Nigger Does It Again ....!

Damn Dog just seems to get better! :D

The other night ~ last night? ~ I seem to remember him pawing one of my mouse boxes around, in my kitchen. I have these special little boxes. They contain a mouse trap and a slot in the top of the box discreetly alerts ye to when the trap's been fired.

Only, I haven't had any mice in this place for about a year now and, to be honest with ye? Those boxes have kind of become almost 'invisible' to me.

So, I've been busy with some DIY out there lately. I'd have been distracted and just told Nigger to leave the box alone. Then gone back to thinking of timber and screws.

Tonight though, I'd about finished my own, latest burst of activity when Dean O' turned up to do a bit more DIFD ('Do It For Ditch'). He's setting up my new sink and shower. Only, I think it was when Dean lost sight of his tape measure and I was looking about for that that I spotted this mouse box, moved slightly away from its usual spot.

Then I realised it had fired. Oh ..... It happens to all Rat Catchers. Something comes up and ..... and, one day, ye inevitably have to check a trap, knowing it should've been checked long ago! I was explaining this to Dean O', even as I took out my key and popped the lid on the box. Bracing myself, with curled lip, to look inside.

Yeppers. There was fur in there. Brown fur. A House Mouse. Only, to my surprise and delight, it was fresh as a daisy! And that's when I remembered calling Nig Nig off this box, only yesterday. Bugger had scented the fresh mouse in there and was curious to get at what it was :-)

If he, like all my other Dogs, had ignored that faint smell? It may have been god knows how long before I'd noticed and opened that damn thing! Urgh! Been there before!

I threw the body into my compost bin. Then had second thoughts as I realised what a treat it'd make for my magpie. I was just about to go fetch it though when I remembered how I've had recent take in the Rat Box (baited) down in the horse pen. I'd looked for rat tracks or any other sign. Found none and put it down to concrete and low levels of activity.

Now I have other ideas. I'll put some mouse boxes down there too, tomorrow. In fact, I'll saturate my entire damn compound now. Because, even as I stood there, in my kitchen, chatting to Dean about all this; Bugger me if I didn't see, through the open door, a mouse dash across my gate way!

They're back. Let the fun begin!

My New Shotgun .....

Hoisting myself back onto the horses back (I can't say 'Back into the saddle'. I wouldn't use a saddle on my horse! It just seems wrong, to me) I realise I haven't even shown ye my new gun yet. I believe I told ye about the fun and games I had, getting the damn license processed? Well, that all finally got rail roaded through - by my own bloody minded persistence and that alone! And now I've got my new gun.

Had it, probably, two or three weeks now, I guess? As I've always maintained though; My guns are just tools. Did I mention the new power saw and disc cutter I bought? Maybe. In passing. Much the same with this gun. Only, guns seem to excite some people more than a power saw. So, here's an over view of my latest ~ more 'sexy' tool.




Sorry it's not a very close up and detailed shot. Of course, it's not even a 'real photo', as in taken by me. It's just something I found on Google. Unfortunately, with my own camera, by the time I get the distance to allow for the whole length, I lose all detail anyway. This just seemed like a nice compromise.

As most of ye will see then, it's black. All over. For the less well up on such things; It's what we call a 'Pump Action'. It holds five cartridges in the 'tube' and I can 'stick one up the spout' as well. That means I can fire it. Ratchet that handle at the front back ~ thus making a two part, metallic sound which is actually, probably, a better laxative than even the sound of the damn thing going off! ~ and fire again. Ratchet. Fire. Ratchet. Fire.

Six shots, one after the other. As fast as I can bring my left hand back and squeeze the trigger. We have a word for that sort of thing, in the gun owning fraternity. We call it, " Awesome! ". LOL!

The official name of this gun is a " Mossberg 'Maverick', 88 (Field Model) ". Made in Texas, USA. Only the component parts are cunningly made in, and imported from, Mexico. This allowing the lower price, at least in US! I paid close to £400 for this thing. It's virtually cheap as chickens wings in America. But, I'm not in America .....

However, I've read a Lot of reviews from owners. Can't say I've read a bad one yet. People with this gun seem to like it. Me? I like its weight and feel. I like the way it handles and I Love the sound of that ratchet! 'Aural Sex ', surely? I know Dean O' thinks so too ;-)

So, there it is. I've got it, of course, for magpies. It'll be the ideal tool for rapidly reducing any broods I miss before they hit the ground. That heady period when they're still young and stupid enough to be found bouncing about in gangs of five, picking at what ever ye've left out to tempt them.

Of course, That season came and passed as I tried to get past The Muppet and actually get my damn license. It'll come again. I'll be ready now. Meanwhile, Dean O' proposed a fun little suggestion the other night. He pointed out how we both tend to use only our rifles and bang away at paper targets and plastic bottles, to keep our eyes in.

He said it might be fun if the pair of us should invest in a cheap and basic little Clay Pigeon Trap .....

Now, that does sound like a hell of a fun way to spend a couple of hours down on the bog!

Why I've Been So Quiet Lately .....

Sorry, peeps. I see ye still looking in here. Both the Regulars and those who find their way by what ever means. And I haven't said anything for about a week now, have I? Sorry about that. I've nearly done with what's had my interest. Not that I won't be nipping back to look for more, on a very regular basis! :D

It's this site I happened on, see. Romany Gypsy Trailers I'm sorry but, this site just sort of took me by the bits and, like the old joke about, " What do ye have, if ye holding a little green ball in the right hand and a little green ball in the left? ". 'The undivided attention of ...' Never heard that one? Ask me some time. It's cracked me up for decades!

Only, this site has my undivided attention. I've been in there, day and night, for about a week now. I'm drooling.

Now, I know ye'll go take a look. Ye'll probably click a few times. See " Caravans " and think, 'So fucking what? Some prick down the road from me / round the way has a caravan. Drags it, slowly, along the roads to some god knows where once or twice a year. Sits in it and must get bored. Then comes home. Excellent.'

No. Bollocks. These are not some pumped up, lower middle class idiots way of pissing off the neighbours, then half the road users of the country. These are the Homes of the people I knew, back in the 60's, 70's and 80's. Trailers the likes of which I sat in. Motors like my people owned and drove about in. I loved them then. I'm completely smitten with them now. This is My Nostalgia!

Believe me; Ye have to have experienced that feeling of sitting in the cab of a fucking great Bedford. Sat in a Trailer and been shown the stacks of Royal Crown Derby plates stashed away beneath the seat ye sitting on. Know the value of a single fucking piece of such china ..... All that, and so much more.

But, I guess, if it's not in ye blood? Ye'll just never 'Get It'. We'll still just be " Dirty Gypo's " and " Fuckin' Pikeys " to many of ye?

Ok. Fine. Only, do this much, will ye? Look at the prices of some of these trailers. Compare that to what ye own houses cost, back then. Even if ye didn't pay tax ~ spot me an un taxed motor ..... ~ Could You have afforded those 'Show Homes' then? Could ye have crammed them with Crown Derby (As good as a Gypsys bank account, then as now).

More than anything: Look at those interiors. Then look around the room ye sat in .....

" Dirty Gypo's " ? Ye really think so ....?

Just Wanted To Show Ye This .....

Some beautiful photo's, by a lady name of Jo McGuire. Hit the button that says Gallery.

I wonder if anyone can guess my favourite?

I doubt it.

Fascination With The Enemy .....

Well, this aviary's proven worth every day of a life times ambition to own one! I have it sited right outside the window I'm sat beside. Thus I have only to look left and there it is, about fifteen foot away. And I expect this damn post will take me 'for ever' to write because of it; I just can't keep my eyes off that damn aviary!

Sadly, " Peck, Peck " simply couldn't acclimatise in there. Too much space? What ever. He was rough as fuck ~ a really dirty, shabby ball of feathers ~ by the time the damn thing actually got here. He was a Dead, dirty, shabby ball of feathers inside of forty eight hours. Poor little mite.

I genuinely feel the absolutely constant, torrential rains we've been having since ..... well, since I can remember, in all honesty. I feel the weather put paid to him. Having now observed my remaining bird, and considered the wider environment? I'm seriously wondering what effect all this has been having on the wild population of magpies around here too.

