Ditch Shitter

Who Has My Number ....?

2012-02-16T02:29:00.000Z

" Trefoyl ", one of the guys over on Jim's ~ the Home Brew forum I drink in, as I await an event worth mentioning here ~ certainly has!

I just poked my head round the door there, having been tied up in reading a Blog about Dogs. And the mad fucker from 'Noo Joysie' (Don't knock it! It was the birth place of " The Sopranos "!) has posted up that he saw the following, and thought of me!

Laughed till I fucking cried! .......... Then I felt a little bit awkward; About just how transparent I really am ....!

Please Click this fucker, to blow it up, if ye eyes are anywhere near as shot as mine. I can't read it, on here:

Still pissing myself laughing about ..... I dunno. I wonder if the people down the pub ~ another " Jim's ", funnily enough! ~ have me this well taped?

Thanks, Trefoyl. That really was a beauty!

Scrotum .....

2012-02-12T20:21:00.000Z

Just this minute gone out to fetch my dinner in. I always put Worcestershire Sauce on my dinner. And I keep the Worcestershire Sauce bottle on the shelf. Right next to the roll of Butchers Bags I use for picking up the Dog shit.

This is how seeing the bags reminded me that I'd, earlier, used Both the bags I habitually carry in my back pockets. I was bagless.

That situation was soon resolved then. I simply ripped a couple of fresh bags off the big roll, stuffing one into each back pocket.

Only, as I did so, I said to The Orange Dog; " Dad was bagless there, Sausage! What did he expect to use? His scrotum?! "

Then the train of thought ran something very much like; 'Two pockets. Two bags. Two balls ..... 'Scrotum'? Scrotums? Scrotii? Oranges ....?'

But, Oranges just looked at me like she couldn't figure out quite what I was thinking, this time. I gave it a bit more thought, as I ate my dinner.

I guess we do just have the one, all enveloping ball sack? " A Scrotum ". Weird. Nature getting us to carry all our eggs in one basket.

Did Darwin ever talk bollocks? Will we evolve? Air Bags ....?

Swearing .....

2012-01-29T18:11:00.000Z

I've been having a little bit of the giggles, this evening. This has been brought about by a simple, yet enduring, memory of long ago.

Ye see, I'm a self confessed, and totally unrepentant, foul mouthed fucker. Moment I hit secondary school, my vocabulary hit the gutter. I could have sailed through an A Level in Fluent Filth. Fuck it.

True though. Never heard my Dad swear. Not once in his short life. Ever. But, he was dead before I got to secondary and so, I guess, I lost his restraining influence and my grammar went feral. Anyway .....

So, aeons ago now, in Portsmouth, I bought a boat. Just an open thing. Big, what we who know fuck all about boats ~ thus can be mug enough to buy one ~ would probably describe as a rowing boat. Only, it would take some fuckin' rowing, size of this thing!

And that's why my first wife and I were down at this boat club one evening. To see if I could join. And do note; This was a Boat Club. Not a fuckin' 'Yacht Club'. No stupid cunts in captains hats and blue blazers here.

But, no swearing either. It was eerie. All these solidly working class, Pompey blokes. Donkey jackets, thick jumpers and muddy waders were the norm. And not one cunt amongst them so much as said 'Fuck'. I couldn't hack it.

So, having promised to consider my application, I backed out into the fresh, creek air. There I told me wife that No Fucking Way was I having anything to do with those bastards. I'd never be able to relax for a second in their company. No one swore!

Wife, who aside from being young, attractive and rather well educated ~ too fucking good for me. That I'd never even try to deny. Fuck knows what she saw in me. Anyway, she pointed out that ~ dick head! ~ they were simply watching their manners around a strange female.

Frankly? She'd might as well have tried to explain to me that a bunch of blokes were barking like Dogs because they'd had frogs legs for dinner. It was just alien to me. I swear in front of babies and grandmothers. Makes no odds to me.

But, anyway, she managed to convince me to go ahead and join. Which I did. And that's why I was sat there, in a club house that had very much the air of a Public Bar about it. People were yelling and laughing. Plenty of good banter. When I heard it .....

Some woman said something. Her husband replied. She turned round and said - for those of you unfamiliar with a good, Portsmouth accent by the way? It's said to be the closest thing to Cockney. But, different.

Anyway, she turned on him, like a good natured harridan, and screeched, " I woz tawkin to 'im!!! ".

Without missing a beat, this guys shouted back; " I know! I can tell that; Coz 'is faakin ears 'r bleedin'!!! "

Much beer was spat .....

What The Fuck Did They Eat ....?!?

2012-01-20T19:48:00.000Z

I was up at Noel's northern farm yard, today. He has two farm yards. North and south. He lives along the road from the southern one and his northern one is up behind me.

Anyway, I've spotted that his new cow shed is fucking perfect for Starling Nest Boxes and so was up there today, putting the first few up.

I'm hanging them on the north facing wall of this nice high, really long shed. They face out onto nothing but acre upon acre of nothing.

No one can even see them, unless they come through the gate and intend to trudge off into the distance over rough pasture. Perfect for both Starlings and peoples aesthetics. Out of sight, out of mind.

Only, as I was up my ladder, fixing the second one in position, that's when I happened to glance down and spotted it. Horrible.

It was a sort of orangey brown colour. Smooth and glistening. It lay curled in the grass beneath me. And they say St. Patrick got rid of all the snakes in Eire? Well, he'd fucked up with this Bad Boy!

This area is known as ..... well, suffice to say it begins with an 'S'. We'll call it " Scammel ", just for the purpose of this discussion. And I thought; " Fuck me! The Scammel Serpent! The Snake Of Scammel! A Legend!!! "

And, of course, ye know how these kind of things have a sort of magnetic allure all of their own? It's like a train wreck; Ye shouldn't. But, ye can't help looking.

Of course, as a Rat Catcher, it's second nature for me to go straight into Detective Mode around such things, despite myself. I came down the ladder. Bent over. And had a fucking good look.

I wanted to believe Dog. Because the colour and consistency suggested a Dog fed on that carcinogenic shit people feed Dogs these days. Disgusting little pellets of vet kill and shit.

But, there's no Dogs of this size and calibre in the area. No Dog had done this. Ah! And I was right! There it was. Barely a foot to the left, look.

A visible scrap of that blue paper towel they sell big rolls of, in the agricultural store in town. Dogs don't wipe their arses on paper towels.

Noel. His wife. Their two sons. They all come down here, checking on the cattle. But, it's only a minutes drive for them and they wouldn't be here long.

Who of them ~ and why ~ did they produce this abomination of the bowel? This catastrophic colonic cast off. Why couldn't they have waited till they'd got back home?

What The Fuck Did They Eat ....?!?

Pat's Buying A Donkey .....

2012-01-18T03:59:00.000Z

Met Pat , on the track, the other day. Tells me he's buying a donkey. Seems his female pony died and now the male's alone. Horses hate being lonely.

I fucking coveted that pony. She was gorgeous! Chestnut fur and a golden mane. She'd never let me near her.

" Pony ", as I know him? Same fur. But, a redder mane. Good as gold. I gained his trust in no time. We'd hang out and commune together, over the fence. While the female stood back a bit.

But, Pat soon came to rely on me to lead them. He couldn't get near either. I'd just give 'Pony' a minty biscuit, Kiss his nose. And chat to him as I led him absolutely where ever he needed to go. Female pony following him.

Pat bought these two for his daughter(s), back in the day. I guess, like kids do, they just ..... I dunno. Ponies got 'relegated'. Just shifted from field to field. No good to anyone. Just an obligation.

I'd have killed to have brought them down here. And what? Gone bankrupt, trying to feed them hay? Had their little feet adding to the destruction of the acre Pat lets me use for my own 'horses'?

Anyway, she ~ Pat's female pony ~ went to absolute rat shit, virtually over night. This is the way. I was stunned, when I last saw her. It was like a sixteen year old had gone eighty, over night. Now she's dead.

And, Pat said he's buying Pony a donkey, for company. A female donkey. Because the male one, living alone near him, shouts its fucking head off, all day. Drives Pat mad. Lonely donkey, see?

And I'm aghast. Just how much money has Pat got?! Female donkey?! Fuck!!! When I bought Donks, my bare yearling, male donk? He cost me £300. And that was straight down the line what a Male donkey cost ye, then.

Female Donkey? £1,500!!! Faaaarkk!!!! And Pat's gonna buy one, just for company for Pony?!? Fuck!!! I'm all for fetching Donks and us breeding some donkey. Get a female? Fucking jack pot!

I say this to Pat. He looks at me, " WTF?! " I look at Him; " What?! "

And this is where my harshest lesson in the reality of the rotten stench of the decomposing corpse of the long dead Celtic Tiger comes in.

I bought Donks, £300.00, fair going rate for a male donkey. Yeah. But, that was six years ago. When a female donkey was £1,500.00.

Checked the free ad's paper, on line, last night. Female donkey? £100.00!!!

I was saying in the pub, today, how I was going home to slap my worthless donkey around. Tell him what a useless, worthless, expensive hay munching machine he was! Costing me a fortune, just to be there.

And spy on me, in the 'morning', when I came out. Peering through the gap, waiting for his breakfast. Shouting his fucking head off, for his supper, when I came home at night. Chatting to Rosie, while I'm not there.

And, yeah; I admitted, in the taxi back home ..... Any silly cunt ever turned up offering me £1,500 for my Donks? They'd be out of luck. He's My worthless, hairy skin full of shit. He's mad as fuck. And I love him to bits. Mad fucker's Priceless, to me.

Can't wait to see what Pat ends up with. A fresh packet of minty biscuits is on my shopping list. (These are special, made for horses, minty treats, by the way) I just Love these creatures :-)

Best Joke of 2012 .....

2012-01-05T18:03:00.001Z

Amazingly, we already have a strong entry! This time from " Lime Corridor ", in Jim's Tap Room. Bastard made me spit beer every where with his comment:

" remember to drink responsibly, and if you can't do that, drink like its going out of fashion. "

The Best Joke Of 2011 .....

