Idstone Trap Pit

Anyone remember when I said, on THL, how I'd always fancied trying out an " Idstone Trap Pit "? I got the idea from Carnegie's excellent little book; " Practical Trapping ".

For those of ye outside the loop the, it's basically a square hole with a lid over it. Ye bury pipes, leading down into this pit. Inside the pit, where the pipes lead in, ye set traps. In Carnegie's time, only Gin Traps were available. Today, of course, we'd use a more humane type of trap, designed to kill outright, rather than possibly just hold the victim.

So, anyway; I long since announced that I really should get round to constructing one and trying it out. I then went quiet about it and, knowing THL, there would've been plenty enough people murmuring, knowingly to each other that; 'There we are! All talk, that Ditch Shitter! Always full of bright ideas ~ Never actually gets out and Does anything though!'.

Well, little might they realise that Ditch Shitter is more the other way. I get so bloody busy doing things, I simply haven't always the time to sit and Write about what I get up to! Can't have it both ways, see? That's why I'm rather late in bringing ye a report on what happened with my own Idstone Pit. And, unfortutely, I was a few years too late in ever trying to action the bloody idea in the first place! I should've done it back in Hampshire or Hull. It's ~ as I'd suspected ~ just not a project suited to the local conditions I now live and work with.

Here's what happened then: First of all, I bought a nice, galvanised Inspection Cover. 'Man Hole' cover, if ye like. That gave me the exact size of my hole in the ground. I then built a four sided wooden box. Idea being to use this box as a sort of shuttering, to stop the pit walls from ever caving in and firing the traps or otherwise just making a mess of things in there.

To the top of my box I fitted the frame which the cover sits in. At two sides, I cut through circular holes. These holes being a perfect fit for some plastic land drain pipe we get around here. And there I was, all set.

Here it is, look, without the cover on and not showing the pipes I have to connect to the two holes. Nice, neat job. All heavily creasoted, to give the wood some protection against the damp earth.




As said, all I needed to do now was to dig myself a nice, straight sided, square hole to exactly accept this box. I set too and, before very long, I dug out and bottomed off a nice hole to fit it in. Only, it was getting on a bit, by the time I'd finished. I had the Dogs and horses to feed, so I thought I'd give it best for now. Come back to it and dig the pipes in the next day.

Trouble is, next day I found This ....!





Lot of fucking good, eh? Made a bleeding paddling pool, haven't I? And, if I leave it like that, it'll just become a breeding place for mosquitoes, of which we have more than enough round here as it is! So, having left it a month or so, to see what might happen (It just filled with even More water!) there's really nothing else for it but to fill the bloody thing back in again.

So much for my bloody Idstone Trap Pit. But, as ye can see; I did do it. Or at least I tried!

Just wondering if I can do anything useful with it now. Maybe use it as a ground level trap cover or something? Possibly. Bit too busy to think about it just now. Other things on .....

Third Time Lucky? (Part Two)

Ok. First things first: If ye've just, somehow, fell into here from god knows where and are reading this as the first ever post ye've read on this Blog? Just do us all a favour and fuck off. Ok?

No offence, but; Ye obviously just haven't the mind set for following A to B to C. And I'm liable to talk in terms of " A (1), " B (ii) " and shit like that. Scary? Fine. " YouTube " will, probably, be more your thing.


Still here? Great! So; I've called for a taxi .....

Turns out it's Steve's son who picks me up. No matter. He's a seemingly nice young man and we're soon bowling down the road to my turning. Steve 'Jnr' saying things that I'm trying to hear. Me, probably, shouting disconnected rubbish back. It's hard, holding a 'Conversation', when ye so deaf ye can barely here ye damn self!

So, we're discussing various, local, matters as best we can. Noels place looms up. He and his nocturnal activities with a pick axe are still making us both chuckle. And now here's my track .....

And something small, white and hopeful looking is in the headlights! I'm skinning a fag as ye read that. Now I'll crash on through the rest of the story, just as it went off. Before I have to go pass out. And a nights kip will lose the sharpness of the event.

So; Just as the headlights are sweeping off the road and into my track, they're picking up this little, white thing. Dashing along, trying to stay in the light. (I'm having to pause, between typing this. The memory's too fresh and painful)

I've straight away recognised it as a tiny little Jack Russell. A bitch. Quite old and, it looked to me, not a million years from having whelped. And this dear little thing was obviously desperately happy to see us. Ye know how all this, and more, just slams into ye mind in what seems like a split second? And so I'm yelling at my man there to pull over.

He does. And I'm trying to find the door handle. I do. And the door pops open. And here's this tremulous, but ecstatic little loo tube of white wagginess, rush creeping towards the light of the interior of the motor. Poor little mite was obviously lost. Very confused and afraid. Just begging for someone to save her and put her little mind at rest, that she was still loved.

As I remember 'Steve Jnr' matter of factly stating; " She's obviously just been Dropped Off. ". Meaning; Some cunt had just taken the little Dog for a drive between one town and the next. Some way along that road, he'd opened the door and encouraged the little fucker to jump out, for a walk and some fun with Dads. Then just slammed the fucking door shut and driven on!

And I blew it. As I opened the fucking door. As this poor, desperate little Dog thought Dad had come back for her. As she rushed, low on her belly, begging forgiveness for what ever she must have done, to have been treated so heartlessly as to be left, alone and confused on a dark road side;

I said, " Come on, my sweetheart ..... " And, even as I realised she was likely about to jump into my lap, I reached out to save her the effort, and us a second. I touched the scruff of her neck with my finger tips - and she bolted!

Off up the road she went. No collar ~ or I'd have snatched at that, and to hell if she'd have latched onto me, in panic and shock. I've had that before and can handle it. No; She shot off into the tantalisingly 'Light' darkness of a quarter moon lit country road. I could hear her barking back at me. Standing wide. Spooked. Backing off.

I followed her little barks. But, it was useless. As much as I tried to spot, or Hear where she was coming from, so she was obviously seeing me and retreating. Only thing I could do was race back to the taxi and ask that he run me home, best part of a mile down the track, so I could grab a lamp and then be dropped back to the road, to look for her.

No good, obviously. I made sure he had my number, in case he spotted her in the opposite direction, as he returned to town. I walked half a mile, scanning the fields, hedges and farm yards. Nothing. She was gone.

And, the heart breaker is: I knew then that, as we'd driven down here and back up, with a light, some other motor had come along. Small 'Jack Russels' are popular enough here right now. £75 - 100 popular, for pups. But this had struck us both as an older bitch. Perhaps recently whelped. And someone had " Dropped her off " ? Worthless then, as a money machine.

And the happy, 'Lucky' person who thought they'd just happened upon a little gold mine will soon enough be finding that out. Then she'll be put in a sack and slung into a river. It's the Irish Way. So I'm learning.

Catch a mink in a cage? Shooting it in the face, there and then, offends the native sense of 'Fair and Free Law of Quarry'. But; Chuck a contained creature into a drinking trough? My friends and neighbours consider that The Norm.

FFS, people; I've not come here to preach to these people how they should live. Their parents knew better that I ever could how that's done here. But, I just wish I could think of a way of getting the message out there:

There's a place ye can 'Drop Off' a Dog. No questions. No pack drill. No 'Government' involvement.

Damn!


" Third Time Lucky " bit? I'll explain that, later.

Third Time Lucky? (Part One)

Just got back from Dean O's. We just had our regular 'Lads Night In'. I'd just mention that we traditionally watch a film. It's, more often than not, a war film too. Tonight, having worked our way to the end of two Boxed Sets Dean received as gifts along the way, it was The Thin Red Line.

Dear god. What can I say? After twenty minutes, I was asking Dean if this film was ever going to 'Start'. By two and a half hours, plus? Dean O' was doing something on his Lap Top, and I was Praying this shit would just fucking end and give me some peace! Good grief; It was fucking Dire!

Having, finally, seen the back of That damn turkey, I turned to Dean O' and said; " Fuck That! Now let's find something to Talk about. I mean; We can't just chuck a whole night up in the air like that and leave it. I need to gain Something from tonight! "

So we chatted. We talked about shooting. Dean showed me a couple of record shots he'd taken of some Gray Crows he'd wiped off his parents land recently. One involved an intended body hit. Only, using a .17 HMR, Dean has to be very aware of wind. It was puffing as he squeezed. But it stopped as the pin fired. Result was unintentionally brilliant! A head shot, on a Crow, at ~ if I remember correctly? ~ about the sixty yard mark!

He reckons there were tiny fragments of shit around the site. Best of all, this crow did a JFK; The back of its skull was laying on its own back! V Max round had seemingly entered 'Between The Eyes'. Exploded inside the brain. Come out the back in a misty cloud of pink vapour! Way to go! " Didn't know what hit him " doesn't say enough for That one!

So, that raised the mood. Always good to hear of those bastards being removed from our grounds.

