Quick word about comments ...
Comments here are 'moderated'. In as much that I have to physically see them and wave them through once you hit Send.
So, if ye write a Comment. Post it. Don't see it? No worries. It's just sitting there, waiting for me to come online and find it in my email. I click and your words appear here.
Please don't post it several times. Get frustrated and storm off, never to be seen again. It's just a measure I was forced to put into place by doxxers, spammers and other, mentally unstable's.
Someone asked me, the other night, how my little mongrel 'Terrier' thing, Rats,
was doing. As I assured him; She's doing fine. Here's a shot I took twenty minutes ago, just to prove it. Not much of a shot, I know. But, it's blowing wet out there, again. A most wretched and miserable day. Sort that would be seen as a harbinger of Summers end and the start of the Barren Time. Only, Summer's never began here. We've just had this since I can remember.
So, right now, Rats is on my bed, licking. Along with Orange Dog, who's doing the same. le Ding's stretched out behind this chair. Chain Dog's in her cage, fast asleep. The horses, for the record, are in the back of the cow shed, stealing hay. Magpies are in their trap ~ not comprehending what I have in store for them. Oh, don't worry; It's good. Very good.
And I'm sat here. Just checked the post. No shotgun license. No nothing, in fact. Just pissing, horrible weather and me wondering what do do with myself for the rest of the afternoon. Tell ye all a little more about Rats, I s'pose. That seems to be pretty much what I came here for.
I got Rats off a guy on THL. Smashing bloke. Turned up outside my local ~ the usual place for me meeting up with people. It simply saves the drama of them trying to find me here ~ wearing a Flek Tarn T Shirt! So, that won me over to start with! LOL!
Name was Eammon. Only, there's two Eammon's on THL. Both using handles that sound the same in ye head. I can never remember which of them this guy was. Maybe he was " EMac " and the other guy is " EammonMac "? Something like that. One of them brought my Terrier Box down for me. This one brought my Terrier.
Rats isn't actually a 'real' terrier, as it happens. Her dam was got at by a Lab or Springer, or something like that? But, as ye can see, she'd pass for a 'Lakeland / Fell' type in most peoples eyes. Eammon arranged for me to buy her off the guy who'd 'bred' her, after I'd asked for a " Useless " Dog. That is; I wanted a terrier which wouldn't lead to me digging fucking great holes to get the damn thing out of the ground. I don't Do that, as anyone who half knows me would know.
And Rats has fitted that bill admirably. I've never yet known her to show any particular interest in vanishing down any of the many badger setts round here. Even the drains don't hold much interest for her. She just likes to rush about, sniffing and dashing. all above ground though. Perfect. Thanks again, Eammon.
Is she any good? Hell, I don't know! She's simply never really had the chance to show me! Truth to tell; There's damn all around here for her to get at. And that's the truth. Since The Idiot gave up keeping his Concentration Camp of chickens, up there, there's been no rats around my ground.
The few stragglers that did turn up, I swiftly dealt with myself. Thus about the only rat Rats has ever met has been a dead one she's sniffed out. Still handy though. I don't want dead rats about the place and, if I miss one, Rats finds it for me. So she has a value.
Another of her jobs is to keep an eye on things at night. She lives outside, in her own little house - of which she's immensely and justifiably proud. It's the finest little house any Dog in Co. Leitrim has. Made it myself, with much love, care and attention to detail. Lot of people admire Rats' little house.
So, there she lives. In her little house. On her long, light chain. About as happy as a Dog can get, truth to tell. In fact, I've simply never seen Rats looking anything But full of the joys of spring. Even in this, depressing, bone chilling weather.
She'll be out there again, presently. Probably about as soon as she ~ inevitably ~ shits or pisses on my kitchen floor again. Rats is a Dog who simply Will Not be House Trained. Born outside. Lived outside. Learned concrete was a latrine. I have conrete floors. Thus she'll actually come inside to shit and piss.
And that about wraps it up for Rats, for now. Just thought I'd let ye know she's fine and happy here. And I'm happy I've got her. Most amusing little Dog.
See? more weird shit! Now my map's telling me India actually is looking in here (Hyah, India!) and so is Saudi Arabia?! It's true, folk. My own map can't lie. Someone in the sand has been in here ~ I suspect it's 'Them' again .....
Yet, this time, while clocking up a second look from India? No mention of Saudi. Blowed if I know what's going on.
Sorry about the plain map, by the way. I was so taken with seeing Saudi I just forgot to change the map to pretty view.
Decidedly dodgy!
Hullo and welcome to my guest from Poland. Good to see ye. And, as everyone else can now see; Ye really have been here. The picture, above, is direct from my own, private Stat Counter site. That's the little map that shows me where I'm getting visitors from. By country. You're there, look.
So, where's India and Iran? Why aren't they flagged up as having been here, independently of the little gadget on the lower left, that is.
See? This is what I was talking about when I first adopted the little 'Country Counter' box. I'd seen how Pat Burns, over on Terrierman.com Blog, had been visited by Mongolia, several times. He's even taken hits from countries I've honestly never even heard of! That made me wonder. So I vowed to keep comparing what that box gives me, to what my Stat Counter Tells and Shows me.
Ok. Maybe I've been more busy and distracted of late than usual? Possible. Maybe India and Iran (both of whom I've taken 'Registered' hits from before, popped back and I just wasn't looking at my map for a few days? Possible too. Maybe they just passed through, so their Flag Pins were gone inside twenty four hours, where as Poland is coming back, thus maintaning the prescence of their Pin, and so I've had time to spot it? Possible.
But 'Possible' doesn't cut it with Fact. Doesn't disprove anything either. But; If I see Mongolia, in that box? I sure as hell better see it on my own site map too!
Let's keep watching and see what happens next.
Little Blue Bike was duly delivered this evening. Dean O' turned up, itching to have a go too. But, he had to wait, I'm afraid. Because, without waiting for anyone to say I could, I'd started her up and declared I was off up the track. And off I went!
Trouble is, I thought I'd have to try going through the top gate. Then I thought the long part of the track, up to the road, would be a blast. And, obviously, once I reached the road? What's a man with a fucking great grin all over his face to do? Pat's place is only a couple of hundred yards down that road ....! Zoommm! And off I went!
Pat has a Honda 50 stored away in his huge garage / workshop. But his reaction to my little beauty amazed me! " Oh god! " He enthused. " That's a Lovely thing! " And that was about it for the next long time; Pat circling, approaching, examining Blue Bike and just constantly jabbering away, interspersing his words with frequent use of " Lovely! " I got the definite impression Pat's Well impressed with it!
What made me laugh though was the appearance of Dean O'! Turns out he thought I must have crashed and would be sprawled in a ditch somewhere! FFS! Good of him to care, 'mind. But not so good as I didn't jump back on her and go 'speeding' back towards home! Dean's somewhat younger and fitter than me. The exercise was good for him and I was enjoying myself immensely!
Did I say " Speeding ", by the way? Yeah. Well. Err ..... I actually found, once I looked at the speedo, that about the 10mph mark suits me! LMFAO! It's alright for all you fukkas, decades of casual motoring under ye belts. I've only ever ridden a bloody push bike in all my life! I'm simply not accustomed to having the countryside rush past me, and me in sole control of everything. I'm sure I'll get used to it though. Be seen hurtling into town at a breath taking 25mph one of these days!