See, I'm now in the privileged situation where by I'm able to closely observe my birds every reaction to a variety of subtle stimuli. Most especially, any 'change' in the weather. And, for the purposes of my own little bit of 'rough science', I feel this bird is a recent enough capture to still be exhibiting the most natural of responses.

Frankly; Ye should see that bird when it's chucking it down like stair rods out there! He creeps in under his little slate lean too and just sits there. A perfect picture of misery and dejection. That's when I watch him and expect I'll lose him too.

But when, like right now, we have a rare break in the down pours? What a different bird! Out he comes. Hops up onto one of the lower perches. Flies about between the higher ones. Preens like mad and has a good feed. Earlier, to my amazement and delight, he even took a damn good bath in his water bowl!

Right now, having done all that, he's sat on the corner shelf I put in there. And that's at the perfect height to allow him to watch what's going on, across the hedge there. So, this bird's displaying an interest in life and a fastidious predilection with personal grooming. Just as any healthy bird should, indeed must.

But, let's look again: When the rains hit, my bird has a completely water proof shelter. He stays bone dry, yet just the situation clearly depresses him. How about a wild bird, hunkering down in a tree? Depressed. Unable to feed. Still getting more or less rained on too. That'd make him cold, and a cold bird needs to eat. Not in the cold rain .....

And, comes that break in the weather? My bird needs only skip over to his food bowl. It's all there. Laid on and waiting for him. No need to search, thus using up yet more sparse energy reserves. Not like his wild brethren.

In fact, that is one Lucky Magpie. His every comfort is assured. He only needs to keep his own spirits up, against this chilling, cold, damp and depressing weather. I'm doing my best to help him. No one's going to help the wild ones.

And ye know what? There barely are any wild ones around here nowadays! I watched them breed. I saw them fledge. Now they've all simply vanished. My whole area is pretty much devoid of wild pies right now. And, it wasn't me!

See what I'm saying ....?

God Bless The Daily Mash!

Absolutely on the money, as ever! The Daily Mail printed This shit, Here. (If ye can't be bollocksed to even read Any of the 'Outraged of Soberton' petty shit in the Mail, just look at the following link. It says it all! :D ) Because, in response, The Daily Mash have come back with This!

" Sam's Sanctuary "

Well; Here it is, folks:

And, by the time ye hear from me again, my two little POW's should be in there. Only, right now, they're getting on with their last night in the Larsen Trap they've called home since god knows when.

That old trap's served me well. Dean O' gave it to me, a couple of years ago now. But, having two magpies living in it ~ and pecking the shit out of it! ~ for half that time's really rather taken its toll on the poor old thing. Despite my own best efforts with a fresh coat of paint and a stretch of new wire, last year.

So, I think I'll buy a sheet of 1" square, steel mesh and make myself a new, all steel, one for next 'season'. Lighter. Stronger. Unpeckable. Drop of juncus cammo paint and ..... well; I might even make two or three! Maybe knock up some seperate 'Call Bird' Cages. We'll see.

Meanwhile, that's " Sam's Sanctuary ". It's called that in honour of an e mailed conversation I had with a young friend of mine; Sam, incredibly enough. I can hardly remember how it all went odd now. But I Do remember that Sam somehow inspired the idea in me that I might build my POW's a proper aviary.

I remember getting all excited about the fact that just owning an aviary has been a life long dream of mine. Would ye believe that, eh? Whole damn life. All I ever wanted was an aviary. Birds have always fascinated me, one way or another. Knowing about them led to catching them. But I usually caught them for other people. And those bastards had aviarys!

Well, now I have one. So there! LOL! And that's it. Six foot high. Four foor wide. Eight foot long. My POW's won't fucking know themselves! And this is the bastard that one poor bird died of old age, waiting for. Subject of a post below. And, if ye don't know what I'm talking about? Go and start at the beginning of this damn Blog and read ye way through, as one should! I promise ye I'll type shit far slower than ye can read it.

I must say; This thing's far removed from the " Sam's Sanctuary " envisaged on that night. My original plan was 'just' to pin some netting between some of my trees. (Yes; I own a small stand of mature trees. Eat ye fucking heart out!) But, you just try checking out the cost of eighteen square foot of anything! Even half decent plastic mesh. It's shuddering!

So, along with many other, practical considerations, I thought I'd go for a more traditional thing. Thought I'd build one myself. Or, at least, have a frame work built for me. And, again, priced myself right out of the market. I couldn't even buy the damn materialds for that the above cost me.

And now, there it is. In my compound. Right across from this window. It arrived, on a pallet, this morning. By this afternoon I had it all bolted together and was off into town to buy some finishing touches. Ye can't see them. Because they ammount to three sheets of perspex. They're fitted to the top corner. Give the birds somewhere to roost, protected from the prevailing winds and rains.

All it needs now is a few sprays of fir tree branches, to give my birds somewhere to feel hidden. And a signalled tunnel trap along the outside, to take care of anything, ground level, that comes to visit and inspect them. Sort that out tomorrow and " Sam's Sanctuary " should be all go.

" The Autobiography of an English Gamekeeper "

Free, down loadable book. Looks a belter! Here.

Nigger: One - le Ding: One Behind The Ear! LOL!

Calm down sillys! le Ding, along with the rest of them, has just been out for a 'Sort Out' and is now back in his bed, groaning with contentment, as he does. Bless him!

No, it's just that today, on our daily walk up the track, an interesting little even occurred which has since actually 'sunk in' rather better and so revealed a little story I thought worth the telling here.

Up by my top gate, see, there's a little bit of rougher ground, just behind my top hedge. This is only a piddling little strip of ground, between the hedge and the track between two gates. However, it's still a little haven for anything not wishing to dodge stupid cattle so much as it would out on the open fields. Sort of place a fox might lay up. Ye know the sort.

So anyway; Nigger and Rats have shown an expectable bit of interest in this spot. Rats is a fuckin nuisance! If Anyone's going to lead one of my other Dogs off on a high adventure, it'll be rats! Get them shot, whilst she offers too small and nippy a target? Fucking charming! And, today, she invited Nigger to join her in the dance of death.

Off they've gone, straight down off the track and into Pat's lower fields. Nothing to bad there, because the cattle were no where to be seen and I could actually see quite a way from the track. I was especially unconcerned as they were, at first, simply sniffing around that little patch of scrubbier ground there. Then they moved out into the half acre field of juncus and it was actually quite nice to imagine Nig Nig was actually 'Working' the ground with some purpose and intent.

But, when they shot off down through the lower gate, thus entering a span of endless acres, virtually all of it out of sight behind hedges, unless they reappeared a mile away, near those distant sheep ....! Buggers both ignored my calls too. It was getting a bit tense making!

So, there's me, stood at this gate, gumming at my bottom lip. Orange Dog doing who knows what ~ probably just standing around with me. (We're both so clapped out now, standing around suits us fine). le Ding I have on an extending lead. I never lock it, so he's free to shoot off in all directions for a fair old way too. Seems he was just standing, watching too though.

Frankly, I'm so concentrated on my growing anxiety that two of my Dogs are off loose, disobeying me, and in plain sight of anyone around the rim of the basin ..... Oh! Fuck me! Look at that hare!

Sure enough, here she comes, straight through the lower gate the Unholy Allience have gone through. Right out of the field they're 'working'. She's come up the track, not rushing by any means. I observed and noted her almost fox like 'russet' fur as she quickly loped up the track. She probably noticed us lot, about fifteen foot or so before 'our' gate, and turned gently in her course. Past us she went and skipped on through a hedge gate and into the field beyond.

With that, I returned my attention to the two lead magnets below who, soon afterwards, reappeared and rejoined us. Wet, panting and pleased with themselves. Home we went and no more was said about the matter. Dogs will, after all, be Dogs. (Naughty Dogs! LOL!)


Now, let's try that again, shall we? Supposing I'm some prick with 'Issues'. So I feel the need to carry a Big, scarey Gun everywhere with me. And I see everything which might try to get away from me as a challenge to my 'manhood'.

First off; Two of my Dogs go galavanting. That could pan out either way. A/ I might take offence at their being too preoccupied to 'Hear' my commands. Thus I could very well shoot them as soon as they presented a target of themselves. Some Would!