2012-01-01T01:49:00.000Z

Actually posted by " Critch ", in the (Members Only) Tap Room at Jims Beer Kit. <-- Link may or may not work, directly .....

" I was sitting at the edge of the bed last night pulling off my boxers, when the wife turned round to me and said to me; ' I wish you wouldn't do that to those Dogs! ' "

Right there. Funniest fucking joke I've heard all year! I've found myself bent over, choking, even crying with laughter, as I've tried to relate that one to friends ....!

Thanks, " Critch ".

Christmas Cake For The Birds .....

2011-12-26T20:09:00.016Z

I'm truly delighted to be able to say that, largely thanks to the input of some good people over at Jims Beer Kit, I'm now able to source Beef Dripping again.

I'd brought some with me but, that ran out years ago. I hadn't been able to find any here since. And that's been a nightmare; Watching the birds trying to make it through some hellish winters, without my 'Fat Cakes' to pump them full of warmth and energy.

Well, now I'm back. I'm chuffed to bits. So chuffed, in fact, that I thought it high time I shared my secret with you. Want to help the birds make it through the months to come? Excellent!

Only, please don't buy those vile balls sold in green plastic mesh bags or by the bucket full for next to nothing. I have no hard evidence of this. But, I personally refer to them as containing 'Camel Shit'.

God alone knows what filth and floor sweepings go into those things. I do know they're certainly not labelled as " BTO Approved ". Fuck them. Let's make some grub We have control over. It's easy! Here's how .....

Ye need a square slab cake tin ~ push up bottom type is preferable. Pyrex jug. Basic type of food processor. Some peanuts and some beef dripping. Lard Is Useless!!!

Here we go. Takes under twenty minutes, start to finish .....

There's ye Cake Tin. Mine happens to be 6" x 3". Awkward size, actually. Because it's just a bit too big for even the biggest Fat Cake Holders commercially available. " Gardman "make one nearer to 5" by 1 1/2".

I used to have a green plastic coated cage that I could just about clamp almost shut around my 3" thick cakes. Can't find them for sale now. Don't worry though; Finding a cage to hold ye cakes will be the only possible problem.

I even bought my Food Processer simply to make these Fat Cakes with. Less than a score. I've seen suitable kit for a fiver!

Give the peanuts a few blasts ~ easy on that motor. They over heat quickly enough ~ till ye have a bread crumb like consistancy.

Chuck some Dripping in the Pyrex jug and give it a few minutes in the microvave. While that's doing, lay a bed of peanut crumbs in ye cake tin. Inch or so deep. That'll allow the molten Dripping to penetrate the nut crumbs. A light forking will ensure the edges and corners get well soaked too.

Repeat the process till the tin's full. Then top it off to level with hot Dripping, just to be sure (to be sure).

Doesn't that look good enough to eat? Well, don't. Just leave it alone for half an hour. Then prize it up off the work surface and stick it in the freezer.

Now comes the inevitable clean up. Frankly? I used to put down news papers. More mess and fuss than they're worth, in all honesty. Without paper, ye get something very much like this:

It's just not a problem. Dull knife scrapes the bulk of it up. That goes into the jug, for next time. J Cloth and a spot of that stuff they now call " Cif ", believe it or not, actually disolves the residue!

Never thought I'd be strongly reccomending any cleaning product which sounds to be named after a nasty, social disease. But, there it is.

Sort yeself out a cage for it ~ I knocked one up out of wire mesh and cable ties, for now ~ and it's ready to go out as soon as the freezer makes it loose its grip on the cake tin, an hour or two later.

Hang it from a taught length of fencing wire, strung between two points, and the rats can't get at it.

Here's mine. Freshly hung out, tonight. See the little 4" x 4", commercial thing next to it? They cost me £2.50 a peice and don't last three days! This muvva costs me less and lasts weeks!

Nigella Lawson; Eat ye heart out! (Well, come on, guys; Any excuse to have another look at Nigella Lawson, eh?!)

Silent Night .....

2011-12-25T00:49:00.000Z

It is here, anyway. Because, I've just finished tapping out an email to an old mate of mine.

So, I'm sat here, with my slippers on. Dogs all flaked out around me. Door cracked open, allowing that constant, steady air flow to the stove. Keeps that Carbon Monoxide alarm happy ~ the Dogs and me alive.

Then, I've felt it. Almost as much sensed it. A sensation like someone gently, yet steadily drawing a silken ribbon across the back of my ankle.

Just momentary. But, it was enough. That was an air movement .....

Everything's gone into slow motion. Air movement? A door to the outside must have been opened, to allow that breath. Silently too. The Dogs hadn't heard or reacted to anything. These boys were good then .....

I deliberately kept my eyes on the screen in front of me. Using my peripheral vision to watch the door. As my hand slid toward the pistol grip. One way or another, this was gonna be over in seconds.

No good relying on my hearing. My Dogs are my ears. I gave myself up to Zanshin. That 'relaxed' state of awareness which allows one to perceive ones enemies in the surrounding environment .....

And that's how I came to recognise Nigger .....

LMAO! As I'd sat, absorbed in watching my " Sopranos ", so Niggy had figured he was warm enough in his bed and had, gently and unobtrusively as he does most things in life, slipped in to lay quietly at my feet.

On the cooler floor. In the dark. Black Dog. And the soft fucker had silently sighed ..... against the back of my ankle.

For fuck sake ....! :D

Don't Disrespect Ditch's Doorpost ....!

2011-12-24T19:55:00.000Z

Or You Will Be Fucked Up ....!

I've just spent the afternoon making nest boxes. I stopped, to feed the Dogs and horses. Then, I took a measure of The Hard Stuff, just to ease the path toward finishing todays five.

All done, I popped in here to put my working glasses away and pick up my pot of shrapnel, which I intended to count into my tins. And that's what I was concentrating on. Separating 20's, 10's, 5's, 2's and 1's.

That's hard work, without my working glasses, which I'd stupidly taken off seconds ago. Thus I was concentrating while straining to see the coins. Barely registering the high pitched squealing, behind me.

It was that perculiar chop smacking that bull blooded Dogs tend to do, when they've just savoured a bite, that caught my conscious attention.

I turned around to see that Orange Dog had seemingly just finished what the bait had started.

Nice work, The Orange Dog ~ An oldy, but, a goody! This fucker's paid the price of coming in here, fucking with my shit.

Of all the doorposts, in all the cottages, in all of Eire .....

Your Very Good Health ....!

2011-12-23T18:30:00.000Z

I don't know if, perhaps, any of you may want to refer back down to my post of November 8th, to make quite sure ye fully understand this one?

Or, maybe, this picture will paint quite enough words .....

Pure, Leitrim mountain dew .....

Hark! Hark! The Dogs Do Bark .....

2011-12-20T23:40:00.001Z

At least " Rats " did. Last night. I was just sitting here, listening to my tinnitus and cruising a forum when she lit up. Out of fucking no where. Barking like a lunatic.

Of course, all I'm getting is this scruffy little 'Lakeland Terrier' thing, going ballistic. No other sounds. Rest of the Dogs ignoring her. No headlights on the window. No reaching for the gun. Just " Shuuuuuud Uuuuuuuuupp!!! Fucking Thing! Woss Up Wi Ye?! ".

And all returned to normal. Moment passed. Incident forgotten. For hours. Certainly until I decided it was time I let them all out for a piss, before the final run down to bed time. And then? Fuck me if she didn't kick off all over again!

Rats, going hysterical once? I can live with that. Rats doing it twice? I look to her .....

In fact, I looked to the scene behind the door there. Ye know how someone could move a tea mug, an inch, in ye kitchen ..... and ye'd walk in and 'see' that something was amiss in ye room? It's like that when ye live alone, anyway.

And I soon spotted it. The 'mess' by the Store Room door. Some sort of stuff on what should have been a clean swept floor. I looked closer .....

Kind of sticks out like a punch in the mouth, doesn't it? It certainly would do, if ye knew how clean swept I like to keep my floors here, anyway. And not without good reason.

So, Rats is all over the place and I've given them their piss, then brought them all back in here, before I investigated further.

Look at the state of my fucking door frame!

Fucking rat has come up in the earth floored room, out the back. It's slipped under the door, where I'm working and am replacing the door step. That's got it into my kitchen ~ no doubt setting Rats off in the first place.

Me having called her off? The damn thing's decided all is well in the world and has sat down to work, at its leisure, on the door post of my Pest Control Store Room! And, by the time I've gone out there? It's broken through and was, I figured, in the fucking store!

Picked the wrong kiddy to invade, this fucker! LOL! I've 'Dusted' the hole. Moment he passes back through there? He'll pick up an annoying slick of powder on his coat. Rats are actually fastidiously fussy about their grooming. He'll lick that off.

I set a trap, just in case he was stupid, or licking that super concentrated poison dust makes him so while he's still able to move.

Then, I put down a tray of the best gear I have. Pellets. Very tempting. Very lethal. Then I went to bed.

Tonight? I let the Dogs out for their piss. Rats was having none of it. All she wanted was to check the door post hole. Then dash along the fireplace wall to the cupboard.

What a thing of beauty, to see her work! That little Dog was completely focused and knew exactly what she was getting at too. She flattened herself out and got beneath a drawer I'd have a hard job rolling a been tin under!

Shining my Clulite under there, I thought of grabbing the camera and getting a photo of her. But, instincts of my own kicked in. I slid that shallow drawer open .....

Bingo! There, in the corner. Nice little pile of red pellets. The fucker's been hoarding the bait. Carrying each, individual pellet from the tray. Through the door post. Through my kitchen. Up under the cupboard. Into that drawer. Bastard!

A life times experience as a rat catcher told me to open that drawer. But, it was my trustee little scruffy scrap of a terrier that led me to the drawer in the first place.

Without her help? I'd not have known to put a fresh dose of that lethal dust in that perfectly safe drawer. I even know where to retrieve my bait from. And I know that it too is somewhere safe.

Rat'll be helping itself to a few pellets, of course. It'll also be ingesting ever more of that dust. Probably be dead tomorrow then. And I know exactly where to look for it.

