" Total Visitors By Country "

That little box, lower left, there? I put that up in the very small hours of this morning. What it reads, as ye look at it, will thus reflect the visitors since about 05:00 on 29-Jun-2009. Don't worry about it. My 'actual' StatCounter shows this place has had Thousands of visitors since I started it. And those visitors come from all over.

That's not the greatest concern, to me. I still have about a dozen regular people a day who come in here. I don't know who they are (IP Numbers are actually quite useless to people like me. About as good as studying Bar Codes in a supermarket) but I do know they've been coming here for ever, and keep coming back.

This is cool. Because, I figure, these must be my 'Friends'. The people who just want to know what I'm up to and how I'm getting along, without having to bug me for reports. The exact reason I set this place up. Many others are just people who look in here, from and why? Who cares. Plenty of those come back too. That's nice.

But, the Real reason(s) I installed that thing are as follows:

1. I saw Pat' Burns has one like it on his site, " Terriermans Daily Dose " and that it remembered all his visitors countries for him. See? Notice how I've made a point of shouting to Iraq, Egypt, Algeria, Angola etc? I do that, in part, to remind myself and record who I've spotted, on my 'official' StatCounter site has been through here. I thought it'd be fun to, like Pat, have a permanent record, easily accessible, of what mad countries appear here.

2. Though; I took a damn hard, long look at Pat's stat's last night ..... Heh! Ye fucking kidding me!

Listen; That guy is a Master Blog Smith. One look at what He's coming out with and I'll start losing trade time. I sit here and rant, rave and swear. Pat's a fucking Maestro of proper Blogging. If I was out to create a challenge to His form of work? I'd be heart broken. I wouldn't stand a chance.

But; I sincerely question the figures on His identical little 'Visitors by Country' box. Exact same one as I now have here. I mean; 100 plus hits from Mongolia?! I swear to god, that site is 'taking hits' from places I've genuinely never fucking heard of! In fact, I'd suggest there's not a county on the planet that hasn't had Someone look in on Pat's site ~ According to his little box there.

This isn't sour grapes, obviously. I have a Lot of time for Pat' Burns. I also note how his mega thousands visitors figures are as one would expect; USA, UK, Eire ..... But, how many fucking people in Chad and so forth may we expect to be hitting him? Go see for yeselves. It Just Looks Dodgy!

Pat' can't effect that read out, no more than I can mine. Thus I wonder if it's a 'sales point'. Do these counters rack up weird hits, just so we'll get excited and tell our friends, " Get one of these! Ye'll never believe where visitors are coming from! " ? I wonder .....

So, I'm giving one a try. In tandem with my far more open one, that I use for personal amusement. If Greenland turns up on my new widget? It'd sure as hell better show on my StatCounter map too. Else it's fucking history!

Let's wait and see.

One Shouldn't Laugh ..... But ....!

Anyone who thinks Genealogy ('Tracing Ye Family Tree') is for dried up old fossils who want to sit in musty Records Offices all day looking for links to aristocracy is completely off planet. Believe me. I know about this. Because, I've been up to my eyeballs in this stuff for years now. It's completely compelling and ye just never know where it'll take ye, or what it'll teach ye next.

And I've just been on a quick tour of the Workhouse's. Grimmest fucking places one could imagine, outside of the Nazi Camps, believe me. And, before ye shrug, sniff and consider such places nothing to do with you? I wouldn't be so smarmy till ye've dug into ye own family history! Only a couple of generations back, things could be a hell of a lot different than today.

Anyway, I've not come here to berate ye. I'm not in that mood. No. My little trip round the hell holes of yesteryear did leave me in tears, in fact. But, suffice to say; It also left my rubber key board running with spat out Stout! I spat the Stout out just before I collapsed into a helpless mess of uncontrollable laughter!

I was looking for some people whose surname began with " Bu... ", see? So, there I am, cruising down these long, alphabetical lists of Inmates names. Concentrating on the later B's, but constantly aware of the categorisations these places put people into. The ones making me start to snigger were; " Idiot ", " Imbecile " and " Lunatic "!

I mean, for fuck sake; It's not bad enough that ye've ended up in there. Now some cunt is arbitrarily labelling ye a fucking " Idiot "! (Ahh, christ! Here I go again! Laughing so hard I can barely see the key board My stomach hurts with it!)

So, there I am, laughing myself into a frenzy about all that ~ yeah; I started tipping the glass a trifle early today. So hot, and it's a sunday ~ when my eye slips off the bottom of the B's and I somehow find myself looking at " Jacob Curtis. Born in Poole. Job; Blacksmith. Condition; Blind!

Sorry. That just did it! Thought of a Blind Blacksmith? How come he wasn't listed as " Lunatic ", or at least " A Complete Fucking Idiot! " as well?!

Oh dear! Now I Must pee!

Angola ?!?

Ye fucking kidding me?!


Those boys sure as hell get around, eh?

Michael Jackson

Dead, eh? So what? Cunt was a complete freak and an unrepentent kiddie fiddler. No loss what so ever.

" Slap Dancing " ? FFS. Just see me when I can't find my lighter.

A Word On 'Comments' .....

Today someone put my actual name in a Comment on here. I was out on my land at the time so never saw it for an hour or more. Some of ye may react to that by thinking, " So what? My entire name and fucking address appears on my site! So, what's the big deal? ". Others may think, " Oh, FFS!!! He did What?" . I'm of the latter view.

So ..... Having elected to allow all and sundry to post what ever they felt like as a Comment on here, without Any Moderation from me; This has now proven a security risk. I don't do security risks! Not when I can help it.

So, here's the craic: I've changed the system on here. From now on, every word anyone tries to put on here will come through me. I'll get to check what ye trying to say. Believe me, I'll only be looking for ye slips of the tongue. My name is " Ditch Shitter ". " Ditch " is fine. Insults are fine. Anything ye fuckin like is fine. Only NOT my fucking real names. First or last. Names lead to addresses. Don't Ever fuck me around.


But now, here's the sweetener: In making this change, I realised ye poor bastards have to go through that stupid 'Word Verification' shit. Typing out some unintelligible, unreadable crap, usually three times before ye get it the way they want it. Fuck that too. I've switched that off. (Thank Fuck, eh? Sorry about that. ever realised it existed. I despise that too)

So, let's get on. Post ye comments at will. Say what ye like. Just leave clues to my identity out of it.