My own offering was word of my pheasants. I have a couple, now regulars, at the bottom of my paddock. I was explaining how I see the cock bird, most days. He's never too far from my lower gate. In fact, he's never more than a few yards from it! That led me to considering this for the first time.

I've seen his mate down there, once. She was gliding about in the cover beside the ditch. Only ever seen her there the once now. Tonight, as I relaxed and considered it? I reckon that time she'd come off the nest and was having a crafty feed. I reckon they're nesting down there. That's why my man stands about, crowing and ruffling his feathers. 'OTC'? You're the man for this one, mate. Reckon that's it?

Anyway, I'm not going down there. Not just to poke about and try to find any nest. Not even for the BTO Nest Record Scheme. No. I'm afraid I killed a nest of Wrens, last year, due to my dragging them out of their nest, to count them. They were well feathered and 'Exploded'. I lost about all but one in the panic. That one I popped back into the nest ~ only to find it rotten a few days later. Now I just record eggs to hatching. I won't approach a nest once the young are old enough to abandon ship. Nor will I risk a desertion, due to my interference.

Anyway ..... So then we decided we'd fix a date, soon, to go out and do some serious shopping. Sort me out a whole new kitchen sink unit. Shower door and wall. Even some under sink equivalent of a Sadia. In short; This cottage will have hot water, 'On Tap', for the first time ever. And I'll have a shower! (Getting it all plumbed in is, of course, another story. But Dean O's a Plumber, amongst the other time served skills the young Skillaholic has acquired)

And that's where we left it. I was happy. Dean was sanguine. I called a cab. Steve, as it happens. It was a toss up between Steve ~ and a potentially 'handy' chat. Or Gary ~ and my first ride in his, brand new, 'People Carrier'. Why stink the mans new motor out? I can do that next week! I have that poor bastard ear marked to take me out for my Hearing Test. (Hullo? Who???)

And, here, I feel I've banged on enough. This has all, after all, been the aperitif for the actual event which prompted this whole post; And the feeling I came here to convey, and thus, maybe, alleviate.

If ye've just read this far and want to see more? I'm probably about to write it. Whilst it's still fresh. If not? Fuck yeself. Just skip over the post above this; And know that ye've just wasted the time ye took to read this part. Because, without reading the follow up, ye'll never find out what the fuck I was getting to. Your call. I'm not out here to waste ye time.

Dogs, Dyson's and Blowing Chunks (The Conclusion)

Yeah, so; Where was I? Oh yeah. So slaughtered I'd couldn't carry on! Anyway .....

So, I have this Dyson Hand Held. And, every night, before I go and lay down on the blackened, grease smear I call a bed, I hoover it. I have to do this, because the Dogs use it as a day bed and so it gets all kinds of grit and shit adhering to it. Laying on a sheet so waxed with body grease that Barbour would consider my recipe a contender doesn't bother me. Trying to get some kip with something small and sharp digging my skin does. So, I hoover (dyson?) the bed.

Now, as ye might know, or be able to imagine; Bed time means bed time, to Dogs accustomed to sharing that unique experience. It means eight hours, hopefully, unabated snuggling down to snooze. Warmth. Comfort. Security. Is it any wonder that they too look forward to it?

In fact, my lot look forward to it so much that they'll often jump the gun, and onto the bed, before I've even had a chance to finish clearing it. That's where Dog can meet Dyson.

Just to recap, for those of ye without one of these fantastic little bits of engineering: This thing sucks like a Train! It really does take No Prisoners. Only, following some doubtlessly well known ~ to Physicist's ~ law of Physics; What sucks in has to Blow out! Hence I sometimes even myself get surprised by the force of the expelled air which might catch me in the face. It comes out the side of this thing like a little Hurricane!

Of course, the filters inside make sure I actually get hit only by clean air. It's just a powerful blast of air. I know that - because I know about these things. I'm a Human Being. We Do know this shit. Hence I might just go, " Phwar! " and forget about it.

Dogs, bless 'em, can't comprehend on that level. Blow in a Dogs face and ~ as just about Anyone reading this shit must surely know? ~ ye liable to get bitten! Dog doesn't give a shit who or What ye are. You go creating a strong rush of air in a Dogs face? That Dog'll react as Dog kind has done since the dawn of Dogdom: It'll fuckin Bite!

Why is that? I've probably pondered pondering this question since I was about four years old. That's when I was sitting there, on a kerb stone (we had kerb stones in those days), communing with " Trusty ". The small, mongrelly concoction of a Dog owned by our corner shop keeper, Mr Mac'.

Fuck me! Look at that: A four year old (unaccompanied and yet unmolested) sitting on a kerb stone? We used to have these genuine, wide, slabs of Real Stone edging our pavements in those days. Moss grew between them. And, here and there, there'd be some White Dog shit! I could sit out there for hours of a day. Perfectly safe and happy. House Sparrows chirruping from every damn roof guttering. Fuck!

And there I was. Sitting there, sharing some thoughts with Trusty. Both of us perfectly happy. Then, for some unfathomable reason, I Blew in his face. Trusty looked uncomfortable and away.

Noting the reaction and curious to explore further, I blew again. His rear, top lip quivered. I saw a bit of wettish, pinky looking lip. This was fun! I could make Trusty do things by blowing in his face!

" Phooof! ". Now his eyes shot me a look and his Whole top lip seemed to curl up. I could see his teeth! Great! Here I am, learning ever something new about my mates, the Dogs. Much more of this and I'd surely know things No One else knew about them and their ways! Another, good, hard blow. Straight into the side of Trusty Dogs averted face.

And we have a Growl!!! Brilliant! Blow, enough times, in a Dogs face? Ye can actually get the most placid and ~ well, 'Trusty' Dog in ye existence to give ye a growl? This was deep learning curve shit for a four year old! What next?

I blew. Trusty 'Blew'. He snapped, " WILLYEFUCKOFF!!! ", so damn fast I never had time to move. Caught me the tiniest nick, just below the left eye. An accidental little graze as he pressed home his heart felt point. Class Dismissed!

I knew I'd been 'hurt'. And I knew that mean't I needed Mum. Across the road to home I went. Now; Please note the following exchange, you denizens of the twenty first century. You kids. People with kids. Even with kids who have kids of their own. Because This is exactly how it went off:

'Mum', I whined. 'Trusty just bit me!' ~ pointing to graze below left eye. " £££ Chi £££ Ching!!! £££ " ? Sue that muvvafukka Mac' for every hard earned penny he has? No.

Call the Police, the Arsepca, the Screws of the World; Have his 'Vicious' little " Dangerous Dog " taken away from him. Have its balls hacked out. Then have it shot full of PentoBarbitone and made into " Complete Diet " before ye can say 'Canine Cancer' ? Hell, No!

A and E? Ring Someone? Report This? Lobby? Start a Petition? Push for a Law against small, local 'Street Dogs' nipping small, local street kids, surely to god? At Least???

Bollocks! In those days, people; We had wide, moss jointed Kerb stones. Those things didn't fit any fucking EU standards in millimetres and uniformity standards. We had flocks of House Sparrows, which we'd feed. And no Rat Catcher ever told us doing so was the cause of the rats which plagued us ~ because we Had no fucking rats! Teddy Boys sewed razor blades under the lapels of their Drape Coats ~ but they weren't fucking Smack Heads.

Christ, I could go Well into one here! Better stop now, before this thing reaches Part 3, just to get to my point.

No. My mum just tutted and asked me; " And what did ye do to Make 'Trusty' bite ye? ". I told her. I blew in his face. And my mum taught me half a lesson that day. She said; " Ye should Never blow in a Dogs face, love. They don't like it. "

She then brought down a little, brown bottle. Told me it was " Iodine " and warned me that it might sting. Put a drop of this shit into a cup of water, which turned brown. Dabbed that onto my war wound and sent me off out to play again ~ a wiser man.


Long time ago, that was. Mum's dead. Trusty's looooong dead ~ of simple, old age. Mr Mac's is long since probably Mr Patel's ~ or a half way house for Smack Heads or 'Reforming' Paedophiles in the community. Me? I'm still hanging on in here. Little nip from a neighbourhood Dog never really effected me at all.

Except that it Did leave me to spend most of a life time, remembering and wondering: Why Did Trusty, finally, resort to snapping at me, after I continually blew in his face like that?

The Dyson cracked it.


See; Dogs have no 'Cheeks' to their mouths. Their mouths are just open gaps, full of teeth, leading to their throats. Purse ye lips and give a little whistle ..... See? Dog can't do that. It has no cheeks.

Now, open ye mouth as wide as he can. Like ye fully, unashamedly yawning. Try to whistle. Fuck it; Try to just Blow! Can't, can ye? And that's because the air, expelled from ye lungs, no matter how forcibly, has no containment and control by cheeks and pursable lips. No more than a Dog has.