And that's going to be the bugger now. I have to get a Learners Permit. And, for that, I need to pass my Theory Test. Fucking nuisance, but there it is. I mean, I've no intention of ever heading out to Dublin on the damn thing. Just down the road into town will do me. All I need to do is bomb down a country road and turn once at the T. But still I have to learn about road signs and markings I'll simply never encounter. Loads of the stuff! Hey ho. Bit of a learning curve for a bloke my age but, there it is. Get my paper, Insurance and tax the little bugger? Off I go!
Can't wait! Better start trying to absorb this bloody great book of road rules then .....
Chuffed as fuck, I am! :D That's my little 'Blue Bike', that is. Being delivered here tomorrow evening. I went up and had a look at it tonight and really rather fell in love with it. Honda (Cub) 90. There'll be no stopping me now!
All started when I aimlessly wandered into the local EuroSpar today. Just dropped in to pull some wedge and grab a couple of bits. I was just parking my mini trolley out in the foyer and took my customary glance at the notice board there.
This little beauty caught my eye immediately. I liked the colour. I could afford the price. I've long since wrangled with the 'Should I? / Shouldn't I?' of getting a little Honda. I added the number to my phone and, no sooner was I out the door than I'm ringing Dean O', my Consigliari.
Trouble was, I'd fucked up my loudspeaker function. So, me being deaf as a fucking post anyway, and loath to nurture a Brain Tumour by clamping the damn thing against my head, I found myself unable to make out much of what Dean was saying, beyond, " That's a fair bit of money! ".
True. It wasn't peanuts. But then, having just that minute bought some peanuts, for the wild birds here, declaring even as I did so that I was buying a shotgun and shooting the fucking lot of 'em, before they bankrupted me with their peanutty appetites ..... Fuck all much is cheap, these days.
So, anyway, I got on with my business, and probably asked one or two people what they thought. No one could've had much of an opinion, because I was still mentally wrangling as Padarig drove me home. Padraig the taxi, of course.
I explained my thoughts to Padraig; How I wasn't even certain what I'd do with it. I certainly couldn't carry whole loads of shopping home on it. I'd have Rosie for such days. But, I simply might not always feel like harnessing up Rose and trundling into town, or where ever. She might not feel like it! And there have been, already, quite enough incidences where the desperate need of so much as a packet of fag skins has cost me a tenner; Paying a taxi to fetch them out to me ....!
Padraig simply stood and looked hard at me, for a moment. " Ditch, " He said; " How many times, a week, do ye come into town? " I told him, a couple. And back from Dean O's the once. (Of course; Many, if not most weeks there'll be a slip. I'll end up taxi hopping one way or the other again)
" Jeeesuss, Ditch! Ye paying £50 a week on taxi's. That's £200 a Month! " (That hit home! That's more than half my fucking pension! Add in what the horses hay's costing me? How the fuck am I living?!?) " And, this bike, at £X? If it lasts ye even just Y Months? It'll have fucking paid for itself! Get The Fucking Thing!!! ".
That was a hard case to argue with. I came in. Fed the creatures. Hit Google Ie. and searched on " Honda 90 ". Turns out the asking price is perfectly middle of the road. I 'IM'ed' Dean, to get something telligable out of him; He swore by the simplicity and longevity of a Honda engine. Said, " Why not? ". I reached for my phone!
" Hullo. I'm ringing about the Honda. What's to know? ". " Well; What do ye want to know? ", came this easy going voice. " I don't Know! ", I exclaimed, in total honesty. " Well; I don't! ". Said the guy, as we both exploded into genuine laughter at what a pair we were making!
The rest is history. Dean came and go me and drove me out to this small town outside 'Town'. The house alone took our breath away! The fucking Mercedes parked in the drive said it all. The absolutely dapper, borderline elderly guy who came to the door reeked of having Made It. But, 'Made It' by blood, sweat and tears. This guy was Solid.
He opened the side gate and our journey began! Fuck me! Fuckin' Palm Tree set in an immaculately manicured ~ and extensive ~ back lawn?! Way down past all that, he opened a steel, shed door. Dean O' and I exchanged incredulous glances over the 'national stock pile' of turf in a huge side room. (" Turf "? Ye'd probably know that as 'Peat'. Popular and traditional stove fuel here, of course).
But, then we came through yet another door and I think we were both past exchanging glances! Huge fucking motors. A row of them. Each one under a dust sheet. Even I ~ with no earthly interest in motors ~ was dumb struck! I genuinely couldn't get my mind to comprehend the letters peeking out. Was it, " ...illac " ? Maybe, " ...tinental " ? What ever. It was like a fucking battle ship! And that's about when my mind shut down for self protection!
On and on we seemed to be being led. Huge garage after huge garage. I'm sure, and Dean O' swears, there was a Classic looking model RR in there? Fuck knows. Why not?! This guy was a Vintage, Classic Motor Collector! Shit!!!
And, finally, there was my little Blue Bike. He kicked her and away she went. Dean O' gazed and listened appreciatively. Then he hopped on and did a circuit. The guy hopped on and did one. They chatted and enthused about things which mean nothing to me. Then they drifted inside to talk about motors. I just moved around and around my little blue friend. Looking and enjoying.
When they came out, I was sat astride her. Feet in place. We all chatted. I wanted to chat. I wanted to chat all night. Be served my dinner there. Have Orange Dog brought out to me. Lay back and sleep there! Because the last thing in the world I wanted was to get off my little, blue bike! I'd bonded like a good weld!
She's being delivered tomorrow. I can't wait! :D
FREEDOOOOOMMM!!!!!
Bloody midnight. Just ate my dinner and thought, by the feelings in my guts, I'd better sneak out to the ditch, give vent to what's boiling. So, I grab my trusty Clulite Classic (Actually the best light, of it's type, I've ever had the pleasure of owning!) and stumbled out to the hidden entrance of the Bat Cave.
Once in there, I habitually peer into the ditch. I like to do this, just to see what sort of rains we've been experiencing. A good load of rain can takes many hours to come down off that mountain, see? So, it might be a sunny day, yet the ditch can be in torrential spate.
But, anyway, this was midnight and the ditch looked decidedly tardy. No time to think about that though. My guts were gurgling and no way was I going to risk a fart with my trousers up! That's quite enough information on that aspect though, eh? Let's get onto the Really vile stuff!
So, having cleared my bowels, and thus my head, I returned my attention to the question of my swirling ditch. A quick look over the fence I'd erected, to save the Dogs or I slipping into the Deep Pool below the Bat Cave soon showed me that a good pitch forking would be in order down there. Hell of a 'dam' has formed.
I'll uck that out and send it to form up again, further down, where I won't see it or be directly effected by it. Otherwise, see, it's just forming me a deep cess pit, right outside the door of my little throne room.
That decided, I realised water can't run upwards, so there must be something further back that was causing my, preferably, free running ditch to swirl, eddy and foam beneath me. So I crawled round the back.
Outflow pipe, from the upper reaches of the ditch, was spurting it out good. No problem there then. I was narrowing it down ~ and all this by torch light, remember. Towards the end of a good evenings session with the pint glass. But, now things were looking set to get a bit 'up close and personal'.
First off, I tried ramming my rods (I keep my rodding rods beside the ditch, just for such occasions as this. I mean; Fuck having to come in here to get them. Then screwing them all together in the dark, cramped confines of under the bushes out there) Unfortunately, ram as I liked, I couldn't seem to get 'Beneath the Box' to clear. 'It' was still eddying and swirling there. I actually saw 'Richard' go sailing by, round and round in circles. Fuck.