At least now, if ye Do fuck up, I can un fuck ye. I don't have to Delete ye entire damn Comment. It'll just not appear till I do.

Have fun, people. And Think.

The Gypsyphobe, The Taxi Driver and The Politician

As ye know, I have my Rosie horse. I also have my Pot Cart for her, which I'll be showing ye later. Only, the craic is that one doesn't simply harness a horse to something as comparitivly heavy as a Pot Cart and expect the poor creature to drag it for miles, up and down hills. Certainly not a horse who's done little more than stand about eating for the past god knows how long. No more than ye'd work a Dog unfit.

So, ye need a thing called an Exercise Cart. Basically, steel tubes for shafts. Two motor bike wheels. Tubular steel arrangement to support a two man bench seat and somewhere to rest ye feet. Not a million miles removed from a Trotting Cart then ~ if that might help ye visualise one? And that's what I need, for Rosie.

First stop then; " Dragon Driving ". Where everyone goes for their various carts. I got my Pot Cart off there. But, whilst there seemed to be no end of Exercise Carts on offer, enquires proved otherwise. I called about a few of the better looking, lower priced ones. All gone. I also wanted one within a sensible distance of the ferry, of course. Norfolk or Sussex is no good.

So, I checked my bank balance. Sucked my teeth and started looking at the higher end stuff. Found a lovely one, in Lancashire. £400 or so. Rang the bloke up and it was still there. I told him I was after it and would just have to sort out the man to fetch it back to me. Friend of mine here said his brother's back and forth a couple of times a week. I'd look him up.

Took the guys e mail and told him to look out for mine presently. E mailed him, to confirm my interest and so forth. He'd said he'd be home in an hour. Last I fucking heard from him! Of course, I didn't know that then. Monday night. I figured he'd be in my mailer next day. So off to town I went, to see my mate about his bro'. And that's where things Really blew up in my face!

Turns out the brother in question is, among other things, one of the local taxi drivers. The very same one who, a year or two back, declared me " A dirty, stinking Gypo " and refused to carry me. Hardly going to be interested in having me hire him for a fucking pick up then, is he? And, what if the guy selling the cart turned out to be a Gypsy? Things could get awkward ..... Now I was fucked.

So, there I am, wandering around town, asking all and sundry how I might get a cart brought over. And getting no where. And that's what I was pondering as I sat in Jim's, figuring I'd better get off home.

Padraig was just finishing his day job. I'd call him. Steve was in england. Gary was off planet somewhere. That's why I'd had to hitch a lift in. One of the few motors to come along had had a huge box on the back seat and a woman in the passenger seat. It'd gone past, like all the rest. Then stopped, sixty five yards down and ..... well, I ignored it. I was looking for a lift.

Then, a few minutes later, this motor was reversing back towards me! I saw the passenger seat was now empty - the woman in the back, squeezed in with the box - and there's the driver, a Pav (Irish Gypsy) telling me to jump in! Bless him! We both agreed it was a blisteringly hot day. At journeys end I slipped him a fiver ~ to get a cooling pint. Taxi would've cost me a tenner. He didn't have to rearrange his motor for me.

I get on alright with the local Pav's. From the start, I treated them as I would any one who's ok with me. Now, alough our entire cultures are as different as chalk and cheese ~ they find english Gypsys as 'different' as anyone else does themselves. There's really very little common ground. But, I see them as human beings. Thus they treat me as one in return.

Anyway, that was getting in. Now I needed to get out. And I was hauling far too much 'shopping' to carry out to the road. I needed a cab. Padraig was miles out of town and booked for Ages?! Oh, shit! I tried Tom - answering machine. Fuck! I was sunk. I'd be sat in the pub for hours! Actually Not my idea of fun. I have creatures to feed here and don't like drinking too much in pubs.

Then my phone rang. It was Padraig. He said his brother, Thomas, would be with me in two minutes! Thomas is our local Fine Gael councillor. I voted for him at the recent locals. Other than that, the fact that he's always used my name to me when we've passed, and the fact that his own foal survived, I really know damn all about the bloke.

So, there we are, bowling along the road to my place. I, of course, have only one thing on my mind and I mention it. " Exercise Cart? " Says Thomas. " So and so had a nice one. Nothing fancy, but perfectly good cart. Good seat and suspension. It'd fit your mare. Why, I should know it well; I drove my own mare in it, up and down this very road! " I'm all ears. But 'Had' ?

" So and so's been dead this three years now. " (Fuck.) " But the cart's still in his shed, down in town. " (Eh?!) " His place is all locked up. But I know 'X' who has the keys. I'll get onto him. And, if not, X and I have an old cart. Made it ourselves. We've no use for it now. Again, a bit scruffy, but perfectly useable. Here; I'll call X ..... "

And, with that, Thomas called, on the hands free. And, minutes later, I wanted to vote this man Irish Amassador! He was fucking Perfect! Timing. Delivery. Questions. Answers. Every word was perfectly executed. Maybe this guy was a life long friend of his? But he just seemed to effortlessly hit all the right buttons, asking all the right questions. Thomas obviously knows his horses too!

By the time we reached my gate, he was throwing in that there'd probably be a suitably 'workaday' full harness available too. So I wouldn't need to let people see Rosie just wandering about in her 'Sunday Best'! Fucking A ~ Mazing! What a fucking turn up, eh?!

There ye go then. That was Tuesday. I'll probably see Padraig on Saturday. See what news he has for me.

Just incredible, isn't it? I was looking at lashing out with £100's and £100's. Desperate to just get something I could hitch Rosie to and get out, on the road, before this summer slips me by. And the answer's been buried in a shed, in town. Just waiting for the call. I call and Boosh!

I fucking Love these people! We work well together. We get along. Something about our principles.

Notes To Self .....

This really is a memo to me. Writing that last one distracted me. Now I'm just dashing down what I want to tell ye about next:

Gypsys / Romanys. Exercise carts / Pot Carts. Fences. Local Politicians. James Bond. Fora. Dogs. Builders / DIY. Hearing Aids. Taxi Drivers.

Right. Ok. That little lot should serve to remind me of so many anecdotes and talking points, ye'd never believe it. Probably keep me going for a week or two alone.

Please don't be put off, should it seem like I'm going to talk about things which do absolutely nothing for ye. Those are just mental prompts, for me. Wait till ye see where each one takes me.

Back To Basics .....