Now see this from a Dogs point of view: Dog is born into a world where he primarily meets other Dogs. They sniff, lick, tread on and generally probe about each other. Later they might even demonstrate emotions and ideas by means of stance, posture and vocalisation. Even People may, later, come to do such things to Dogs, to a greater or lesser degree. But that all ties in. Touching, body language, vocal tones. Dogs get the drift of that.

But, never in a million years has one Dog ever Blown at another Dog. Physically impossible happening. Completely and utterly beyond the scope of a Dogs world view.

And that's when it struck me. A life time later. Trusty bit me because he just didn't know what else to do. I'd suddenly gone from a little, his size, sort of 'Dog' Thing ~ as ever he saw the distinction between me and him ~ to some mind bending fucking freak of a thing who, whilst looking perfectly as normal, to him, was suddenly feeding him this weird vibe, completely beyond his own life times experience. I was Fucking His Head Up!

In a nut shell? Sit close to me, tonight, and ye'll likely end up thinking; " This guy Stinks! He's half cut. And he's ..... This guy Stinks! ". But, ye'll recognise me as a smelly, drunken old man. Ye know about them.

I start Blowing on ye? Ye'll probably think; " He's One Sick Old Fuck! I'm Gone! ". But; Ye know about guys like me too, right? Ye mother warned ye.

To a Dog though? Dogs accepting pretty much What Ever form we come in, or evolve into? We're just another phase / form of Dog People. Start that Blowing on them shit though? Completely outside their genetic experience. Dogs growl, bark, bite and shit. They Do Not Blow.

No. To a Dog, anything recognisably living, blowing at it is about as cool and acceptable as a Husky would be, to us, doing what that one did in Carpenters " The Thing ".


Now all I have to figure out is; Why Do they insist on sliding, shoulder first, into that unthinkable shit they've just discovered in that field there?!

Dogs. Ye gotta luv 'em!

Dogs, Dyson's and Blowing Chunks .....

There is a connection! ..... Well; Alright, so the old gag about 'Blowing Chunks' probably caused me to wet myself, in front of my mother, when I was about sixteen. Must've been some sort of experience like that to have left such a lasting impression on me.

I had a 'Pit Bull' once who I called " Beef ". Somehow that name never once caused me to double up, in silent appreciation, as having called him " Chunks " would've done. " I like eating beef. " just doesn't touch the nerve like ..... anyway ....!

So, I have this Dyson. It's a DC16 something. First on the left inside that link, to their site, there. The Utter Bollocks! I've loved this thing since the evening I bought it. Back in December. It literally sits here, at my right hand. And that only because I haven't got round to Rawlplugging its little holder / charger to the wall yet. But it's still there. Apart from a Sig Sauer P226 what else could a man want beside him? Dogs aside, that is!

Straight up, people. This baby ~ my Dyson ~ was truly, obviously, designed and made by Men. For Men. And men living alone. It's the answer to our dreams!

It sits there, constantly on Charge (Yes, it's a Re Chargable. But no batteries, as such. It's a Plug and Stay thing) I just leave mine plugged in, 24 / 7. It's always ready when I want to use it.

And here's it's Best feature: A charge only lasts it five minutes of actual use! Yeppers, ye heard And read me right there. This baby sucks like a train, for about Five Minutes. Then simply cuts out, dead. Blessed Be!

Lads; A full on, fucking great, 'Can suck the life out of a carpet' hoover like a 'Big Dyson' may be the wifes dream. Fuck the wife! That's all ye married her for, right? But for we Born Again Lads? This muvva is a godsend.

Believe me. Five minutes of 'hoovering' the Dog deposited crap off ye bed, and from around the place? Then looking for other places to bother about, before that Five Minutes is up? Trust me on this; More often than not ye'll be Praying the fukka runs out, before ye will to keep doing such 'House Work' does! Then it can be back to ye computer and Dogs and shit for an hour or so, before ye might fancy doing ye books off.

I'm completely happy with my one. 'Blown Away', one might say. And that brings us full circle: Blowing Dogs!

To Be Continued ....!

(Only; I'm smashed. I feel this is quite enough for one read. And, I feel the 'point' is worth another, quicker, post. See ye tomorrow?)

Post " Small Horse " Post

Thought I'd make this a proper post, so's to ensure ye all get to see it .....

Thanks, people. But it's over and done with now. I put her in the ground this afternoon. Beat the mound down. Marked it with big stones. Dean 'O officiated as Witness ~ Then we took our rifles down the bog and let off a few rounds a piece at paper targets and plastic bottles of water. Nothing clears the head like the craic of making some loud bangs with a good mate! LOL!

So, I've just come home and given Rosie the grooming of a life time. Renewing our bond. As I explained to her; I see she's a beautiful horse. Like me, she's just not cut out to be a parent. So, that's the end of it.

Donks doesn't see it that way though. I caught him trying to mount her! If I thought that bastard could ever manage it? I'd hobble him!

But then, he has a fresh patch of blood, right where the Cash Bolt would go. I reckon she caught him a real blinder!

Me and Rosie? We just don't want kids.

And now I'm off about my business. Life begins, again, here. I'll see what next I feel might make a proper post here.

Actually, as I was saying to Dean O' today; I could show ye my Real testicles? Bet That would clear the air, eh? LMFAO!

I might....!

" Small Horse " Is Dead.

I've just got in, from discovering what I'd expected I would, just ten minutes ago. I'm about to drink more Jameson than I would normally dream. I just can't think of what else to do. Maybe cry? I should cry. They say ye should. " Let it all out. " they say. But, after nine days of having this dear little soul as not just part of my life, but virtually my Existence? Just seems too much to let out.

Tomorrow I must dig a big, deep hole. I have the tools. Pick axe bought especially for digging such holes. I've dug such holes before. I'll dig others yet.

Sorry her story has ended, before I even finished writing it. I will write it up though, later. I want to tell it like it was. I only wish I could have recorded the sweet little noise she made when she saw me appear each time though. I made the noise back and we were both happy. Communicating.

Only, tonight she was dead. We couldn't communicate any more.The only noise is inside my head.

I've Lost My Memory! (Crucial Pt. 2)

Jesus bloody wept! Just got a PM from one of their Moddies;

" Your order didn't import into our system, due to a decline from your credit card company when we attempted to authorize the card. We unfortunately do not receive any details, as they for privacy reasons refuse to give them out. The easiest way for you to resolve this is to place a new order, and then contact your credit card company or bank and make sure that they know this is a charge that you have authorized. We apologize for any inconvenience. "

And it's taken them a month, and a public poking from me, to get round to telling me that?! FFS! It took me over thirty minutes to open the damn PM! That's how screwed I am here, without this Memory.

I can only imagine the initial fault is down to another of Natwest's ever more zealous and nannying 'security measures'?

Either way, I'm gutted. Now I have to go back to the original forum. Find the post the guys advised me on. Check out the other supplier (!!!) and see about ordering this damn memory, all over again.

And, this time, we'll all be watching closely. Right? If I don't see it in a week? I'll be all over them.

Fucked if I'm sitting, good naturedly, about for another fucking Month this time around!

Be nice and people just piss all over ye, eh? FFS!

" Crucial " Memory ? Forget Them!

So, this machine of mine is absolutely on its knees, yeah? Fucking thing can barely manage to open an e mail. Situation's getting so bad, I'm looking at computer shopping. One message it keeps chucking at me is how my 'Windows Virtual Memory Is Too Low', or something.

Ok. Off to a geek heavy forum I go. I explain this to them. They have me flash up various ~ to me ~ completely meaningless internal reports from inside this thing and, Bingo! They say it's just Memory. Easy, peasy, lemon fucking squeazy. Go here. Buy This. Unscrew That. Touch something. Slot the Memory in. Screw. Job done. Fire her up and fly like a bird. Great!

So, one of these guys points out a couple of suppliers of just what I need. " Only, 'Crucial' is just marginally cheaper. " What the hell. Only a doughnut wouldn't save a quid, right?

Wrong! Only a fucking idiot wouldn't think to check their " Support Forum " out first! In fact, doesn't the very existance of a 'Support Forum' ring any alarm bells?

Like; What's wrong with dealing with a fucking sales rep by a swift exchange of e mail? Of course, I could ring UK. On my Vodafone mobile. Pay through the nose as I sit on hold, or hearing bollocks as my credit, to the tune of the cost of that memory stick, runs out? But, Why Should I Have To???

Why? Because I ordered my damn memory 0n April 20th. Over A Month Ago! And, know what my Order Tracking says, today?

" Your order has been successfully received at Crucial.com. Shortly we'll begin processing your order and preparing it for shipment. "

No shit?! So, ye ripped the money out of my bank account, faster than I could say, " I'm going to regret this! ". And now, over a Month later, ye still picking ye fucking noses as my order just sits there? Doesn't that make 'Customer Service' somewhat of a contradiction in terms?! FFS!