If I can't find it, where I'm expecting it? Rats'll soon sniff it out for me. That's what she does best.

If I Hadn't Seen It With My Own Eyes ....!

2011-12-16T15:48:00.000Z

Okay. So, I'm a bit of a Bird Nut, among other things. Yeah? Thinking about the wild birds around me takes up a fair proportion of my attention, every day. It's like I'm always up to something, concerning them.

Feeding them, 7 / 52, is a given. But, more than that, lately I've been focusing on 'Baiting' them. Luring them into certain, tightly defined corners. Places I can build up their numbers, ready for the day we catch the lot and Ring them.

I have a separate feeder station, over in the corner of the home acre. It's heaving with small birds, all day, every day. We can put a Mist Net across for them.

But, I have designs on some bigger stuff too. I've been Ground Baiting, with rolled oats, for about three weeks now. Already I'm getting half a dozen or so Magpies and fifteen or more Rooks. I want to Ring that lot!

To this end, as I wait for my Single Clap Net mesh to be made, I'm planning to set up a Crow Trap for them. That's why my aviary has been down there this past few days. Door open and half the roof off. They're already used to it. Feeding right outside.

And I stand up, every hour or so, and record a swift head count. So many magpies. So many rooks. Maybe half a dozen newly arrived starlings? I'll be adapting the trap to catch those too. I'm loving it!

But, nothing on earth prepared me for what I saw, when I looked out, at eleven this morning! And here, let me just remind ye; I'm completely isolated here. This is Wild country. People, out here, are like individual ants on their own football pitch. One for every tens of acres of open land.

That's why I was so wiped out to see the Fox! No kidding! Fuckin' real, live, large as life, gloriously healthy and full coated fox! And it's crouching there, in broad daylight, scarfing down my rolled oats as half a dozen magpies pranced nonchalantly around it!!!

I couldn't believe my fucking eyes! Sixty yards away. I was plainly watching its jaws work as it chewed! Big, orange powder puff of immaculate, full winter coat.

None of ye scrawny, skinny, mangy fuckin' urban kebab killers. This was a pure bred, wild as all hell, totally naturally living, free Irish fox. What a fucking beauty!

Watched this thing, on and off, for half an hour or so. Magpies never once bothered it or by it. They just pranced around, helping themselves too. What a fantastic spectacle!

Best bit was, when foxy had eaten his / her fill? They got up and wandered inside the aviary, for a look round! Inspected the mesh for a bit. Looked around some. Then languidly sauntered off into the cover of the rough down there.

Brilliant!

Would I lie to ye .....?

Chain Dog .....

2011-12-07T16:45:00.000Z

Tomorrow, Thursday, I'll be taking her for a little trip in a motor. Then I'll bring her back home. And, as now, I deeply suspect I'll be in fucking tears.

My poor, big, black teddy bear, with the furry ears and the waggy bum stump hasn't eaten in four days. Over night, she just went into crash.

Drinking gallons of water. Drooling. Spewing. She can't hold anything down and refuses to eat even a morsel. And yet, heart breakingly, she'll still manage a little wag of her bum stump for me.

I've no idea how old she is, of course. No way of knowing. Having got her third hand. I just know she's far too young for this.

I'd love another Rottie. But, I'll never have one again. This is what the fucking Kennel Club does to Dogs. Breeds them into walking time bombs. Genetically programmed to self destruct.

I've loved Chain Dog since the day I was called out to shoot her dead. Watched the performance as she jumped and lunged and barked at me from the end of her chain.

Then saw her true nature as she gave that up and furiously wagged her bum stump instead.

She won my heart, right there. Now, my heart's fucking breaking.

Swan Song For A Swan .....

2011-12-04T02:46:00.012Z

I had Chain Dog out, the other day, as usual. And, as usual, she was snuffling around in her places and relieving herself in her favoured spots as I, in turn, stood and stared into the middle distance. Waiting for her to finish.

However, I never really 'zone out' at such times. And I never lose focus on the land around me. I'm constantly checking my surroundings.

And that's how I spotted the white. Hundred and fifty yards away. Out on the bog. Down towards the river. It wasn't there yesterday.

I didn't know what it was. I decided to get some glass on it, at first. But, I soon realised my little binoculars weren't made or meant for such long distance scrutinising. I'd have to go down there.

And so, I did. Putting Chain Dog away, I went through one gate. Over another. And began walking straight down across the bog. Directly toward this white thing.

It appeared to be about the right size for a white, plastic sack. Laying there, caught up in the juncus rushes. I told myself that's what it must be. Nothing else made sense.

But, then; This was Pat's land. Pat' the fastidious. Pat' the 'just so'. Pat' dropping a sack on his land and just walking away? Get to fuck! It's never gonna happen!

And it hadn't, of course. It was a swan. Laid out as if by the care of loving hands. Flat on its back. Wings perfectly folded to its sides. Neck stretched. Head back. A tableaux of perfect repose.

It had only been dead hours. Swans don't fly in the dark. It had only been light so long. I checked the legs ~ sadly, no rings. I lifted the head, to see the beak: Yeppers. Mute Swan. A Cob. Male. Somebody's life partner. These swans pair for life.

I felt gutted for the Pen. The female bird. Now she was a widow. White widow? I doubt she'd get the irony.

I thought about a guy who I know would have seen this as a gift from the gods. Would've joyfully slung this banquet over his shoulder and strode homewards, grinning. There's nine pounds of meat on a swan, so they tell me.

That's just not my way. I had the fleeting thought that some bastard had shot this thing, for shits and giggles. Then, recognising there was nothing on its breast but a mud stain. Just a spot of blood on what would be the bridge of its nose?

The Rat Catcher in me kicked in. I looked around. And up. Up at the twin power lines that cross above the bog here. Damn.

The swans always fly north to south, earlier in the day. One lough to the other. This bird was laying just south of those cables.

I imagined it: " Well, love, shall we go down to the southern lough, as usual? " The whooping sound of their powerful wing beats as they traveled through the air ~ probably approaching twenty five miles an hour?

Then, he was gone. Imagine her, seeing him fall. Turning in a wide circle. Coming back. Landing on the nearby bog and wandering up to him.

" Love? Get up, love! Why are you doing this? It's me, look ..... Please ....! "

I saw her, a couple of days later. A white. Two hundred yards away. Just a gleaming white spot between the grays of the flooded bog. Hunched and still in the shallows beside the river.

'Prince' once sung to us of, " What it sounds like, when doves cry ". Well, I've looked out across the bog here. And I've empathised. I know what it feels like, when swans cry.

In silence. And alone.

Nest Boxes? I Thought I Could Handle It .....

2011-11-24T00:00:00.000Z

I've just sat down with a beer. Having just made another Starling Box And, this time, I managed to time myself. I tried yesterday. But, I forgot to 'clock off'.

Tonight though, working at perfectly normal speed, and encountering no particular nightmares; An hour.

So, I can wander into my work room with empty hands. One hour later, I can walk back out, leaving a perfect and completely ready to go out Starling Box.

I s'pose that could be pared down by a fair bit, if I went Production Line. Buying in stacks of nine inchers and whacking off the prescribed lengths and cuts.

But, slicing a plank into a dozen " Backs". Making a huge pile of "Floors ", etc? It's just not the way I work.

Bitch is, I've completely run out of nine inch planks now. And I'm not going into town again for a week! :o I don't think I can take it. In fact? I bloody well Know I can't!

My name's Ditch Shitter. I'm a Boxaholic. I've Got To think of away of getting more planks here ~ without spending £20 in taxi fares, just to go get them!

Pat worked for one of the plank sellers in town. They also deliver. I'll ask Pat if he knows if they'll take my plastic, over the phone.

Bit of luck, Pat'll cop onto the situation and say he'll pick up the planks when he goes in. I can square him up next week, when I go to the cash point.

Terrible, isn't it? I have no pride. No self shame. All I can think about is my bloody fix! I Must Have nine inch planks! I NEED to make Starling Boxes!

LMFAO! Worst of it is ..... It's the gods honest truth!

Disturbing thought though. What if I buy, say, three planks? Hell of a lot of boxes in that lot! I might lose it. Go on a mad, day long binge of Starling Box making. Over dose and be found, weeks later in a room full of the things .....

Yeppers. I recognize my problem. But, equally, I realize I'm a lost cause. I'll Never be able to stop making Nest Boxes. I became addicted in my early teens. Hooked before I knew it.

Now? I'm a hollow shell of an old man. Just trying to make it through, from that last box to the next one. Look on me as a warning. I thought I could handle it. The odd 'Blue Tit Box'. 'Just one, at the week end .....'.

Before I knew it, I was 'Binge' Nest Box making. Losing days and nights to it. I even started 'Pushing'. Selling Nest Boxes to others. Anything for another sheet of Ply. A few planks. To feed my need.

And this is how I've ended up, people. I'm on that high, now. I've just made a good box. But, tomorrow? I'll awake with that hunger. My stash of a couple of six inch planks will soften the crash.

But, I'm beyond even Tit and Sparrow Boxes now. They've led me to the bigger stuff. Starling. Even Jackdaw. How long before I'm on Kestrels?! It's just a spiral .....

Sorry to have burdened you with this story.

Oh, god help me!!! Now I'm sat here, even now, thinking about Pied Wagtail Boxes!!! Is there no end to this .....?!

Lap Top's Fucked. That's Me Fucked .....

2011-11-12T20:02:00.001Z

Power outages tripped my old Lap Top into some sort of seizure today. Now I'm on a back up PC and I really don't know how this is gonna go.

Just wanted to record that A/ It's MAYDAY! from me. And that, B/ Because I'm having to reload and reset everything on here, from scratch;

I can't seem to get the third party cooky that allows me to Comment as me. I honestly don't know where all this is going and I have a fucking headache right now.

What a fucking nightmare!

It Finally Happened To Me ....!

2011-11-08T22:27:00.000Z

Having lived here, in deep hope from day one, for pushing six years now? Today, it came. Completely out of the blue. And involving the last two people I'd have ever imagined.