This is where the Men and the Boys part company, out here! Half pissed. One hand holding my flashlight. Unaware of whether or not I had my mobile in my pocket ~ in case of nasty little accidents ~ gazed balefully at that damn fence and, with my customary battle mumble of; " Well: It needs to be done. And there's sure as hell no bastard gonna come here and do it for us! ", I started heaving my carcass over that damn fence, directly above the Deep Pool.
What a fucking pollavva. There's me, scrambling about on top of an old bike frame that's been there since The Old King died. God knows just how rusted through. Yet there's only that and a bit of vine between me and 'Good Night, Vienna ~ Hulloo, Richard!' One false move and I'd have been head down and drowning in it. They'd not find me for months, if ever.
Then I'm squirming about down there, one foot braced against the far bank ~ seemingly rather absurdly, but actually quite naturally, for me, looking sideways for signs of rat activity. Then I remember what I'm here for and get my head down low enough to peer Up the ditch. Right into the very maw of hell.
(Waves, from and too Richard. Still there, I see? ~ Though I wish I couldn't) Deep breath. Bare hand extended ..... Reach. Rummage. Grip and rip.
Splosh! A fair quantity of water, mulch and god knows splashes into the Deep Pool beneath me. Same again. Scratching a bit to the left. Splash! Spatter ..... I risk another actual look up there. Now I can see it. Rummage, rummage. Grip. Heave! Oh, Dear God!!!
And the entire fucking dam burst! Out spewed about half an Ash tree, half a ton of mulch. Gallons of water. Brief glimpse of a cheering Rick, and all his mates as they made their jubilant way towards The River, far below. (Only, of course, to get way layed by the dam causing the Deep Pool to be even deeper. That's Another job for me to look forward to).
And all this, at fucking midnight. Straight after my dinner. Dressed only for a quiet night in front of the computer.
And, I expect, the most You ever have to deal with is attacking a stubborn Floater, with the loo brush, at arms length, beneath an indoor electric light?
Ye don't even know ye born!
I like my little Neo what's it gizmo, down on the lower left of the page there. I only wish I knew how to mess with the HTML, to say beneath it how it was installed after Thousands of visitors had been in here. And how it's thus missing some great locations. Like, we've had Iraq, Egypt, Algeria ..... all sorts of places, before I installed that.
Never mind. Whilst I've been locked out myself, look; Our first ever visitors from Netherlands and Canada have dropped by. Way cool!
My private mapping system also tells me we have a new Australian guest too. Someone right up on the central east coast side. Sticking around too. Maybe looking for 'Rifles' ? :D
Don't know what's going on here, folks. But, half the net's simply gone down, for me. Don't know about you? I can get in here, look; Obviously. I'm also in a few fora ~ yet unable to access as many others. Most importantly - and frustratingly damaging! - is the fact that Yahoo is completely scuppered now. That's to say, I have No 'IMS'. Thus I'm not getting alerted to incoming e mails.
Best of all? Yahoo Mail itself is down the hole. So I can't manually look for e mail either. FFS. And this means that, should anyone, eg. leave a Comment on here? I just can't say when it'll appear. I have no control over this, I'm sorry.
Of course, the real stinger is that this would be the ideal place to reach out for my friends and ask ye if someone could let me know what they're getting, especially with Yahoo, right now. (Though this started last night). But, please think of what I'm saying here; There's no point. Please don't start e mailing me to tell me shit. I can't get to me e mails, remember?
Maybe, if anyone reading this has any news or views on the situation, ye could post that here, as a Comment? I tried Google (which does work. This Blog, of course, is part of the Google empire). But, the only discussion I could find appears to be taking place on " Yahoo Answers "! Of course, I can't get There either!
This all happened earlier in the month too. In fact, it's getting to be a bit regular ..... How's this for a bit of Conspiracy Theory: I reckon Google are hiring world class Hackers, to fuck with Yahoo till they break. I mean; All I can do now is sit here, searching Google for other sites I can't access. And pondering if I really ever could move my, years old, Yahoo addy to a Google 'GMail' one.
Fuckers ~ who ever it is.
Yeppers. Well, that's what I might have called it, had I still been at college and making any attempt to fit into the kind of shit they liked to hear there. As it is, I suppose some out of work Sociologist ~ that probably makes it about 99% of the fukkas ~ might yet take the idea and make a decent essay, if not a book out of it.
Imagine that? Students and their Lecturers referring to, " Shitter, D. In Lit. (Blog). 2009. Ref. ' Pikies ' ". Because that's what this is all about. The ~ to my mind ~ Devolving use of a term I've always considered about as fucking harsh and base as it gets. A term which, derogatory as it is, I now see is being warped into a form which I personally find even more offensive and inflammatory than it's traditionally been.
Here's the craic; I'm reading my favourite forum, right? Never mind the subject matter. That's irrelevant. It's just a forum peopled by men of all social levels and walks in life. Teenagers to octogenarians. We all get along because we all enjoy discussion of the central theme of the place.
And there I am, reading a thread about a certain public event which occasioned a spontaneous and respectful moment of silence and reflection amongst those in attendance. Except that, as one young man angrily pointed out; " All I could hear was the yackering of this bunch of fucking Pikies, moaning to each other about the weather! " And, believe me, this kid wasn't at any illegal hare coursing meet either!
Now, for about as far back as I can remember, calling me a Pikie would Not be the best advised thing to do. Not unless, that is, ye happened to be a bit of a Pikie yeself! It's like how a black American will only tolerate a fellow black American calling him " Nigga ". Then it's all fine and dandy. Otherwise, it's an insult worthy of a harsh response.
So, my own initial response the the use or this term at all is to bridle. I just plain Hate the fucking term! But, then it occurred to me; Does this guy even know what the fuck he's talking about? Who is he calling 'Pikies' ? How did he know they were 'Pikies' ? And, in fact; What the fuck were Gypsys, to use my preferred term, doing at this place and time, moaning about the weather??? It just didn't add up at all. None of it did.
To expand a bit; This was the scene of a public funeral procession. One taking place in a small, quite rural town. If any Gypsy I know ever witnesses such an event? They'd have their hats off. Would be crossing themselves. And they'd most definitely show complete respect until the cortège had passed ~ then they'd likely round on any idiots who'd been bemoaning the weather and would fucking well give them something to Really moan about!
I wanted to get to the bottom of this. I sent my man there a 'PM'. Only, not wishing to come across as the " Who're you calling fucking 'Pikies'?! " sort of attitude, I came in sideways. I played the innocent and gave no clue as to what I was really thinking. I said;
" How come ye could tell those fukkas were 'Pikies', mate? Is there something obviously identifiable about them? The way they dress or speak? Only ..... " (Wait for it ....!) " I was given to believe 'Pikies' were people who lived on Council Housing Estates. " !
Ouch! Eh? I wonder how many of You lot ground ye teeth at That one then? Does it feel good to be verbally spat on, just because ....? Well, if that got ye hackles up? Fine. Remember how it feels, will ye? Anyway, come to that; Anyone sensitive about living on a council estate so far had better fuck off now. Cos here's what my man replied!