B/ I might have stood there, kneading my own zip as I drooled over the prospect of them actually being 'working'. And, can ye imagine 'my' ecstacy when that little hare had come loping up the track there? I could've blown her fucking head clean off. Then I could've taken close up pictures of the carnage I'd wreaked and shown them on THL. " Hare, Head Shot With 12 Bore At Five Yards! (Pre Ban) "

Of course, with that attitude governing my pond life like responses; Is it not entirely feasible that I'd then have remembered le Ding there? He hadn't even made his presence known to me, throughout. Hadn't shot off after the clearly visible hare. Hadn't even whimpered. In fact, he must've just stood there beside me and watched her pass. Just as Orange Dog and I had done.

Dingo Dog's a Dog in his prime. Lean. Fit. Sharp as a razor. He saw that hare. He knew her for what she was. He could've ripped that lead from my hand, cleared that gate and been after her like a rush of wind. But he didn't. Because I never gave him any indication that I required him to. Good Dog!

But how about our alter character there? I wonder how many of That sort, in that circumstance, would have beaten le Ding round the head as useless, for not giving chase. Then dragged him home and put 'One Behind His Ear'. Another 'useless fucking cull'. And have been on his way to pick up his umpteenth Dog in a year or two tonight?


Nothing left to prove, me, see? Been there. Done all that. That hare's out there now, biting grass stems. My Dogs are sleeping around me. Good Dogs, the lot of them. They don't need to do anything to bolster my ego. I need no social crutches. Just the love and companionship of my good Dogs.

And I don't think this lot are proving bad Dogs. Nigger and Rats scented, searched for and pushed out that hare to perfection ~ she was their only concern. le Ding did exactly what I always bid of him on our walks; " Don't Dash, Ding! " Even confronted with a passing hare, Ding didn't dash. Orange Dog and I? We couldn't go 'Voom!' if ye stuck fifty thousand volts up our arses!

We're older now. We just like to watch.

" Pikeys " Explained ....?

" Riches to Rats " left a comment under my post " Pikeys ~ Some More ", down there. In it he conjectures that the term, " Pikey " may stem from the old term of " Turn Pike ", etc.

Funnily enough, I was reading about these Turn Pikes just the other day. I know what they were all about now. Thus I was able to respond to RTR from a slightly more educated stand point than I may have previously managed. In fact, I found my own response becoming so full and, possibly enlightening, that I've decided to put it up as this post, in it's own right. Here's what I had to say:


Yeppers, RTR, I've heard that explanation too. I left it alone, to think about it. It figures, dosen't it?

'Turn Pikes' were indeed the original 'Toll Booth's' of today. Exact same purpose too. A man agreed to maintain a stretch of road in good order. In return for his civil engineering work, he would be allowed to set up a Turn Pike on 'his' stretch of road. From there, he'd step out and demand a payment from anyone wishing to travel on down 'His' road.

Look at the resentment Toll Booths engender today. People hate them. They see it as that their Road Taxes should pay for the provision and upkeep of roads. Why are they now being hit again?

Now throw in some Gypsys. Just as some greedy cunt's fleecing ye of 1 1/2 d to use the public highway, there's Those fuckers, trying to get ye to shell out yet More money, to buy some pegs and baskets?!

Then, to top it all? When they move on themselves, ye get to see them emerging from some bit of Common Land a mile on?! The bastards obviously travelled across country, thus avoiding the Tolled road and the extra expense You incurred.

Can we not just see how the 'normal' travellers resentment could grow? A man could soon become conditioned to transfer and share his hatred of the Turn Pike with those he associated with the structure and charges; The 'Pikies' who seemed to have it better than him.

Are we seeing a pattern emerging here ....?

Take A Dog, A Lazer Pointer And A Relaxing Friend .....

Honestly, people; I haven't watched this video. My connection's too slow to be arsed. But, I got the idea ....! Here.

(That's a link to the site hosting this film. I've no idea how long it'll last. Find it gone? Please leave a quick comment to that effect. I'll wipe this entire post)

Ye Know Why Your Job's In Danger ....?

And, by that, it obviously follows that we must there for include ye Mortgage. Thus ye Home. Thus ye entire fucking 'Family Life' and just about everything ye hold dear to ye. Correct?

Is it Gordon Brown's squandering of every penny of ye hard earned Tax that he can suck out of ye? Is it the Banks, letting ye have far more Credit than what ever the Tax Man leaves ye with at the end of the month, so ye can hardly meet the repayments and eat? Is it the Poles? Rumanian's? Those fucking 'Pikeys' again?

Could be, I suppose. Or, how about it's something a bit ..... ah, ok; A LOT More like This ..... A randomly chosen story of just trying to deal with british industry. Trying to spend Hundreds, even Thousands of pounds into Your pockets. I have a list of them, just like this one. Here goes:


Friday, 10 April, 2009 1:06 PM. I e mail Sales at finemeshmetals.co.uk, eager to buy an aviary I saw on their web site .....


" Hullo. I want to have one of your modular aviaries shipped to Eire. An 8 x 4 one. Job for a Courier company, such as Target.

Could you possibly sort me out a quote, please? Co. Leitrim. "



14 April 2009 13:36
RSVP. Trying to enquire about aviaries.




14 April 2009
I'm just after a quote on one of ye 6 x 8 Aviaries, shipped over by courier (Target bring me a lot of gear) It's pretty urgent too.

What's the craic, please?



Wed, 15/4/09, Sales wrote:


The aviarys wont be back in stock until 3-4 weeks. Do you want it 4 sided?

Regards Andy



Wed, 15/4/09:
Yes, please, mate. 8' x 4. Smaller door in one end. Prefer the smaller mesh too if possible.



18 May 2009 02:53
Looking for an update, please, Andy? Any news for me?



There’s been a 2 week delay at sea and we have been given a delivery date of the 27th May for the 2 x 2 and 2 x 1 panels. The 1 x ½ inch panels are expected middle of july.



Friday, 24 July, 2009 11:10 PM
They're in now?

(See? Note how No One from their SALES dept. bothered to keep track of this obvious SALE. No one said, 'Sir? The goods you require are now available and can be shipped, x at y cost. No. I had to chase Them to take My custom!)

Monday, 27 July, 2009 9:20 AM

Yes these items are now in stock.

Best Regards,

Chris Beard.



RE: Aviary's?
Monday, 27 July, 2009 1:00 PM

The largest that we supply is 6’ x 4’, delivery of this item would be £55.00.

All prices exclude VAT.

(What?!)

RE: Aviary's?
Monday, 27 July, 2009 1:39 PM
I think that I may have misinterpreted your original enquiry, I thought you were asking for the price on a single 8’ x 4’ panel which is why I said that we could only offer a 6’ x 4’ one, but after re-reading I thing that you were asking for an 8’ x 4’ X 6’ cage? If so the costs are as follows:

5 no. 6’ x 4’ std. £45.00 each

1 no. gated panel £75.00

2 no. 4’ x 4’1” roof panels £30.00 each

Total £360.00

Delivery £120.00




Monday, 27 July, 2009 2:06 PM
If you email me your full address and phone number I will raise an invoice for your order and email it back to you. I will then phone you to take your debit card details, hopefully we can accept it but if not we can take payment the old fashioned way!

VAT £72.00

GRAND TOTAL £552.00.

(I gave them my phone number. They called me. I quoted my Debit Card number. They had my money in their bank account. Boosh!)

11 August 2009 12:42
Chris; Might I expect my aviary this week?




Wednesday, 12 August, 2009 3:59 PM
I apologies for the delay, your panels have been despatched today.



I'm still waiting for my aviary.


Think this is exceptional? Oh, really? I could show ye my collection of 'Failed Deal' e mails I have here. Envirolet Compost Toilets ? They never got back to me. Fuck it; I spent their money on a back door. Now I can get to my ditch easier. I'll stick with that.

Canine Kennels? They made this aviary outfit seem like slick professionals! Their 'Sales' dept. lost them Thousands. I could go on. I'm finding this time and again.

And so british businesses are losing custom, hand over fist. And ye economy's going to rat shit. And ye own Sales dept. staff are too busy sitting there, blaming the govt., Pikeys, Everybody But Themselves, as I fuck off with my money and learn to live without what I tried so damn hard to buy off them.

Think about that.

'Pikeys' .... Some More .....

