Some Extremely Powerful Pictures .....

If ye know absolutely anything at all about The Eastern Front / Great Patriotic War of Independence, kind of depending on which side ye were, ye'll know it was no fucking picnic for anyone involved.

Then again; Is it me? Is it what we're exposed to as we're growing up? Or do we tend to think of German soldiers in the snow, when ever we evoke an image of " The Eastern Front " ? See? We even, quite automatically and unconsciously refer to it as the Germans did. Wouldn't it have been the Western Front, to the Russians?

What ever. Here's how some perfectly exemplary Russian Artists have portrayed it. From their own sides point of view: Soviet War Paintings.

This stuff's The Shit!

Irish Manners ~ I'm Learning ....!

Maybe I should have said Co. Leitrim Manners? After all, I've no idea if this model applies in Dublin or Cork. But, I feel I'm finally getting the hang of the 'Irish', " Always time for another drink. " / " No word for 'Hurry' in the Irish language. " sort of mind set.

Here's an example. I'm down to my last bale of hay. Tomorrow, I get up and my horses are calling for feed. Tommy The Hay Man, told me he'd be here with a truck load, this week. Well, this week might actually have been last week. Lesson one; I've counted my bales and kept my head. Today, I calmly fed them the last bale I possess.

Now, Tommy likes a pint. Nothing wrong with that. He starts while most of us are still asleep. He works like a powered machine. He provides for us, where no man other can or will.

Down side is that his accent broadens as his hearing diminishes. He and I are completely unable to communicate, other than face to face and sober. Thus Pat ~ brought up with the guy ~ is our go between. I needed hay. I needed Tommy. I needed to call Pat.

I Didn't need this stress. I flicked the switch. Here's what would, typically, have happened had I gone Portsmouth:

" Pat? That fukka hasn't come up with the hay, man! I'm fucked! Just fed the horses their Last bale. Morning they start starving! Bastard's let me down! Guy's a prick and my fucking horses are dead! Jesus! You got any hay ye can sell me? Like, I need it NOW! " (Hope is that ye'll drop what ever ye doing and tractor me a load down here. Right Now. Before I boil over and stop shouting 'n screaming and start letting loose with the pump action!)

Very Portsmouth. Very Un Leitrim! So, today, I went Native on Pat .....

" Hullo, Pat :-) How am I? Fine, mate! The Horse Fair? Sure, I was there. Just did my usual though. Taxi in. One circuit. Pint in Jim's. Taxi home. I never saw ye, mate! Ye saw me? Waiting for the taxi? "

" Rosie? LOL! Naah! I didn't want to put anyone else to shame, bringing My mare down there! And, I mean; Did ye see Anything there that could Touch my Rosie? No? There we are then. No. I saw a horse with good feather, but no colour. One mare, she seemed to have half her back missing! ..... " (And so on, and so forth).

Finally; " Tommy? Oh, he said this week, mate. Bugger hasn't shown yet and things are getting a little bit ..... ye know ..... Ye'll ring him now? Oh. Ok. Cool. Thanks. Let me know how it goes :-) I'm just in ye yard now. Amazing how it looks now they took those old trees out! Oh? Ye have Frank there? Top Man, Frank! Best Spark we have! Give him my best. Later, mate. "

In the time it took me to stroll out of Pat's (Farm) yard and wander along the road, past his house next door, I saw him in his garage. On his mobile and beckoning me.

" Ditch; Tommy's in the pub. He has the hay in his shed and is just lining up to fetch it. He'll be with ye Saturday. I'll come down and we can get it loaded in.

Meanwhile; Ye have no hay? Right. I'll bring down three ~ no, four bales. That'll do ye till Tommy gets to ye. "

And thus I glided home. Making stupid, schoolboy like postures with my light rain coat. Grinning and bidding the cattle good day. Swept into my cow shed and started clearing the usual area out, ready for the next stock of hay.

I'd barely got a sweat up when I heard the throbbing of a tractor. The horses are fed. My new, back door has been examined and deeply enthused over. My new kitchen sink unit praised. My brewing beer eyed with lip licking interest.

Pat's gone home with a brand new, virtually unused Calf Drinker. A Calf Feeding Trough which has been bugging me, by its presence, for years now. And a reminder that that old bath he fancies, as a cattle trough, is there when ever he wants it.

Now I'm sat here, feeling all warm and cosy. Job done and not a care in the world. no ranting and raving. No stressing out. No need.

As I've formally said on some other forum; Out here? We're just nice to each other. Rushing just causes stress. And stress is contagious. Chill out! :D

She's Ready To Blow ....!

No! Ye fukka's! My Coopers Stout!

And there was me, getting all unnecessary and worrying about my yeast. Or, had I rinsed my bucket out well enough after washing it.

