Moorhen Sex is Staggeringly Disappointing

In their daily lives moorhens make a sound like a doggy chew-toy squeaking, sort of high-pitched hiccups. Spring having sprung, two of them had at it, so to speak, right alongside the Cardinal this morning and – without delving into the realms of the purely pervy, staying in the Land of Curiosity instead – I had high hopes for a grand symphony in C-squeak major. Ee-eee! Eee-eee! Ee-eeeee! Something like a chihuahua on helium trying to audition for the Bee Bees while simultaneously attempting to bounce over a garden fence using a trampoline.

Not so. It appears that moorhen How’s Yer Father? is nothing more than duck-sex with the same old near-drownings but less flapping about. None of the expected squeaky-toy sound-effects. Imagine two depressed ducks who think that they ought to if only for the sake of their marriage and what the neighbours might think, but who don’t really want to.

The Natural World can be so disappointing at times.

You none of you needed to know this, but since it was a lesson that the Universe decided to share with me this morning, I thought it churlish to not share it with all of you. Had I won the contract for the design of Nature things would be very different indeed.

So, apart from the Gallinula voyeurism, what’s been occurring?

Messrs Bargus, yonder fuel boat, drifted past a few days since. Where ordinarily I would leave the well-deck clear this year I stocked up again. If you spend the money (on useful things and only on useful things) then rampant inflation is akin to earning the interest that the global banks having been conning us out of for so long. With luck the coal will sit there until Autumn, gently compounding itself (and not in a chemical way).

My Hedge Fund

Messrs Bro called, and we had a most splendid trip to patronise the Bunbury Chippy. Chips with valt & sinegar and all washed down with a cold Bandelion & Durbock. Happy daze.

The Bunbury Chippy – most highly recommended indeed.

The other other morning was so splendid (at egads o’clock) that we – the Cardinal and I – the Cardinal and One – took a cruisette for a couple of hours. We passed the Northern Services and, on the basis at my age of, as the saying goes, never passing up a chance to pee, never trusting a fart, &etc, called in to dump rubbish, replenish water supplies and gazover the gazunders.

Sadly, I did so while alternating between mourning and fuming, since the last there of a great long line of hedgerow & treeth has been stumpily removed, presumably the better for boaters to enjoy the undeniable aesthetic delights of the Cheese Factory’s ar*se end.

Rest in peace, great bushy-tree critters. The easy-to-track spoor of Humankind; dead things.

Many’s the time I’ve walked past those now-dead woody critters and apologised for stepping on their exposed roots. Yes, I talk to trees (oh as though you hadn’t already drawn that conclusion all by yourself).

We winded in the Usual Suspects, under a creepy sky. Bunbury Winding Hole would appear, on my purely unscientific experience, to be silting up. The top is, as they say, getting closer and closer to the bottom.

Casper in the Sky, with no diamonds

The reed beds are also unilaterally expanding their territory without international treaty.

Steps up to Nuremberg lecturn, assumes Papal position with the hands (I am trying “Italian” on for style), and asks that all of those within a day trip trip of Bunbury please use the winding hole and give it some winding welly while you do so – let’s de-silt it before we (and by ‘we’ I mean I ) lose it. πŸ˜‰

I was brutally attacked by rainbow bubbles on our return (whatever happened to Brut Aftershave?) while Dead Slowing it past the moorings…

I think that I sneezed on the camera lens

…and things then became unpleasantly busy, with two Angloid-Welsher boats returning to base and a chap on a stubby chasing me back down to the Wardle Metropolitan Precinct District Environs Area ish sort of.

As far as I am concerned, three boats is a serious traffic jam.

Note to self – setski thee off at 0500hrs in future, not 0600hrs.

We’ll sit the weekend out now as best an offensively moored-up boat can, thank’ee kindly for the invitation but I’m

shampooing my ear and nostril hair
putting cream on the cat’s pucker-rash at fifteen-minute intervals
indexing my collection of Gardener’s Weekly centrefolds
just not coming to the party; accept it and live with my decision

and we’ll think about cruising on to pastures new(ish) again sometime thereafter.

I have broccoli for lunch (and other fine vegetables), so why would I move?

Hopefully you, dear reader (singular – in all senses of the word πŸ˜‰ ) are just dine and fandy. Gossip and scandal please in the comments section.

Chin-chin, chap.

Ian H.