I found this, quite by chance, tonight. It fascinated me and, at the same time, actually went some way to soothing my feelings toward so many of the people I get to hear about.

It was an aside reference to " The Septics Companion " ; A British Slang Dictionary.

I clicked the live link provided, on the forum I found it, and saw, under Random Words; " Glass vb." being described as the action of breaking a glass and then shoving the broken off bottom part into someones face. 'A favoured way of ending a fight between Pikeys.'

" Here we fucking go Again!!! ", I thought to myself. But, then I saw that the word " Pikey n. " was itself a live link. I clicked it. My hackles were up and I was wanting to find out what This idiot was telling the world " Pikey " meant.

I was, I'll admit, greatly surprised and even rather pleased to read this:

" pikey: n adj white trash. It’s an old English word meaning “gipsy,” but nowadays pikey is also applied to people in possession of track suits, Citroen Saxos with eighteen-inch wheels and under-car lighting, and pregnant fifteen-year-old girlfriends. "

I've read and heard worse. I guess it's a matter of syntax, how ye read " is also applied to ". But, fair do's. The guy's moving in the right direction.

The term, " Pikey " is Not a word from the Gypsy languages. It's a derogative term, dreamed up and used by Non Gypsys Against Gypsys. A deliberate and insulting use of term at that.

British (Purpose Built Slum) Council Estate dwelling types ~ ye know the sort of Council Estates I mean. Built to house, and even 'contain' the unemployable under class, rather than those offered to decent, hard working folk ~ Those types have revelled in the, seemingly self given, title of " Chav's ". Now they're known as " Pikeys ".

What ever the origin of the labels, I find it deeply pissing that there remains this constant, inferred connection between that sort and Gypsys. There really Is no connection; Beyond that of a society going to total rat shit, and looking for a scapegoat.

Work In Progress .....

That's pretty much been the craic round here for the last three years now. Having bought myself what turned out to be a semi derelict cottage, I've been gradually ~ mostly extremely gradually! ~ renovating it.

Now, I know that such talk will make most of ye picture either a pile of stones, in France. Or else a musty little place in the middle of god knows where. Either way, one of the first things is to get a team of Spreads in. Yeah? Plaster is what makes a room. And no (old) room is ever right. Ye don't want to put fresh vinyl silk on century old plaster.

Bollocks. The walls in this place look like they were spread by a Drunk. Fact is, who ever spread these walls probably wasn't a time served, highly skilled 'Plasterer' at all. More likely just a man with a job to do. And to be done with limited materials, let alone skills. It shows. And that showing gives this place character.

I like Character. I'm also a bugger for Tradition. I like Authentic. I also like Quality. This can make me an expensive bitch to keep! But, being as how I keep myself? Fuck it. I'll have what I want, when I can have it. And my only guiding light is sympathy for this old place. Respect for its history ~ and future.

So; Having had every rotted out, boarded up, or just plain 'a hole in the wall' window in the place ripped out and gorgeous, 'in keeping', top of the range double glazed units popped in, I'd left myself with This:




And That was in my kitchen. Yeppers. That is an old scrap of ply wood, nailed to the bottom. There was no glass when I got here. And that Is a few plastic coal sacks, stuffed in the gap between the top sheet of glass and where the bottom of the top frame once was. In fact; The top frame of the bottom window is where " The Leitrim Experiment " took place! I believe I covered all that else where on here? Go look it up.

So anyway, I had to leave that mess as it was, because I couldn't get a Builder to blast out the stone work at the bottom, make good, and leave me a Doorway. I never did. Instead, I found an outfit of fucking Cowboys. They charged me a heavenly sum. Did a very mediocre job. Then ran away, leaving me with a few dustbin loads of gash and rubble strewn across my ground. Par for the course here. Unless ye went to school with their Dad.

But, I can live with it. They may have been shit. But. they still knew how to do things I wouldn't have known how to do. Thus they left me with a hole which Munster Joinery where happy to make a door for. Munster Joinery are probably The Best in Eire. They made my front door and all my windows. Fucking brilliant!

Now, here's a (Very Bad!) shot of my new, back door. Just placed and ready to be foamed, filled and dressed. I'll get a better shot of the outside, later. Natural light and showing the colour and finish. Right now, I just wanted ye to see what had become of my window.




Now I have work to do ~ slowly and gradually, as ever. Look at that reveal. In fact, look at the reveal on the original window. Then look at the reveal I now have on this door. (I mean the 'walls', inside the door. That wall's over eighteen inches thick, by the way!) Couple of slabs of board and some bare cement. Daylight showing through the frames edges.

Job On! Let's see how a 'Rat Catcher' gets on, finishing this project so a person born and raised in this old cottage would believe it was all Original.

" I Know You're No One ..... "

Someone said that to me, tonight, in e mail. The person saying it was Rosie Smith. She's a daughter of Levi Smith ~ as in ' The Levi Smith '. I don't expect that name means jack to most of you? Probably not. But I've known of the man most of my life. And, earlier tonight, I exchanged a few words with his girl.

Rosie and I both inhabit a Gypsy forum, see? And she got wind of this place and badgered me into telling her where it is. Then, having come here and seen how I go on, she got to thinking I might be one or another other characters she's 'met' on line.

That's how come she threw a couple of suggestions at me, as to my, suspected, 'other' identities. I, of course, disavowed her. Hence the come back titling this post;

" I know you're no one ..... " ('I know, and thought ye might have been, but .....').

But, that got me thinking. Especially as I'd received a fresh batch of Birth, Marriage and Death Certificates in the post today. I was actually sat here, transcribing all the new data onto my Family Tree site when Rosie popped up. Thus I couldn't help but wryly think to myself; " I'm someone, alright. And I'm getting a pretty good idea who too! "

Now, Rosie will 'know who she is'. She can probably reel off both sides of her own family line, by rote. Aunts and Uncles. Who married whom. All their first names. The lot. That's the way with Romanies (Oh. Sorry. Had I not pointed out that Rosie is a full blooded Romany? Well, she very much is) and the Romany people, very much like the Irish, are very much into family lineage.

I am. Only there's barely any bugger left alive who I can ask any more now. So I've had to largely dig back myself. Using various 'pay per view' sites, to access historical records. Then I've spent thousands of pounds ~ quite literally ~ on buying up BMD Certificates, to help me get one parent further back on my own 'Dead Rellies'. It's become, rather ironically, a complete 'Way of Life' with me.

And how about you? Do ye even know ye own Grand Parents first names? Do ye care what Gran'Dad did for a living? What about Gran'Ma's people? What were they like? What did they do? Where did they live? Do these questions make ye shrug and think of going and reading something more interesting and relevant to you?

Funny; Some people are more concerned with the 'Pedigree' of their latest Dog than what they have in their own blood. Where they got it from. How it maybe makes them even do the things they do today.

Oh well. I'm not here to lecture or proselytise about anything. Only, I Do always ~ within reason ~ encourage others to start finding out and getting it down. Even just the generation before you holds So Much.

It's a bastard, when ye turn around to ask them and they're gone.

He's At It Again ....!

That dirty fucker, " Swiller " who, a week ago today, almost made me Throw Up ? He's back at it again! He's just pulled out another piece of information I think most of us could live quite happily without ever needing to hear about.

Look what the dirty bastard's telling us this time .....

' Some Eskimos suck the snot out of their babies' noses with their mouths. '

I mean; For fuck sake ....!

Nigger's Tale .....

Nigger. He's a Name. Not a Number. Though I only ever knew of him as " 4737 " on Louth County Council Dog Pounds web site. I came to find him thanks to " Sam ", the guy ye may have seen Commenting on here. Sam's big on championing the Rescue of Dogs. But, he puts his money where his mouth is. The guy Rescues, Fosters, Looks After, Breaks His Own Damn Heart Over as many Dogs as he can possibly manage. An Unsung Hero.

Sam had long since starting sliding URLs across the table at me. Just 'Something to take a look at'. I don't think he ever directly mentioned any particular Dog. Most of them made my heart bleed anyway. And I knew most of them would be dead in a week or so too.

But, what can I do? I have land, sure. I have enough land that I could build a huge fucking paddock and stick maybe twenty Dogs in it. I could likely keep them fed too. But, it'd be little more than a benign Concentration Camp for Dogs.