Well, I just wandered back in there. Literally telling myself, " Just to be sure (to be sure) it's doing nothing. " Looked at the bucket? Nahh. Nuff'n. Approached it. Looked harder. Nope. Cracked the lid and really couldn't take in what I was seeing in there! A fluffy pile of thick, crusty looking foam! We Have Lift Off!

Ok. What's to teach anyone who's reading this and wondering about trying a spot of Home Brew for themselves?

First of all; If it goes wrong? It's not the end of the world and is Most Probably due to human error. Some silly little thing ye simply over looked to do. Not slinging half a crushed tab in the water can fuck ye.

But, if ye going to try from scratch? Ye'll be so damn nervous, ye'll likely be reading Jim's as ye go along. Nipping back in to check what that guy on the forum said .....

I'm a bit more experienced. So, see how I doubted my ingredients, rather than my method? Most of my method is second nature. I do what I've always done. It's like getting dressed when I get up. I just do it.

Only, I suspect the root thing is that most people live in warmer places than I. Thus their brews normally kick off at around the 20+F. Mine's likely languishing at 19F. What I set the heater for anyway.

Means I got a slightly slower Blow time. Now it'll ferment out a day or two longer than some. No worries. Now I have to think about getting another brew on, in the next few days. Idea is to create a rhythm. Work up to where I always have a keg or two of nicely maturing beer to drink, and something else coming on nicely.

Get another kit on the go before this one even goes into the keg. Then another .....

That is how it's done ;-)

Getting A Brew On.....

Been far too long. Too many niggling obstructions and distractions. Now, I've decided, dam it all; I'm going for broke.

I know two or three of ye who come by here brew ye own. Those as don't? Perhaps that's because you too remember the seventies? Days of 'Boots Bitter', bags of white sugar and exploding bottles of thin, odd tasting beer?

If so? Fuck all that! That was nearly forty fucking years ago, for chrissake! Good god, ye'd be hard pressed to even find a modern kit that could be turned into such slops. Things have come on in leaps and bounds since all that shit. Now I genuinely make beer which I wouldn't dream of swapping for a pint of anything sold in a pub. Perfectly true.

And, that's what I'm setting about today. It's fucking easy. Just spent twenty, relaxed minutes in my kitchen. Washing the dust off my bits and pieces. Rinsed a big, white bucket out. Got some water in there and my fish tank heaters and bits. Presently, I'll pitch a drop of cheap bleach in it and have another cup of tea. Sorted.

All I'll have to do then is boil a drop more water and empty a tin of dark 'syrup' into another bucket. Top that up with tap water. Stir the lot up. Bung in a fish tank heater and fuck the lot off to a room my Dogs don't get into. Few days or so time, transfer the now made beer into a plastic keg. Few weeks time? Hand Cart!

Think I'm kidding? Go take a look at JIM'S.

Horse Fair .....

Local towns annual Horse Fair, today. I went in, to show my face and have a sly look around. I go in every year. I'm developing a pattern now though. Taxi in. Walk once round the 'C' shaped circuit. Duck into my local for a pint. Go back home.

I mention this because, for the people of the little town there, it's a real event. Horses are absolutely the central theme, of course. But it's also the Sunday of the Bank Holiday and so a fine opportunity to get pissed and have a bloody good time, day and night. Me? I just go in to, as I've said, show my face. And look at the horses and what ever else is on sale.

Great, actually. See, last year there was some bloke there with a nice, quiet, piebald cob mare. She was all harnessed up to a Pot Cart too. Only, that's all she did, all day. Stand there. And the cart was well past its best too. I still drooled, of course. And, at the end of the day, he put her in a horse box and the cart onto a trailer. Hauled them both away.

This year? Heh! I'd already been telling anyone half willing to listen how I Could have brought my Rosie in. I could even fetch the Pot Cart and have her just stand there, to be admired. But, I didn't want to ruin any ones day by simply blowing what ever they had out of the water.

True. One nice mare there today. Good feather on her feet. But she was more white than piebald. Nah. Another one, I don't even remember her 'colour'. But, her back was so short, it's like she had a quarter of herself missing. The Wall Eyed one? Who knows. One glimpse of that eye and mine moved on. Finally; The poor thing with a head like an 'English Bull Terrier'! That one made me look twice. But only because it was so freakishly malformed. Poor thing.

I looked at some Exercise Carts. One selection uniformly laroped with sky blue paint. Hiding god knows what bad welding, potentially fatal to both horse and driver. Unable though to hide the thin tube steel and even the mismatched moterbike wheels. And I hear the cunt was asking 400 for them?! :o

Another one Did catch my eye. Quite a bit. But, I figured it was 'worth' 200. And, being a fair, the lunatic would've been wanting 600. I didn't waste my time by asking. Within an hour, I couldn't see it any more. Some mug .....