Ok. First of all I'd like to say how honoured I feel to have seen that, despite my having posted nothing for some days now, I've still retained my hard core of regulars who look in here every day. The Stat Counter thingy shows me that. I don't bother digging any deeper, trying to figure out who ye are. That's not an issue. But I am grattified that so many keep checking in, just to see if anything is new. Thanks. It's appreciated.

Strange thing is, Mondays figures. Did I post anything yesterday? I don't remember doing so. Maybe it was a Bank Holiday, with you? Only, for some inexplicable reason, the viewing figures went through the bloody roof! I had my maximum 'usual' visitors. Shit loads of 'first timers'. And they were all over the bloody place ~ reading tons of shit.

Aha! It's just hit me, even as I typed that: Someone must've given this a mention somewhere. A forum, maybe? And so a load of people have poured in to see what it's all about. Cool! Thank You, who ever it was. High body counts aren't the be all and end all here. But it Is nice to see such peaks. Human nature to find it so. Only a fucking liar would deny that.


Anyway; Back to Basics. Where I'm going, for the time being. With this place.

See; I really Did open this up simply to stay in touch with those who wanted to hear about what I was up to. I can't fucking stand things like " Face Book " etc. Too much shit going on with those things.

However, having started this with the idea of a more or less 'one way' and more mature FB / MS /BB, what ever, it soon took on a bit of a life of its own. It became somewhat of a stage. And, in the spot light was the 'Stand Up Routine'. That was, of course, just me 'Being Me'. Entertaining. Amusing. Deeply 'In Character.

Only, as those who know me well, from real life, will tell ye? I'm not really like that, in person. It's more a natural enough style of writing ~ of Presentation ~ I've polished through the years. I've recognised what people most appreciate and have leaned towards that style, for Their gratification. Brian Plummer made a living out of it. They still say he was a cunt, in person.

Well, anyway; I've not been posting as much lately, because my head's too full of things to be able to lend any concentration to 'Style'. I'd become so wrapped up in striving to make each post a 'Belter' that I'd lost touch with the point of all this. To simply let my on line mates know what I was up to.

Not everything I do, think or feel is 'Entertaining and amusing' (Psssst!! I think " Morning Starship " was his best ever!) ..... So on and so forth .....

So, if ye'll forgive me? I've loads to just tell ye about which I really want Not to have to concentrate on putting a slant on. I'd like to just get back to sharing some more mundane thoughts and experiences with my mates.

Bugger. Just check this e mail. Then I'll get back to basics here. Till I get tired of it, or pass out. Only, I'm not likely to run out of subject matter tonight! That's for sure .....

Thanks for the Memory .....

Oh well ..... " You Will notice the difference! ". All the Geeks that ever were told me that. Just get my RAM sorted out and I'd see a hell of an improvement in this LT's performance. This despite me swearing,up down and sideways, that the problem I have is that Vodafone are cunts. And that they'd capped my 'speed' at 236.8kbs the very moment they realised I actually wanted to Use this fucking thing. Not just dash in to check for short e mails once a night.

But, anyway; Who am I to argue with the Geeks? I know fuck all about computers ~ no where near as much as I do about human nature and the staggering greed of big businesses. So, today, Dean O' and I went into the nearest 'Big Town' ~ Carrick On Shannon ~ and visited a Geeks shop there. " Bits and PC's "

Derek's a nice enough guy. We found him sitting behind his crowded little desk, in his crowded little room at the top of the stairs. His space wouldn't even add up to a half decent bed sit. Two, tiny rooms. One the shop. The other a little hole into which he retreats, alone, to mess with the insides of PC's.

He didn't even need to go in there to sort my Memory out though. Just produced a screw driver and a little bit of stuff. Took a little cover off the underside of my Lap Top and revealed the fact that there was nothing in there! No chip.

I believe he then explained this in more detail. How the thing was running on some RAM which was an integral part of the inner system? I don't know. My hearing's so bad I hear little enough of what people say to me these days. But I watched him put a chip in. My machine is now pushing nearly 500MB of RAM. Maxed out. Hasn't made shit difference.

Well, to be brutally honest? I got home. Attached my Vodafone 3G Modem and fired her up. I almost shit myself! Before I could say " XP ", I was sat here staring, in amazement, at my Desk Top. I don't think I've ever seen my system load so fast in all my life. Truly incredible.

Then I fired up the modem and asked for a page ..... and sat here. Watching. Waiting. Resigned. 236.8kbs. Vodafone truly are cunts. For £15.00 though, it was worth a spin. At least I can now shave a minute or two off the wastage of my day. Hit that button and Flash! I have my Desk Top before me.

Not to end on such a banal and pointless note though; I also bought a freshly reconditioned PC off Derek. £100. All singing and dancing. Just the box. But, it means that if, or when, this old work horse finally coughs, farts and dies ~ probably about mid evening, after every where's long since shut for the day ~ I only have to fetch in my other PC, plug my bits into it and pretty much get straight back to work.

Best of all though is my freaky Key Board! I'm a two finger typist and my finger nails are hard as all hell ~ especially on the plastic of key board buttons. I tend to dig the characters off inside six months. What ever remains, I tend to hide beneath a thick coat of spilled tea and beer. That's why I found the concept of a Rubber Key Board irresistible.

Waterproof? Completely. Hopefully less prone to getting dug to fuck by my nails too. But, here's what Really freaks me out!

It's Bendy As A Dish Cloth!

I mean ~ seriously; How fucked up is That?!

Fucking Builders!

Sorry I've not posted in so long, peeps. I've been distracted and, frankly, fucking exhausted! That's because I've been running around like a headless fucking chicken, trying to get shit done around here while this hint of 'better' weather holds. And I've been failing miserably! NOT my fucking fault!

I have this last window I need sorting out. See; The brit govt had owed me a shit load of money. Bastards strung out paying me for about Fifteen Years! Think about that. Imagine knowing ye were worth shit loads. Yet living hand to mouth as ye waited to get that munge. Can ye imagine the plans and dreams ye'd cook up, modify, abandon and re dream in fifteen fucking years of waiting?

Anyway, having bought this hovel and come here to see what I'd bought, one of the most obvious things was that it needed windows! Straight up. It had two ~ out of seven! ~ windows in anything like tolerable state. I made the two that tad more tolerable by squirting expanding foam into the gaps. Gaps so large fucking swallows were coming in through them and nesting in the room! Rest of the 'windows' I just boarded up.