" Yes, mate. " He says. " We have a couple of fair sized council estates not so far from here. These bastards come out of them. Ye can spot them a mile off. Dripping with cheap gold. Track suit bottoms. Drinking from cans in the street. They set fire to motors and all sorts. Fucking Pikie scum. "
And that's exactly what I'd suspected. These people were no more Gypsys than Tony fucking Blair! They were simply the typical british equivalent of what the yanks call " Trailer Trash ". The dregs of three generations of unmarried, unemployed, dole dependent afternoon tv watching 'human' crap. The self progeniting, deep underclass which has festered and grown for almost half a century, unchecked now.
The very same lot who, less than a decade ago, revelled in their self proclaimed title of " Chav's ". Sporting their cheap, imitation Burberry along with their Argos and Rattners golden Bling. Racing stolen motors along dark roads while pipe dreaming of one day owning their very own Black 4x4, with regulation blacked out windows, in which to transport their stolen, back yard bred lurkers.
They adopted and revelled in the title " Chav's " ~ from the Gypsy word " Chavvie / Chavvo ", for kids. Now 'normal' people are starting to call them " Pikies " ~ a deliberately derogatory (Oh, alright; Down right fucking offensive and meaningfully abusive!) ~ term used against Gypsys.
See? If I can hold back and look at all this objectively? It's just fantastic. An almost perfect piece of social engineering. Goebbels would have applauded this one!
Have ye got it yet ....?
" A 15-year-old boy who subjected a schoolgirl to racist abuse has been found guilty of racially aggravated harassment.
The girl suffered months of racist abuse from the boy including being called racist names, the court heard.
Jaswant Narwal, chief crown prosecutor for Lincolnshire, said ..... "
I'm fucking speechless!
Here. BBC News.
They really have taken over that asylum .....
Fuck help ye.
This Is getting interesting! Get a load of this; Did I ever tell ye about how I've bought myself a shower unit and kitchen sink ensemble to absolutely fucking die for? Think I might have. Anyway. I have. Cost me a grand and a half. And that's just the two sided shower cubicle, kitchen sink, sink unit and work top. But the Shitter is a man of hidden tastes. It's well worth it.
I was told, on the day, that it'd be six weeks till delivery. So, what's that? Say 1st of June. Due mid July, I suppose? Not here yet. And, while I'm not one to fuss, I have been making enquiries. See; Some weeks ago, down at 'Deano's Bar and Grill', I reached for my phone, only to discover it was switched off. Dog must've trod on it or something?
But, that's when I found the voice mail, from the courier responsible for bringing me my goodies. Said they'd be here the Monday, could I ring them back to confirm? Well, not at 23:40 I couldn't! Though I did try. No answering machine though. Quality of their outfit shines through, eh?
Come Monday; No come my sink. I was philosophical. I was also busy. Had the builders in, making a window into a doorway for me. Might tell ye about that later on too. And so, as ye might imagine, the non confirmed, non arrival of my sink and shower sort of slid past me.
One day though I got my shit together enough to ring Home Base. I rang the number on their till receipt, as attached to my order form. Wrong number. That's to say; " Numbers beginning with those numbers have now changed to These numbers. Please dial again, subtracting that number from This number, dividing by thirteen and applying the square root of the sum to ....." Yes. Alright. You can fuck off too!
Never mind. I rang the number they gave me for their warehouse / suppliers. " Hello! Colin speaking. How may I help you? " I explained to Colin. Colin gave me a number to ring. I rang That number; " Not in Service." Great. Feeling my daily ration of exposure to brain tumour inducing mobile phones was about up for one day, I left it there.
Next day, the left side of my brain having cooled down, I rang another of their numbers. " Hello! Greg' speaking. How may I help you? "I explained to Greg'. Greg' gave me a number to ring. I told Greg' that Colin had given me that number and nothing was happening with it.
Where was I? I'm in Eire. Where Home Base is. Why? Where's my sink then? Don't know. But ring This number and they'll be able to help you. So, I rang That number and, had I not been alone here ~ indeed, had Greg' have been here? That would have been when the fight broke out!
So, leaving that one in abeyance, I got back onto trying to chase up that fucking shotgun license, with Kermit the muppet inflicted on us a our local Gard (" Yaaaaaaaaaayyyyy!!!!! ")
And this afters, as Steve was driving me back from town, I mentioned my missing sink to him. Steve's a man of many facets. Horse breeder. Taxi driver. Local 'Peoples Advocate'. He smelled a case and was onto Home Base as soon as we were parked up at my gate. Things soon became Interesting!
Lady at Home Base said; " Was it a shower surround unit? " Steve confirmmed it was. Or that was part of it. Then she dropped the blinder! " According to our records, that's been delivered and signed for ..... " Reallayyy?!? Well, Fuck ....! ".
See, Steve knows me. He knows I wouldn't be pulling his pisser about this. He sure as hell knew I hadn't been signing for any shower units, at this address. On this town land. Down this track. He also knew that there was only one other person down this ..... track ....?! He Never Would Have?!?
All at once, I'm wanting to blurt out into Steve's loud speakered phone; " The person who signed for my shower? Was he a wet lipped, stupid looking cunt who laughed at his own every fucking statement?! " . Yeppers, because there's only two of us down here. my self and The Idiot! Don't tell me that dozy cunt's gone and scribbled something on a bit of paper and took my shower?! He'd have to be Far more stupid than any of us give him credit for!
And that's where I came in here. Bummer is though, Steve rang me, even as I was writing this, to say Home Base has been back onto him. From what I can gather, they reckon the stuff's still in their warehouse. Wether they mean shower, sink, unit, the fucking lot? I don't know. But; How come 'their records showed the shower was delivered and signed for'?
What the fuck Are they playing at there? It's worse than a plot out of Soap! (And Dean O' is NOT Gay! He becomes absolutely fucking incandessent at the very suggestion. So don't make it!) Either way, it speaks volumes for Home Base, eh? I ever want to buy this sort of shit again? I'll find somewhere else.
My old bird was finally off his perch, this morning. No surprise. No regrets. No heads hung in sorrow and mourning.
Not because he was 'Just' a magpie. A piece of vermin. A worthless egg thief. Because he wasn't. He was none of those things. Not for the better part of a year, at least. Because that's how long he'd been with me. As one of my little Prisoners Of War. And, as such, he'd received the very best of treatment. That's why he lasted so long.
Anyway, if ye want to read about my POW's origins, look it up on here. I introduced them some time ago. And this was the older of the two birds. I believe a parent to the one I kept in the trap compartment of my Larsen, having caught that one second.
I'd known the older bird was going, for some time now. He'd got shabby. Shabby as fuck, in fact. Quite disgusting, really. Wouldn't have survived like it, in the wild. His feathers were all dirty and loose hanging. Even his wings tended to droop, of late. Ye don't see birds like that in the wild state. Not twice ye don't. One of his toes had curled up. Right fucking mess he was in. It was only his effortless life of luxury that kept him going.
Sheltered from every element. Protected from predators. Fed like a God. All he had to do was wake up. Await his feeding. Eat. Sit watch the world go by ~ warning other maggies that this was his patch. Then settle down for the night. Last nights kip will never end for him.
Never mind. I still have the youngster. The one I caught with him as Call Bird. I imagine this is one of his brood. And the young 'ns as tight feathered, bright and bouncy as a magpie should be. And how she screamed when I caught her up today! Screeched blue murder, as I put my hand in there and caught her by the leg. Couldn't catch much else at that angle. Soon made sure I got a more comfortable and less, potentially, injurous grip on her body.