The star of the day for me though was the little Appaloosian. (I don't know how to spell it. Half of ye probably wouldn't know what I meant if I could, ffs) Just think of a Dalmatian Horse. Prettiest little thing, one of them. Spots all over its face 'n all. 200!!! But, as I said to my informant; " With the weather, and the price of hay? I couldn't afford to support the fucking thing if they gave it to me! "

And so, satisfied, I came back home. Cleaned Rosie and Donks out. Gave Rosie a nice brushing. Then just spent an inordinate amount of time simply hugging her big, beautiful bum. Pressing my face against it and planting kisses on it.

I fuckin' worship that horse! :D

PS2 ~ Enough for One Night!

I am absolutely wired as all fuck here! Buzzing like shit! I've just 'fought' my way through three or four levels of " Conflict - Desert Storm ". Some of them ore than once, as I kept getting blown up by the last tank. In fact, I'd say I've probably fought over half a dozen full on battles tonight. I'm shredded!

Not a big time player, me. A year ago, I didn't even know what a Play Station was. I'd actually never seen what we see on our screens with one. I most definitely figured I'd Never be able to do it. Because ye needed fingers like a concert pianist, right?

Wrong. Obviously. But I'm still not up on half the controls haven't a clue how to split a four man team and form a cross fire against an enemy camp. Thus I tend to go in like a maniac. Every man for himself and we'll patch up the wounded afterwards; As long as any of us survive.

Fucking RPG's piss me right off! Why is it they call them " Anti Tank Missiles ". And then the bastards simply fail to knock out the tank, often as not?! It's a fuckin lottery! And we have One RPG to go into the next level with. That's " Crash and Burn ".

Fuck me; I played the this level half a dozen times, before realising I should've bought the heavy shit with me from the last level. Had to go back and fight the last one again, only without using up all the heavy weaponry. That, along with the odd suicide mission and a tremendous stroke of luck, got me through.

Anyway ..... Unwinding a bit now. I guess, if ye into PlayStation then ye'll have a PS3 by now and will be crawling around behind that irritating Scotsman, blowing terrorist leaders heads off ~ or at least his arm, eh? That works too.

If ye not into it? Doubt ye'll have read this far. Unless out of curiosity and the hope of gaining some understanding. If that's the case? My message is simple: Have a go. It's fucking brilliant and there appears to be a style of game out there for just about everyone. And, I mean; If I can play and enjoy it ....?

Anyone Want A Magpie ....?

Damndest thing. I'd been watching a robin hopping around the perimeter of my aviary for some time now. Obviously looking for scraps of minced meat slung out by the magpies. Hopefully more savvy than to have ventured in through the little hole the Dogs have scratched out there, after the same thing.

Poor little wren did that. I thought the male bird had the robin at first. When I went out there, the poor little bundle of feathers was a wren. Sans head. that's nature for ye. 'Pies are captive and can't impinge on the wider environment. So, what does the fucking wren do ....? Darwin Award!

Anyway, it was that robin that got me thinking I should let it have a little peck of that good meat. I knew, if I put a bit on the ground, where he haunted, the Dogs would snaffle it. So, I started putting a pinch on a fence post, beside the aviary.

In no time, it was being gone by the time I got off my back. But, something started clicking that this meat always went between nightfall and noon. I started wondering about rodents. Maybe just because those fuckers are never far from my mind?

So, I kept putting this pinch of meat out and waiting for the robin. Nuffn. Yet, it even started disappearing between noon and evening. Without me so much as spotting the robin. What the .....

And there I am. Stood right there in my window. Looking at that blob of meat on the fence post top. I'm literally thinking; " I wonder what the fuck's taking that ..... " Swoop! Flash! Gone! The most immaculate, male magpie! Muvva fukka just came down from the right. Hit the post. Peck. 'Thankyou!' Exit, stage right. Wow!

Of course, I could take him. Dead or alive. In minutes. Mag's are a piece of piss to catch. Hardly a challenge, is it? Nor is this bird a threat. He'll just be picking off carrion and anything that Needs to be removed from the pool.

So; There he is. Dean O's mentioned how he'd like a mag' or two. I asked him if he wanted this one. He asked where he'd keep it. I said " Build it a fucking flight cage?! ". Dean O' didn't answer.

He's up for grabs. I can take him any time. You can have him. But; First I want convincing that ye have suitable accommodation for him. And that ye'll care for him like any other POW deserves to be looked after. In fact, he'll need treating like a pet. Fed. Watered. Cared for and respected. Any takers?

£10 says he'll still be accepting my pinch of meat, off that fence post, come next 'spring'. (Natural death for either of us notwithstanding). Because no fucker has it worked out.

Singapore On The Map!

Yeppers. It's genuine. I thought it was Thailand, at first ~ Creepy thought. Not a great deal of much worth seems to emanate from Thailand, when ye think about it ~ But, no. I checked. It was Singapore and they were checking out my Log.