So, the fuckers coughed up ~ I fuckin' out lived them! Bastards! ~ and I called in this firm I'd had reccomended to me and whose work I'd personally sneaked about inspecting. Result? I now have six beautiful windows.

Oh; And a door. Front door. Front door which is the absolute envy of everyone who's seen it. Gorgeous, 'Stable' door. Now, if I tie le Ding's legs together, I can open the top half in the summer, If we ever get one. Else le Ding would just sail out over the damn thing and get shot for tormenting the cattle.

But, anyway ..... So, I have this last window. It's my kitchen one. It stands opposite my door. I want It made into a door, see? Nice, 'plain', planked sort of door. Fuck off big glazed upper half. The firm does them and they're gorgeous too. Need the glass because that's going to be my only, natural light in this huge space, see?

So, I want the window removing. Bit of wall below it taking out. Hole 'squared' up and left as something they can measure up for a tailor made door. Simple enough?

Look; Here's the window

Fucking forget it! That's where the nightmare begins. I need a Builder to make and square that hole. You ever tried getting a fucking Builder, in Co. Leitrim? I have. I've been here before! FFS!

Spoke to Steve. Steve called a guy there and then. " He'll be round tomorrow. " Was he fuck! I gave it a couple of days and told Steve he could tell his builder to get to fuck. Cunt never even rang me or Steve, to make excuses. Just promised and pissed off. Cunt.

Tried Gary. Gary said he knew a guy. We'll call this guy Derick, because I honestly can't remember the pricks real name. Seems Derick likes a drink. Don't we all? But he's sober and Good when on a job. He just has his 'Sessions'.

Okay. I can live with that. I don't have 'sessions', personally. I'm just a piss head. But, I never drink and work. I refuse to even try to work, untill I've slept the night before off. I don't allow bookings untill I'm sure I'll have woke up and got my shit together. And, if I say to expect me? Expect me. I'll be there and I'll be good. But then; I'm a Rat Catcher. These cunts call themselves 'Builders' .....

Day one: No Derick. No calls.

Day Two: Derick calls. He'll be round to look at the job, tomorrow.

Day Three: No Derick. I call Gary and tell him to tell his Derick to Fuck Off! Twenty minutes later, Derick calls. His motor's broken down, but he'll be here the next day, if he has to hire one! (I'm thinking; Gary's ye sponser. He's a fucking taxi driver! Call A Fucking Cab!!!)

Day Four: Derick turns up. He looks at the job. Quotes me £500 (?!?) and mentions what a nice Pot Cart I have and how it must've cost me a fortune ~ Not as much as You seem set on costing me! I then mention, with genuine concern, the smoke / steam issuing from his motors bonnet. Swift exit, Derick!

Day five: He calls to say he'll be round on day eight, to start a two day job. I point out that I'll be out that day. Make it day nine? Agreed.

Day nine? No Derick. No call. No Way is this cunt yanking My chain any more!

So, I'm explaining all this to Pat, today. Pat's a lovely guy. He says He knows a couple of people. He'll make a call or two. If They fuck up? Fuck it; " We'll do it ourselves! ". And I wouldn't put that past Pat for a moment.

I've personally seen that guy rip down and rebuild one of his own, century + old, stone built cow sheds. He'd never done it before. He simply wanted it done and to preserve the character. So he just set too and worked it out as he went along. His work was perfect!

I since met Padraigh (That's actually pronounced " Porrigg ". No. I didn't know that either, till I got here!) who reckons he knows a Proper Builder. I said I'm willing to listen. Oh; And I met Gary too. Told him to tell his Derick he can fuck off back to the pub!

So, here I am; Pushing two fucking weeks in, and the window's still in. And I'm ~ half ~ pissed. And pissed off. And stressed out.

Get this fucking hole made and then I have to call Lisa. Lisa will - knowing her? Pretty soon get round here to look at and measure it. We'll then look at her catalogue and decide me a door. Then she'll book her guy, to come and measure it 'professionally', for the fit.

Then she'll tell the Joinery what size to make my new door. Then I'll have to wait a couple of weeks (minimum) while they create the damn thing. Then it'll have to be delivered. Then Lisa's man will come back here and, Glory Be! He'll have the damn thing in that hole inside an hour!

See why I'm stressed out? Pissed off?! And, to cap all that? I'm yet to work out how the fuck I'm going to block off a door sized hole, for Weeks, which my Dogs won't be able to just exit through, pretty much on a whim, and get them damn selves shot!

Now, if ye'll forgive and excuse me, I really should be getting off to the Dog Pile. I have a shit load to think about and get done, as usual. Doubtless yet another day of Other caused shit.

Fucking Builders!!!

My Rifle; The Latest .....

For anyone as yet unfamiliar with my new rifle, just look down the left side of the page there and click on April. It's all there. Second post I ever made is all about it. Make, model and serial number. I'm sure I mention it a few more times too, between then and now.

Anyway, just to bring everyone up to pace; It's original grouping, at 100 yards, was around the one inch. That is to say, I could get left, right, above and below an inch square. Just no way I could get inside that damn inch. No good.

Then Dean O' and I went out to the Bog and tried some shots at different ranges. At 200 yards I couldn't even get Near a fucking great 1 Ltr plastic bottle of water. Dean knows how I can shoot. He knew this wasn't my fault. He produced a fiver note and started drawing it down beneath my barrel. As it slipped between the barrel and the fore end wood, the damn note split cleanly in two! Case proven. My 'Floating Barrel' was laying on the sea bed.

For anyone who wonders what the fuck That's all about? In simple enough terms; A floating barrel is a rifle barrel set so it doesn't quite touch the wooden bit we hold. This means, as the round spins up the length of the barrel, the barrel is free to be knocked around in a consistent manner by the passage of that round. Thus, when the round exits and goes off on its way to the target, it's going in a uniform manner. Ok?

Now, my barrel was microscopically in touch with that wood. So, think of it like this. Spin a coin on a table. Right? Coin spins like fuck, quite happily. Your fingers make it spin and so it does. The round, like ye fingers, makes the barrel 'spin'. But, touch that spinning coin at all and what happens ....? Exactly. And that's what was happening here. So the barrel was throwing a wobbler and that was throwing my rounds all over the damn place. Simple.