I e mail 'Customer Support', yesterday. That was all the advice their 'Live Chat' with USA could offer me. See below!

So, I go to their 'Support Forum'. I check several of the rather too many " Where's My Order? " posts. And I straight away notice how anyone posting that only has that One post to their name. And the answer's always the same ~ when or If they receive one. A Moddie pops up and says simply; " Check your PMs ". Uh huh ....?

I was dead curious to find out what those Moddies say, in that sneaky PM. So now I've posted on there. Here's what I said:

" Ordered some Memory, 20th of April. Money left my bank account in a snap. Ever since, it's been flagged as " Your order has been successfully received at Crucial.com. Shortly we'll begin processing your order and preparing it for shipment. "


The 'Live Chat' person didn't have a clue what's going on. An e mail to " Support " provoked an automated response, saying I should hear within four days?


Is there any way I can get my money reimbursed, please? So that I can deal with a company who will just take my money and send me my goods?


Thank you. "

Does that seem unreasonable to you? No. Well now let's all just sit back and see what happens next.

Just Been Relaxing .....

And I'll be off to bed presently. To sleep for, most likely, a good eight hours! So, this looks like being my first shot at a good nights kip since I woke up, last Thursday. That was the day all hell let loose. When I found Small Horse laying there in that gulley.

I'm yet to even finish the story of that ~ and the ensuing days and nights. Promise ye I'll keep it all a lot shorter this time. The urgency of its freshness is falling off now. It's becoming history as each new day brings new news. And every days news becomes yesterdays news as life rolls on.

So it is that, I hope, very soon now Small Horse will become just another background figure round here. Part of my more mundane routine. Then I'll be able to write about the minutiae that catches my attention again. That's what I prefer to talk about. The little things I can make much of. Rather than the all consuming, tunnel visioning, macro events that bind my mind.

Fact is; I checked in on Small Horse an hour or so ago. She appeared well enough fed ~ under the prevailing circumstances. She was a little cold, for my liking. But, I switched her Heat Lamp back on and my last, gratifying, view of her was as she got nicely up on her feet and headed, hesitantly, into that red glow.

Anyway, she now has shelter, warmth and a ready and 'on tap' source of nourishment. Three basics of survival.

Me? I have sand filled eye sockets. A staggering gait, due to almost complete physical and nervous exhaustion. And a couple of hundred quid less, in my bank account, than last I did.

I also have some absolutely fucking wonderful friends and neighbours. I can't even Begin to express my gratitude to them. But I'll find ways to Thank them all. I'm a devious little bastard like that. I don't forget shit.

Right now though, I need to sleep ..... Heh! Then I'll probably wake up and find Small Horse is just fine. Then I'll get on with my life. Then some bastard will upset me! LMAO! Then I'll have a fucking good Rant!

Aren't we about due a good, Ditch Shitter Rant? You just wait. Some cunt'll set me off! ROTFL!

Yeah; I'm definitely getting back to my old self now! Let's wait and see.

'Night, all.

My Testicles .....

Yeppers. There they are. Shot on top of my freezer. Don't they make a little corner of ye mind spark up with the name Jeffery Dahmer ?

Horribly; Not so completely unrelated, either. Ask Dean O'.

See, those are actually ~ if not obviously ~ balls of minced beef. But don't they just look like ....? Anyway, I buy my POWs a pound or so of minced beef and then I stand there, chucking portions of it into little, maggie sized rations. These I then bag up, in twos, as shown. One each. A days feed for them both. And I put these bags in my freezer. Doing my level utmost to remember to take a bag out, last thing every night.

Why so? Because my brand new, bought in December, fucking fridge has gone tits up on me inside Five Months! Can ye believe that? Do Zanussi make fridges? If so, I'm fucking buying one! They truly do make some solid, dependable shit. Trouble is, I doubt if Zanussi would bother themselves with producing the little 'Table Top' fridges I like. I like them because they're small. I only need one to keep the days meat cool, as I defrost it. Or store the POW's mince in.

Craic is though, this latest damn fridge coughed, farted and died weeks ago. I've been bombed back to the fucking stone age here. Feeding my Dogs either deep frozen meat, or else meat that's lain submerged in the sink all day. My own meat just sits about in a plastic bag till dinner time. It's a disgusting way to have to carry on.

I rang the shop, of course. Eventually. Having first needed to find time to find the receipts. Dear little Indian sounding lady. Very sweet and meek. Ye couldn't get angry with that voice and manner. Not that I would have anyway. Not her fault she's retailed a fridge sold to Her with a weak thermostat. She said they'd send a Service Engineer out.

That surprised me. Because, when my earlier fridge died, after at least a few years of sterling service, I asked Dean O' if he could fix it. He explained that, no way; When a Thermostat fucks? It's fucked. Knowing what Dean O's capable of? If He can't fix it; It must be Unfixable.

And, I guess, that's what their Service Engineer must've told them too. That's why, when I rang again, a week later, they said they were getting me a new fridge. But, that the manufacturers were behind and that it might take ten days to get one.Ten days? It must have been at least fourteen days, more, since it fucked up. Even then I'd spent about a week putting meat in there. Checking the setting. Checking the meat.

Some days the meat was frozen. Some days it was rank. All on the same dial setting. Thermostat had developed a life of its own. And, I soon realised, when it had an Off day? The heat of the motor made it a Warm Box. Meat simply rotted in there.

And that's what I'd been telling Dean. That evening as we stood there, in my kitchen, enjoying a quiet pint together. Both contemplating this innocuous looking white box. As if benignly awaiting its party piece performance.

" There's some meat in there now. " I said. " God knows how long it's been in there. But; I'm Not opening that fucking door! "

Wet Paint? Did somebody just say " Wet Paint "? Ye know it, don't ye? After just a heart beats hesitation, we found ourselves inexorably moving in on that fridge. Its magnetic draw emanated from that plain, white, harmless looking door.

I saw my own hand reaching out for it. The moment had a dream like quality. I pulled. The door swung open. We looked inside .....

For a brief and curious moment, I was aware of this dark lump of substance, laying there in the bottom of the fridges spotlessly white interior. Black, it was. Tinged with green. I think I might even have reached in to poke it with my finger.


" JAYZUSS FUCKING CHRIIIIST!!!!! " The Stench hit us, simultaneously and with all the force of a runaway juggernaut! You have Never seen us move so fast! The G Force had Dean O's glasses stuck to his bulging eyeballs as my hat blew off and rolled behind me with the ballistic velocity of my own rush for the compound, and sacred fresh air!

My kitchen's huge. It's almost like a small cathedral out there. But that fridge managed to swamp every corner of it with a smell beyond description, in a nano second of my opening that damn door.

And so it was that Dean and I spent the next thirty minutes, standing around outside, in the compound. Both under dressed. Both complaining bitterly of the freezing cold night. But neither of us capable of being persuaded, by any power on earth, to go back into that vile kitchen.

Today, I sealed the fridge door up with tape. It's out on my tip. Soon it'll go in a skip and then I'll be rid of it. God help the man who ever again opens that door! Maybe, before I commit it to the land fill, I should daub on the front of its door; " Pandora's Box "

Hullo, EGYPT!!!

See? As if I'd Ever shit ye! We've actually had Egypt looking in here now too! This sort of thing freaks me out. As, I think, I mentioned under the " Hullo, Iraq " posting; I have a " Stat's Recorder " type thing on here. Got it from StatCounter.

And that thing is absolutely loaded with weird and esoteric shit that means nothing to me. I just like to amuse (and reassure!) myself by checking the audience figures now and then. As long as it tells me people are looking in here, that's fine by me. It's also interesting to check which are my busier days. Saturday and Monday, believe it or not, as far as I remember.

Anyway, once in a while I'm just plain relaxed enough to stop and look at the map which shows me where people are reading this shit from. And, as ye see, tonight I found Egypt has been through here!

Be fun, wouldn't it, to run away with some notion that my recent mentioning of " Gypsys " had caught the Googled attention of a stay at home " Little Egyptian " (The word, Gypsy being said to have evolved from how the first Romani people to arrive in UK said they had come from " Little Egypt ")

Personally? I suspect a slightly less exotic explanation may be nearer the mark. Seeing as how close That mark, on the map, looks to the Syrian border ..... British military presence, perhaps? I mean, I know shit about these things. But I'd imagine that's it?

Jesus! Half a mile east and I could claim the SAS are looking in, whilst being bad where they shouldn't even be; And the fucking world's about to end, if they get caught doing it! Wouldn't That liven things up, eh? Could even work out that the last thing ye ever see on ye screens was my testicles!

Imagine!

Anyway; Hyah, Egypt! Good to have ye dropping by.