I wanted to put her into the big, double 'Call Bird' compartment, see? Give her the bigger cage now. Popped her in there and was thoroughly amused to see her bopping about all over the place for hours afterwards. Exploring all this new room to move about in. Obviously loving it too. Good. Happy bird.
Of course, I realised I'd have to catch a fresh one now. Company ~ through the mesh, of course ~ for her. And a back up for me. I figured I'd get round to that. Other things on my plate just now. I had a project to do, on here. That took me from about 14:00 to 17:00. Then I had to sort my horses out. Finally settling down to consider a spin of the Play Station by 18:00.
And that's when I happened to glance out and see a splendid looking 'pie flying off my front gate. " That'll do me. ", I thought. And I went out, up the ladder and set the trap. Fiddly business, hanging over the top of a ladder as I was. But, I did my best. Dropped a ball of minced beef in there. Then I rejoined my oppo's in the fantasy SAS and went off and won yet another battle in the war torn Kuwait of PS2 land.
22:00 tonight, I just let the Dogs out and glanced up at the trap. Couldn't see fuck all in the dark. That niggled me, so I came in and got my torch. Just as I'd suspected; Fucking thing had fired off, due to the bouncing around of the youngster there. Thinking on how a fired on empty trap catches nothing, I resignedly climbed the ladder.
Fuck me! That was fast! Two for breakfast then .....
Those of ye who read a good bit of what I came out with on THL, back in the day, may have picked up on my own intense interest in one day owning a Pot Cart.
A Pot Cart is otherwise known as a " Bradford " cart. I'd presume this would be because they were, for some reason, associated with that city? I do know we equally talk of " London Trolleys ". I don't suppose that particular style of four wheeled dray was purely found in London either. What ever.
So, the 'Bradford' ~ a two wheeled cart ~ was popular with Gypsys and other Hawkers. It's a comparatively light, small get about of a cart. Flat bedded, but with a back board and wings to stop everything sliding off, should anything untoward happen.
I have a bit of an eye toward the utilitarian, myself. Thus, had I ever learned to drive a motor, I'd have liked a Peugeot 'Pick Up'. No need for the enormous, Mercedes trucks that my travelling Romani friends needed, to haul vast weights of scrap metal, then their huge trailers.
There's just me and the Dogs here. All I need to shift is my own skinny body and some relatively light bits and pieces. No need for a huge Dray then. Pot Cart'll do me. That and my wonderful Rosie ~ mentioned and shown elsewhere here ~ to pull it.
Well, I have both now. Had them both for some time, of course. But there's more to my life than just sitting here, trying to keep you bastards entertained. I have shit queued up for that purpose. Just that life gets in the way of presenting it.
For now though, here's a picture of my Pot Cart. I'd just like to point out that this was taken when it was still on the yard of the guy, Jordan Sheard, who I bought it from. I can't speak too highly of Jordan. The man's a true Vardomeska. He can build and paint just about what ever traditional, wooden, wheeled vehicle ye need. From start to finish. And nothing's too much trouble for the guy.
This particular cart he'd bought in, as part of a deal. Only, whilst a very lovely piece in its own right, I wanted some extra. So it was that Jordan made, and painted, me a Reign Board. That's the bit at the front. He also made me the seat. Then he added a Step Up, to the right hand, facing, side. And he found me an adjustabe Foot Rest, which I'm yet to fit myself. All I need now is a Whip Holder.
Incidentally; He also 'Sign Wrote' my initials on both the back and front boards. Only, I've 'painted' those over, on this shot. Give a man a modicum of privacy, eh?
Jason was good enough to send me photographs of his work in progress too. It was amazing to sit here and 'watch' as pieces of raw wood became shaped, champfered and painted. Bright metal work being added. Fucking amazing Crafstmanship.
For now though, for you buggers, here's a glimpse of a thing of true beauty:
My Pot Cart
On my ground now. And, if ye think it looks good in the photo? Ye should see it close up! The detail on the paint work is exquisete!
Completely un fucking real, this is! I go for a look at my own little map and see there's someone else looked in here. Turns out it's bloody Sweden! Just what the fuck are you guys feeding Google, to come up with this place?!
Ok. Like, maybe I could do a back tracker on these peoples routes ~ like I did with that Australian one that time. But, let's face it; Anything I discover is going to be an anti climax after the Google search: " Just Fucking Rifles " !
Oh, and should anyone not get the title of this one? Just think; " The Muppet Show ". As I do, every time I have cause to go down to see our local Gard ....! They've even given the fukka his own little frosted window hatch now. That hatch pops open and there he is. Fucking show time!
Actually; I think the frosted windows are so ye can't see his waste paper bin. Over flowing with fucking shotgun license application forms!!! But, that's another story. Can ye just feel That one brewing? It'll come .....
Falling out of my chair here, and about to give up the fight. Just finishing up and took a look at my visitors map. I must admit; I never really looked (by shifting the world a bit) down that way. I was too busy trying to remember if I'd noted the India / Iran flags.
Came in here, just to see what my little 'Hits By Country' box was up to ~ now that the free trial of the Premium version's run out and I'm on the freebie. (Frankly, I prefer this one. Less bloody distracting!) And there it is; We've had a New Zealander looking in!
Well; Hullo, 'Kiwi'!
And, as long as I'm here: What the fuck Is it with you lot? Mondays viewing figures always go through the bloody roof here! I'm noticing this. Is it that ye all work in fucking offices and come into work of a Monday, feeling like shit. Fire up ye works machines and thinking; " I wonder what Ditch has been up to? Maybe he can drag me out of this pit of abject fucking misery I'm in. "
Christ knows. Anyway, I'm afraid I can't promise ye to try and lay on the best stuff for Mondays. I just drop by here when I have something to talk about. Right now? Too shattered to talk about Anything. Been too busy living my life, and thus generating the shit I Will talk about, once it's all unfolded.
Thing about Eire: Everything takes its own sweet fucking time!
The Boys are back in town!
Just sat and eaten my dinner. Usual at this moment in time; Two pork chops and chips with gravy. Eat that every night. No problemmo. Suits me fine. Put my plate down for the Orange Dog to clean up, as ever. Then, deciding I fancy a piss, I step outside.
Now, work it out. It's only natural, isn't it? I only eat once a day. Normally quite late in the day. Stomach tends to develop a bit of air during said day. Dump a load of food into said stomach. Then piss. Obvious what's gonna happen. Yeah?
So, there I am. Stood there, pissing and farting. Good, long, healthy farts. Real lengthy peelers. And, of course, I'm adding to the fun by demonstrating my pleasure at these actions, for the benefit of my Dogs. Yes; I'm rendering a vocalised accompaniment.
There I am then. Dick out. Pissing a stream and farting long and loud. Going, " Ooooooh, Yes!!! " And, " Mmmmmmm!!!!! " to each, stretched, high pitched peeling. I was about entering into the third abdominal eviction when the Dogs heard something more like; " AaaaaahhhhhAAAAAAGHHHHHH!!!!! Oh, For Fuck Sake!!!!! ". As I felt the light, warm touch of an ostrich feather racing down the back of my left thigh, in a headlong rush for my slipper!
That'll do ye. Any more on this issue and it most decidedly would be 'Too Much Information!'. But, you just wait till ye get to my age. Then ye'll fucking find out!
Good job I can still be fast on my feet, have plenty of kitchen towel and Dogs about. Thought, for a minute there, I might even have to change into my other pair of trousers!