I'm standing there, chatting to a friend in town. Pretty much ready to be on my way, as it happens. When a guy I know to be another good friend of my man here turns up.

And, in the blink of an eye, he passes my mate a screw topped bottle of crystal clear liquid.Which vanished out ofsight as if by sleight of hand. Get To Fuck!!!!!

I've said to my man; " That was Never what I fuckin' suspect it was?! " And, with a happy smile, he says;

" It's Holy Water. From Lourdes. " Seeing the consternation clear on my face ~ doubtless well and truly tinged with deep disappointment, he explains; " We're having a mass in the house ..... "

I'm gutted. I have no religious leanings. Though, as he retrieved the bottle and said something about throwing some over me, I was ready with the retort that;

" Throw that fucking stuff on me, mate? And ye do know I'll turn into a pile of ashes?! "

All the same though, he poured some into the bottle cap. Frankly? I was a teentsy bit 'disgusted' when he drank it!

I have this early memory of " Holy Water " from my childhood church. Stone bowl on the wall, by the door. Water in it. Every fucker sticking their finger in it and putting it on themselves? Fuck off! That's just disgusting!

Then, even as I thought all this, he refilled the cap and held it out to me. Smiling. Realisation time. " Ye fucking kidding me?!? "

One tentative sniff. I knew I'd Finally 'Arrived' here! A tiny sip and .......... Faaaaaarkkk!!!!!

I swear; Right Then, if someone had announced a " Talking Rubbish Contest "? I'd have thrown myself into it! I was Ready!

I could, literally, feel this fucking stuff entering my bloodstream! Nothing harsh in the throat. But, it was sort of pervasive from there on out.

I could actually feel it working down and out into my shoulders and chest. Exhilarating feeling!

Full shot glass? I'd have become The Incredible Hulk! Totally fucking amazing experience!

I think I'll have to put out feelers now. See if I can get my hands on a 1/4 bottle of this stuff. Clear glass, obviously!

Only, in the almost incomprehensibly slender chance that any old friend, or member of my family should ever visit me here?

How I'd love to be able to reach into some hidden nook and fetch out an offering of a taste of The 'Hard Stuff'!

Can't Keep A Good Ding' Down .....

2011-11-07T00:24:00.000Z

I so love le Ding! Apart from his divine, furry ears, which lend him such character even when he's having a kip .....

And his mad habit of being 'Untouchable' ~ crazy fucker'll walk all over me, to greet me, when I wake up. But, rub his head in return? He'll as likely growl at me!

Quite insane then. As all my Dogs are. I make them that way! LMAO! It's not difficult. I'm their only social stimulus and I unconsciously reward strange behaviour. Makes my little team more interesting as individuals.

le Ding though has had to learn not to fuck off. He'd be shot ~ and bring all manner of hell upon all of us too ~ if he ran off and got amongst the cattle, obviously.

As much as that though, he once developed a taste for dashing off, at the first opportunity, and racing off up to The Idiots place.

Vanished for two or three days, last winter. I'd about given up on him. Then The Idiot called to say he was up there. Seems he'd been found 'laying dead' on a mound of snow one morning.

Idiot did something like approaching the 'Dead, starving' Ding and le Ding demonstrated that he had other ideas. Jumped up off the warm compost heap he'd been having a lovely kip on. Probably gnashed his teeth and fucked off out of reach. Sound Dog!

Anyway, that was last winter. I've been working on his head since. Now? Now, every night, I let the four of them out, last thing. Chain Dog waits in her cage, of course. But, the fucked up four all get to pile out the door and piss all over the place out there.

No leads. No telling much. I just take the opportunity to shine the CluLite about. See if there's anything to fetch a gun for. Then they generally go back in, of their own volition, when they're done.

Once The Orange Dog goes back in ~ she's always last, because she's oldest and has more to do, more slowly ~ I send them all into their rooms.

That's to say, I usher them into the back room. Then I join them in there and send Orange Dog into the Back back room. I lock her in there. Two locked doors between her and Chain Dog, see? Then I let Chain Dog out and so on.

Tonight though my guts fucked me up, even as the Dogs were out there. I'd counted the first three back in here. So, I shut the back door and raced a photo finish to the ditch.

All done, head cleared, I came back in here, fetching The Orange Dog with me. Nigger and Rats were fucking around in the kitchen. No Dingo.

I checked in here. Chain Dog in her cage. No Dingo. My heart gave a lurch. Had I counted him back in here? Or, in my distraction, had he slipped away in the shadows ~ as he's so good at doing ~ and gone off in search of adventure?!

One last thought: Had I shut the door to the back rooms ....? I strode over and looked. Door open! Dark room beyond ..... Please, god ....!

I switched the light on and grinned like a cunt! There's le Ding. On his window sill. Peering round the wall as much as to say; " OK, Dad? You gonna put Orange Dog in her room now? ".

Fucking bless him! Damn Dog's So good, he not only brings himself in, after his night time piss, but, he even knows to go into the back room and sit up in his window sill, where he likes to be.

And there he'd sat, look. All on his own. In the dark. For five minutes. Untold. I wasn't even in the fucking building!

I'd like to scrub his ears and kiss his furry head for him. But, he'd probably take my face off A Dog made in my own image then ..... Quite mad.

One of Those 'Eureeka!' Moments .....

2011-10-19T00:12:00.000+01:00

I knew, as of some days ago, that Chris, my Ringing Trainer, was due up here today. It would have been that anticipation that led to me waking up yesterday, realising that I'd just been Dreaming about mist netting and ringing birds!

That's par for the course though. Chris reckons he dreams the same thing, even when he's wide awake.

And today, we were doing it, again. Though it turned out to be the dullest day we've ever had here, by far. Two Coal Tits. One Great Tit and a Gold Crest.

There, literally, just wasn't a bird to be seen. I suspect The Idiot's feeding them seed and has drawn the flocks. Bastard!

And that's probably what got me day dreaming ~ as I made the umpteenth round of tea ~ about catching shit like Rooks and Jackdaws. What savage craic that would be!

But, then, I thought about it. I'd need a fucking great 'Cage'. Walk in size. And to make a " Ladder " type top for it. All that 2 x 2 and chicken wire. Cost a bloody fortune!

That's when I started breathing faster. Eureeka!!! We will catch 'Black Crows'!

What have I got out there? Fucking Eight by Four foot aviary! All powder coated. Bolted together from pre formed panels. Standing empty, since I used it to drive the Magpies away from here.

I told Chris we'd be in business. Tonight, I checked my files. Yeppers! There's a dead easy form of 'Chimney' entrance I can knock up out of a length of roof baton and a bit of scrounged chicken wire! Jackdaw, Rook and Crow.

I can knock that up. Whip a roof panel off my aviary. Chris and I can easily lug the aviary itself down to the corner of the field, by the big trees.

I'll feed the buggers the best I can find. Watch their confidence and numbers build up. I'm dreaming about black clouds here. Enough to make Hitchcock smile and snuggle down, warmer in his grave!

Get the buggers flocking here daily, for their cheap but plentiful bait ~ Rolled Oats? 35 Kilo's for under a tenner! Let them build up till they're as numerous as the sparrows on my nuts. Just wait till Chris is due back.

That day, I close the door!

This Is What We're Actually Like ~ When We Don't Remember ....!

2011-10-14T19:30:00.002+01:00

Pricelessly Pissed!

I Know .....

2011-10-12T20:25:00.001+01:00

The Ages And Wisdoms Of Men .....

2011-10-12T00:26:00.000+01:00

I was talking to my mate Hugh, the Butcher, today. He made some comment about what kids think about their elders.

He then switched the band saw on, to cut some steaks. Much noise. Pause in conversation

Even as he turned it off again though, I'd considered this and told him, straight off the top of me head to Hugh .....

" A child thinks a grown man knows Everything.

A Teenager thinks adults know fucking Nothing.

A young man thinks He knows everything.

Mature man realises and accepts how much he doesn't know.

Get to about our age, mate ....? Just about grateful to be able to remember pretty much anything ye ever did fucking know

~ Like; What day it is and what the hell ye've come into town for anyway! "

Hugh agreed. Llew'll know what I'm on about.

Letter To A Very Old Mate .....

2011-10-09T20:47:00.000+01:00

Just this minute sent this e mail to my old mate, Kev'. We're of an age and he's been uncharacteristically silent for long enough now that, frankly; Ye just have to check for a fucking pulse!

Shocking, isn't it? When ye need to nudge ye peers, just to reassure yeself they're still drawing breath.

Upholding my own, stated principals though, I didn't just shoot him a " Too long. How are ye? " job. I made some effort. In fact, I decided the effort would be wasted if I didn't fetch it here and use it to let everyone know what's going on with me right now, look.

So, here it is. What I'm up to, right now. And a good idea of what to expect in the immediate future ~ Until something else crops up which I want to comment on. For now though? This is where Ditch is at .....

I'm, as I suspect you might be, just head down and arse up. Amongst the sort of work that being pretty much forced in doors for the coming duration tends to focus the mind on.

Been working like a boss on my Panelling. In fact, it's 'done' now :-) Just have to caulk the countersinks and so forth. Then paint it and that's that.

Only snag is, I have three doors to strip first. Actually set to, today. £15.00 can of Nitromors and a brand new scraper. Set about this door .....

Complete and utter waste of time and money! FFS! Gave the door a good drenching. Fucked off in here for the proscribed fifteen minutes.

Went back out there and had at it with the scraper. Might as well have just used the fucking scraper! Second good lathering had as much effect. Fuck that.

Irony is; I've been telling everybody how I'll have to use stripper, because it's bound to be old, lead paint?

Ripping out the last bit of the hallway, the other day, I found some newspapers folded in there and in good order. 1975!

I shouldn't imagine they were even selling lead paint then? Went out in the fifties or sixties, surely?

Anyway; Nitromors is pretty fucking shocking stuff to work with. So much so ~ and so useless! ~ I've now decided to go with a hot air gun.

Mate told me, the other day, how excellent the later types are. I had one, years ago, and wasn't too impressed. Bit tedious. But, it seems they're better now?

