Husband and I went to bingo last night in a village fairly nearby (Elsing). They'd opened all the doors and windows in their small village hall, and in the middle of the session a bloomin' partridge or pheasant (not sure which) started its loud, rasping call just outside the wide-open fire doors. The poor caller (an ex-RAF chap called Alan) tried manfully to carry on regardless:-
"Four and two, forty two."
"SQUAWK!"
"All the eights, eighty-eight."
"SQUAWK!"
Poor Alan, we all began to giggle and so did he.
One lady suggested that the poor bird actually had a winning Flyer sheet (very good pun eh?)