Rosie and Donks (my " Horses ") live in a pen right now. I have to keep them in there so they'll give what little grass I have available for them a rest. No problem, of course. Many horses live their entire lives in stables, eating hay. And Rose, being a full blown Gypsy Cob can sure as hell put the hay away too! The buggers are getting through two square bales in twenty four hours just now! That's over £5.00 a Day to feed them!
Well, as I always say; No One ever told me a horse would be cheap to keep. Most of you run motors ~ with the attendant costs of petrol, tax, insurance and up keep. I have a horse.
And what a fucking lovely horse she is too. Only this evening I was proud as fuck of her, as she demonstrated just what these gorgeous Cobs are all about.
See, their pen comprises of a cattle yard and stalls. The stalls are a roofed over run where the cows would have been tied in their individual slots. These slots are separated by dividers. And the dividers are made of what ye'd see as scaffold bars. Exactly what ye might see used as hand rails on the steps of a big, public building in the city. These things are bought, pre made, and concreted in.
Only trouble is, the entire stalls were made for cows. Cow sized everything. And Rosie's a bit bigger than a cow. So it is that, when she's stood there, having a kip or just trying to get out of the monsoon, her bum sticks out just that bit. Only, perhaps, eight inches? But that means a horse with an almost permanently wet bum. This is not good. Obviously.
Being as I now Own the pen, I'm free to do what I like with it, of course. And that's why Dean O' was round this evening, with his petrol driven Stihl Saw. I wanted him to cut out every other of the half a dozen dividers.
That way, Rose can stand pretty much sideways on in the double sized stalls, see? Drink from the drinker in that stall. Feed from her feeder in the next. Even get in with Donks and just hang out with him in the end stall where Donks has always had to stand alone. Best of all; She can now do this with a completely dry bum. She's now 100% sheltered in there.
But, figure it out; This pen is just that. A Pen. Maybe three Rosie's wide and four Rosie's long? No more that a decent sized room then. To a horse, at least. And, into this room comes Dean O' and his Stihl Saw.
That. for anyone not recognising the name, is one of those gray and orange things with a big disc on the front. Blokes use them for cutting up shit like curb stones and paving slabs. Much roaring, screaming and dust. Touch one to steel and ye get a ten foot shower of sparks too. Dean O' hit the steel with the Stihl!
Shit and sparks are scooting out everywhere. The damn thing's screaming like a banshee. Engine's roaring. Donks has made a bolt for the furthest corner, found he couldn't go any further and has just elected to turn into a quivering wreck instead. Poor, daft sod.
Rosie? Initially, she caught Donks's reaction and she too moved to his corner. Effectively ~ wether by design or default ~ sheltering him from it all. Me? I just smiled and went over to them. Told Donks it was quite alright. Then gave Rose a pat and started talking to her in my usual manner. I chatted away to her and gave her a bare handed grooming as I did.
Know what? Through it all she just stood there, ears pointing at me - not the nightmare being created by Demonic Dean and his terrible tool. And, the moment Dean had finished the first set and was doing something quieter, like refuelling the cutter or what ever, she actually wandered over there to very closely inspect his handy work! Then, satisfied that he'd left no sharp protrusions? She got back to eating me out of hay and home!
Dean O' fired up for the next stall? Rosie simply walked calmly back to her position ~ again covering the nerve racked Donks ~ and we did the prior routine again. In fact, in summary? That beautiful, lovely, gorgeous fucking mare genuinely showed no more concern than to simply get herself out of the way of the action. Just as any sensible person would. I did! Only a cunt stands there amidst the shower of orange flack spewing out the back of a disc cutter.
But, no fear. No panic. No jumping around looking for a way out. This is a horse I'll be happy to get out on the road and go to town with. If That level of shit didn't bother her? Not much short of a space craft crash landing along the road beside us is liable to bother either!
And the reminds me; I must make a call tomorrow. See what the SP is on this Exercise Cart I've heard about is. Get my hands on that. Do what ever it might need doing to it. I'm still hoping to have her out on the road this 'Summer'.
I mean, hell; Would You pay a taxi a fiver a day, just to sit there in the damn rank?!
Lower left, there. It seems to be working! See how it says India has dropped by? Well, that matches with what my independent counter says too. Just to double check it; We have Two visitors from Australia also featured on both.
Here's my own map (I've taken to using the prettier version, with colours) to compare with what the box says. It's true. I've had those hits!
A couple of hundred years ago ....?
This is a complete blast! It seems like the British Library has 'digitised' and put on line a load of news papers, from 1800 - 1900. And they're all fully searchable ~ for a small fee. Here.
So, being up to my eyes in Genealogy ~ the study of my 'Family Tree' ~ I heard about this and thought I'd take a look. So, what's the first thing anyone would do, in such a situation? Obviously, I fed it my own surname. Perhaps equally obviously; I got hundreds of results back! Everything from adverts for " Shitters WC's, 1851 " to ..... well, just far too much stuff and likely the vast majority nothing to do with me.
So, then I thought again and decided to go for shitter or bust. I fed it " Shitter Hawker ". (Most of my people were Hawkers) And I hit fucking pay dirt, straight away!
Back in 1800 and something, there's one of my Gt, Gt etc Grand Dad's! In the Police section of the Hampshire Chronicle. Being arrested as pissed as a hand cart, in Portsmouth! LMFAO! Un fucking believable! Some things just never change!
Then, another result was Bill Shitter, a (Gt. so on and so forth) Uncle of mine. Seems that poor bastard was just going about his normal business and happened to be the first on the scene at the railway line. Thus it was him who discovered what was left of a suicide by steam train! Some cunt had slung themselves beneath the late night train into Pompey and 'Uncle' Bill found the result. They were chuffed to bits. Poor Uncle Bill was sick as a fucking parrot!
Not bad for a random and relatively limited snap shot of what the papers said about my people, eh? And my chosen search terms only scratched the surface, of course. I aim to dig far deeper yet. But, there's already more!
I tried the other side of my family. And fuck my old boots! Did I come up with the goods this time?!?
Seems a Gt (etc) Uncle of mine, (Hawker, obviously) on that side had a wife who was working as a Farm Servent. So, one evening, he trundles down there to meet her from work. 'Big deal!', ye say. 'Your fucking people get in the papers for meeting their wives from work?!'
Yes! I reply; They Do when the cunt then pulls out a fucking knife, stabs her multiple times, then slashes her fucking throat!!! :o I shit ye not! Stabbed her to bits and cut her fucking throat. Then tried to do away with himself! That got Him in the fucking papers alright!
Honestly; That side of the family? Ye could't take them fuckin' Anywhere!
Highly reccomended bit of craic, peeps. Go take a look for ye own lot. God alone knows what they were up to back then. Of course, it Does help to have a first clue who, where and what yours were, back then. But, that's all part of why this Genealogy shit so fascinates me anyway. Just look what I can dig up!
That's nice :-) Thanks for taking the trouble ~ who ever ye are. I don't know if that thing would show me, if I looked? But, it seems to favour the people with avatars, and " Sue " was the last one to sign up with one. I guess you're one of the cameos? Anyway; Cheers! I hope I can continue to keep you all entertained and amused, each day or so, as things set me off!
FUCK!!! I just looked! It's only my own fucking Sister!!! Hyah! Ye never told me ye were looking at this! :D
Now ye know what I get up to, when we're not chatting on Yahoo! :p
I was talking to my sister, last night. She's been away for a month so I'd heard nothing. Last night she told me how they're backing in an immense heat wave?! FFS! I told her to look out for what we're having. Constant, torrential, unbelievable fucking Monsoons!