I'm fucking sure Pat has one. I seem to remember kneeling next to it, on the floor of one of his sheds, as I set and attended a rat box.

Anyway, get up there tomorrow. See what he says. No way I'd use a naked flame here. Been there. Done that. Fuck!

Up a ladder, stripping back the top of a first floor window frame? Suddenly, I'm frantically blowing like fuck at the flame that's now eating into the dry old wood and reaching, fast, for the eves!

Told the governor straight; 'No Fucking Way!'. Give him his due. Rental property of his. But, he had that old frame ripped out and an entire replacement built and fitted.

Cliffy Haworth that was. Christ almighty; The stories I could tell about Cliffy! LOL!

A Moment With The Dogs .....

2011-10-04T02:38:00.000+01:00

Was vaguely aware of some movement there. The distinctive rhythm of lapping confirmed it. Orange Dog had got up from my bed and gone to the bucket of fresh water for a drink.

That action caused me to glance over my shoulder, just as Rats went over to see what Orange was up to. Rats glancing up to meet my eye. " Just checking on The Sausage, Dad. "

I glanced, in passing, at le Ding. Seemingly fast asleep in the bed. But, he was aware of all that was happening here and gave a tight wag of his tail to let me know he knew.

I looked over at Niggy. He sort of looked back at me. Through the heavy film of a 'sleeping' Dogs eye. He was probably dreaming of the Orange Dog going for a drink of water. Rats checking what she was doing. le Ding knowing. Me glancing around, to check.

Now The Sausage is back on my bed. Fast asleep. le Ding has since got out of 'The Bed'. Nigg's got in. Then, Nigger's got out of the bed and gone to My bed. Rats, who'd sat scratching, has gone to join Nig'. le Ding is snoozing, on the floor, beside me. I haven't even looked at Chain Dog. Fast asleep in her bed. In her cage. Snoring like a tank.

Soap? Who needs it, when ye've got Dogs?!

This One's For Llew .....

2011-10-03T01:28:00.000+01:00

And no, it's not the panelling, mate. This is something really more special, in its way.

See, yesterday, I'm afraid 'Johnny spent rather too long at the fair' ..... It's amazing what just three pints of Guinness, as a starter before his customary skin full at home, can do to a man ~ the next day!

Yeppers. I felt like shaking shit today! No fucking way was I attempting any sly mitre cuts of half inch moulding wood. I'd have hand sawn my own fucking finger off.

But, anyway; Dean O' called round last night. Shit was discussed. Beer was drunk. Questions were asked. And, as a result of the whole combination of that sort of shit; A small handful of rather big screws was given me.

Then I woke up, in my chair. And it was some time after seven A.M!

Never mind. Touching the 'delicate' panelling was out of the question. That Really needs me to focus. But, what was it Dean O' had told me last night? Fuck, yeah! I even remembered!

I also knew I had just about every tool and bit in the house. God knows, I'd had them Years! All I never had was Dean O's secret knowledge and the right sized screws, as prescribed by that knowledge. Now I had awoken an Initiate!

So, out came the SDS drill and the various bits and pieces. I had at it and ..... I dunno; Just seemed like ten minutes! Probably was, actually.

Rest of the hour or so would have just been me fussily brushing the thick, greenish years of accumulated dust off of my DVD, CD's, PS2 Games and many books.

Anyway, Voilla ....!

Yeppers. Shelves. 'Big Fucking Deal!', eh? Well, Yes, actually. If ye live in a two hundred year old fucking cottage made of big stones held together with sand and shit!

No fucking wall bricks and Portland Cement here. Hit a stone and ye laughing. Hit a 'joint'? Ye'd might as well try to screw to a fucking kiddies sand castle!

I've tried. Down the years? How I've tired. God almighty. Wrong screws. Wrong plugs. Wrong sized fucking holes to begin with. My Store Room's an avalanche waiting to happen, at the slightest touch.

But now? I can sort it! I Have The Power! DVD's, Games, CD's which, for Years have lain and sat in miserable piles on the floor and fuck knows where else around here ..... Well; Doesn't the photo say it?

Today, the DVD's. Next? The books! Then ....?

Feeling A Bit Chuffed With My Panelling .....

2011-09-27T01:24:00.000+01:00

I've had a bit of a moody on it, during the last week. Well; Basically, I bought a couple of new packs of panels! That helped a lot!

One side of my 'hallway' is now completely panelled. I just have to finish cutting and screwing on the architrave at this end. I'm already working on the preparations on the other side of the hall too.

It's having that one, straight run wall fully panelled though. It does look absolutely fucking amazing! Even with it half done, I never guessed it would look this good, when it's 'finished'.

I'd love to show ye photo's. But it's not finished, yet. Have to put the skirting board on the bottom and get a bit of concave, quadrant trim for the top. And just finish cutting a bit more architrave and screwing that on. No screws, see?

Anyway, screws are in my book now. Another pack of panels and a strip of wood I need to use for studs for the panels. Pick them up, in town.

Then spend another few afternoon sessions, figuring out how to get round the constant stream of niggling little problems the kack handed, pissed clean out of plumb building of this place throws at me, every turn I take!

Great fun though! I'm a bloody rat catcher. Not a carpenter or builder. Fuckin' trier though. I take my time and think about every pin and screw. Figure out what might go wrong, in advance.

Tell ye; I wouldn't thank ye for a team of builders and decorators turning up at my gate, for free, tomorrow. I had the professionals put the doors and windows back in this place. Now, it's up to me to do the rest.

The feeling of achievement and satisfaction all this is giving me? Fucking Priceless!

For Sam .....

2011-09-20T23:23:00.000+01:00

Click it, to read it properly .....

Madness; Morning And Midnight ....!

2011-09-17T03:12:00.000+01:00

Well, alright; I say 'Morning'. But, time I get up? It's afternoon. Yeppers. But; Never let a small detail get in the way of a good heading! Now then .....

So; Orange Dog lets me know she's ready to get up, simply by sliding out of my arms, wandering about the room a bit, then scrubbing her eyes on the bed.

This, somehow, communicates to le Ding. I say " Somehow " like it's some big fucking mystery, of course. But, Dingo obviously just recognises The Sausage's morning ritual as well as anyone.

And that's where all hell breaks loose. le Ding starts bouncing on and off and all over the bed. I tend to lay there; Holding my breath ~ to protect my stomach. And silently praying ~ to protect my balls!

(It's considered Bad Play to cup ones self at this time. The idea is to lay there, in stark terror, hoping to god that one almighty paw doesn't come crashing down on ones nuts)

And now, just to add some zest to the proceedings? I've started molesting le Ding, even as he tramples me in my own bed.

Always been a funny one, our Dingo Dog. Rescued from a bucket of water situation, as a pup. Then passed to a rank cunt, by innocent mistake. Those that remember the talk of the time will have an idea what this poor sod might have gone through.

Anyway, he's with me now ~ Thanks to " Valentino " and the smashing lad who fetched him over here for us ~ whose name my encroaching senility has washed away. He's a happy Dog.

He Has His Job

But, he's still a touchy fucker. Doesn't like to be touched too much. So much so that I'd certainly let no stranger pet him. Well, come to that? I don't let anyone the fuck near him. Just less risky that way.

But; He Sleeps On My Bed!

And, in the mornings, I grab his legs! Savage craic! :D There he is, storming all over me and whimpering with excitement. There's me, holding my breath. Grinning like a cunt. And laying firm grips on his hocks! (Grabbing him by the ankles).

Idea is to grab him just firmly enough that he realises he's grabbed. Then, to let go and get ye hand the fuck out of there, just as his teeth arrive. Tormenting him / Getting bitten isn't an option.

Why do this? Fuck knows! Ye won't find this craic in any 'Manual of Doggy Basic Obedience ". But then, nor will ye find many lunatics like le Ding curled up on my bed in the morning.

le Ding exudes character; Any way ye wanna look at it. But, believe me, if he looks at you. like this ....?

You Dare ....!!!

That's really the time to keep the fuck away from le Dingo Dog. Trust me on this. I know.

Dog's a nutter. He came to me from a fractured background. I'm happy to say I've now moulded him into the complete and utter fucking lunatic that he is! And I love him to bits ~ just as he loves me.

Tonight's 'Adventure' ? I'll tell ye about that the next time I'm in the mood for it. I've wrote, and you've read, enough now.

But, it starts with le Ding ~ and ends well ;-)

Cats Lives Running Out .....

2011-09-09T00:57:00.000+01:00

Didn't I mention, a month or two ago, perhaps ..... I was coming back from Dean O's, around midnight. As we drew to the top gate, by the cattle crush, there were two fucking kittens, at least!

Fluffy bastard, one of them was. Brown on mainly white, as I recall. Feral, obviously. No one within a mile or more of here has cats now. I went back out, with the gun. But, the growth was up and they'd vanished.

Then, probably within the last month, I was out in the compound when I saw a black cat down in my paddock! Fucking thing sauntered down to the gate. Waltzed under it and went on its way.

And that's where it all sort of started, really. See; I'm not happy with the zero on my rifle, right now. But, I'm so low on ammo that zeroing it could all but wipe me out. Catch twenty two!

Anyway, the cattle are still out and I never know where they might turn up, from one day to the next. So, it's really down to the shotgun. And that's why these bastards are still alive yet!

When I saw that black bastard in the paddock, the routine went like this: I spot the fucker and it sinks in that, yes, I really am looking at my arch enemy. Right there. Forty yards away, on my own fucking property! This is taking the piss!

So, I compute that the Dogs are all in doors now. I'm free to fire. In I come to fetch the gun. Problem is though that I habitually leave the 'wrong' barrel on the pump action!

So, I have to take the gun from its holder. Unscrew the barrel. Put that aside. Take out the slip I store the long and tight (long range) barrel in. Unzip it. Take the barrel out. Screw that onto the gun.

Then, I have to check the safety. Jack one into the chamber. Tell the Dogs to stay the fuck in here. Go back outside and ..... Well, low and behold! The fucking cat's fucked off, look!