My Baby

She is My baby too. Because Rose, her 'natural mother' is about as natural a mother to her as a piece of fucking coal! Left to, or even with Rosie, that little mite would've been dead the day she was born. Or, as I'm fast learning, any other day since. If Small Horse is to survive and grow, it'll have been purely down to the constant and indefatigable efforts and inginuity of myself and my friends and neighbours. One of those neighbours just today commented that Small Horse must have nine lives.

It all started, for the purposes of this story, on Thursday, 14th of May 2009. I know that's the day because I have a calender on my kitchen wall. I cross out each day as it passes. But I haven't crossed Thursday, or any day since. I just haven't had the time to think about it. Small Horse is all I've been able to think of or spend time on since just after noon that day.

Of course, this is really a sort of 'Prequel'. I'll be telling ye about Small Horse without ever even having introduced Rosie. Suffice it to say here though that Rosie, my show stoppingly beautiful ~ and equally beautifully natured ~ piebald Cob was In Foal when I bought her. I never thought to ask when she was due. But, that wouldn't have made a lot of difference anyway. Horses can drop a month or so either side of their exact day. I was just watching for the usual signs.

So it was that, Wednesday evening, as I fed Rosie and Donks their evening meal in the pen, I made the usual point of ducking down to examine her tits. I then ran my eye over her bum. Kissed it, and left the pair of them in peace. (Rosie has a bum to die for! Dean O' rolls his eyes at this term. He insists I should say " Hind Quarters ". Well, the vet who Chipped Rosie, a young lady, actually commented most enthusiastically on Rosie's " Gorgeous bum. " If the Vet says 'Bum', so shall I continue to! And I kiss it too. Had teeth, I'd Bite it! It's the Most gorgeous bum!)

Anyway, all that aside; Wednesday was a wash out, as had most days preceeding it been. A perfectly unremarkable day then. Quite normal. As was my crawling out of the pit, just before noon. As usual, I got dressed. Logged on. Made a cup of tea. Rolled a fag. Then let the Dogs out. As perfectly routine as clock work.

Oddly though, this day I did one thing differently. Instead of following the Dogs a few feet out the door, in order to look up onto the porch roof and check my magpies, I stood there and gazed down to the Pen. The Pen was formerly an ouside range of cattle stalls. The stalls roofed over and an open yard between them and the Bier proper.

Partly due to the vile weather. Partly due to a concious state of indecision about where Rosie might eventually decide to foal, given the choice, I'd been vacillating wildly about what to do with 'The Horses' of a night. See; I'd been told two things by several people. 1. " Never let them foal indoors! They'll get into a corner and kill the foal and themselves. " 2. " Never let them foal outside! They'll drop into a ditch and kill the foal and themselves.

As it was, the constant rain has made the Home Acre a fucking swamp. Thus letting them walk it day and night, in search of a blade of grass, would render it a mud wallow. So I'd been keeping them in the pen and feeding them hay in my Round Feeder.

Only, a round bale can last a Cob and a donkey quite a while ~ if it doesn't get rain soaked and rotten first. Thus I'd come up with the idea of stretching a plastic tarpaulin across the open area, suspended on bungee ropes. Quite resourceful, I thought. Protected both the hay and the pair stood there munching it all day and night. To hell with the rain. And it was that tarp' which drew my baleful gaze on thursday. Just after noon.

Ye see, it had filled with rain water and was bellied low. So low it was probably brushing Rosies head as she moved beneath it. My almost obsessive care for my creatures comforts wasn't going to allow Rosie to put up with this seeming indignity. Without hesitation, I marched straight down the compound and through the gate. I'd soon sort this out.

Barging through the cow bier door, I swept up a broom in passing. Out the bottom door and directly into the pen. My eyes, with my full attention, already on the low hanging belly of the rain filled tarp. " 'Fucking sort this out, horses! " I said, as I looked up from beneath the tarp and pushed the broom head towards the lower end of the pen.

With an almighty rush, gallons and gallons of rain water cascaded earthward. Like a minor damb burst, I heard it gush down onto the small drainage ditch beneath the old gate into the paddock. Another, well manoeuvred shove. A load more poured off. That was That sorted. And all before my cuppa and smoke. Good.

A quick glimpse at the 'horses'. Yep. Both here. Both fine. I ran my eyes round the concrete floor of the pen. Bit of night shit. That could wait till I came back to muck out, as usual. Hay was good. Being eaten. Cool. All's well. Time for that tea and smoke. Check a forum or two and then sort the creatures out. How's that drainage ditch holding up with all this rain? Ah. Blocked, as ever. Must rod it some time and .....

And, all I really remember is the large, brown lump. It was the same colour as the shit saturated, flooded drain it lay in. It was half submerged and very still. And I was screaming something. On my knees. My arms thrust into a sea of shit and water. And I was trying to lift this dead weight out of the slurry.

Absurdly, I remember thinking it should've been black and white. I'd expected a piebald. I'd expected to look out one day and see an idyllic scene of a little, black and white thing suckling feverishly beneath Rosie. Out there on the field. On a sunny day. Probably in June. I wasn't prepared for This.

It's back leg was somehow, grotesquely, caught up through the bars of the gate. Such long legs. So many of them! I desperately tried to keep calm as I unravelled the mess of limbs. Was anything broken? Did it fucking matter?!? With a super human strength, born of the fear of pure nightmare, I'd somehow lifted this entire dead, cold, limp mass of wet, gritty filth out of the slurry ditch and was holding ot to my chest.

Somehow, I snaked a hand into the breat pocket of my bod warmer and managed to get my mobile out. Without concious thought, I rang Pat; My closest neighbour with a brain cell and whose number I have. I seem to remember screaming something about, " The foals here ~ it's in the ditch ~ saturated. " I'm bloody sure I remember poor Pat saying something about he knows nothing about horses ~ calves ....."

I also remember the brown, filthy water running all over my expensive, 'flash' new mobile. It's too slim and poncy for them even to have made a case for. And here was ditch water flooding across its face and key pad? It'd blow up any second!

Then I was screaming to Steve. I honestly haven't got a clue what I said, or his answers. All I remember is; " You Do Not Have Enough Credit To Continue This Call. Please Top Up. "

Then I was staggering back, up the step, into the cow bier. This sodden. brown lump of cold, gritty meat in my arms. I layed it down on the floor and tried to think clearly. It was like looking at something I'd dragged, with a stick, out of curiosity, from a pond. Something dead. Drowned. Thrown in there some time since. The only thing missing was that smell of putrification and the white patches where the hair had slipped out.

Towels. I'd somehow rushed back up the cottage and was now rubbing it with a towel. Then another. And I was getting no where. The towels seemed as soaked and dirty as it was. One or two of its gangly legs may have been broken. Its lower lip appeared torn. I was aware of something fleshy hanging down around there. This was an absolute fucking nightmare! It wasn't meant to Be like this!

The next thing I remember is Pat and Steve were both there. Pat, I distincly remember, raked inside the mouth and pulled out a clod of shit. He said something about Lungs and No Good. Mental blank .....

A bed of deep straw has materialised? I have no straw! A red, Heat Lamp. I must have rushed to fetch the extension lead from in here? These guys were fucking Heroes! As I tried to comprehend the situation and, as best I could, mimic their activities; The lamp was hung, just so. We rucked the straw into a bolstered bed. I was getting sound bites like " Breathing ". " Guts settling ". " The Mares Milk. " That's all that was getting through to me. Snatches. I was in a combat situation; And about ready to lose the fight.

Then I was kneeling beneath Rosie. I had a 20 ML syringe and was milking her into it. Oddly, this bit I remember perfectly well, even though I've lost what happened imidieately before and after. It's worth relating here ~ a moment of amusement, even in the midst of this nightmare.

So, I'm milking Rosie into this syringe when Pat ~ a Born To It, life long, absolutely obsessive Beef Cattle Farmer ~ says to me; " Ye Milking that mare?! How the ....?! ". To which, glancing over my shoulder, I says; " Ye've never milked a Horse before, Pat?! Good lord! We City Boys do it all the time, mate! Fucking born to it! "

Maybe he misheard me? Thought I'd said 'Gypsy Boys'? Only he seemed quite placated by my answer, how ever he heard it. He just said; " Oh. Really? " To which, as the milk squirted into the open, top end of the syringe, I smilingly shook my head and said just; " No, mate. " I'm quite sure I remember hearing Steve snigger!


And, anyway, That's how it all began. It's been ~ and looks like continuing to be ~ an absolute fucking nightmare. What ye've just read if only the start. I've much, much more to tell ye yet. Only I've got this instinct to go check on Small Horse again now. It's been a couple of hours since I left her, fed, warm and perfectly healthy. But Rosie's right there. And that mare seems set on, quite neutrally, without any sign of actual malice, wiping out the, by now, decidedly less than nine lives of Small Horse.