Just noticed Japan too? I don't remember them. I have a Lot of time for Japan. Produce the most gorgeous females on the entire fucking planet! Shame they shrivel up so fast and end up looking like dried apricots :-(

Bottom line? I'd give my right arm to fuck one. But Fuck marrying one! :o

My Feet .....

Just scooting around in some of my photo folders and I came across a shot that ..... Well, what can I say? Fuck knows.

Fact is, this shot ~ or two shots, possibly formed by me splitting this one? Maybe this is a 'Pair' shot I'd over looked? Anyway, these feet have been shown, and seen, a few places now. But, they're an Oldie and a Goodie, surely?

For anyone wondering WTF is going on there? Fucked if I really know either. Gods honest truth. The balance of my mind was most Definitely disturbed around that time. Recorded, medical fact. (These days, I just stay the fuck away from medic's! No bastard needs know what's going on in my mind. Things could get tricky, if they did)

Anyway, for what ever 'reason' that made sense to me at the time ~ about fifteen years ago now, I guess? ~ I kept my boots on. These were a pair of standard issue, high leg, Doc Marten boots. Even more fucked up thing is, I'm sure I kept them well polished at all times. I just simply never once took them off. I wore them. Walked in them. Slept in them ..... For Nine Months!

I don't know why. The shrinks could never fathom why. Let's just put it down to one of those things and get over it. I genuinely have no better answer than that I must've been out of my tiny little mind. Stone cold sober. Just off planet.

Then, one day, I simply decided to take my boots and socks off. Just like that. " Hmm. Think I'll take these boots off ..... " And so I did.

I remember looking at my feet and thinking, " They look a bit rough. Better do something about them. Maybe I could die from this. " (Though why, for nine fucking months, this hadn't concerned me? God knows!) So, I thought about it and decided that some Potassium Permanganate Crystals I had for another purpose might be the best shot.

I bathed my feet in a solution of that stuff. Took them out of the bowl. Figured this was 'fun' enough to expend some film on. (I didn't have a PC, let alone a Digital Camera, back then) and took this shot:

Yes. I know .....

I'd just like add; The socks I'd worn, nine months plus, were the " Commando " ones ye see in any 'Army Surplus' type shop. Green, high leg, 'Army Socks'. Absolutely fucking brilliant socks! I took a pair off earlier tonight. They simply beat the shit out of any other sock I know, for comfort, durability and long lasting, over all quality.

There ye go.

Genealogy; It Can Fuck With Your Head ....!

For Fuck Sake! I just came across This, on a Genealogists forum. Try this fukka on for size;

" My sisters are also my 8th cousins once removed according to my Family History Software programme. This is because my 8x great-grandfather is also my 7x great-grandfather. He was married three times and the daughter of the son of his second marriage married the grandson of a daughter from his first marriage. Took me ages to work that one out! "

Just doesn't bear thinking about, does it? Computers ~ Who'd have one?

I've Just Put A Fresh Log In The Stove .....

Jesus fucking christ; What ever possessed me to do that?! It started fizzling, spitting and crackling immediately. Then the most fucking god awful stench started coming off it.

Now I've got all the windows and doors open. From now on, I'll just use the fucking ditch ....!

Guinea Pigs .....

How fucked up are they? I mean; These things need no introduction, do they? They're just weird little fucks that make even weirder noises. They do my head in.

In Peru, where they eat the bastards, people just have them dashing about the floors of their own living quarters. Imagine that? Watching these things running about under ye feet, shitting their weird little shits and making all that strange noise. Then catching hold of one and having it for dinner.

How do ye kill a Guinea Pig? Doesn't seem to have much neck there to get hold of. Frankly, I'd find it hard to just whack something so completely inoffensive, in cold blood. We're just not programmed to hurt the little shits, are we?

Of course, I've no doubt some idiots out there would Love to be able to line up free ranging Guinea Pigs in the over sized telescopic sights of their pre charged, black, and purportedly 'SAS' looking air rifles. Some people would like to have shot the little wren my magpies just caught.

And what about free ranging guinea pigs? There's a thought, isn't it? They have them in Peru. I'm given to believe it can get damn cold over there. Maybe it just isn't as tirelessly damp and cold as UK and Eire? Only, I can't help thinking; If guinea pigs ever stood a cellophane rat in hells chance of gaining a foot hold in this part of the world, surely they would've done so by now?

Imagine it if they had though. What would they do out there? Would they dig their own holes? Do they even live in holes? And I wonder what they eat? Grass, like sheep? Or would they go trundling along the hedgerow, having a bit of everything?

Big problem, of course, for the guinea pigs; 'Everything' would eat Them! Not exactly cut out for self defence, are they? Everything from weasles to badgers would be ploughing into them. Magpies to Goshawks.