See; I'd be able to go in there twice, maybe three times a day? I'd pick up all their shit. I'd check and refresh their water bowls. I'd dole out their food, once a day. And they'd become basically a feral, contained pack. They'd sort their own social structure out. Maybe some would even die in the process? I'd drag the carcass out and sling it in a certain place I know of.

Is that any way to keep Dogs? I don't think so. Besides which, I'm only using that scenario as an example. Fact is; Constructing such an enclosure would cost me tens of thousands of pounds. I just haven't got that sort of money. What good, to Dogs, is an acre of land if they can't be contained within it? So, there we are.

Anyway; I must've mentioned to Sam how I had this feel for a rough, rangier, 'Black Lab' sort of Dog. Only, Sam would certainly know I simply won't have shit to do with castrated Dogs. So, then he sent me a few links to Dog Pounds (as very much different from 'Dog Rescues, in the main) where they really couldn't give a shit about letting Dogs go out with their balls still on. Just as long as the poor Dogs went out on their own four feet.

And that's how I discovered " Dog, Ref # 4737. Black Lab ~ Stray. Louth Dog Pound. " and decided he'd be worth my taking a chance on.

I e mailed them and stated my interest. Their " Tommy " shot me back, saying he was a great little Dog and his owners would probably be in to collect him. Him being a Stray, rather than a Handed In By Owner.

Well, I asked that I at least be granted first refusal, should it not happen. Then, after midnight on the day he was due for release, I mailed again. Could I have him now? Still Tommy held out. He told me; If 4737 wasn't claimed by closing time That day ..... He was giving this Dog one extra day.

Next day, I e mailed Tommy to say I wanted the Dog. Within an hour, I phoned him to say I was in a taxi and on my way. " A Taxi?! " Virtually screamed an astonished Tommy. " From Leitrim?!? ". Err ... Yes, Tommy. Two hundred mile round trip. In a taxi. To buy a Dog some cunt's 'Dropped Off' along a road some where. About an eight hour journey. I have no problem with that. Oh but, Tommy? Ye just don't know who ye dealing with here, do ye? This is Ditch Shitter. A man simply not given to fucking about!

Steve Flynn, one of my most regular Taxi's, probably learned more about my past than many people here will ever know, on that seemingly endless drive. Four fucking hours. And the Irish Love to ask questions and then just drink in the answers. Thus I had to provide most of the in car entertainment. By the time we reached Louth, even I'd ran out of things to say. I'd covered about thirty years of my life!

But, here we were. And there, one had to surmise, was 4737. There was this bald headed guy in the compound. Goatee beard and bouncy, black Lab' type Dog. " Fit looking Dog ..... " Commented Steve.

Well, Tommy let us in and was back inside with 4737 even before the automated gates had fully opened. I was lighting a roll up even before Steve was out of the motor! Then Tommy came back out to find me and I got a good look at the guy. Ye know when ye take just one look at someone and Know they're a good person? I really must look up Louth County Council and send them a note to say what a Good Egg they have in that man. I'm perfectly serious.

And there was 4737. He could barely take his eyes off Tommy. His tail never stopped wagging. This Dog Adored the guy! Then I was signing things. No worries! One thing was a Dog License ~ Saved me buying one next time I hit town. I Always license All my Dogs. The other was the Micro Chip Receipt, for the micro chip Tommy popped into 4737, right there and then. Scanning the Dog, to show me it was there and working.

Then, after a truly enjoyable chat about things of obviously mutual interest, it was time to open the door of the motor and invite 4737 to hop in the back. In he got. I managed to get in the front, without letting go of the collar and lead I'd brought with me. We were off. Homeward bound.

I don't think we were even out those gates before I turned, grinning into 4737's happily panting face, and said; " Well, Nigger, my love ..... "

Know what? Nigger just sat, laid, stood, good as gold. Good Four Hours! Not a fucking peep, whinge, whine, piss, shit, puke or fart out of him. Dog was a solid little angel, all the way home. And, when I got him here? I led him round for a sniffing, pissing session. Popped him on a chain. Watched him drink his fill of water. Took him into a back room and locked him there. Let the others out, to sniff his piss and piss on it. Put them away. Chained him up again, in sight of the window ..... Fucked off for Four More Hours! (I had business and this had, unavoidably clashed)

Back I came, midnight and gone. This is how I handled it: I let The Orange Dog out. She gave him a cursory glance and ignored him. I muzzled le Ding and Nigger. Brought le Ding out on a lead. Nigger cringed a bit. Ding tried a spot of high stepping and nose shoving. A firm " Oy! " from me told him that wasn't the idea.

Fifteen minutes later, after I'd spray disinfected. Mopped ..... God Dammit! ..... Done the same again! Gentle slap and a firm word. (Nigger should, by now, be getting the idea that he Does Not piss mark each outstanding object in my kitchen!) And we all came in here.

Nigger crashed out at my feet. le Ding settled down close by. Orange Dog went for a kip on my bed. Chain Dog ....? Well; Chain Dog's a bit of a sociopath. We don't care what Chain Dog's doing. It still means she'll kill them all, let out of there and given half a chance to!

Know what? I woke up today; Nigger still fast asleep, right where my feet had been all night. Dingo Dog fast asleep in his bed, two foot away from Nigger. Orange Dog in my arms and a fucking great grin on my face!

Right now, about thirty hours later as I write? Still like an explosion in a Dog factory. Dogs strewn all over the place. And Peace!

This is why I gave up the Bull breeds. Adore them as I do; I like more than one Dog around the place ;-)

My New Dog .....

Anyone remember the film, " The Dambusters " I do. Brought up on it. Guy Gibson, the chief RAF man who was to lead the attack on the Dam in question, using Barnes Wallace's purpose designed " Bouncing Bomb " had a Black Labrador, in real life. He called it " Nigger " and so I grew up knowing the Dog to be called. " Hullo, Nigger, old boy! " is probably the one line from that film that's always stuck with me.

Of course, that was the mid fifties. Now they've been talking of doing a mega millions remake of the film. Good luck to them. Only, it seems that No Way are they calling the Dog that outrageous name. They stopped using it some years ago, actually.

"Dam Busters was made in the early 1950s and you can imagine it was probably perfectly normal in the 1950s, but no one would dream of calling a dog by that name now. What we are sensitive to is viewers being offended by it,"

Quite so, of course. Wouldn't do. 'People' might be offended. Can't use That name.

No. Call Gypsys " Dirty Stinking Gypo's " and " Thieving Fucking Pikies " ? Fair play to ye. But allow a Dog, from nearly a century ago to retain his name on film? Outrage! " No one would dream of calling a Dog by that name now. "

Fuck 'em! Here's my new Dog:

" NIGGER "

Went and got him from a Dog Pound, yesterday. He'd been picked up as a 'Stray'. No history. No name. No one came foreward to claim him. (He'd been, as it's known here, " Dropped Off ". Taken for a ride in a motor. Let out the door. Sped away from)

No one seems to criticise that sort of thing here. Sure as hell, no one raises an eyebrow when I tell them what I've called him.

" No one would dream ..... " ? Hadn't fucking figured for 'Ditch Shitter', had they?! LOL! Fuck 'em!

400 Dogs Seized in US Dog Fighting Bust

Fucks me! Have ye heard about this? Plug " Missouri dog fighting " into Google News. Jesus! They reckon it's been the biggest bust in US history. I think we'd have heard about a bigger one by now, no?

Seems they now have up to 400 Dogs, mainly Pit Bulls, locked up in a warehouse. They're crying out for volunteers to come help with their day to day care. I mean, imagine it? Four Hundred ready to go Pit Bulls?! Jesus christ; One slip and things would get 'Emotional', as the great man would say.

Seems they have 'Green Areas' to exercise the pooches. Can ye imaging that? Five. Ten. Twenty at a time? Each walker having to time their coming out the door just right. Everyone having to keep ten foot between them and the next guy. That's got to make for one tense situation. It's not like they're walking Greyhounds, in loads of six at a time, is it? That place must be run like fucking Broadmoor!

I know what I'm talking about too. I live with One Dog who can't ever be allowed to get at the other three. So, Every Day it's chain Him up. Put Them in there. Shut that door. Lock that door. Shut this door. Open that cage. Bring her out. Open that door ~ where are the horses? If they're in view, watch it! Stay absolutely focused and alert for as long as she wants to snuffle about in my compound. Then guide her back, past le Ding, and send her back into her cage.