More later. Time, and simple ability to log in, allowing. Right now ~ 02:44 ~ I just Have To go look in on Small Horse. She'll want a feeding anyway. All being well .....


Consider this " Small Horse; Part One ". I hope to wear this subject out, over the coming weeks and months. Know what I'm saying?

I'm A Dad!!!

One fuck of a story to follow! Just as soon as I get a single moment of time to do anything about it! And What a fucking story this is! Just look at Small Horse there, people ..... Then, wait till I tell ye her story. Ye not gonna fuckin believe it!

Gotta rush off again, for now. So much to do.

Forgive My Silence .....

People; I'm locked in a Life Or Death struggle right now. I sort of guess things will be resolved, one way or another, by the morning? Maybe not.

Either way. I'll not have eaten or slept by then. Dogs are fine, as am I.

Full story to follow ASAP.

" The Place Had Been Well Gypo'd "

If I had a pound for every time I saw that comment, on " Derelict Places ", I'd have even more money in my damn bank account. Never, since I left THL forum, have I encountered such endemic, open and sanctioned Racism. Some of those idiots were foaming at the mouth so badly they seemed to be saying " Fikies ".

Ok, so apart from the usual use of quite disgustingly derogatory terms in general, in this respect, I saw these idiots pointing out that a site they'd explored had been " Gypo'd ". As in, someone ~ person or persons unknown ~ had obviously entered and, at the very least, removed " Scrap Metal ". Be this the lead off a church roof or, one might imagine, the brass door handles of an abandoned cinema.

For a start then, let's look at the termenology. " Gypo'd ". We all know who they're refering to. " Gypsys ". " Pikeys ". " Travellers ". But look at the tense. " Gypo'd ". Past Tense. Historical. It'd already been done.

And these incandescent dinelos Always appear to be mentioning how they come upon the signs of this historical theft and criminal damage. Not one, that I saw, actually mentions finding any Gypsys on site, in the act. And yet they state, perfectly catagorically, that 'Pikies did it!'. They never saw fuck all. They actually know fuck all. But they Know, in their own fevered little minds; It was Gypsys.

And that's why I invited ye all to take a look over the photo's I took when Dean O' and I visited an abandoned stone quarry last week end. See; Some of us can fairly well examine the remains of a predated creature and have a fair idea what predator killed it. Foot tracks to bite marks. Even manner of eating. Lots of minutiae adds up to give us a fair impression of what probably went on there.

But, who better to spot the clues of a fox kill than a fox? " Takes one to know one ". And I wonder how You compared; looking through my photo's, to what I was able to see, as I took them?

I never pointed out any particular shots. I wanted ye to enter that site, just as we had. The shots were, and are, simply uploaded by numerical order. Just as I took them. You saw what I saw. Did ye feel that place had been " Gypo'd " ?

Either way, now I'll explain ~ with a few pictures:

The Site

Lovely place, isn't it? I just wanted to earth us both by showing that one. Plenty more on the " DitchShitter " PhotoBucket. Album, " Explore 11 ".

But here's the shots I conciously took, with a post such as this already formulating in my mind .....

" Gypo'd " ?

Well? Any 'Experts' Reading ?

Ye see, pretty much coming from 'Derelict Places' forum to this Explore, I was still very much tuned in to the biggoted drivel I'd seen voiced by so many idiots there. And so, at first, as I wandered around the old quarry, I was quietly thinking to myself; " Hmm. Wonder what They'd make of this? "

But, towards the end of our tour of exploration ~ we must've actually spent well over an hour or two in this relatively small area ~ the whole notion of how tunnel visioned, jack booted 'Daily Mail' / 'Sun' readers would have percieved and then reported this site was fucking me Right off.

Dean O' got it first hand. I normally only utter expletives of delight and amazement, during Explores. I may question what we're finding. But, last week end? I found myself more and more drawn into pretty much ranting and raving, as I pointed out the - to me - patently obvious .....

The last shot there ~ to those who Know ~ says it all. There's # 1 staring ye in the face. A good six foot or so more is out of shot. All hand strippable. There's Braziary staring ye in the face. And, though covered in lime dust, in the shot, a blind imbecile would realise that there's a fuck off great motor tucked in behind there. All wound up in a lump of #2. And let's, for gods sake, not forget the fucking great Brass nut on the left! Few turns of a wrench and the lot would be in the back of the truck in minutes.

" Gypo'd " ?! Pida tu mui! If ye thought that? Ye don't have a clue what the fuck ye Think ye thinking of. Go get a fucking life!


Minutes later, as we were walking back to the motor, me Still bending Dean O's ear about the wankers who want to blame all that's fucked up in their country on the bogey men they most love to hate, I paused. " Fucking Look at This! ", I cried.

" This "

Lifting and dropping it. A six foot length of Aluminium sheet, just laying there beside the main track?! FFS!

This site has been " Gypo'd " by a bloke who simply decided the best, and most obvious, stuff was simply too good to leave to waste. Probably the Owner himself, or a former worker? But they made a piss poor job of it and likely left as much as they even knew to salvage. Complete amateurs. Chancers. Just grabbing a bit of pin money.

No self respecting Gypsy would have gone to the trouble of removing the scrap, yet leaving so much. What we see there is the work of a Gaujo. Snatching and grabbing. And why not? Anyone else ever sees the results of their handywork? They'll just pin the blame straight onto Gypsys anyway!

As I said to Dean O', as we left it all behind us and clamboured over the gate; " There's only One fucking 'Gypo' ever entered this place, mate. And all he's taken was pictures! ".

Some Photo's I'd Like Ye To Browse .....

Last night, I put an interim message on here. I explained how I'm up to my neck in work and my Connection is a complete piss take (Vodafone 3G.Probably one of the most useless fucking services out there. Avoid it like a rabid rat) But, I promised ye I had something in the pipe line. And I have.

My next offering is to be based around two subtly linked themes; The latest Explore ~ of a derelict site ~ which the intrepid duo of Dean O' and myself have undertaken. And Gypsys. Somehow, I feel that combination should just about promise something for everyone, no? I mean; Did ye not think, " Oh yeah? " when ye read that?

What ever. It is. And it's not just a single event either. This could go off in any number of directions. I could run a Poll, to see what ye think. I could ..... I don't know. It's 05:30 and I've spent most of the 'night' just uploading the fucking photo's I took, yesterday afternoon. I want to go to bed. I just wouldn't go back on my, earlier, word of having something for ye by morning.

So, Please; Go take a look at a, quite large, selection of shots I took at this abandoned Stone Quarry. They're not yet annotated. Simply presented in the order I took them. And I took them simply as I entered, explored and left the site. No agenda. None other than to show others what I found, at least.

I'd only ask one thing of ye ~ should ye wish to best appreciate what ever may evolve from all this; Just make a mental (Or perhaps, even better, literal) note of any shot which suggests to ye that Gypsys may have visited this relatively small, old quarry site.

Anyway, that's it. Day's brightening up out there. I'm fucked. Off to grab some sleep. Not saying any more because I can't. Mind's too caved in now. But, bear with me. Your fucking Connection's probably so good, my little 500 X 500 shrinkers will just Be There, the second ye hit This Link.

Lucky bastards! For ye Broadband. Not my pictures.

But then; Broadband isn't everything. I had it, once. I wouldn't go back to the sort of conditions which make it the norm. Swings and round abouts.

Bit of Classic Nouveaux Ditch

Over on Derelict Places.

Saves me repeating myself here. Bit photo rich for this place too. But I think ye might like the story, anyway .....

The Cold Side Of The Ditch

What have I done to deserve this?

It's lashing it down with wind driven rain, out there. Seems to have been doing for days now.
Something the postcards and tourist posters never show ye. But, we live with it.

That's not to say I'm one to make my creatures live with it though. At least not in it. Rats has her little house; Built with love and attention to detail. Of which she's immeasurably proud and extremely happy with. le Ding too, for the occasions when I simply Must leave him to his own devices, has a roomy and weatherproof kennel.

My horses (well, alright; My horse and my donkey. But, it's easier to just say " Horses ") have free access to their field. They can them come in, through the cow bier, to their own little pen where they have all mod cons laid on for their disposal.

The only problem has surfaced to be that pen area. See, it consists of what was once the outside cattle stalls. Thus it has the usual, steel dividers, all set beneath a lovely roof in a block and concrete built shelter. Under there they have shelter from the elements as they enjoy the uses of a small hay rack, a hanging Salt Lick block, Rosie (My real horse) has her wall mounted feeder bowl and there's the fully automatic, plumbed in, corner Drinker. Happy horses.

Spoiled rotten horses, some might say. Because pride of place out there must go to my Round Bale Horse Feeder! Basically, a galvanised steel ring with alternating panels and gaps around the top. Horse sticks its head through a gap and eats from a round bale of hay kept inside it.