Which leads me to wonder; How do they survive in Peru? Is Peru a land void of predators; Or do they only survive in peoples homes? I'd have a mind to get some for here. Only I can't see them lasting two minutes with Orange Dog around. I'd put some in my aviary. But the 'pies would kill them too.

Shame, really. Harmless seeming little creatures. Be amusing to have around. And they make a good noise too.

Parakeets Open Season .....

Mate of mine, fellow Pest Controller, just mentioned to me, in e mail, about the parakeets being added to the " General Licence ", over there. For those who don't know; This basically means that anyone with the right permission will soon be able to shoot parakeets.

The main bit of law which will allow this is a thing called " The General Licence ". Like any other sort of Licence, of course, it has conditions and parameters. But, we shan't bother ourselves with them here. Because, sure as hell, no bastard else will be doing. It'll be 'Open Season' on these birds.

Now, let's get one thing straight; I don't personally give a shit what these things are called, or what they look like. 'Parakeet'. Doesn't lend itself too well to 'Shooting', does it? Given the option, it's fair to assume Polly wants a Cracker. Not a piece of lead smashing through his body.

Saying that? If Polly's truly and Provably causing a fucking nuisance? Lead it shall be. (Though I'd sooner use a trap and whack Polly on the head, myself. More cost effective. But we're not talking about cost effectiveness here).

I'll allow my response, ten minutes ago, to my colleague and friend of half a life time say the rest for me. Here it is:

" No parakeets here, so not a consideration for me. But, while I can quite understand that they need controlling, it's already sickened me to see the air gun SAS types kneading their groins at the prospect of something else to shoot at and make bleed.

I've already seen the wankers, on a forum, boasting how they'll be among them. Why don't these fucking idiots just sign up? In next to no time they can be carrying a Real gun and trying their luck at some Really interesting species.

Oh, yes. But then, these fuckers might fire back; With an RPG or AK47! So fucking what though? Afghans and Talibans are 'on the general license' and these mental spastics like to shoot guns at things .....

They all seem to consider a fox a much more manly target than a harmless fucking Jackdaw. How about a fanatical and battle hardened Mujah Hadeem sort, on his own bit of mountain, and armed to the fucking teeth with weaponry equal to theirs?

Shit loads of bragging rights for knocking over half a dozen of them, surely? Or am I missing something here ....? Fucking wankers! "

Ask yeself .....

Birds Eggs .....

Here's some I'd like ye to have a look at. Mate of mine sent me this shot. We're both fully aware that possession of such eggs is totally illegal and bang out of order anyway. (Yes, I know. Pheasant and Pigeon don't count. Let's not get fucking facetious!).

He never possessed them anyway. He just happened to be around when they were discovered, out of an attic. He took this photo of them and transcribed the names given them in their original state. This is where you come in.




See; I can see that most of these eggs appear correctly identified. Only, a few don't sit right with me. " Hedge Sparrow " is what we always called a Dunnock. That's no Dunnocks egg. Anyone over forty and male should be able to see that at a glance. Right? So, I'm figuring it's either a House Sparrow, found nesting in a hedge, as they will do. Or could it be a Tree Sparrow? I've not seen a House Sparrows egg in decades. Simply never seen a Tree's.

Hawfinch? Please, no! I don't want to think about it. Now, as I said to my mate; All these birds are lower nesters. We have reason to believe a young girl found them. Figures then that she'd have been searching without climbing trees much. Only, I thought Hawfinches nested high? Might that not be a Greenfinch?

And finally; Woodlark. That one really puzzles me. Look at the size of the thing! Surely no Woodlark could lay that and survive?! Yet, according to my written reference? The colour and so forth is dead right. WTF?

So, there ye go then. Just a small item of curiosity. Only, these sort of things fascinate me :-)


Now bring me the likes of OTC and JD. Let's get some opinion on this shit, please.

Secret Love Messages .....

Seen that shit? Fucking unbelievable! I keep getting this poxy banner ad', on the beer forum. £10 a week. (Well, alright; Euro's. Idiots know where I live then?)

What the fuck is the world coming to? From what I gather, I'm supposed to pay these cunts a tenner a week. And, in return, some prick will put my mobile number into his computer.

Bingo. So many times a week, I'll get some stupid fucking text message, presumably relating to some non existent persons feelings for me ~ emotional or sexual? Christ knows. What's The Fucking Point?!

0898 phone numbers? Stupid chat lines? Wasn't all that bad enough? Now some prick's worked out that society has gone so far down the pan that some fat, wet lipped bed sit dweller will actually pay to 'live' in anticipation of their next sentence of bollocks, churned out en mass from a prick with a mobile.

Unbelievable.

Worst is, I get these adverts. They find out what they can about ye, from what ye innocently put on line, then figure out what shit ye liable to be interested in. Me? Obviously ticked " Divorced " somewhere. So, that makes me a sad and lonely individual, craving love, attention and cyber sex? Fuck Right Off!