Solution was simple too; Let Dean O' sort it out! LOL! I don't fuck with things like this.I haven't the confidence in my own ability not to fuck it up. So, yesterday, as I sat reading a thread in a forum, Dean sat there and wiped a bit of sand paper, then a drop of varnish over the wood of my dismantled rifle. He then put it all back together again and visibly demonstrated to me how my barrel could now be 'bent' downwards, toward the wood. Only it doesn't touch it any more.

Now, as he said; I'll be able to his what I'm firing at. Can't wait to get back out there and zero in my scope. Then I'll be back in business.

My Thanks to Dean. Good man.

Scheduled Outage, Monday.

Blogger will be unavailable Monday (6/15) at 12:00AM PDT for about 10 minutes for maintenance.

That's what they're telling me anyway. I haven't got a clue what PDT is, or when it'll occur in the time frame I operate in. But, it'll probably mean the entire thing'll blink out, just as I'm reaching for the Save button on some particularly long, hard written and inspired post!

I'll have to watch what I do on Monday then .....

I Think the S.A.S Are Reading This!

Look; First off we had someone in Iraq looking in here. That, in itself seemed quite inoquous. Lot of military personnel over there. Always a chance that one might surf their way through here some time.

But, then we got Egypt and bang up next to the border with Syria too. I mused then that that seemed a bit of a spot to be. Mentioned how it could be the S.A.S getting up to something. Of course; We can't go too deeply into these things. What those guys get up to is their business and no body elses. But ....!

Ye've guessed it. I've been looking at my " Recent Visitors Map " again. Never ceases to throw up something of interest, that thing. And look what I found this morning!




Fuckin' look at That! Lower right, beneath the big cluster? We now have fuckin' Algeria on the map! I mean; Where the fuck Is Algeria? Apart from next to Libya ~ and we all know what a dodgy old place That is!

God knows what that place is, west of Algeria? What ye reckon? S.A.S been tormenting Syria, from the Eqyptian border. Then sneaked through Libya ~ for old times sake ~ and now thought, " Well, that's that done. Now let's go take a quick look at what that cunt, Ditch, is up to. We'll do it from Algeria. That should wind him up! "

Ye reckon ....?

" The Leitrim Experiment " ~ Final Chapter.

For those of ye who were around, back in the day, to witness the spawning of this ground breaking effort to aid modern mans greater understanding, " The Leitrim Experiment " will need no further explanation.

However, as enough of you simply weren't around back then, on THL, I'll summarise here in an effort to bring ye succinctly up to pace:

It all started, about two or maybe even three years ago. Fittingly, it was about the month of June too, as I vaguely recall. Perhaps if anyone still on THL could run a search there, using the keyword 'Margarine', we might get closer confirmation, for posterity? (And Here is the Live Link!)

Anyway, a member there, " Jasper ", posted about how some internet borne missive was trying to warn us all that " Margarine is just One Molecule away from Plastic!!! ". That caused a little stir of discussion and undertones of disgust, naturally. Then I came along and read about it and my felt my curiosity aroused.

I said how Butter, surely, was prone to go green and furry, if left to its own, unrefrigerated, devices. Margarine? Dunno. But ..... But, fuck it! I'm gonna find out!

And, right there and then was born The Leitrim Experiment. I simply went into town and bought some butter and some margarine. I then knifed out a blob of each and smeared those blobs on my kitchen window frame. Then the world sat back to watch.

Days turned to weeks. The weeks rolled into months. The seasons came and went. That damn butter and margarine sat there, on the window frame in my kitchen. There I observed it. Reported on it. Photographed it. I even had a delegate from an International Scientific Institute visit, to ratify the ongoing Experiment and, yes, incidentally; Fuck my brains out. But that's another story.

Visiting Scientist

It had been my contention that, surely to fuck, Something would go after it? I mean; Insects would come and eat it. Moulds would grow on it. If not even the 'plastic' margarine, butter was one thing removed from milk, wasn't it? And milk sure as hell put on a floor show if ye left That shit alone for five minutes.

It's probably still all sat there, in the hundreds of back pages of THL. Meanwhile, those blobs of margarine and butter are still on my window frame. Glaring back at the world. Baleful and almost seemingly malevolent in their defiance.

But, sadly; All things must pass. Even after two or three years in my kitchen. I'm about to have that window ripped out and get a door put in its place. Thus " The Leitrim Experiment " will be brought to a close.

And my final conclusion ....? That crap's just sat there, for Two or Three fucking Years now! Nothing's come near it. It's just gathered dust and air borne detritus. I shall Never Again put either of these two forms of Shit in my fucking mouth!

Butter

Margarine

Would You ?!

" National Vaccination Month "

I can barely fucking Believe this! Fuck me; Are there No lengths to which the American model inspired 'Hard Sell' tactics, which the brit' vetinary establishment adopted a decade or two ago, will not go to have You pay for Their nice motors and Stockbroker belt homes ~ with ye Dogs lives?!

Last night I was checking my Spam folder. I always do this, prior to dumping it. Just in case something had been wrongly assigned there. I came up trumps. Here's a mail I found. The bit in Bold, I made into Bold. It's sweet!:


"Holistic Pet Supplies"

Hi All, Hope your well.

I had this through and even though some of you might have received it - i thought id make sure everyone had a copy.

It's very interesting.


Catherine O'Driscoll
Health News for Dog Owners

This email bulletin is for dog owners who wish to be more knowledgeable about their dogs’ health. The aim is to put the power firmly in your own hands - to help you reduce your vet bills, and enjoy your life with healthy, happy dogs.

Share this bulletin with a friend - click 'forward' and pass it on.


National Vaccination Month

At different times vaccine companies run promotions around the world. In the UK at present there is 'The National Vaccination Month' marketing campaign running throughout June. Dog owners are encouraged to take their dogs, cats and rabbits to the vet for a restart vaccine series (i.e., the full puppy series) for the price of a single booster if their pets have lapsed in their vaccines by as much as 18 months.

No-one would want to see their beloved dogs die of viral disease. It’s vital that you protect your pet.
The marketing initiative has editorial coverage in the press, there is a news item on TV, and there’s also a TV advertisement - to warn dog lovers that their pets can die if they don’t update their shots.

In a court of law, witnesses are asked to swear that they will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Are dog owners being told the whole truth about booster vaccines?

Before you take advantage of the National Vaccination Month marketing initiative, check out this YouTube link: Part 1 & Part 2, Copy and paste these links in to your web browser and listen to what they have to say and make your own mind up.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKjY0oyKe3A
and
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qu-PRIjF02w

Any feed back would be good.