£500 this thing cost me. Cow one, with a bar round the top of all the slots, costs £200. But I tried that and Rosie rubbed a big patch of her beautiful main off on the damn top bar! It'll grow again, of course. But how long will it take bristles to flow? I'd pay another £500 to have her gorgeous mane back.

Anyway, thing is, this wonderful feeder was certainly worth every penny. They don't get to drag and trample the hay everywhere. Hay's like gold dust right now ~ I'm serious. People are selling off their horses, or trying to, because they just can't afford the ever increasing food bill. And will we ever get a decent hay harvest again?

But, the one thing Nothing out there is doing is keeping this damn pissing rain off what ever valuable hay I manage to buy in for them. In dry weather, 99% of a bale goes through my horses. In this shit? Hay stands to get rotten before it gets eaten. I'm desperately trying to find them a new bale. No way am I going to see it rot down, if I ever get one!

And that's why I bought a tarpaulin and bag of bungee's yesterday. I decided to throw an awning right over the top of their pen. Find that elusive bale and my horses can stand around in there, day and night, simply munching on their hay. Might even save my field from being poached up into a fair representation of the Somme.

Did it yesterday evening. Brought the gear home. Fed the Dogs and horses. Under half an hour later I had a bright blue, water proof lid on the entire pen area. Not a bad job, if I do say so. I'll buy some more bungee's now, and some screw hooks. Make a really proper job of it. Not that it's bad now. Survived some fierce winds last night! I was, frankly, surprised to find it even still there today!

But, there today it was. And there this evening it was. It was quite fun, going down there to give the horses their supper. There we all were, mincing around beneath this artificial, blue sky. I glanced at a few bungees and decided they'd held twenty four hours so should be as good as it gets, for now.

Couple of eye rings I'd tied with baler twine ~ not having quite enough rubber ropes. I noticed one had actually managed to become unknotted. No problem. Soon sort that out. It was supposed to be tied to a beam beneath the cow stalls roof. I reached up and caught the two ends of the length of twine and pulled them together.

And screamed; " Oh god! NOOOOOO! Fuck! Aaaaaaaaargh!!!!! " As a good, full gallon of trapped fucking rain water poured itself, with quite amazing speed and unerring accuracy, straight down the open ended sleeves of my fleece and quilted shirt! It liturally ran right down my sleeves, inside my shirt and I was only saved from further, unthinkable horror by my damn belt!

So, here I am. Hour later. Sat here with a wet left arm in a sodden sleeve. And the entire left side of my poor, skinny body is all wretchedly wet and horribly cold!

What the fuck have I done to deserve this?!

" The Detectives of Dereliction "

That's Dean O' and I! Or it will be, if we can agree to some stupid arsed title for ourselves. He's badgering me, right now. On Yahoo. I'm trying to make him see how something that reads like a headline from the Sun is catchier. (Don't s'pose Dean O' reads the Sun. Bit high brow for him! * Ouch! * He'll fuckin' get me for that!)

Anyway, what ever. This is why I'm being so quiet right now. Dean and I are both completely obsessed with our ducking and diving amidst the derelict. We've been out for the past few days now, roaming the back roads and by ways of Co. Leitrim. Simply searching out places to Explore. It's addictive as hell!

We've made seven insurgences already. Hundreds of photographs ~ There's only One Rule to this game; 'Take ONLY Photographs!' Ideally, no one should ever know we've been through, unless they happen to examine the 'Foreign' board, on Derelict Places. I even have a very strong, personal code about pissing. No way will I piss inside an 'Explore'. Start doing that and ye know what places start smelling like. Use the grass outside.

Saying that; I was musing to Dean O' just today ~ having just completed our most advanced and daring mission to date. I wonder what it must be like to happen across the sort of thing that Really turns ones screw. Laying there, gathering dust in some abandoned place. Knowing that, as ye leave, it'll remain. Until someone with less scruples happens by. Or they come to pull the entire place down.

I mean, take me, for example; How about if I found an old, genuine Man Trap propped up in the corner of some pile of stones with half a tin roof left on it? Well, alright. Me being me? I'd make every possible endeavour to locate the land owner and figure out some way of explaining my knowledge of the things existence. Then offer him a fair and proper price for it. Cunt that I am.

But, as I said to Dean; " Imagine finding a pile of bones, beneath a rotted old noose, suspended from a beam somewhere? Who could really resist making off with a human skull? " No fucking use to the previous occupant. That'd be for sure, eh?!

But, that's just two adrenalin pumped nutters, chatting in a van ..... Well, alright; One of them, saying something to his mate!

It Is a rush though. Start to finish. Nine times out of ten, ye shouldn't really be there. It's sometimes dark as hell in these places. It's often as not down right fucking dangerous too! My old sphincter's been sealed up air tight on more than a few occasions already. I mean; You try clamouring through a rotten window and just stepping into pitch blackness. Never know what might be there. Rotten floor. No floor at all. Fucking great Man Trap?!

So, anyway, that's why I've been a bit busy to put anything up on here ~ and shall be, for about another twenty four hours, probably. I've been out, day and night, doing Explores. Then I'm having to process hundreds of photo's and up load them to my new PhotoBucket site. And, of course, on My poxy connection? That's taking me for ever!

There ye go. Twenty more have just up loaded. Adding a dozen more to those now. And that's just Explore 4 out of Seven! Even once I have them all up there, I have to go and tell them all what I've been up to, and show them my favourite shots, over at Derelict Places.

Dean O's already made some of his own posts there. We share the 'First Post' rights. Some he'll start and I'll add to. Others, I get the first bite on and he'll compliment mine with shots and some chat of his own. We work well together, because each of us has a different eye for the shots and we both, of course, feel differently about each Explore.

Anyway, with that, I'll have to love ye and leave ye for a bit more. Dean's back at his regular job tomorrow. I'm a bit stuck without him for transport and local knowledge of where to go. But don't worry; I yet have an absolute fucking belter lined up for ye. Just finishing off a spot of research and want some 'background' photo's too. But, this is going to be The one worth waiting for.

I've found a wayside Gypsy grave!!! I shit ye not! You wait and see! It'll appear Here first. Stay tuned or sign up as a Blog Watcher, for a live alert.

All Cammo'd Up!

Happy again, now. Just thought what I'd been up to 'today' (during the course of Saturday daytime) and remembered I've took a shot of one of my new Flektarn shirts.

Flektarn. I love this shit! It's the German stuff, and it's about as different from ye bog standard (and now very standardised) NATO DPM as it gets. Even the Irish Army gets to wander about in the sort of thing your lot wear. The ubiquitous, broad brush strokes, green, beige and black stuff. Standard issue.

Now, I'm sure that stuff's ok in a Europen hedgerow? One lot of guys, in one hedge, trying to spot another bunch of guys in another hedge, some way off? Fuck it. Just 'Hose' the hedge, I guess? But that's army stuff.

I don't actually lurk in many hedges. I have to sneak out of hedges and cross up to hundereds of yards of good old, traditional, Leitrim " Rough Upland Pasture ". What you ~ and I! ~ would probably call " Bog ". (Ye certainly would, if ye ever tried laying down in it!)

Here's some:


See how the browns predominate? This is why I don't really prefer the usual stuff myself. And as for Real Tree? My god! It makes me laugh, first day of the season, to see all the local lads standing around in the pub. All decked out in their finest livid greens and gray branches! Again, I'm sure that stuff's the Dogs, if ye standing about in some deciduous wood somewhere? Only, there's precious little deciduous woods round here.

So I chose this:



I really like this stuff. And I've looked at every cammo available out there too. In my view, nothing quite matches Juncus rush like the old, German Flektarn. Especially when ye consider much of what concerns me is avian. I truly feel this pattern is best for what Juncus must look like from above.

I got my kit, today. Dean O' and I drove right up to Ballyconnall (I think that's about how it's spelled. I never even noticed the road signs and Dean isn't so strong on spelling. North side of Balinamore anyway. Near the border) There's a shop there called The Trading Post. And this is one place people like us should have on our itinary, if ever in the area.

It's largely Army Surplus. But, as is usual with such business's, they stock allied sorts of ranges. Clothing, that is. Only it's definetely fine tuned toward the sort of person who comes into Army Surplus stores in the first place. Cool shop.

Lovely young lady in there too. Very helpful and happy to be so. Without her help I wouldn't have discovered half the shop, let alone the stuff I pulled out of the walls of box shelves! It's directly thanks to her that I discovered what'll probably become one of my best loved jackets. Dean O' bought one two. Great jackets! Flektarn, naturally!

I also found just the bag I've been looking for. Genuine, army issue. Maybe Irish Army? I've certainly never seen one before. But it's just what I wanted, to carry my bits and pieces in when I go out. And somewhere to discretely put anything remove from the land. I think I'll call it my 'Cat Bag'.

