.

“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.

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