" Erection Problems? ". That's the present darling of my Yahoo Mailer. Hard on? Me? My only problem in That department is the numbing regularity with which I get one, thanks! But. that's due to my perceived age group, see?

" Lose Belly Fat " (Because I read about beer!) Listen; If I lost much of Anything from my waist line, I'd only have a fucking spine to show there!

And so it goes on. Nigerian wankers to the one side. Advert Spammers to the other. Is it any wonder I just read more fucking books these days?

Dogs Taking The Piss .....

Twist! Gottcha already, see? Because ye never, in a million years, expected what's to follow!

I'm sort of taking it, really, that ye very presence here sort of denotes a Dog connection in ye life. I'm a total Dog Fiend myself. Dogs are what it's all about, to me. They come first and foremost. Simple as that.

People don't think on the level that Dogs do. Dogs don't think like people do. Dogs just Do. I like Dogs.

So; Ever pissed around a Dog ~ then Not told it to fuck off, as it tries to do what Dogs Do? It's interesting.

See, I have no loo. Not in doors. Up stairs. Provisionally allocated, like the most of ye. So I shit into the nearest ditch. And, when in here ~ at night ~ I piss into a gallon bottle. Saves me fucking off out to the ditch, just to piss.

And, guess what? My Dogs consider a it privilege to lick my dick 'clean'! How fucked up is that?

Well; Not at all fucked up, if ye understand Dogs. Not that I'm claiming, for a minute, to understand these furry headed creatures. I just like 'em. A Lot.

And there's a bit of nonsense that needs saying. I've noticed how I can sit here, have a piss into my 'bottle'. And then, having put my dick away, le Ding will still uncurl himself and come over here. I even have to unzip again, just so he can 'Do His (Self Appointed) Duty'.

'Best' of all? I've noticed how Nigger Dog ~ by nature, as much or more so than by designation, about bottom of the pile here ~ will hang around, Longing to serve that momentary role. Just like when I take my boots off. That is Definitely and always has been le Ding's role; To lick my feet clean.

I ever try to interfere with this hierarchy? I just Know I'll have a fucking Dog Fight on my hands. Two Dogs battling it out? Over possession of my dick?! ..... Listen, mate; Not while it's still exposed and potentially between them~ I can assure ye!


But, there ye go. Something else to read about. Now I'm fucking off. Back sooner ;-)

Sorry if it turned into another longer than expected one!

Some Random Shit ~ To Be Posted .....

I've really had nothing to say, lately. Simple as that. Nothing's really fired me up. No Rants. No Big Adventures. Just Life. Day to Day.

Got me wondering; Is this seasonal? I mean, I'm getting 'Bored' here. Literally? Not sure. I certainly seem to have quite enough to occupy me of a day. I just don't find enough happening to make me feel I should / could mention it here.

And I'm finding it much the same elsewhere. I flit about various fora and just find banality. People, seemingly, just posting 'Because'. So much so that I'm noticing it. 'The fuck's going on? Time of year? Weather? Global something or other ....?

What ever. People are still looking in here - Bless ye! So, I feel I'm letting ye down by not leaving something or other for ye to find.

For the faithful then ~ and the equally bored ~ here's a few snap shots / sound bites. Things I couldn't write one of my more usual 'essays' about. Maybe I'll even just adopt this style, for the duration ....?

Actually, I now feel inspired! :D See the above / following. I think I'll now permit myself to publish 'Sound Bites'. I won't go into one on every subject. Just shoot a few words about what ever. This way, I get to clear my mind and give you fukka's something else to look at, at ye skim across the net ~ much as I do right now.

Yeppers. I like the thought of this. More the off hand comments, rather than the sermons. Give us all a break. I'll start, above. Please feel free to let me know what ye think, as we go along.

Collateral Shrews .....

Poor little bastards. Four of them. Two under the sink unit. One in the Pest Room. One outside it, in the kitchen. I fuckin' Hate catching shrews. Most perfectly harmless little creatures there are. And the most perfectly useless too. Nothing will eat them. Don't know why. Never read of a decent explanation either.

Weird thing is, they're insectivores. So, what are they doing coming after my peanut butter? And, if they'll eat peanut butter; Who's to say they won't eat grain, wax, or what ever other formulation of Bait I might put down for my mice, instead of traps, look?

Anyway, I seem to have cleared up this latest incursion by the House Mice. Magpies enjoyed the treats. Maybe I'll get the tiny live traps out, next time? Never been happy about killing captives in those things either though .....

Shrews, eh? Some things all the Training, Manuals and even a life time of experience never quite gets round to covering the answers to.

Abandonned Coal Mine ~ Some Pic's .....

Here we go then. I've finally managed to man handle some shots up here, to better illustrate Dean O' and I's little sniff around the old coal mine.