That's stressful. If each worker there has to do that five, ten times a day? Fuck. No wonder they only ask ye to come for a week. Ye'd be mentally strung out by the end of it. And that's when ye could make a mistake. I wouldn't know about 'Organised' Dog Fights. But it's sure as hell no fun when it goes off and you're the only bastard there. No good just standing there, wishing it wasn't happening.

And now they have to 'Evaluate' all these Dogs. This I find sad. Because the 'experts' doing this will only have their own experience and thus limitations to work with. One Dog hits the fence when they come near its pen? That Dog'll be marked down to die. Dog shows obvious signs of wanting (Needing) to go, when it sees another Dog? That Dog will die too.

This is doubly sad. Because God could turn those Dogs around. He could save them. Turn them into perfect little Doggy citizens and send them off to happy and safe lives. Only those sort of people don't like to talk to the likes of God. They think they know it all already. So they have what they can't handle killed.

I'll tell ye about God, one of these days. I'm proud to say he's a friend of mine. Lives in Illinois, so he's actually not that far, in the scheme of things, from where this has all gone down. Who knows?

But, how did they come to round up Four Hundred Dogs? This is where it gets surreal! They're saying some fucking idiot who's been bang at it for Twelve Years turned Super Grass, two or three years back! This guy's been vouching for under cover agents and introducing them to his 'friends'! Getting them invited along to proper Matches, the whole fucking deal!

Now, in my time I've got about as close to the game, perfectly legitimately and openly, as a man could do, without getting my hands dirty. I knew who and what was what ~ information freely given, under complete trust. Only, I made my notes perfectly openly. I was told names to write down. Even shown photo's and introduced to the people. Because I was working for Them.

As it happens, my own guide had been involved for ten years himself. He was a very well known Face. The point I'm trying to make here is that, had He been 'bent' or had I, god forbid, have been prepared to betray his trust in me? FFS! Either of our lives wouldn't have been worth shit! I mean; The people in that game Know who the Faces are. It's not like this grass can now walk amongst them saying, " I wonder who that grass is?! "

And this is what I find so mind boggling. What in gods name ever possessed this guy to do that?! I mean, it's not quite like the fucking Mafia. Ye want to quit the game? Ye sell up ye Dogs and sit watching tv. Answer the phone and say no, sorry, ye don't fancy it any more. The wife's breaking ye balls and ye decided to leave it. It happens. People accept it.

But why the fuck go round setting up the people ~ and their Dogs ~ who ye've shared that absolute bond of trust with, for over a fucking decade? What in hell happened inside that guys mind that he couldn't just walk away. Couldn't even just settle some personal score with someone else, or what ever. He decided to spend two years and more, going to great lengths, stiching up so many people. Why?

That, to me, is at the very heart of this story. What The Fuck happened there?!

Here's One For My Fellow 'Pesters'!

Ye'll appreciate this one, lads ....! In town yesterday and, as I do, I went to my local which I use as a base. I fetch my shopping back there and drop it off before going out for some more.

So, there's a bunch of local lads stood around outside, having a crafty fag. Even as I approached them, I can here the under chorus of " Here he is! This is ye man! He'll know what to do! ". I'd been here before. My mood was already souring.

" Here, Ditch; Ye man here has a wasps nest. Driving him crazy! What's he to do about it? " I just stopped. Sighed. Looked their spokesman hard in the eye for a bit. Then said, with just the merest hint of suggestion: " He calls me ....? "

Ye know the routine. First they look completely baffled. Then, for that split second, their expression darkens as they look at ye as if ye some cunt who's just in some way insulted them. Then the realisation dawns with them that ye just didn't get what they were talking about.

" Naaaaah, naah! " He perks up again. " He has a Wasps Nest. What should he do with it? Drop of diesel ....? "

If my bag wasn't a shoulder one, and empty at that point. I'd have dumped it on the ground. So, for the full effect, just imagine me dumping Two bags, full of shopping, either side of my feet. I heaved a big sigh. Then I put my face closer to this guys. Looked right into his eyes. And I said, very plainly and clearly:

" He gets a DR5 ..... One or two Extension Lances ..... Bucket of Ficam D ..... " Of course, before I could even get to Bee Suit. Thousands of pounds worth of Training. Years of fucking Experience. So on and so forth, this guys face has frozen into a slack mouthed, bulging eyed, absolute picture of purest incomprehansion.

He just couldn't get it. When will they fucking ever?!

I picked up my bags and pushed on into the pub.

Thinking How Fucked Up The World Is .....

I've come if for a tea break, from tossing turf briquettes into my shed out there. I was at it for five hours last night. Three, so far, today. It's mind numbingly 'Donkey Work'. But, my donkey can't toss a briquette.

And, as my Dogs are so used to hearing me say; " There's sure as hell no fukka gonna come here and do it for us! Best get on ......" And I've been getting on. And on. And on. And all I can do out there is think. I've absolutely no distraction but the thoughts in my own head. Been thinking a lot, out there.

If I were a local farmer, I'd have a family. I'd hope to have sons too. Because sons grow into men and extra men are fucking near essential in this life. They learn to master their fathers every skill and put those same skills into practice, day to day about the place.

That's why, as I sling turf and think, I'd got round to considering if I could hire some cunt to do this for me, or at least help. But, I realised that Noel's two lads would be helping him. Pat only has some girls, I think? Actually, he does have a son, but the kid's way too young to be of any use yet.

Now, here's where it starts fucking up, look. Girls. What I'm doing out there would be a perfect job for a girl. This stuff's light as a bath sponge and perfectly managably sized. I even have a gorgeous, gentle mare here, and an insane but harmless donkey. As I grew up, I learned that 'Every' little girl worships horses. That's how come they clamour for unpaid jobs in stables. To be around horses.

But, of course, if I say so much as another word on That subject? Ye'll be making a mental note that, believe it or not, it seems Ditch must be a fucking pervert! See? How the fuck has this mind set come about? Are all stable owners kiddie fiddlers now? The undeniable 'logic' I've just alluded to would have to bring us to that, totally fucked up, conclusion. And that Is fucked up!

Number two; What in hell should I be thinking of, even thinking about putting a child of barely teen age to work? See? 'Because kids of that age Don't work!'. No. Fucking right they don't ~ these days! They get a six week holiday during which they sit about fiddling with a PS3! No wonder kids are getting fat.

Well, I know where I'm coming from. Because I left school at fifteen. I was in work that same week. Eight hours a day, pulling a lever in a factory. Does it look like it's done me any harm? Do I come across as a completely uneducated moron? I own my own cottage and land. No mortgages here. I work at my profession only as a hobby these days. Yet I realy want for nothing. Not bad for a kid who never passed an exam in his fucking school life!

Yet, the thought of turning ye kid out to do a bit of paid work for anyone is anathema these days. Whilst my own family tree shows the vast majority of my most recent ancestors were working their arses off by fourteen. I have girls working in cardboard box factories. Lads working, alongside their fathers, as Hawkers. Many girls actually living in as domestic servants! (Horror! A fourteen year old girl sent to live with strangers? ~ Oh, don't let's start That shit again! See what I mean?)

My Great Aunt was 'sold into service' at around twelve years old. Her parents said it was in an effort to 'straighten her out'. Bit fucking rich, actually. Coming from a mother who taught her girls to strip to the waist and take on all comers in bare knuckle fights! But, ye see how this shit is more 'normal' to me?

But, anyway, that's all fucked up now. There's a plethora of reasons why I can't even think about hiring a little spare energy to do some light work for me. But, I still had hours more to think in.

Latterly, I figured there could be a way through all this. I started fantasising: How about offering Working Holidays?! I mean, parents bring the kids, kids get to stay on what amounts to a farm, look. Fresh air. Fields to play in. Nice animals to pet. Just get a taste of a few hours donkey work a day. It'd help use up some of that energy. Give them an appetite. They'd have a whale of a time afterwards. And all this under the direct gaze of mum and dad.

I was getting into this one! They could park their trailer in my paddock. Have fucking Bar B's, for all I care. Do pretty much as they liked for a week. And they could even pay me a few quid as their kids made up the rest by helping out around here! Good, eh? No losers. No 'Risks'.