Many thanks
Donna

As I shot back to Donna; Christ knows how I came to be on her mailing list. But, I'm glad I have. Now I've been alerted to this National Scam, I can do my bit to forward the counter point.

Now, because of my shit connection, I obviously can't look at those You Tube links. I trust You will though. In fact, I'd appreciate it if someone could look at them and then let me know what they're saying on there.

I'd like to know if they cover the Fact that a Leptospirosis jab is fucking useless. That a Bordatella / Kennel Cough jab is pointless (Dogs sometimes get it. Then they get over it). That Any jab, after the initial two 'Puppy' ones are simply a way of You paying ye Vet's fucking Mortgage!

Truth is that to keep letting some cunt charge you a Massive over charge, simply to inject ye Dog with germs, is achieving only two things: Helping pay that cunts mortgage and Endangering Your Dogs Life!!!

Bane ~ RIP

Best Dog I Ever Had.
Killed by a Hepatitis Jab.

How Australians Think

This is just fucking hillarious! I've just had to go for a piss, before I kept laughing so much I sat here and pissed myself just Thinking about this!

I've been mouching around inside my Stat's Counter thing again. Looking for anything I might be able to understand and which could interest me. And, just now, I spotted a button that seemed like it might show me how people come to wash up in here. Thought I'd take a look at that one.

Ok, so the vast majority of visitors to this den of iniquity show No 'path'. I'm guessing that means ye have a Bookmark or Short Cut on ye pc's and just pop in for a look from there? Cool. Only, I happened to notice that One person had found this place via Google Australia. That roused my interest. I wondered what 'I' was doing, being mentioned on Oz Goog, and what the person had come here for.

So, I had a look, to see what else my little gadget could tell me. Then I saw. Read. Understood. That's when I started laughing! I wonder if this'll work for you? Here's what I hope will remain a link to the very Google page this poor sod had called up:

Google Australia

Does it work for you? Wether or not, what I found was that the poor bastard had actually entered in the search term: " Just Fucking Rifles " ! And That had led him to, top of the page on Google AUS. " I've Just Fucking Shit Myself ". My own post, on here, about that time I had a run in with the local Gards!

Now, I mean; It's funny enough, thinking how this poor cunt's found himself reading about a brit, in Eire, banging on about being 'caught' by the Gards. But, what I find even funnier is the state of mind that drove that poor bastard to punch in a search like " Just Fucking Rifles "!

Can't ye see it? Some bloke in Oz wants to know something about, well; Rifles. So he opens up Google and asks it for " Rifles ". God knows what he finds. References to " Rifle Birds " ? Shit about " The burgaler rifles through the drawers. " ? Who knows? But. I can just see our intrepid seeker of the info' sitting there, getting more and more irate about the off centre search results he's getting, till he finally loses it with Google and punches in that fateful search term: " Just Fucking Rifles ".

And comes up with Me! LMFAO!




Ye reckon he's computer shopping ....?

Fucking Classic!

Rosie; About Time I Introduced Her ....!

Here she is.This is my " Rosie ". The most gorgeous Cob mare in all Eire ~ and to hell with anyone who tries to argue against that fact! She's absolutely fucking beautiful, and that's all there is to it. Even if she was in foal, wearing her winter coat, had been having a roll in the mud and her mane needed a fucking good brushing ..... But, that's how ye seeing her here. I, of course, see so much more of her.

I see her with her coat brushed and shining. Her mane brushed till my arms are dropping off. Clean and spruced and, most of all; Moving! (Click photo to see rest of her. Fuck knows why it does this?!)




People; Ye'd better believe me when I say that seeing Rose move is enough to damn near stop ye heart! I've had her since November now and I still can't get over just seeing her move. It tightens my chest and catches in my throat every time. So Much beautiful horse, gliding along. All flowing, white mane, feathered feet and black and white ..... Movement! It's just breath taking!





Here's the other side of her, just so ye know. It's not right to hide either side of a horse like this. My Rosie has nothing to hide. She's gorgeous all round. I'd show ye a shot of her bum; But That would just over whelm ye and have ye sliding out of ye chairs in a swoon. Ye think I'd shit ye about a thing like this ....?

When I had the vet' out, to micro chip and draw up Rose's 'Passport', She was so taken, she simply had to exclaim, " Oh! What a Beautiful Bum! ". Telling ye; This mare Is a fucking show stopper!

Anyway, I can already see this becoming a Loooooong one. So I'd better kick off with the story right now. Obviously, I intend to break it down and come back to it over time. Just look on each post about her as being a new Chapter. Here's the first one:

I was born and raised in Portsmouth. That's a shitty little city right down at the arse end of england. Dockyard town. Seemed like 1/4 of the population worked in the Dockyard. Probably another 1/4, or more, of us were settled Gypsys. And almost a 1/4 of the place was still 'Bomb Sites'. There were spaces, amongst the houses, where no one had yet thought to build flats. Or drive a fucking great road through. Horses and carts, even then, were nothing to to think twice about.

And so it was, at age thirteen, I'd started developing this notion of getting the fuck out. I figured the best way of doing this was the only way I knew how. And, being a recently made Fatherless kid? I knew Fuck. Obviously. But I still had my natural instincts. That which was simply born with me. In my blood. And something in those instincts beckoned me to get out on the road. Turn the clock back and return to my roots.

Hell of a fucking idea, eh? Get myself a horse and vardo. Head off over the bridge out of Pompey and, somehow, just get on with it. Hey ho.

And now, a word about " Vardo ". It's the Romani Gypsy word for what You might term a " Gypsy Caravan ". Ye know the old horse drawn ones? They're actually known as a vardo. Gypsys, in england, still retain remnents of what was once a full language. Only, these days, we struggle to express ourselves to each other through a handfull of mutually remembered and understood words.

The pronunciation is a bitch too. In writing, that is. But, it just fucks me off to think ye might all end up reading what I'm saying, in ye heads, with the wrong sound. So, I'll try to explain things to ye:

" Vardo " may, equelly well be spelled as " Varda ". It's the end bit that's most important here. Just like the " Dicklo " I have, tied round my neck as I write this ~ and should sincerely hope to have, as I get popped into the burning box.

