The native Grey-Legged Partridge used to be very common but is now rare. It has been driven out by its French cousin, the Red-Legged Partridge, which struts around the countryside in it's showy red pantalon like it owns the place. If, like me, you've been scrabbling around trying to find some genuine reason for Brexit - a reason that wasn't built on lies and nastiness - then sending all the Red-Legged Partridges back home is the only credible reason for Brexit I've found so far.
I tried archery recently. Stood in a field on a cold day, attempting to hit a target about 20 metres away and realising that it's not as easy as Robin Hood made it look. It is quite a lot of fun but I feel that it would be easier if I had a smaller nose - it kept on getting in the way. The mythical Amazons were alleged to cut off a breast to stop it impeding the bow-string. I wouldn't need to go to such extreme lengths - maybe use half an old sports bra to keep a moob out of the way. However, after whacking myself on the nose every time I released the string, I felt that some kind of protection was needed - maybe the rubber bulb off an old fashioned car horn. That was certainly was my nose looked like at the end of the session.
A partridge flew by whilst we were shooting. Probably not on its way to a pear tree. The elderly and respectable gentlemen shooting next to me declared loudly.
"If you're going for a bird, you've got to go straight up the arse!"
Undoubtedly, this is sound advice. Perhaps for aiming your bow. Perhaps for aiming your cock. Or both. Who knows? Either way, it was a little random for the middle of a field in November. Also, wasted on me as I am a middle-aged married man. I might pass this nugget onto my son but not yet - he's only 11 and at best, it will just confuse him. Maybe I'll get it put on a t-shirt for him.
Of all the game birds, apparently the smuttily-named woodcock (fnarr!) is the best-tasting of all. The woodcock has rocket-assist take-off. It ejects all the contents of its digestive tract when it takes off - it shits itself into the air. I would imagine that being shot at helps considerably. Because the woodcock is shot shitless (try saying it - it's Christmas and you're pissed. Say it 10 times fast. Go on!), it can be cooked with the guts still in. Very nice (apparently) and also brings us in a scat way to pear trees, by way of cider and perry.
Like the woodcock, the hardened cider & perry drinker also evacuates his bowels before taking off. Not because of a rocket-assisted 'flight or fight' reflex but simply because that's what cider does to your insides.
Cider is evil stuff. The apple seeds in it make it slightly poisonous and in large quantities, the toxins can induce hallucinations, paralysis and death. The acidity removes cloggages from internal pipes - all cholesterol build-up is swept away but also the contents of the intestine are rapidly evacuated - usually when you least expect it. The acidity also causes extreme arthritis and forces Somerset cider drinkers to take their scrumpy with a dash of Vimto in it to cut it. Order a cider top in rural Somerset and they'll embrace you as one of their own. Do this anywhere else and you'll look like a big Wendy.
Perry is a more civilised drink - cider made from pears. Perhaps too civilised - most people's experience of perry is Babycham - the sickly, fizzy GILF-tipple with the Bambi rip-off. But real perry can be very nice and less fighty than cider.
Simple to make too. I could make it with the pears that grow on the tree in my Mum's garden. However, the tree and it's precious horde of golden fruit, have always been guarded by swarms of angry wasps. They jealously guard every last pear - even the windfalls are crawling with the fuckers. If I did manage to get any pears, the perry would be 40% pear juice and 60% liquidised wasp. They don't let me get near and instead come out to greet me. The wasps love pears and the wasps love me. It's unrequited - I don't love wasps. At all.
I'm very allergic to wasp stings. I was stung on the hand a few years back and less than an hour later my hand was the size and colour of an over-ripe mango. If I get stung in the throat, I'm in trouble. Not as much trouble as I would be in if I wandered around town with jam on my cock trying to get an enlarging sting off a wasp.
But there is a fair chance that a wasp will kill me. And with this in mind, my 9-year-old daughter wrote this a couple of years back when I was helping her with her maths homework.
Translation:
I hate Dad. He is allergic to wasps stings. If you see a wasp, please send it to St Davids Road, house number 41, blue door. Thank you for making my Dad swell up. <kisses>
Awwww! She's even drawn my grave for me! Bless!
And on that happy note, Merry Christmas to you and yours.
xx
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