And that's what happened, last week. When I was putting the Dogs out for the day. And I found myself gazing at the black feral. Down in the hedge side of my paddock. Not a care in the fucking world! Oblivious to the Dogs even.

Then, today, when I got up and pulled the blind up? Right there! There's this brown / black bastard mincing right across my very compound!!! Fucking thing's barely eight foot from my window! WTF?!

But, see above, see? Grab the gun. Start unscrewing the barrel ..... Cunt was long gone.

And, just now, I let the Dogs out, for their night piss. I always carry my CluLiter Classic, to keep an eye on the crafty le Ding with. I also, habitually, glance at the paddock gate with it.

You've guessed it! Eyes! I'm like; 'Fuck Right Off!!!'. But, I've got four fucking Dogs here, all mincing about, look. It's a kitten too. Something on white. Twenty five yards away in the paddock hedge side.

Got the Dogs in. Explained to Chain Dog that she'll have to excuse me for a minute before I can lock this lot up and let her out. Started the old, old routine .....

Just to make it worse; The fucker had moved down to the gate. Still well in range of this barrel and load. But, just as I moved to one side, to clear a fence from my line of fire, my feet brushed through an isolated clump of tall grass. Sound drove the fucker away! FUCK!

Anyway, that's got to be three lives the 'black''s used up now. Two, maybe, for this (?) kitten ~ though, I wonder at the size here. Thing I saw tonight didn't look a lot bigger than those I saw a month back.

Fuck it. This land ~ 'My Land', in as much that I'm the one expected to keep it vermin free ~ is obviously building up a healthy head of feral cats, right under my damn nose!

And. how ironic; They've gotten away with it because I've spent the last Spring and Summer so totally obsessed and absorbed with trying to find birds nests ~ just like they do!

Work it out: I leave these bastards to breed up? There'll be no hope for the birds, next year. There'll be a fucking Army of feral's out there, just waiting for them.

My cat trap's up at Pat's. I need to get him to fetch it back down here. He's vermin free. I've seen to that.

Now, I have work to do .....

Oh My Fucking God ....!!!

2011-09-07T20:38:00.000+01:00

I've Got The Ghey!!!

This is just too much! I just got into the shower, a scruffy, sweaty, smelly Man. All stubble and stinks.

Thought absolutely nothing of soaping up and scrubbing off my manly bits. Never once thought to even consciously look at myself. MEN Don't!

Dried myself off. Grabbed a pair of denims off the indoor line. Looked for a T Shirt ..... Nothing doing. Bugger. (<-- ?! Christ, look! Already I'm thinking about Their stuff!)

Let me take ye right back to the very beginning: When I first got here, I was a good five years younger than I am now. I was also accustomed to riding a rather superb mountain bike I then owned. So, I used to ride that into town.

Trouble is, see, if ye riding even the best of bikes for a twelve mile round trip, even with oil suspension in ye front forks? The vibration is something fucking shocking! Ye hands actually go numb as fuck.

And that's why I knew I needed some of these special, gel padded, fingerless gloves that the pro' riders wear. I could really see why they fucking wear them! It's not for looks.

So, off to eBay I went. Found me a suitable seeming pair of such gloves and sent off for them. Paying by 'Buy It Now'. I waited for them to arrive.

Only, what arrived instead was some strange sort of fucking T Shirt thing! Pockets on the back. Zip up neck. Some fucking logo on it. Could've been the Calvin Kline of cycling tops, for all I know. I didn't want it.

I told the people; I didn't want it. I wanted my gloves. What's to do? And fair enough on them. They told me to keep the shirt and the gloves would be on their way. Not worth their while paying to ship the shirt back.

Gloves arrived. Shirt was put aside. Five years down the line? I grew so unfit and needed so much shopping I gave the bike up and took to taxi's.

Today? I made le Ding a house. That caused me to work up a sweat, in the drizzling rain. Fast track to illness, that is. I can't be ill, as only I can take care of my creatures. So, I knew I'd better have a shower.

No Tee Shirts hanging on my lines. Except this bikey thing I'd tossed out of the cupboard whilst searching for something and had now gravitated to my clothes storage line.

Fuck it. Any port in a storm. I was naked and needed a T Shirt. I snatched it and put it on.

The Horror!!! It almost Snapped against my chest! It Gripped my biceps. It squeezed my ribs. If my torso was remotely 'Defined'? This thing would have set my bod' off admirably! But; Who'd be admiring a Mans body, presented so?!

One glance at myself, all ..... well ..... 'Like This' and Ghey! screamed out in my mind. But, too late. Moments later I found myself shrugging my beige and black trimmed Spandex clad shoulders and chucking a nicely manly, Flek Tarn, German army shirt over the top of it.

But, it's no good. I know what I'm wearing under this shirt. I'd might as well have black stockings and a suspender belt under these denims .....

Fuck me! What even made me Think of that?! NOOOooooooo!!!!! See? I've got the Ghey!!!

A Long Story ~ Part Two .....

2011-09-06T00:35:00.001+01:00

So, back to this: I've got this tool, called a " Pin Pusher ", see? Cool piece of shit. Looks like a screw driver. Only, on closer inspection, the shaft's hollow and it has no head.

Instead, it has like a barrel which ye slip a panel pin into. It's also spring loaded. Idea it that ye pop a pin in there. Put it against the spot ye want that pin. Push.

It's a bit like one of those dummy knives, in reverse. It shoves the pin into the panel anyway. So much easier than fucking around with hammers!

I cracked on then and started on my 'hallway'. I'm one of these guys who'll plan and think about a job for six months. Then do it in six weeks.

That's just because I'm not that good at shit. And fucking up, through lack of planning, is a bitch on so many levels. I hate doing that.

Here's the ceiling panels going up. What this shot doesn't show ye is the absolutely geometric 'cut out' it's all leading to, on the right!

But, yeah, the 'wall' to the right was a right fucker. I had to measure, mark and cut out a virtual 'lightening streak' shape from a length of panel. Plus, it needed to slip over the square of a vertical run of plastic, electrical conduit.

Took me a fucking afternoon to make that one strip of panelling the right size and shape. But, be fucked; I did it, in one go! God, I was pleased with myself!

Here's a not very good or expressive shot of the result. Ye can see the conduit. But, the quirky shapes of all the other shit I had to fit to, 'behind' that, doesn't show in this shot.

Now, here's the thing. Right? This is important .....

I's ask ye to scroll back up again and have a closer look at the first photo. Look at the top, right hand corner. See that silver thing, jutting horizontally into the photo? That's a galvanised steel piece of trunking.

That trunking runs, out of shot, to the right. To the domestic fuse box. Nerve centre of my nice, new rewiring job.

Right angling 'Back' from it, towards the door, is a fuck off great cable. It's about an inch wide ~ compare That to any cable attached to any electrical appliance in ye entire home, eh?

It's that big because this is the cable that carries the Muvva Load! That bastard runs directly from the Main Fuse to my 'Fuse Box'. This fucker can comfortably carry enough whack to power an entire fucking mansion during an electricity using party!

I'll leave it there. For now. The ground work is now firmly laid.

'Sup ..... Don't Ye Believe My Shit ....?

2011-08-30T02:41:00.001+01:00

Ever Thought Ye've Had A Bad Day ....?

2011-08-30T02:28:00.000+01:00

Un fucking believable! Especially in light of the last thing I posted on here .....

I've had Chain Dog, my Rottie bitch, out for her constitutional. She's sniffed around, whilst leading me around. Sniffing half an acre till she's finally found that precise spot in the entire universe where it's cosmically decreed that, this day, she shall dump her guts.

She assumes the position. I let the lead go slack. Her 'Bum Stump' quivers .....

And, I'm standing there, kind of idly gazing at her ring piece. Not really seeing it. Just zoning out there as I take a minute to mull over some thought. I need to mark where she lays her mines. I need to pick them up, after all.

But, then I hear a croaked; " Ah; That's just fucking grand! " And a Dog Log pops off the ground and sort of jumps off to flop down in the grass some inches away!

I'm like; Get To Fucking Fuck!!!!! Self propelling Dog shit?! Fuck Right Off!!!

Then, the frog hopped again. This time leaving his steaming burden behind. Though, I suspect he had a hell of a fuckin' skid mark down his back!

You or me, struck by lightening. Or a frog, shit on by a Rottweiler? I know which one I reckon I'm more likely to live to see again!

Couldn't Resist Putting This Up .....

2011-08-11T21:47:00.000+01:00

From The Mouths Of Strangers .....

2011-08-03T21:46:00.000+01:00

Just 'Pimping' my gorgeous " Rosie " here ;-)

But, it's all true.

Went into town today. Steve's got some guy in the motor already, second fare. Guy hops out the front and gets into the back when I appear. Thus he's pretty much shut off to my hearing. Me being clinically deaf as a post in my right ear.

Did my stuff, in town. Called Steve to fetch me back here. This guy's, coincidentally, still in the back seat. No matter.

So, as we pull up at my place, Rosie and Donks are on the field. Earlier, I imagine, they'd just happened to have been down, out of sight, in the paddock.

Then I've heard the guy roaring: " Oh Jesus! Look At That!!! That's fucking Beautiful! And will ye Look At the Back on it! Christ! What Condition!!! "

Even as I'm quietly murmuring that yes, that's my Rosie. My pride and joy, the guy's just fucking beside himself. He even got excited over the condition of Donks.

Steve ~ who seriously knows his horse shit ~ was in agreeance.

Me? I was all warm and cuddly. Just absorbing, and deeply appreciating, the Respect being bestowed upon my beloved Rosie by guys who've probably forgotten more about horses than I'll ever live to fucking learn.

Best bit is, as they pulled away, so Rosie, recognising that my coming home meant supper time, came galloping down the field. Her gorgeous mane flowing as her feathered feet thundered. She Was Breathtaking!

I knew they'd both be watching her. And, yeah; My heart filled with love and pride.

A Long Story ..... Part One .....