Oh no? Fuck up number three; I'd have to have unlimited Public Liability Insurance, in case anyone twisted their ankle whilst walking across my land. The kiddie set to do the bit of donkey work would have to wear steel toe capped boots, hard hat and hi viz vest, and likely be over seen by a 'Responsible Adult' at all times ~ meaning mum and / or dad would have to sit outside my bloody horse pen, staring into the small shed.

Then I'd need a Caravan Site licence, to allow them to pull on for a week. And I'd in no way get that without laying on mains fucking sewage (which I haven't even got for myself), hot and cold running water - I haven't got that either - and a fucking shower block!

Then I imagine some bloody 'Social Worker' would come along and say we were exploiting the kid by forcing it into slave labour, while all the time exposing it to terrible risks such as the Ticks, Claggs and Gnats which are ~ believe it or not ~ an integral part of 'The Countryside' here in Co. Leitrim.

So, fuck it all then. I shifted my own damn turf. (Dean 'O managed to get away in time to help me out for the last hour. Thus mercifully saving me about another hour and a half on my own) And I guess that's really all I wanted, before the monotony and mind numbingness of it all drove me to start this rant. Bit of fucking company and someone to share the craic with.

Point still remains though; How many people would jump at the chance to give themselves a well earned break, in beautiful surroundings. Get their kid into the fresh air and away from the Box. Let them get amongst Real animals and even do something for their pocket money?

In todays society? No Fucking Chance!

Now ask me why I think half the kids are fucking obese and half the rest are hanging around on street corners, swearing at passers by as they eye up the parked and unattended motors near by.

Poggered!

I am. By that lot. I just Double handed a good two thirds of that shit. Now I'm about as poggered as I honestly remember ever feeling.

Some explanations are due, yeah? Ok. I'll try to take ye through this. Only my mind's about closing down with sheer exhaustion here. I'm physically, thus mentally, about fucked. Just thought I'd tell ye about this little episode.

" Poggered " ? It's a Gypsy word. Part of what we call " Poggardi jib ". What academics would refer to as " Anglo Romanes ". That vestige of the fuller Romani Gypsy language still retained by english Gypsys. Frankly, little more than a form of slang, these days. 'Pidgin Romanes', one might say? We've lost all inflection and the vast majority of words.

To explain That? (Tricky, actually. Because I have to dredge up what little inflection I've picked up through the academic study of the truer language!) Ok. A Gypsy mate of mine once asked me to demonstrate the purer, inflected, language to him. I asked him what he'd like me to say ~ ye know how it's always murder trying to think of an example of talk.

He said; " Say; ' Here comes the big, black cat '. " So I said, " Avella o boro, kalo matchka. " He was impressed. So was I! I was so into it, in them days, I didn't even need to think about it. Just came out with it. Say that shit to any english Gypsy today? He'd likely say; " Do what, mate?! "

But, it'd be the " Avella " that'd most likely throw him. The rest he should know. Only, he'd only know to say something like; " Acai av's ..... (the big, black cat) ". See? We've lost the forms of shit like I do. They do. We do. He does. Etc.

The fuck was I talking about? The fuck Am I talking about?! Why am I talking about this shit?! Fuck knows. Maybe I've knackered myself so badly I'm going to die as a result of it? Is this the last stage of Ditch Shitters brain switching off and going bye, byes? Am I exhibiting the truth behind the thing about ones life flashing before one ~ witnessing one last time the stuff I knew as a little child? Or is it just the stout and whiskey, on an empty stomach? I'm honestly too fucked to cook my own dinner.

Anyway, trying to drag some sembelance of sense out of all this: I'm poggered. I poggered myself shifting that shit in the photo. That's Turf. What most of ye would probably know of as " Peat ". Only, you put it on ye gardens. We put it on our fires. And the photo's decieving. Let me tell ye; The average length of turf brick in that shot is a foot long. Each bit is about three inches thick. Look again. That fucking pile filled a high sided truck which can hold over a hundred bails of hay! LOT of fucking turf! And I've just shifted most of it. Twice.

" Poggerdom man kedivvus! ". That'd be the proper, old way of saying; ' I fucked myself today! '. Not literally. I'm not out to teach any of you bastards to swear in Gypsy! But, in context, it works. I'm Fucked!

Doesn't the above, rambling, confused and confusing diatribe just about prove it?

Fuck this. I'm off!

A Bridge Too Far .....

Just mouching about outside this evening when the phone rang. Bloody typical, isn't it? Things always go off when ye have a bucket in each hand and the Dogs are racing about, waiting for ye to take ye eye off them for that moment of distraction, so they can rush off to where ever they've had in mind for days now. At some point during the conversation, le Ding dashed. Little bugger! Get himself shot. I tell him so but, he won't listen .....

Anyway, it's this guy asking if I'm the Pest Control and going on about how he appears to have a problem and is looking for what to do about it. Never my favourite type of calls then. I like " I've got this fucking great plague of rats here! FFS! How soon can ye get here? I'll pay any Call Out Fee as soon as ye arrive! Please; Help! ".

I like those calls. Because it means the person recognises they have a problem. That it isn't about to just go away. And that they need Professional help. Not just 'That bloke down the road who says .....' Also means they don't take a Professional Pest Controller for any more of an idiot than they would a Mechanic or an Electrician. There's three job descriptions. Can You spot the fuckin' Charity amongst them? Many seem to think they can.

So, this guy's a brit, by the slightly posh accent and another clue or two. Obviously has this inherited cottage that he rents out for the winter, then takes a holiday in himself. Only, he's got guests who aren't paying any rent and are causing a pest of themselves. To the degree that they've gnawed through his water pipes and almost flooded the place!

I say 'almost', because he was lucky. The last person out turned off the water at the stop cock, see? So when el Tootho turned up and set to work, it only produced a limited pool of water, in the roof space. This alerting my caller to something amiss. He sent " Frank " up there and Frank reported the bitten through copper piping. Enter the Pest Controller.

Now, I'll always do what ever I can to advise a caller, to a sensible extent. But, I'm afraid, this guy's still out on his own now. He's got a Gray Squirrel, see? I figured that out after a brief interrogation. I was thinking how he's repeated to me where my web site says I'm based. Trying to remember where he'd said he was. And hoping for a nice little job.

How cool to take out take out one of the first Gray Squirrels to have crossed the Shannon and now be in Co. Leitrim. He Was in Leitrim, yeah? " And, where did ye say ye were ....? ..... North East of Sligo?!? " Forget it!

That's an Hour away from me. It'd cost me £100, round trip. (I work Local. People come and get me. I get a taxi. Or I just drop by in passing. I Do Not spend two fucking hours plus a day, just to set and check traps for squirrels in roof spaces!)

I'm sorry. I feel bad for the poor guy. He genuinely has a serious problem there and it won't go away or just get any better. If that bastard starts on his wiring, up there ....? But, what can I do?

Ironically, as I don't know of any other, trustworthy, 'One Man Band' operators out his way, he'll probably end up looking in the phone book next. And calling one of the Big firms. And that ~ double irony ~ will likely end up costing him even more than paying me for a couple of taxi rides would. And I couldn't vouch for the level of service he might expect either.

But, north of Sligo?! Just a bridge too far.

Is This What Some Of You Want ....?

{Taken from Here}

" The spread of violence against Romany people is continuing in Hungary. Jake Bowers reports on the latest tragic case earlier this week:

'According to Hungarian police, the double murder of the father and son occurred at dawn on Monday in the village of Tatarszentgyorgy, in Pest County, as they tried to escape from their house which had been set ablaze by a petrol bomb.

Hungarian Police are searching for two to three people in connection with the murder of a Romany man and his small son, yesterday’s edition of the Hungarian newspaper Nepszabadsag has reported.

According to the paper, the calibre of the hunting rifle they were shot with was the same used at a similar murder in Nagycsecs last November.


Reports in the Hungarian tabloid Blikk suggest there were at least two attackers, one of whom threw a petrol bomb onto the roof of the house. When it caught fire, the other one is reported to have held the shotgun some five meters from the entrance of the house, waiting for those inside to run out.