My mate, " Moucher ", I have seen spelling " Dicklo " as " Dickler ". It's all down to any given persons effort to express word sounds not normally encountered. Probably a bit like the 'Perfect Grammer' French, I imagine, they teach in schools. Bit different, I dare say, to what ye might hear on the streets of a provincial, French town?

So, anyway; Vardo is pronounced, as best I can explain it, with the VAR like in Reg Varney. Or VARnish. The last bit is 'Throw away'. It's Not " Doe ", or " Da " or " Der ". It's more like " D ", followed by a sound ye've lost all interest in. As I about have in trying to teach you bastards a 'foreign' language that likely means fuck all to ye any way. Just read it how ever ye want. Like my " Ye ".

Now, where the fuck was I ....? That's right: So, I'm stood there, leaning on an inner city stable door. We still had bits of open ground then. Local (settled) Gypsys tethered their horses there. Some had houses with garages out back, opening onto small roads. They made those (back) into stables. But this was an original stable yard. Just off the main road. Dealer boots, a dicklo and the right parantage were the passwords into that place.

And I'm stood there, having expressed my ideas to some guy I found there. (Oh; And he wore the right sort of hat too. Cross between a Trilby and a Fedora. In case any film production sort wankers ever read this. Get it right, FFS!) And ~ Finally getting round to my point here! ~ This guy's saying to me:

" Want a vardo, son? Nice little Open Lot, or Bow Top would do ye. And ye'd want something like This to pull it ..... " And, with that, he nodded. I looked. And there before me, in a heavenly, fresh hay scented stall, stood The Most fucking gorgeous, black and white bum. (Piebald, to give it its correct, not Gypsy but simply proper english, term) " Nice, quiet Cob mare. About 13.5 Hands. Not too big. But strong built. Good legs. She'd pull a vardo for ye. "

I decided, there and then; I was gonna get me some of That!

" Snake Mouth "

May I please take this oppertunity ~ and the greatest of pleasure ~ in introducing, and recommending to ye, a brand new Blog. That of a young man I've 'known' for a year or two now, behind the scenes. " Snake Mouth " is what he's chosen to call his Blog. No good asking me why. I haven't a clue either!

But, he shot me the link to it this evening and I was in like Flynn. Damn! If what he's put up thus far is anything to go by? I'll be rushing back there every time I get my automatic alert to his next posting. (I've signed up as a " Follower ", as the Google system calls it. " Blog Watcher ", as I prefer to see it. Either way, a perfectly painless process).

'SM' is a young man who definitely shares my own, passionate feelings for Dogs. Only, he moves in different circles than I do. He's based a couple of counties away from me. His whole manner and approach couldn't be more different from mine.

What I'm trying to say is; If ye love ye Dogs. If want a whole, new insight on the Irish situation regarding Dogs. If ye want to see what I'll be reading, avidly, about Dogs and a the thoughts and tales of a fellow Dog orientated guy, over here ..... Read Snake Mouth.

Highly Recommended Reading!

Hullo, USA and AUS!

Just had another glance at my " Visitors Map " thingy, again. I've long since been seeing one or two from North America. I have a friend or three out there. Only I'm not sure where half of them live. And I certainly couldn't hope to pin point it on a blank template of the map of that area. Besides which, to my casual memory of what I see; I'd say the little pointers actually tend to move about a fair bit.

Wonder who these folks are, and how they're ending up looking in here? Good fun, isn't it? This internet craic.

Australia's a pretty regular viewer too. By my judgement of their map? I'd say the pointer most often appears to be indicating down around Victoria. That you, J?

That little map's honestly the most fun thing on that rather fulsome and baffling 'Statistics' recorder I use here. Keeps me amused, anyway. As I do my best to give you lot something else to waste ye lives looking at.

Actually; I'm quite enjoying this. Should've started it ages ago. I now no longer get stressed out by a constant drip of, " How's it going? " e mails. I get to burble away about what ever's on my mind, as and when any thing is. Best of all; I get to do it in my own time. If I have nothing to say, or don't feel like talking just yet? I say fuck all. And you can drop by to catch up any time ye like too. It's great!

Anyway, my favourite forum's let me in again now. Better get back there for a read, before the next thread throws me a 404 and I'm grounded again!

Start that book next time it happens.

Getting Old's Such A Bastard!

Sat here, typing this, wearing my " Computer Glasses ". What I just typed looks fuzzy, if I look at it over the top of the things. Key Board too isn't what it used to be.

When I've done this, I'll probably settle down to read a book. I'm not a member of any compelling fora right now. Well; There's One I find it hard to keep myself out of ~ or, did. Only that one's now throwing a long term wobbler and half of us can't get in there half the bloody time anyway! So, I miss it. I'm pissed off. And I thought I'd come here and moan to you bastards about it. Then I'll put my Reading Glasses on and read that book.

Day got off to a flying start. I was up incredibly early, for me; 10:00. Fired this thing, and a fag, up and no sooner had it dragged its arse into life than I got an e mail from a very long standing mate of mine. Kev' and I are of an age and we've known each other half our lives. So far back we meet ourselves .....

And what had Kev' e mailed me about? Simply to have a fucking good moan about how Old we're getting! To summarise, he said; " Bugger, the reality is that age brings all the penalties of a wild night out but somehow manages to deny us the preceding pleasures ".

Too fucking true, mate! I read that. Laughed. Realised laughing could bring on a fart and so hauled my sorry arse out of this chair and staggered off towards my ditch. Groaning softly to myself as my joints tried to move anything like they used to. Falling naturally and unconsciously into my now usual manner of crossing uneven land; Left hand pressed to my lumbar region.

Purpose of all that? A fart. A man simply Cannot trust a fart once he's passed a certain milestone in life. It seems we start out completely unaware of them. We grow to be embarrassed by them. We then reach the stage where we may take a youthful pride in them. They're 'Fun'. A 'Laugh'.

A young man may delight in them. What bloke Hasn't woke up, following a good night on the piss, followed by a great night on the wife, next to rip one off like a low flying jets engine and then kick the quilt about with self induced hilarity?

Try that at my age? I'd drink the beer alright. But then I'd pass out. Wife, if there was one, would have to use her fingers. I haven't got the fucking stamina anyway. Barely got the upper body strength. And as for greeting her with an impressive burst of bodily gas and unbridled laughter in the morning? I'd likely just drench the fucking quilt and then be subjected to such a beating ..... Wouldn't have the stamina or upper body strength to fend off an irate woman either, these days. FFS.