But, then came the totting up of all the stuff I'd freely piled onto the counter. Two pairs of strides. Two shirts. A jacket. A Bod' Warmer. My bag. A belt and a cammo scrim. No matter. I had £200 in my pocket and there was a hole in the wall right over the road.

That's when I personally experienced the almost embaressing genorosity of this place, which Dead O' had actually mentioned on the run out there; " Well, " she grinned, " I'm giving ye the scrim, the belt and that bag, so well suited to dead cat conveyance ..... " (?!) " So, the shirts, trousers, body warmer and jacket ....? £170. Oh, and here's a pair of excellent socks each! "

I Defy Ye to beat that! Good god, only a few weeks ago I wanted to buy One jacket, pair of strides and a bod' warmer, in some gun shop? That came to £270! And he didn't take plastic?! And the nearest bank was twenty miles away! I walked out of there, empty handed. His loss. But, as I said to the taxi driver who'd ferried me all the way out there (" Trapper Johns ", this was); " There's always a Reason for things. I'll find my new kit yet. "

I found it. At The Trading Post. Ballyconnall. I suspect it Might be up and over in Co. Cavan? Just north of Ballinamore, anyway. Check it out, if ye ever in the area. Highly Recommended.

What's Taking Me So Long ? (Good Rant!)

Ok, let's start at the begining, shall we? I've ~ earlier tonight ~ enthused about how much stuff I have to bring ye. And I have! Shit loads of diverse and cool shit. (At least I think it's cool! I'm happy about it anyway. And, since ye nosing around in my day to day affairs? Ye gonna get to fucking read it!)

Only, I have a problem or two. Things bugging me and, frankly, ripping my piss! One of them is my loss of memory. Lap Tops, not my heads.

See, I've just become sick and fucking tired of seeing this damn message coming up, bottom right, telling me something about my " Memory Paging File Is Fucked ~ Doing Something About It. Oh; And, Whilst We Do? You're Fucked Too! ". What ever.

So, I popped up on one of my regular fora and asked for Geeks. Man! I hit pay dirt! Got the King Geek himself answering me. This guy sent me All the shit. Everything from where to buy the Memory my machine's crying out for, right through to a page explaining how I get it in there! Sweet!

See, it seems my machine's only got Half the Memory it can carry. Came like that. Now it's all clogged up and this is why I'm sitting here, clicking, then sitting listening to my beard grows before the next fucking page opens.

Seems buying this Memory Card and popping that in here will make this thing run like the wind. All it takes is about £25 of MC. And I've been shown all I need to know about how to get it, and get it in.

Yeah. I'm 100% certain the guy had the very best of intentions. He showed me all that. Then he showed me a couple of sites to order what I needed from. Even pointed out that one saved me a couple of bob over the other. Something like that. Of course, I followed that link. I sent my money, via on line plastic, to Crucial. com.

I was happy again. I figured I'd have that little bit of plastic and brass within a week or so. Pop it in here and be able to get on with my work. Bastards! I ordered it 04/19/2009, 17:26:23. I've heard nothing since. Nothing, that is, but an automatic reply e mail:

" Your order has been successfully received at Crucial.com. Shortly we'll begin processing your order and preparing it for shipment. "

I just checked the 'Progress' of my order. Exact same result. Bastards!

This from a seemingly International outfit. One whose boast is:

" Shop with Confidence: Crucial.com provides secure ordering & top-rated customer satisfaction since 1997. "

Really?!? And who the fuck dreamed That one up, eh? Do I sound like a 'Top ratedly satisfied' fucking customer? Does Two Weeks of " Yeeah, yeeah, yeah. Listen, cunt; We've Had ye fuckin money. Now just shut the fuck up while we sip our coffee and think about even Thinking About doing shit about ye order " Sound like 'Satisfying'?

Meanwhile; You just continue with ye machines total melt down. Waste as much time as ye like, checking our poxy site ~ slowly, cos ye in melt down. Just remember; You Paid Us Already, Sukkaaa!!! Now what ye gonna do?

What am I going to do? I'm going to advise who the hell ever I can reach, through this thing and Google, to stear the hell clear of Crucial.com!!! I feel that's the Least I can do!

Anyone know where I can buy 512MB, 200-pin SODIMM Upgrade for a Packard Bell Easy Note C3 Series System ?

Please let me know. Get that and maybe we can get on here.

So Much To Tell!

Whoah! People; My head's spinning! I've had such a great couple of days I'm not even sure where to start! I'm gagging to settle down and tell ye all about the adventures I've been having. Only, I'm trying to get my dinner done ~ Damn! Microwave's Binging! Sort out loads of photo's and god knows what else. Plus I'm gradually becoming Drunk! Heh!

Listen; I'll bang away at all this for as long as I can keep my eyes open. Just a quick heads up that there's a nice rash of stuff going to appear here in the next twenty four hours. Something for everyone.

My advice is to TRY and hack ye way through Googles god awful fucking system of hoops and make yeself a 'Blog Watcher'. Then, I imagine, it'll alert ye as the shit hits? Otherwise, ye'll just need to keep checking in here. And I work some funny hours.

Rants, Raves, Responses, Rhetorical Babbling. It's all to come! Fuck it. Now I simply Must go sort my damn dinner out! Eating interferes with what I Really want to do!

Catch ye later!

My Little POW's

It was back in October of 2008. Over seven months ago now then, that I caught a magpie, alive, somewhat by accident ~ and no small miracle. I don't want to go into the details here of how that came about. But it led to the story I'm about to relate.

See, finding this hapless bird in the most - for him - unfortunate circumstances and completely at my mercy, I actually stopped and considered the situation. Rather, that is, than automatically and without thinking, knocking him on the head.

Look at it from my point of view. It was October. Not a lot of nests active at that time of year. So he couldn't be up to much mischief. Fact that he was caught while picking over old chicken bones in my compost box rather proved what his existence was like at that approach to winter. And, anyway, he wasn't a Job. No body had noticed him. He hadn't been bothering anyone. There was nothing in it for me.

Upshot was, I took him in as a Prisoner Of War. He was, after all, the enemy. It would've seemed worse by far, to me, to have let him go free than to have knocked him off. Do that and I'd likely only end up killing him in the spring or summer anyway. Besides which, I'm far from a teenage kiddie with everything to prove to everyone. I have my own mind and that mind said to do as I did.

So it was he came to be transferred to my Larsen Trap (For a bloody good article on these things, which I just happened to stumble across, go have a look at this; Larsen Traps)

I set the trapping compartments, more or less as a matter of course. But, also to see what might happen. See, most people consider there to be a 'season' for Larsen trapping magpies. Spring and summer. I fancied trying out a little experiment.

Guess what? I had another one in days! I left that one in the trap too. Gave it a water drinker and started feeding them both their daily ration of a slightly less than golf ball sized portion of fresh, minced beef.

Then, sadly, inside a week my first one died. I suspect it was the shock of his mode of capture. Perhaps he'd sustained some physical injury that didn't show? Anyway, he fell off his perch, poor old thing. So I transferred the newer bird to the decoy section and got on with my life. For a couple of days or so. Then I caught another!

Now, let me tell ye; There's something rather endearing about these intelligent and soon to become trusting little birds. Take them out of the wider environment and what are they? Gone is the infuriating vision of merciless nest robbers. There's no primal challenge of the sly and sneaking target. They become, I can assure ye, just rather pretty and amusing little things who want nothing more than their breakfast each and every day.

Just to underline here; Magpies like to eat meat. It's the best - if not only - way we can provide their 'natural' diet (unless we intend to go about catching bugs and grubs for them on a gargantuan scale of time and effort!) Furthermore, they Must be fed Every Single Day, without fail. Miss a day? Bird dies. Simple as that.

I've also gone to extreme lengths to keep them protected from the prevailing elements. The trap is wrapped up against the winds and rains. But I've fitted a perspex sheet to the sunny side, so they can enjoy the light, without the rougher weather getting to them. They can't go hide in a birch tree, after all.

So, anyway, there they are. Hopping about in their Larsen Trap, up on my flat porch roof. They've been there for months now and are perfectly happy. They haven't a care in the world and they don't need to work for a living, nor fear being shot as they try to do so. And I'm honestly rather fond of them too. Every day I come up my ladder calling, " Hullo, birds! Here's ye breakfast. " And I check them over as I pop their balls of beef in for them. I'd miss it, if anything happened to them.

Of course, I dare say some of ye may be sitting there thinking; " Oh, come on, Ditch! Ye say ye fond of them, yet ye committing them to a dreary life inside a pokey little Larsen Trap?! " Fair point. Only ye see, I've been busy. Extremely busy. I've had a seemingly endless stream of things to do around here. But now I'm working my way through my 'next jobs'.

Here's my next 'next job'. I've been in touch with Sales and hope to have one shipped over here any time now. I look after my creatures. They'll have one of These.

Here's one of my little mates, look (Click for full picture);