An expert, who asked not to be named, told Blikk that the father was shot into the heart five times, his son had 18 pellets in his back, and his daughter got four pellets into her side. She survived with serious injuries, the paper said. '


Now, don't just click and fuck off. Why don't ye just sit there for another minute. Read that again. And just Think, for christs sake. Because That sort of ..... I don't even have the words to describe such horror! ..... But that sort of shit kicks off once the People, the Papers and even the fucking Politicians of a country get to the point of just saying what ever they like about another race in their midsts.

How many of you would Dare openly slag off Muslims anywhere that they might get wind of it? No. Because they might come and cut ye fuckin' head off with a butchers knife! But Gypsys? That's all fine and good, isn't it? Because ye've most likely never heard of a Gypsy retaliating. And, if one ever did? Ye know ye have the tacit agreement and backing of virtually ye entire fucking society; Top to bottom.

That's where it starts, people. Just like in Nazi Germany. Just like it's simmering up in Facist Italy right now. That's Hungary. How about Your country? FFS!

Now I Think I May Throw Up .....

This is just SO Bad ..... It just goes to show; Ye've never quite heard it all!

Over on a forum someone's started the perennial " Strange Facts " thread. Of course, there's been some amazing. Some amusing. Some that just make ye sit there, shaking ye head. But, I just looked in there again and, suddenly, this tea feels a bit odd in my stomach.

Here's what " Swiller " just posted:

A list of strange things found stuck in arses by an A+E department.

A shaving cream can
A frozen fish (with the dorsal fin extended).
A bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's Syrup.
A pair of reading glasses.
A salami.
A curling iron.
A Rounders ball
A frozen pig's tail.
A whip handle.

Harsh, yeah? But, there it is. We're all grown ups and we know that people will and do shove things up their own arses. I guess it's their arses and they have every right to shove pretty much what ever they like up them ~ as long as no one else is being effected by it. Even reading glasses or rounders balls.

See, but none of that effects me. I too have seen " Mr Goatee ". No, what I left out of that curious little list there was the one thing which, even in my own world of strange experience, made me feel physically sick to contemplate.

Ye ready for this? I'm not making anyone else read this. Just click out if ye want to. Only, some fucked up fucker, apparently, got hold of and saw fit to shove up their arse, till it had to be removed by medical intervention .....

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A Kangaroo's Tumour!

I'm sorry. But That's just fucked up!

" Gran Torino "

I don't get to see a lot of films. Or at least I didn't, till Dean O' and I got into the habit of getting together for a DVD and a few beers once a week. But, even then, the local shop had a pretty piss poor selection. It changed hands recently. But still, last time we were in there, it was a case of picking something we would watch, rather than what we particularly wanted to watch.

Well, things seem to be picking up. This week I was just stood in the door way of the place finishing a fag. But, even from there I spotted a few films I'd heard about and fancied. This is just amongst the limited selection within my view too. But I'd spotted Clint Eastwood's 'Gran Torino'. And that did it for me.

At my nodded indication, Dean O' picked it up. Looked at the back. Seemed suitably impressed. We took it and I was still wondering what the hell it was all about, even as it started. All I knew was it had something to do with Clint having a long gun ~ shotgun or rifle, I wasn't sure. And some Vietnamese looking youngsters. What ever.

Film kicks off in a church. Clint's just become a Widower, and is soon handing out the characteristic, tight lipped squints of disapproval at various people. Then they get home, to his place, for the wake. And this is where we really start to get a good look at Clint ~ how damn Old he is now! And how well the man can actually Act.

I'll leave it there. If ye've seen it, I'll bore ye. If ye haven't seen it yet? I don't want to spoil it. And I'm no self styled Film Critic anyway, so what's the point?

I'd just like to say; That was The Best Eastwood film I've seen since " Dirty Harry ". Absolutely nothing to do with the Dirty Harry genre. Light years away, in fact. It stands right up - and out - on its own as what it is.

Someone said of it, something like; " People don't make films like this any more. Thankfully; Clint Eastwood Has! ". And I don't think I could top that. It carries a 15 certificate and I'm busy recommending it to everyone I know. Them and anyone else in the house of fifteen or older. The age group that could truly appreciate it.

Fucking brilliant film!

Look At This Shit ....!

Someone who, in their own words, had entered UK from a " Third World Country " posted this on a forum I'm active on ~ at the time of My posting This! LOL!


" Six weeks ago, on a family walk, not 300m from our cottage, on a public track, used by hikers, cyclists, wind-farm workers, estate workers and the general public, we suddenly noticed, we had three dogs with us, not four.

Calling and whistling produced no result. All six adults and remaining three dogs returned to said cottage, hoping to find missing dog there, but no.

Three searches later, in the space of half an hour, found "Kiera" strangling to death, unconscious, in a baited snare, laid across a water course. We released her, she recovered.

We have educated ourselves and been educated by experts in various anti-snaring campaign groups.

What our "Kiera" wandered into, attracted as any dog would be, was/is, a Stink Pit. This apprently is a perfectly legal method, used by estate owners/gamekeepers to kill all animals/birds, who unfortunately wander in its dierection.

This particular one was baited with two cut up sheep, some pheasants, and all in all, 17 carcasses of dead deer and other animals had wandered into this particular death trap. It had been set to catch any animal, as owners, we understand, wished to establish lucrative wild fowl shooting area nearby.

Police, CID, SSPCA and a police wildlife investigation officer are all investigating. Because it was baited with sheep, it was illegal, and we believe as it was over a watercourse, also illegal.



Then, the 'legal' death by strangulation, by snares, of countless wild animals and domestic pets, on Estates throughout the UK, same snares, and sometimes Gin Traps, set by gamekeepers, as 'game management'. Barbaric archaic methods. Disgusting! "


To which some other din' felt moved to respond;

" Would the snare be for otters do you think? How barbarous.I have seen rabbits` legs left in snares and traps where they were so badly crushed the animals could gnaw them off. "


Yeah .....

Now, actually, my response to all this complete garbage was extremely measured. This shit had appeared on a widely public forum. One read by the vastest cross section of society. No point in adopting the Rant, Rave and Say What Ye Like approach seen above then. So my response was very much like this:

" Six adults. Four Dogs? So, more than enough people there to have kept control of those Dogs. But, no. Ye instead chose to let them run around, willy nilly, going out of sight to where ever they liked. Potentially causing who knows what sort of mischief. Entering private land on an estate which obviously preserves Game and likely has sheep and wild deer on it.

And that 'Stink Pit' wasn't on the public footpath, was it? Nor was ye Dog, when it got caught in the perfectly legal Vermin Control Device. Yet ye in here, looking for what? Sympathy? Group Hugs? Not from me.

Ye'd be hard pressed to find anyone more into Dogs than I am. My Dogs are my very life blood. And we live in the middle of no where too. Nothing out there but fields. And those fields contain sheep and cattle. My neighbours livelihoods.

So, ye better be damn sure I control my Dogs. Because, if one of them ever sneaks off to do as it pleases? I'd first hear the gunshot. Then the screeching of brakes. Then the five figure demand for Compensation. And it wouldn't be a joke.

Why not just take responsibility for ye Dogs? "

Ahead of me already, aren't ye? Some 'Global Moddie' from Germany ~ Guy whose Avatar shows a caricature of a rather Nerdish looking guy, with what looks disturbingly like a little girl with him ..... ~ wiped my response, leaving all the rest of the inflamatory shit in there.



So, I PM'd the cunt;

" Truth Hurt? ..... Where ever I've Moderated, I've had the personal integrity not to allow my own biases interfere with my work.

Ye removed my response, ye left a pack of misinformed, emotive, unsubstantiated drivel to stand, unchallenged. Never even had the decency to inform me or attempt to excuse yeself.

Enjoy ye little power trip. Person without principle.

You disgust me.

Just so's ye know where I stand. "



Now, " Berlin Bob ", let's see ye get in Here and put ye own little spin on life in the real world. Prick!

Some fucking people ....!

Oh, and here's a bit of 'Ditch's Dukkering'; I'll bettcha that first prick will go onto getting some chickens for that cottage. They'll call them " Girls ". Let them run about 'Free Range'. Then will be bang at it again; The moment some other idiot lets Their uncontrolled and 'Free Spirited' Dog get amongst them and wreak carnage.Or, how about a fox? Then we'll hear some wailing and gnashing of teeth. FFS!