counting coots

On Sunday morning I sat down in the garden with my copy of the latest issue of Birdwatch (the one with Rollers shagging on the front - nice touch!) and toast and a coffee, to enjoy the peace and quiet as much as you can under the Heathrow flight path and hopefully to connect with the Willow Warbler that was out there on Saturday morning. Just after the last of the four slices of toast had been rammed into my gob, a raptor appeared (honestly), so I grabbed the optics that were in my lap (that's pretty sad, I know) and got right on the Kestrel that was there. As soon as the focus was right, I could see a trio of Swifts behind/above it. Rock the fuck on! Swifts are BACK!

Swifts are without a shadow of a doubt my favourite bird (good job it's not a Crossbill), and I look forward to the arrival each year. They are the birds bird, the 'peace du resistance Rodney' of the bird world. Birds fly - swifts fly the most and the best and the fastest and everything. They rule. Most of you will know that there is superstition and legend surrounding them, but they don't seem to have entered into the consciousness of the nation as much as similar species like the weak-assed Swallow for example. The former Poet Laureate Ted 'Laughing boy' Hughes did pen some lines about Swifts (something about their arrival meaning that the world was still working and everything was ok) and it is with this in mind that I have tried to convey my feelings regarding my favourite bird in some kind of verse for you, dear reader, to take with you on this spring day.

Oh, the fucking swifts are back,

The fucking swifts are back,

Ee-ii-addy-oh,

The fucking swifts are back!

Oi!

Oh the fucking swifts are back,

The fucking swifts are back,

Ee-ii-addy-oh,

The fucking swifts are back!