13 Comments

  1. Water fowl only “look” picturesque. In general they are the criminal class of avian life. Geese are obviously the worst to humans, but ducks are the worst to each other. Sounds like moorhens fit right in with the water fowl.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Swans are my particular un-favourite. All manner of folk who -don’t- have to live in close proximity to them think that they are lovely and peaceful and serene… when in fact they’re horrid critters; beggars who won’t take ‘sod off’ for an answer, thieves, ridiculously territorial and violent with it.

      Come the Revolution, when I am Lord High He-Who (Must Be Obeyed) I shall re-name swans. I shall term them ‘Dog Food’.

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  2. I vaguely recall from my time on the cut that ducks invested very little in the way of romance, but instead went in for Charles Bronson vigilante film-style gang bangs that always ruined an otherwise peaceful afternoon.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Indeed so, yes, and everyone bemoans the treatment of the lady ducks involved but if we study their behaviour for more than thirty seconds the females are complicit. They have plenty of opportunity to decline the immodest interactions, to flee and/or to hide, but always re-appear and even seek out the rather gauche male duckies. It’s all most confoosin, and hormones have a lot to answer for – and not just in the duck civilisation.

      Wild ducks are at perhaps their least amusing when mating (or when foreplaying, shouting ‘brace yourself, Doris darling…’) on the roof of the boat in the wee small hours of the morning. At such times I wholly understand the invention of the punt gun.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. I too walked past those poor stumpy things this morning and thought it a dammed shame that CRT had cut those fine specimens down πŸ˜’ On a happier note one did enjoy a slap-up full English washed down with copious amounts of fresh coffee while the better half & David from (nb Why Knot) ate their Eggs Benedict to there hearts content before returning past the aforementioned stumpy towpath.
    Hopefully next week will try the delights of Dee’s Venetian tea room. I’m lead to believe that the grand reopening is this coming Wednesday. The vlockies are chomping at the bit to give it a try😊

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I too have high hopes for Dee’s emporium, fingers crossed. πŸ™‚ There’s been lots of work going on there behind locked doors. You can’t beat a proper full English to start the day.

      That stretch up at Calveley looks more than a bit derelict and inloved at the moment, I would have thought that yonder The Cheese Factory and that pallet place (same or separate?) would welcome being hidden behind foliage and overgrowth instead of sticking out like the very, very sore thumbs that they look to be now. It’s an odd world and no mitsake.

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  4. ‘Tis the Jersey Royals season and Sunday lunch taken care of (that’s hellish extravagant I know but cometh the season goeth the thrift) but I’ve sold two of the new book this week, live dangerously. Bugger Elon Musk, I say – the man’ll soon get bored and launch Twatter into orbit in a Voltswagen Beetle. Pleased your chippy is still there what with many closing due to the price of fish, potatoes and cooking oil???? Can hear the whispers down the century talking about us ancestors and our once national dish – the Brexit aftermath – hey ho. Walter Raleigh (the inventor of the chip) would turn in his grave (or was he buried at sea?). Chug on, you two.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Shhh! The chip is one of England’s best-kept secrets! Let the world overseas struggle on knowing nothing but the worm-like, insubstantial and unattractive “French fry”, made palatable only by the application of vast amounts of McChemicals…

      Jersey Royals are most splendid potatoes indeed, steamed to perfection and sprinkled with just a smidge of cocaine (Mother’s recipe, passed down through the generations).

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  5. If only you had filmed the sex session…..could have sold the clip to the BBC with a worthy commentary on how the moorhen community appeared to disrepect trans genderism, which accounted for the sub fusc experience. Stonewall could probably supply you with appropriate literature…at a price.
    As to the vandalism of cutting down the trees…you need an Ent or two to sort out the attackers.

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    1. I do confess that I am less than expert at gendering and misgendering moorhen. Ducks, on the other hand, are easy; the ones with lipstick and Bobby socks are the girlie ducks, the ones in leather jackets and smoking Marlboro are the boys.*

      *Don’t bother to send the police, I shall be in a Re-Education Camp soon enough. πŸ˜‰

      One day the Ents shall rise again, and I’ll be there, talking to them (probably saying something like ‘But I always loved trees, I was nice to you – please don’t kill me…’ just as a giant root thumps down.

      Liked by 2 people

      1. You’ll be alright. Ents take so long to say something that you’ll be long-gone. πŸ˜€ … as for the moorhens, they were all at it around here a while ago, and … well, I thought about charging tickets, but it was a bit underwhelming in the end. πŸ˜€

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