2011-08-02T23:07:00.000+01:00

OK. I'm finally sitting comfortably. So I'll begin. But, this one's liable to get so fucking involved, I'll have to break it up into bite sized instalments. Otherwise, it'll become tedious as all hell for all of us.

All started, really, a year or two ago now. When I finally got my payment and was able to have windows and doors fitted in this place. And have the ancient electrics completely replaced.

I got the sort of windows and shit that the original people would have considered the norm. Only, mine are, or course, made of UPVC and glass such as never existed a century ago. But, the style's the same.

My front door, however, is 'posh'. Ye front door, out here, is a Feature. It's an opportunity to make a statement. Show a bit of flash. So, I got one that my neighbours openly admire the shit out of.

See; I'm wanting to not just 'renovate' this place. Rejuvenate it. I want to 'restore' it to what They would have had, if they'd had the spare cash to give it all the Traditional trimmings.

And I know what's 'authentic, period' too. Because, as a bit of an " Urban Explorer ", I've crept through and wondered at my fair share of genuine, left as they were, abandoned farm cottages.

That's the way here, see? Or, I guess it was, before the Celtic Tiger rolled over, farted and died.

Ye'd grow up in the home place. Suddenly find yeself living in a boom time. Get yeself a nice little place built on ye auld ones land. Move in.

They'd die. That was it. Ye'd Remove them to the cemetery and close the door on their cottage. And leave it to rot down.

Anyway; So, I'm making this place 'Century Old Posh'. And that's where the Panelling comes in. This is the True start to our story. My beloved, accursed fucking panelling!

It started with the 'Back / Kitchen Window'. Let's get with the pictures, eh? Here's how it 'originally' was. Site of " The Leitrim Experiment "!

So, I had that blown out and a nice, 'Typical' Back Door put in. The builders made a passable job of preparing the hole for the made to measure door. But, the 'Doorway', being just some lashed up fibre board, left Everything to be desired:

And that's when I decided to get cracking and give my kitchen / lovely new back door a bit of the Bling I feel it deserves. I knew what a wealthier 'Farmer' of the old days would have got done, to impress his guests.

It's by no means finished yet. It needs that smoothing touch. Then I have the paint and brand new brushes here to paint it. I'll be using almost exactly the same dark, corn / cream the original paintwork displays. But, here's my back door, pretty much as it stands today.

All 'Panelled Up':

There. Wasn't too painful, was it? I mean, I hope it wasn't too much like me showing ye my 'Holiday Slides'? I just needed to lay the ground work. Get some subtle little points into ye subconsciousnesses.

Trust me. It'll all pan out. I'm not just doing this to brag about my own, mediocre, DIY abilities. Now that I've got the ground work down, I'll be more inclined to feed ye further stages in what, believe me, became Quite the fucking experience!

I'll probably try to pop in bits and pieces on other issues ~ As the mood takes me ~ in between chunks of this one. Otherwise, again, it may get to be too much like work, for all of us.

Stay tuned .....

Here; Have A Fucking Good Laugh .....

2011-07-31T22:45:00.000+01:00

Ever Farted At A Bad Time? So asked " The Body ", over on Boards.Ie.

Probably the funniest fucking thread I've ever read! Definitely 'Not Safe For Work'. Because, I guarantee ye, ye'll be screaming with laughter!

Now, while you enjoy a bit of that? I'm off to get some proper Blog written. I have my own shit backing up here. I just get too distracted with reading shit like this thread.

Can ye blame me?

" FYP " ~ The Irish Take On Muslims .....

2011-07-16T18:37:00.000+01:00

Literally laughed till I cried when I read this one! I'd better just explain a couple of contextual bits first:

I came across this on a truly vast, Irish forum, Boards.IE where, on one Board at least, it's a 'thing' to quote an earlier poster. But, fuck with his post and insert something 'funny' in place of his own words.

Ye do this by repeating his words but, ye draw a line through some of them. Follow with ye craic. And put, " FYP ". 'Fixed Your Post'.

OK? I explained that because I've simply never come across it elsewhere before. Though, after a good few, I have found myself doing it in other places. God knows what people make of me!

So; Some guy's basically asked how we view 'Muslims' these days. Are we suspicious that they might be Terrorist 'Sleepers'.

I replied that the guys running the kebab shop in town are Muslims. And ye really couldn't wish to meet a nicer bunch of lads. Nothing sinister about any of them.

In much the same vein, 'Jugger0' wrote:

" I don't think I've ever talked to a Muslim, except the lads that work in kebab house. And nah they don't seem like the terrorist sort. They gave me a free burger once! "

And, 'Black Francis' sorted it:

" Originally Posted by jugger0

I don't think I've ever talked to a Muslim, except the lads that work in kebab house. And nah they don't seem like the terrorist sort. They gave me a ~~free burger~~ large bomb to detonate in a crowded public place once!

FYP. "

Fucking brilliant! :D The simple pleasures of completely fucking with another mans post!

I Couldn't Make This Up ....!

2011-07-14T21:15:00.000+01:00

Well; The time I spend sitting here, bashing the keys, only to decide I'm not getting anything worth posting. Then, out of the blue, I get Given material so priceless I just have to share it :D

I'm on a forum ~ No name. No pack drill. No need. Someone asks a possible means to an end. Members offer their opinions.

I offer mine. Pointing out that my own tastes / aspirations differ from this guys. Maybe this more specialised bunch of enthusiasts could better advise him?

I then stopped watching that Thread. I'd offered my opinion and was off chatting with others. Elsewhere on the forum. Exchanging chat and views. As ye do.

Then, days later, I get this PM:

" ur a f tit u like*** "

I'm like; WTF?! So, I reply to this guy: " Please explain ye PM? " I'm figuring it's just some silly kid. Had a bad day. Drunk a pint and being infantile.

Just in case it's a Troll, someone perhaps hitting loads of members? I copy it off to the Moddies. One of whom shows it to the site owner.

Site owner shoots me a line, saying he's sent said kiddie a 'Cyber Wrist Slap'. Expressed the unsolicited opinion that the kid's just had one too many ciders.

I'm perfectly happy with all this. End of.

Until, days later, I find This in my PM Box ....!

11:35:

" lmao you ran to your only friend (The site owner) to grass on me haha .

You are one sad pathetic piece of shit , you must spend all day on your pc trying to make real friends , what the f*** is your blog about ?! you are a very VERY sad pathetic little boy , cutting your hair without a mirror then posting it on the net ?! :round of applause: you f*** retarded piece of shit. i would be ashamed of myself if i were you , saying that if i were you id kill myself , you f*** noob, i laugh at pieces of shit like you and laugh at how MUCH MUCH MUCH MUCH 1000000% times better of a life i have than a pos like you, did i mention its nice 2b ALOT richer than you , lol poor ****. "

Then, without my doing anything about That little outburst, next comes This;

02:24:

" we have all been having a good laugh at you son , " bouncing off the walls because a birdy died" ?!

lmfao , you are one pathetic shit head , have you even re read some of the shit you have wrote and thought about what a stupid lonely tosser you really are !? "

I mean, seriously ..... Dear oh fucking lord!

Sorry. I Know I shouldn't be laughing ..... But ....!

Time Doesn't Always Heal .....

2011-07-05T23:56:00.001+01:00

So; I'm in this house today, checking, emptying and resetting my boxed mouse traps. It's fucking chaos! Single mother. Apparently not the sharpest tool in the box.

Welfare job. Four or five little kids ~ one of whom appears to have been schooled in the fact, since my last visit, that she shouldn't be calling me " Dad "!

That was freaking the fuck out of me, last week. Dear little chavvy. All but hanging onto my hand as she chattered away incessantly, in that totally earnest way that they have at some small age.

She was there again, today. Still couldn't catch a word of what she was on about. Bless her. One room. Five kids and the mother. I'm trying to pop my boxes. Bait. Set. Position. Get the fuck out.

What I'm getting is little chavvies handing me boxes. Picking up boxes I've primed ~ thus firing them off. Woman's saying something about some fucking thing. Flies? No flies here. Kiddies? Swarm of them. No flies though. Tuning out .....

Noticed one or two of these chavvies is toddling around with a little, plastic replica of a sawn off, pump action shot gun, with a pistol grip. Toys kids get these days, eh?

I was thinking of my own, real thing, which I have beside me at home, here. Woman was going on about flies, still.

That small section of my mind that I could spare for her, right then, was causing my mouth to say; " Sounds more like someone had died in that room. "

I was trying to concentrate on the setting of the trap I was holding right then. Kids flowing around my feet. Then, I felt a prod, beneath my lower, right rib.

I swear to fucking christ; For a split second there? I Shit Myself! I had so much going on around me ~ ye have to realise that I live in an environment of calm and tranquillity. Pretty much 24 / 7. I have to. Or it's back on the Heavy Sedation .....

And I have the short barrel of a Mossberg, pump action, 12 bore shotgun stuck under my ribs ..... My chest cavities contents are about to exit via the back of my fucking neck ....!

Next second, I'm sort of laughing in this womans face. Saying, " Jesus! ". Laughing. Mentally willing the switch Not to trip the other way, so I'd spiral the floor, a wreck.

Fuck. I'm trying to breath right, now. That was ten hours ago. " The Incident " was nearer to twenty fucking Years ago!

This is why they say I'm suffering Chronic Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's on going. It'll never go away. I'm fucked.

Shit like this just reminds me how fucked I really am.

My First 'Ringing Recovery' ....!

2011-06-29T21:03:00.000+01:00

I am bouncing off the fucking walls here! I'm absolutely ecstatic! Which is a bit fucking sick, really. Considering the death of a bird has caused all this!

But, there's the point, see? The bird died naturally. Nothing anyone did caused it. Nothing anyone could have did would have prevented it.

It's what we Did Do though that has caused me such mind bending satisfaction and excitement. We Ringed that little fukka! In fact, I did. 15 - 6 - 11. Top of the stairs in Noel's old farm house.

Swallow, ring # L122911 was hatched on, or within a day or so of 3 - 6 - 11. One of three out of the four eggs laid in that nest to have hatched.

Right there, see? Because I'm already a BTO Nest Recorder, we know this isn't looking like a boom year for Swallow clutches.