Having told ye the story, a bit lower down, I'll just say a bit about these shots as I put them up here. This isn't all I took. But I intend to ~ one day ~ get round to showing the full lot on my dedicated " Explores " photo site. Bit of a back burner, that one. Behind enough other back burners round here to thrust a rocket to the fucking moon!

Anyway, here we are:

Dynamite Store

Probably looks a lot bigger than it really is, actually. Don't be fooled by the little door though. Whole structure's only tall enough for a man to walk in and the door's half sized. See the hole, right top corner? I could comfortably stand there, looking in through that. Not a big thing then. That's where Dean O' got in through.

Track To The Mine

Can ye just see it? Well over to the left of the picture. Central on the vertical plane. The track is that little, lighter scar which runs from the mid ground back towards the darkness of what's actually a belt of fir trees.

Dean actually got the rough location of this place from a bloke who used to work here, back in the 70 / 80's. That, of course, implies motorised transport for all. I never realised that at the time, of course. And so I was constantly carrying on, in complete awe, about the sort of people who must have worked here. I pointed out how it must have been, to have trudged up this ghastly, ankle breaking track, every day.

Get to the top and what happens? Ye have to go down into a fucking Coal Mine and hack coal all day. Then come back out and trudge all the way back down. And to where? There's barely a cottage for miles around, even at the foot of this mountain.

Here's what it was all about though. Coal. I must say, it seems strange to me now. I've been here long enough that I've burned coal, wood, turf (what you'd, perhaps know as 'Peat'. Only in raw cut, block form) and various combinations and derivatives. I can't honestly say as I find any great advantage to coal, over turf. Maybe there's simply no Bog around this mountain? Certainly enough fucking coal though! Here's some. Just sitting there. Exposed.

External Coal Seam

I suppose one could soon enough chase that in though. It's likely just the skin of it. Think about it and there's likely half a fucking mountains width of coal behind there? But, not very high, is it? (Oh. Sorry! This belt was probably about two foot high) So, now we see why they had to dig in after it. And dig they did!

But, here I'd like to digress for a moment, better to explain and finish this little story. See, there's a marble plague down in the lay by. I ~ regrettably! ~ never thought to grab a photo of it. Too distracted by that girl, I suppose.

It's marked as having been put there, back in the eighties? Maybe even this century? What ever. It commemorates what I can best remember as something very much like the " Ulsternachs ".

Again, for my sins, I never really gave it the due attention. But I seem to recall it said something about these were Roman Catholics who left Ulster ~ one may be forgiven for suspecting their Protestant neighbours may have had something to do with it. I'm not sure if the inscription mentions this?

But, these people appear to have left Ulster and come here, to this god awful fucking mountain, to settle. Hardly any sort of Promised Land. But, there we are.

My point is though, that I imagine it must have been those people who discovered and started mining the coal up here. Ancestors of our Jet Legged Shepherd of my earlier piece on this place. Tough as fucking wild goats, after a generation or so. I wonder if it were they that made holes, some far smaller than the one below, and simply dug into them. Following that glistening, black stuff. As far and wide beneath the mountain cap as it went?

'Mine' Entrance

Again, with precious little to guide the eyes scale ..... But, ye'd need to crouch, doubled up, and scuttle away inside there. As Dean did. I'm that much older and more fucking circumspect!

Most mind boggling, heart rending thing of it all is though, that apparent little patch of light. See it up the back there? Now, get this; We've driven for fucking Miles. Come from the sparsely populated to the barely populated.

We've driven up a fucking mountain side! Up a track that any 4X4 would find 'Interesting'. We've then left the 'track' and scrabbled about where only the sheep should go. Found a hole. Peered deep inside it, with flashes and flash lights. What have we found?

That apparent spot of light, way back there. Deep inside an old mine working, so fucking treacherous that No Way was I going in there. And Dean O' freely admitted to shitting himself every moment He was in there ..... It's a very modern, totally ubiquitous, now to be found in even the deepest of seeming Wilderness ..... Plastic sack of household fucking rubbish!!!!

Words absolutely fucking fail me! £3.50 and the licensed 'Bin Man' would have plucked that shit from their gate. But, no ..... FFS!

And, finally; Here's a shot of what I saw ~ with my camera ~ inside the 'foxes hole' I mentioned in the earlier piece. People used to work in there. Day in. Day out. Digging. Thus making it even less stable. The white, latex glove ~ middle right (Don't fucking ask Me!) gives some idea of scale. Ye'd need to creep around on ye haunches in there)

But, never mind; They had a few logs to hold the entire fucking mountain top off their backs!

How Lousey's Your Job ....?

The Old Irish? Tough fukkas!

Treat Yeself .....