This may be Eire. But it's fucking July, for chris'sake! Yep. Just glanced out the window right then; It's raining. Not hard ~ not yet! ~ in fact, I could hardly see it at first. But the ground's all soaking wet and, sure enough, as my old eyes focused, I could see the pelting rain drops. They're gathering in strength even as I write this. Here we go Again!
I don't like to moan ~ No. Seriously! ~ but, this is just fucking stupid! I mean, shit like this matters to us, out here in the country. We live by the pulse and rythms of nature. Not because we're some tree hugging, good lifing bunch of wankers keeping chickens we refer to as our 'Girls', and calling vermin " Mr Rat ". We don't. I don't even have any chickens. I call rats a potential job. And what I get up to in the privacy of my own home is nothing to do with you fuckers anyway!
But, we tend to hole up in winter. Winter, out on the bogs, really Is just about down to survival and getting by. We get damn cold. So, we use shit loads of fuel. Days are shorter than hell, so we work like men posessed to just get the everyday chores done. Cleaning out our animals and dragging in stored fuel can amount to a days practical work in those times.
And the winds come. Good ones we may refer to as a " Tin Tester ". Because so much of what we have here is made of 'Tin'. Corrugated Iron is the back bone of rural Co. Leitrim. (Come to think of it? I don't know if Any part of Leitrim isn't rural?!) And those winds, combined with the cold and the rains will sorely test what ever we have. Sheets get lifted. Gutterings buckle. Drains block. Leaks appear. Half of it goes gradually to rat shit as we hunker down and sit it out.
Then the summer comes. Out we all dash, into the bright sunshine. Only, no fucking sun bathing for us! No. Apart from the fact that the fucking Clags (Horse Flies to you) would eat us alive if we tried. There's just no time. See; We have gutterings to fix. Tin sheets to replace. Leaks to sort out. Loads of stuff to repaint. Hay fodder to harvest. Fuel to gather, cut and store, ready for the next round of this never ending battle.
And now ye see why I'm so pissed off? This, basically, constant, unremmiting rain since ..... god knows when it was last Not raining for any appreciable length of time? This rain means we can't get Shit done around here! My gutterings are simply ~ and quite literally ~ breaking down around me. Down pipes are fracturing and bursting open. Horizontals, unable to cope, are over flowing and drenching my walls. Those walls are Desperate for the paint I planned to, now long to, give them. But it's fucking pissing it down here, day and night.
Now; Make my fucking day. Tell me This is " Natural "! I had That shit off Dean O', just the other night. FFS. We were having a sly fag, out the back of the pub and, naturally, the fucking heavens opened. I said something about, " And still the fuckers say Global Climate Change is as normal, recorded and expected as night and day. Well, This shit ain't fucking Normal. Not on the first of fucking July! "
Oh no? Hell, I hit a wrong button there! Dean O', self styled " Man Of Science " just sort of hung his head and went into some weird kind of fucking robotic voiced litany! Some shit like; " It Is natural nothing's wrong it's all been recorded before it's like the Ice Age we've had it before it'll come again there has been global climatic variation since The Big Bang this is all a conspiracy governments are making big money out of all this by telling people it's man caused man can't cause this it's just natural ..... "
I'm just sat there, listening to this shit in open mouthed amazement! The guy's going on like a fucking parrot! Every word so patently obviously learned, by rote, from some fucking web site somewhere. He was actually droning! Didn't have to think what he was saying - god forbid he should. Then maybe he too would realise what unsubstantiated, unsubstantiable, utter shit he was coming out with!
I mean, this is a youngster, less than half my age. By his own free admission, he's not really aware of ever having had a cognative thought during a time when a computer wasn't there in his life. So, he wasn't even Born when it all started to break down. When I remember the wrong birds starting to sing at the wrong times of year, as the wrong plants came into bloom. My mate, 'Man of Science' wasn't even born then. But now he's telling me this is all quite normal? Because a web site told him so?
Uh huh. Like a web site will tell us Lee Harvey Oswald took out JFK. That the Yanks had men walk on the moon, flags 'n all. That scientists ~ just last year, wasn't it? This year even? ~ replicated " The Big Bang ".
Well now; I was told, as a kid, that some cunt called " God ", who was Always there - and don't you Dare question that! - one day decided to make 'Man'. So he made one out of clay. Then he ripped one of his ribs out and turned that into a woman, tits 'n all. Man fucked woman and they had two sons. One son killed the other fucker. Then, one can only imagine, had twos up on Mum and god alone knows who fucked the resultant offspring! Da Daaaa! The whole damn human race is born! Bet I could find a web site purporting That shit to the hilt too! FFS!
No. Ye'll have to forgive my cynicsism here, people. Only I'm just a simple man. I listened to all that 'God' shit and saw it for what is is; A load of bollocks one's supposed to just choke down and live with. No Questions Asked. I see much of what modern " Science " tries to palm off on us in much the same way.
" They recreated The Big Bang. " Says who? The fucking 'Sun' ? And how does the Sun know? Because a guy calling hiself a 'scientist' told them? Sent them photo's of a load of pipes in a huge 'Laboratory' and said that's what they were doing there? Were We around at the time of the first " Big Bang "? No. So, as they weren't either; How the fuck do they know Anything they might have figured they'd did Was anything like a real Big Bang? Bollocks!
Now, it's stopped raining now. But it'll come again. Experience of all this is teaching me that. And it's natural? It's all happened before so shall happen again? Like the Ice Age?
Listen, you cunts; When I look out there and see a herd of Wooley Fucking Mammoths cavorting on the home acre, or maybe a Brontosaurus wallowing in the bog? Maybe then I'll treat the sort of shit our Dean O' puts such faith in with a bit more credance.
Right now, I'm gonna dash out there and grab a quick inventory of how much new guttering I need to buy. Though, fuck knows when I'll get a chance to put it up, without drowning myself!
There. Is there Anyone I haven't upset, in some way, with some part of that? Fuck the lot of ye! The fuck else do ye come here for?!
(Note: The following was written on 4-6-09. Thus published a day late)
I'm glad I'm not one for drinking in pubs of a night. Because Jim's is really my 'Local', these days. And Murphy was Jim's Dog.
That is to say, he was specifically Jim's Dog. But he kind of 'belonged to' the local town. Or, as Murphy Dog plainly saw it; The town belonged to Him. He was a very major 'Face' there. Without question the best known ~ and 'loved' Dog we had.
Just late last year (first thing this year?) we had a couple of Zebra Crossings installed. About as much point as an air conditioning unit in a garden. People drive with a bit of consideration, through town. Motors are as likely to slow to a walk and let ye cross. Suicide by Motor Strike could take a man a Long time down there.
I suspect much of that is to do with everyone looking out for Murphy. The little, black and white " Jack Russell " who behaved like he was the No. 1 'Made Man' of the town.
Here's a glimpse at a day in the life of Murphy, as seen from outside his head: Wake up, god knows where. But certainly somewhere warm, comfortable, and close to Jim. Be let into the pub. Bark at the front, or back, door. Be let out.
Murphy might then hobble (He had such 'Queen Ann' front legs, his gait was all fucked up at the front) either straight round to the other door, and bark to be let back in again. Or he might decide to take a tour of the town. In which case he'd piss up the tires of selected motors. Look out for the occasional, other Dog to follow. Or just plain stand there, barking. Just because.