Remember the craic about rolling around on ye back, knees drawn up and lighter in ye hand? Try to ignite the fucker without managing to incinerate ye own scrotum? I tried that too, decades ago. Wouldn't try it now. My Zippo may be, supposedly, Wind Proof. But, I don't think even a Zippo could contend with what I'd likely put its way if I tried that caper now.

Come to that; Zippo's aren't what they used to be either. I've used them for most of my life and I've watched their physical decline, quite keeping pace with my own, as it happens.

I'm led to believe it's this soft, Irish water? I don't know. Expect Kev's the same way. And he's never set foot on Eire. Now, what the hell was I on about in the first place here? Oh, yes .....

So, I've got this e mail from my old oppo', this morning. Recieved it as it came in. Because I was up early. And why was I up early? Would ye fucking believe it; I had an appointment for a Hearing Test!

Taxi turned up moments later. I was actually ensconsed in my ditch when he arrived. So, there's me. waddling across the damn grass, doing my belt up and kissing goodbye all thoughts of finishing my cup of tea, let alone my bloody fag. And off we went, to a town I've only before visited for the Horse Sales. This time we were looking for the Health Centre.

All credit to both Gary (the taxi) and the Irish Health System; I had an 11:00 appointment. Gary got me there bang on 10:55. By 10:59 I was in the room with the lady set to sort my ears out! Fucking impressive!

Not much to say about the test, really. They just put these headphones on ye and ye have to tell them when ye can detect a sound. Odd sensation that; Sitting there, gazing out the window, listening. Never quite being sure when ye were Supposed to be hearing a sound. And wondering if she's muttering, " Old cunt. Ye deaf as a fucking rock, aren't ye? ".

Turns out I'm mildly rock like, in my left ear. Right one though's half way to pure granite. So that's the one they're fitting me up with a Hearing Aid for.

Fucking marvellous, isn't it? I've long since become the old guy in the Post Office. The one who constantly cups his ear at the cashier and yells, " Sorry ....? ". Then, when passed a form by them, fucks around in his pockets for his reading glasses.

Now they're to be giving me a hearing aid. Jesus christ. What next? Walking stick? Bus Pass? Wooden fucking overcoat!

Meeting the Opposition

I was in Hugh's, my butchers, today. Hugh's a smashing little chap and we always natter away endlessly, as Hugh serves who ever walks in after me first, as a matter of course. I'm seldom in a hurry and often as not use the doorstep of his shop as a smoking post. Ducking my head in to chat to Hugh, between drags.

I wasn't smoking today. Not at the moment I was inside, leaning on the counter and chatting to my man about fridges. There in my Fleck Tarn, German camouflage T shirt, " Pest Control " emblazoned Hi Viz vest and trade mark leggin's from WeatherWear of Walsall. (Go on, treat yeself! Say Ditch, of the F&MWTC advert personally recommended them!)

And this bloke walks in. Younger chap. Short sleeved, light blue shirt on. Pair of smart, black strides. I didn't need to look down to the polished, black shoes. Pretty obvious they'd be there. I couldn't take my eyes off the mobile phone case on his hip though. Well ..... actually, I probably exaggerated my focus on that, in an attempt to draw his attention from the fact that I'd just glimpsed the professionally screen printed motif on his left breast pocket. So, This was " APS " ?! We meet, at last; Moriarty!

Three years ago, I've washed up here, see? Soon enough got my cards out and made it known to who ever I spoke to what my trade was. Within six months, I receive a letter, addressed to some hitherto unheard of Pest Control business, not five miles down the road from me! It's almost as if this guy's heard of me and thought ~ as so many do! ~ " I can do that! Gizza job! " And so woke up the next morning and declared himself my rival.

And here he was, stood beside me, in Hugh's. First time I'd ever knowingly set eyes on the man. The man who has periodically replaced my own business card with his own ~ a thing I've never done, anywhere, to anyone, to be honest. I imagine it's a ploy whispered about at 'Setting Up In Business' seminars? They probably call it " Cuckoo Carding " or something? Smacks of lack of confidence, to me.

Anyway, he was stood on my deafer side. Thus I was more guessing than listening to what ever passed between us three. Sensing much of what he might have said and doing my best to respond accordingly, or else steer the subject to things I could talk of without needing verbal responses to prompt me.

Between himself, Hugh and I, it seems like mink and pine martens became the happy medium. Thus a general, three way conversation kicked off on that area of subject. I feel it really was a largely natural conversation too. I mean, matey appeared the least informed of the three of us. Hugh was simply offering his own, casual and annecdotal points of view. I was obviously the only person in the shop who had any real, personal experience of pine martens.

Indeed, when Hugh openly and unselfconciously stated that he'd never yet actually Seen a real, live piney, I similarly assured him that I could catch one of the buggers and fetch it in to show him! Being as they'll likely be nesting just now though, thinking about it, I'll just direct him to the little film I took of one and put on YouTube.

Anyway, as matey picked up his meat and wandered off to his sleek, black, shiney 'Range Rover' type motor, I turned to Hugh and said; " Why the fuck does he bother nicking my cards? What possible harm could we be doing each others businesses? That bloke's never going to appear behind some shit stinking cow shed, and no hotelier would want me stalking about his place. The types of services we're cut out to provide are fundamentally different. We'd make a better Team than bloody rivals! "

Quite true too. I'd mentioned to matey ~ might have heard his name but, I'm no good on names anyway ~ how my old Fuller Cat Trap had recently done the work on a couple more feral's. I could tell, by his reaction and expression; Trapping a cat - indeed, probably trapping just about any fucking thing was complete anathema to the guy. I doubt he even owns a trap!

But, as I also pointed out to Hugh; " No fucking way am I coming in here, offering to install or service that Electric Fly Killer! I'd be terrified of breaking ye tiles, as I tried to drill for the fixings. Then I'd hardly know what plugs to use. My place is out on the bog and round the back of ye semi derelict cow sheds. That blokes is on carpets. "

My parting shot was the irony of how the local pub / eatery had got Rentokil in ~ and how I'd nearly thrown up when I stepped out the back of there for a smoke, just the other day. Drains were blocked and stinking like fuck. Drain Flies and House Flies all over the place. And some sad cunt had hung a desultary fly paper up. Not a single fly on it! Said to Dean O' then; " Look at the fucking state of this! That's what ye get when ye paying through the nose for fuckin' Rento! "

But that's all quite another story.