Have a look at / listen to this:

Alison Moyet: Love Letters Straight From Your Heart

Dug it out of YouTube and down loaded it onto my HDD. Sat and watched it about ten times, one after the other, last night. Sent me off into a little world of my own, it did. Only stopped because I really had to get to bed.

Funny, really. 'Means' nothing what so ever to me. I'm not thinking of any old flame or anything as I watch and listen. It's just her and her voice. I mean, she's undeniably still a 'Big Ol' Gal' at the time she did this. And yet, there's undeniably something hauntingly attractive about her. And that voice? Voice of a Goddess, surely? And this particular short, sweet number just suits it all so well.

Grab yeself a bit of space. A little solitude. Pour a nice, warming one. Slippers on and feet up. Turn the phone off and put that video on. Enjoy!

If it doesn't send ye skin shivering with tingles and leave ye eyes moist? Then, I'm sorry. But, there's really nothing more I can do for ye.

Worst Possible Move for a Mouse .....

Daft bugger. Looking for somewhere a few degrees warmer than out there now, see? House Mouse. Obviously decided it was time to move into a house for the winter. Bad choice, coming here. Just to add to it all though; Silly bastard turned up in my Pest Control storage room! I mean ....!

I also keep my sack of horse meal and my bin bag in there. Horse meal means I keep it scrupulously clean ~ not wanting to attract mice, obviously. And the bin bag means I'm opening the door and popping my head in, umpteen times a day. That's how I spotted him.

Just slinging something in the bin this evening. Saw something out the corner of my eye and was just in time to confirm it was a house mouse, as it bolted round or under something. Thought then; " Here we go! ".

Had to feed the Dogs and horses though. Gave Rosie a damn good brushing out. Came back in here to start settling down for a bit. Eventually wandered back out there and remembered the mouse. Set a few traps and got back to what I was doing.

Hard to imagine how he got in there. Pretty solid and sealed up little room, that one is. Probably something to do with the old fire place or the door frame. No matter. Thought to check the traps twenty minutes later and there he was. Magpie food.

Makes me laugh, really. Mr Average Family Man will see a mouse. Go out and buy A trap. Set it as if he's after an elephant. Place it in a terrible spot. Couple of days later, perhaps catch a mouse anyway, due to the sheer volume of traffic. Then brag to all and sundry what a fine and noble chap he is. Real genetic throw back to the Hunter - Gatherers. Thinks he caught " The Mouse ", see?

No. The buggers are in here now. Place is a right fucking mess, just now too. Building work going on throughout. Even got an entire floor to put down, one of these fine days. That'll stop a lot of them, of course. But, I know the craic. It's very much Game On from here on in. Time to get the traps out, in force.

Get my poster up in town too .....

I Like A Bit of Cabbage, Me .....

Nothing wrong with that. Plate of chips beneath there, look. Low fat, would be skinny peoples chips. Bloody gorgeous, actually. Best oven chips I've found so far. Mug of gravy over it. Half a pot of Black Pepper over that. Dump a couple of nicely browned pork chops on top and, I'll tell ye what; Fuckin nice meal! Had it virtually every night for a fortnight or so now. Does me good.

What it was, see; I've been living on two pork chops, on top of a plate of chips, for about a year now. Suited me fine. I've eaten like that for as long as I can remember now. Just find what's ok and eat it every night. Saves wondering what to feed yeself.

Only, it was starting to kill me, see? No green vegetables in my diet. I was slowly becoming malnourished. Half my entire fucking system was gradually starving to death. I realised that when I started getting the slightly dizzy spells. And things like getting on all fours, to check my mail box, mean't I'd go all light headed when I stood up again.

Figured out what it was. Bought myself a cabbage. Ate that in two meals and have never looked back. Feeling much better now. Man of Iron.

Goes to show.

War Time Love Letters .....

On a forum I frequent, someone gave us the heads up about one of these Threads which become 'runaway' to the point of minor, inter net legends. I'm so fascinated with the eventual out come of this one myself, I thought I'd show ye. It starts Here.

So ye'll land there, on ye feet and running; A lady happened to find a classic, ribbon tied stack of hand written letters, buried away in some junk shop.

Acting on what ever compulsion, she bought them and took them home. Then, as she started to nose through them, she became so moved by their style and content that she figured these could be treasured by the authors living descendants.

But, how does one trace the living kin of the, presumably, long enough dead? Well. probably like most other insurmountables, these days; One asks on a forum.

The rest, as I've said, is looking like 'history' in the making!

Over 700 posts on there, as I type this. Please do start at the beginning. Ok; Ye can scan over some of the obviously just 'well wishing' ones. But, the gripping bit is how it evolves. How much people can find out about someone, these days, based on the skimpiest scrap of information.

I do this, of course, as a virtual way of life. I'm the family Genealogist. It's 'my job'. But, ye don't have to be interested in 'Family Trees' to be drawn into this, evolving, little adventure.

Take a look.