Step into Jim's pub, for a pint, and expect to see Murphy shortly. He'd be on the plush sofa which, not so long ago, materialised at the end of the bar. He claimed that the day it materialised ~ Though he often as not needed a hand down from it. Or, if a fire was on? He'd be in front of it. If a comfortable mat was catching rays? There'd be Murphy Dog; Flat out on that mat. Last place and time I ever saw him. Yesterday afternoon.
If he wasn't 'in position', during his daily shift? He'd be out, pissing on stationary motors tyres. Walking, like royalty, in front of oncoming ones. Or, perhaps, following me around.
Yeppers. Murphy and me had a thing going on. The moment I turned up, he'd follow me out the door every time. And I use Jim's as a staging post. I hit town. Shop a bit. Drop my bags at Jim's and order a pint. Then I duck in and out as I shoot off to other shops. Always bringing my next bags back to Jim's. Always going out to another shop, for what ever they sold, at another end of the four roads.
Murphy Dog was fucking murder. He'd follow me like a lamb. Every body noticed this. Hard not to. It was as if I had the fucker on an invisible lead. I tried to slip into the newsagents? He'd slip in as the first person stepped out. Then he'd piss on the crisp packets. I went to the butchers? In he'd come. Straight behind the counter, looking for scraps. This was Murphy's town and he feared no ill.
Why did he stick to me, like shit to a blanket? Simple enough. Nothing to do with 'I have a way with Dogs'. Or, 'Dogs take to me'. Or any of the other pseudo bullshit some people like to spout, or imagine others may be spouting about them, behind their backs.
Murphy Dog became my shadow, about a year and a half ago, quite simply because I gave him some Meat. And That is how come the damn Dog became my absolute shadow, ever since. Well; That and the fact that I made a point, about once a week since, when I hit town, to give him a little taster of flesh and bone.
I actually gave up feeding Murphy his 'Treats' about eight months ago. After something happened about Murphy coming into the pub with some scrap of meat he'd picked up god knows where. And Jim took it away from him. Explaining to some other customer about how meat had made him sick or shit everywhere before. I never really quite caught it.
Whether some putrid scrap had upset his stomach, or if my little slips of fresh stuff, sliced off my own Dogs dinners had conflicted with his " Complete Diet " sustained system? Who knows. But a few tastes of raw flesh had the little fiend embarrassingly fixated on me.
But, there it is. Murphy Dog dropped dead in the street today. The light's gone out of Jims eyes and he, for once, happily accepted the Jameson I offered him ~ and I wasn't the first. No way will I have been the last.
If money could buy that poor man relief from what he must be feeling, right now? I'd pay it for him. Gladly. But, money ~ no amount of it ~ can buy us love. And how Jim Loved that little Dog of his.And now he's lost him. And I'm glad I don't have to sit and watch the poor man trying to hold it together. I watched him for just minutes today. And the empathy I felt nearly broke my heart.
I don't know. I honestly just don't know. Clearing some recent shots off my camera just now, and there it was.
What the Fuck was I playing at??? Guess I never Will know.
Thought provoking! Read This and see where it leads ye .....
About last September, Pat' told me he'd had a letter to say the 'MAFF' (or what ever that sort of department is known as, round here) would be visiting his land, with a view to collecting samples of his resident badgers. This, obviously, to do with Bovine TB testing.
In due course then, this guy turns up and tells Pat how he's been setting these peculiar looking snares around the place. Obviously, having a pretty fair grip on the local brocks myself, I wandered around checking this guys handiwork ~ I swear; I never once interfered. I just looked. Mused and took photographs and measurements. Just trying to educate myself. Badgers are protected here too. So, they don't concern me, obviously.
Well, seems this guy caught a few. So Pat told me He told him. What Mr Maff did with them? I never even asked. I figured they'd be dispatched and laboratised for Tests. None of my business either. Right?
And that was months ago. Months and months. And I've still walked the same ground that I have for Years now. And I've watched the grass grow. The grass grow where, for two fucking years, there were badger run 'moterways'. Now there's just grass .....
The hole in the hedge, beside the track I walk my Dogs up is now closed over with grass. I've watched that grass grow. Idly wondering where the badgers have got to. The hard trodden, years old path along beside the hedge in the field opposite has all but vanished to the eye too. No more badgers pass this way. Not this year.
I met Pat, out on the land, a week or so back. I actually mentioned to him how I was seeing no badger sign. In fact, the very spot we were standing on used to be a regular badger run. Pat wasn't in the least perterbed. " Oh, no, " He brightly informed me; " Ye'll not see badgers this time of year. They're Hibernating! "
Yeppers. Middle of June. Everything in full swing. " They're Hibernating. " Reallity check, please!
Ok. As said; Badgers don't concern me. No more than fish do. But, aren't fish doing something to do with breeding, about this time of the year? I know for a fact everything else is! But, Pat confidently swears badgers are hibernating. Who am I to argue?
I don't argue with Pat. I fuck off and clean my horses out. Sort my Dogs. Get on with my own life. And run into Noel, tonight .....
My first question to Noel is; 'Does he know anything he'd like me to remove?'. Noel mentions the three Gray Crows. I assure him I too have them counted, and I explain my plans for them. All is cool. Then I mention the badgers. Where Are the badgers???
Now, let me just bring ye further into the picture here. These two, Pat and Noel, are as different as chalk and cheese. Pat is a little mole of a man. Never stops working. Needs everything just so. Obviously, likes to see the same in others.
Noel? On all fours he'd be the epitome of a toad. Perfectly happy to do no more than he needs. Surveyor, more than do shit abouter. Sees what he sees, what ever.
And, this evening, I asked Noel what He thought about the missing badgers. Noel fucked my head up.
" What I think, ", he drawled ~ if an Irishman can drawl? ~ " Iz dat te (Govt / MAFF) poyzens dem. " :o I'm like; WTF?!
As Noel pointed out, as we watched his sneaky, illegal bon fire; " That man comes out here. He catches some live badgers, in his special snares. And he takes them away to I don't know where. Where they Do Something to them. Maybe give them a disease? " I'm listening ....!
" And then, he brings them back here and lets them go. They go home and give that disease to all the other badgers. It kills them all. And That's why we have no badgers here any more. "
Fuck, Noel ....! :o
I happened to run into Pat, shortly afterwards. I told him what Noel thought. " Oh, No! " Insisted Pat. " They're Hibernating this time of year! Ye won't see any badgers now till September! ....."
Beginning to doubt myself completely, by now, I asked Pat one final question. Then hurried straight home to check Google, about badgers. I ignored all the biased shit under " Xbury Badger Group ". I checked out a couple of 'Zoology' type sites. Then it caught my eye; " Come and enjoy badgers at their most natural. Join our Badger Watching evenings. Weekly till September ..... "!
And that's when it all fell into place, with the last question I'd asked Pat; " Pat? Where in hell' ye getting this shit from? 'Badgers hibernate till September' ". And ye know what he told me, with equal conviction? " That 'MAFF' fella told me; When he came to snare some, last September! "
Draw ye own conclusions, people. Make ye own minds up. Believe who ye will. Pat. Noel. Our 'MAFF'.
Only, Believe ME; There's simply no more badgers left on My beat. Cattle country. Not since the 'MAFF' came through here, catching up samples.
Fuck!!!