My averages are down from more like five eggs and five young fledging. This year it's more like three or four eggs. What gives?

I don't know. But, it'll be down to Thousands of people, like me, recording nests and ringing birds that we'll find out.

And, once the numbers have been sent in and crunched and we do find out? That's when ye'll read, in the news papers, that some bird is in decline, globally, due to a change in some environmental factor, somewhere in the world.

They don't just snatch that sort of shit out of the ether, ye know. I record a clutch of eggs, or ring some birds today? Few years down the line, what I did might be helping guide a Government on its next strategy. No shit!

And, this evening, I got my first real, live taste of it all coming together.

I met Noel ~ as I stood, staring out over one of his fields. Drooling. Because I know there are birds nesting in the far hedge. He produced a fucking Ring from his pocket!!!

L122911. He said he took it from the right leg of a young swallow he'd found outside the old place. It had evidently flown into a window pane and broken its neck.

I've come home. Checked my records. I can now tell him chapter and verse on that poor birds short life history. What's more; Next year, who knows?

We may get a report of one of this birds siblings having been caught and released in Africa. Then I could even capture that same bird, back here in Eire. Record its nesting and ring its young :-)

In case this all sounds like much ado about nothing, to you? Think; Ever had a child ask ye how long a Robin lives? Is the Robin at ye bird table this Xmass the one that was there last year? What happened with the baby Robins in the garden, last summer?

Ask Google for the answers. They'll be there. Thanks to people Nest Recording and Bird Ringing. And people like Noel, just taking the trouble to look at a dead birds legs .....

Thanks ~ For Looking In .....

2011-06-28T19:21:00.000+01:00

I'm sorry I've been quiet for so long. Fact is; I've been sort of constantly following, and updating, a 'single' thread in my life for quite a bit now.

So, whilst you're popping ye heads in here and thinking; " Naah. Bastard's saying nothing. " Bastard's actually working his fucking balls off at knocking a drawn out ~ and sort of on going ~ saga into readable shape.

So, keep looking in for that one. (I genuinely don't know what signing on as a 'Blog Watcher' does for ye. Does it notify ye of new posts here? Dunno).

Meanwhile, there's another story unfolding. That'll need telling. But, this 'main' story's been fermenting for so fucking long now. It's become so detailed. I really need to break it down into two or three parts.

What, I think, I'm trying to tell ye here is; This Blog, such as it is, is and will remain active. At least for as long as I do.

I've signed up to so many Blogs which run to a few posts. Presumably don't get a massive following, over night. Or the writer ..... I dunno. But they just fall silent. For ever.

Great shame. Because I've enjoyed reading some good shit on 'Three Post' Blogs.

Anyway, not a problem here. I've just been too wrapped up in living the shit I want to write about. And I can only dedicate so many hours to writing.

And, ye wouldn't Believe the time and effort I actually have to put into tidying up, checking, sorting and labelling what I actually, eventually, present here.

Christ, I'm fucked again. Not sure about this yet. I'll probably save this and go over it again in a night or two. Try to get it right.

Excuse me if it takes a fucking month to appear. I now have to mess about with it, behind the scenes, just to ensure ye end up reading something at least approximating what I'm trying to say.

Here goes .....

Christ; That Fucking Hurt ....!

2011-06-08T16:03:00.000+01:00

At some indeterminate point in the small hours of this morning, following a lengthy session of alcoholic intake, I had the idea of fetching the horses some supper.

Nothing too wrong in that. Emptying a barrel of hay into their rack is no problem. I had the good sense to put my steel capped boots on, in case Rosie trod on my foot. What could possibly go wrong?

It doesn't seem to even get dark just now. Least, as I remember it, it was pretty light out there. That'll be how I noticed the roof .....

Yeah. Alcohol. Roof. Two words that surely go together like carborundum and penis?

Then, for good measure, let's throw in " Box ". Yes. Not step ladder. Box. Looking good, isn't it? Drunk man. Roof. Box. Something bad's just got to happen, surely?

You bettcha! So, there I am. I'm stood on this fucking box, fiddling about with the stall roof above my head. And I'm pissed.

What's the number one rule, when working off any aid to gaining height? Don't Over Reach!!! What do I do ....?

And there I am. Falling. I went down like a felled fucking tree. Feet pretty much remained where they were as the body tilted sideways.

It all seemed to happen so slowly that I had time to think about my plight, even as I descended toward the concrete. I thought; " Oh, FFS! Now, This is gonna fucking hurt! "

Only, I never really hit the ground. Not at first. No. Because I caught my lower left side on the edge of a round bail feeder.

Think; One inch, round bar. Think; Entire weight of body slamming, hard, against that. Think bouncing off, screaming. To land on knees, on concrete, screaming.

Spoiled my night. Come to think of it? Hasn't done a lot for my day either. I'm in fucking pain.

Got to look on the bright side though. I landed on my left side. Gone down on my right and there's ye liver. Few inches higher up? Ribs. I could have ended up in pain, in Sligo General!

Now I want a cup of tea. This is going to be fun. Getting up .....

A Question Of Breeding .....

2011-06-01T18:50:00.000+01:00

Enter any on line 'Pets' forum, or Yahoo Answers, today and, I guarantee ye, ye'll find a rabid pack of idiots calling everything they don't personally arse lick the breeder of either, " Back Yard Bred ". " Puppy Farmed " And / or " Just a Mutt ".

And the reader is left in no doubt as to the tone and meaning of the 'M' word. No less so than when a Daily Mail commentator refers to " Pikeys " at the bottom of their lane.

In juxtaposition, we are sneeringly reminded that the only Dog worth a bowl of water is one of full Kennel Club Registration. Most preferably of excellent Show Standard.

Most of all, this canine paragon will have been bred by a " Proper and knowledgeable 'Breeder' ". One who has shelled out a fortune on having their Dogs health tested to the nth degree.

Now; When I recognise that people are patently talking a load of shit, I tend not to take a lot of notice. I just put them down as din's and ignore them.

However, this constant fucking Barrage of Bullshit has finally given me cause to stop and wonder, for a minute, what the fuck they're going on about.

Didn't take long for the penny's to drop ~ and jam the slot. I spotted it straight away.

Ok. Being 'Show Standard', i.e. fit to trot about with its neck pulled up in the air. Then stand still whilst one cunt holds it tail and neck up, as another mauls it, has always been central to their argument.

But, what's with this new angle? All this shit about " Thoroughly Health Screened " Dogs?

Aha! Of course! A year or two ago, the well known fact that just about Every Kennel Club Registered, 'Pedigree' breed out there is a walking genetic time bomb, just waiting to blow up and fuck itself to bits, got out of the bag.

Kennel Club and its subscribers were told to stop producing fucking physical wrecks, in the name of fads of appearance and get their shit in order.

E' Voilla! Bare couple of years down the line and they've done it, look. Now there's a whole new wave of " Reputable Breeders " out there. Breeding a veritable little Aryan Super Race of spot on, 'Show Dogs'.

But; How? Last I ever knew; Any show bred GSD was pretty much guaranteed to go down with Hip Dysplacia. Few, if any " English Bulldogs " were capable of giving natural birth. Let alone fucking breathing right.

Yet, now, suddenly, all this is a part of a dim and distant, most regrettable past. Buy ye 'Pedigree Show Dog' from a " Reputable and Expert Breeder who breeds only the most stringently Health Screened " Dogs and ..... and what?

Ye GSD will still be running around a decade later? Ye EBD will whelp classic quality pups who will spend their lives breathing like Opera Singers ....? Fuck off.

Inside a couple of years, all those Dogs with generations of bred in, genetic disposition to chronic hip and elbow problems, bone cancer, fucked up eyes, deformed skulls, all that and shit loads more; It all just went away?

Suddenly, all these fucking idiots with rooms full of crates, full of Dogs, no longer had the genetic wreck Dogs. No. They had the purest of stock.

The poor wretches they'd pumped out for years 'went away'. And, out of a swirl of mist arrived fresh stock. Fit. Healthy. Free of all those hereditary fuck ups that had taken so many generations to breed in.

Yeppers. The new 'Super Race' had arrived. And now they're out there and available. Ye just need to find an " Expert and Reputable Breeder ".

Not, I would remind you, anyone who might breed a litter of pups once or twice in a Dogs life time. They're " Back Yard Breeders ". Spit on them!

Nor should it be anyone who has crates of 'Brood Bitches' piled high in back rooms and garages. That'd be " Puppy Millers ".

No. We need this doyen who breeds only of The Master Race. Maybe a dozen litters a year. Presumably in their living rooms? Otherwise, would that not make Them 'BYB's'?

And, don't forget; There won't be a proven physical wreck in these Super Dogs entire fucking pedigrees. No. The genetic cripples 'went away' a couple of years ago.

Now, Experts are breeding 'Show Quality' Dogs of superlative health. Their disciples are screaming this and ramming it down everyone's throats, all over the fora and Yahoo Answers.

I Know that, if ye make a lie big enough and repeat it often enough, it'll start to become accepted as a truth. But, fuck me: Just how fucking Stupid do these 'Pedigree' Puppy Pedlars and their sycophantic supporters think we are?!

Untermenschen?

Not 'Pedigree'. Just Healthy!

Starlings .....

2011-05-23T00:41:00.000+01:00

Yeppers. I intend to dedicate an entire Post, 'just' to starlings. The ugly, dull, noisy, shitty little birds one sees squabbling over a bit of discarded fast food in the gutter.

Do ye really view them that way? Think again. Here's one in full summer plumage:

Courtesy of: Copyright Free Photos Org.

Would ye believe, over here, they're actually about the Last bird I'd expect to see 'In Town'? My idea of Town, of course, being two streets, behind every side of which is open pasture.

No. Here the Jackdaw is the 'Street Bird'. Pied Wagtail comes second. Rooks are ubiquitous ~ but, confine their ground level activities to the fields behind the shops and houses.

Out here, where I am? I've had a pair of starlings nesting above my Store Room window, for at least the first three of the last five years. Never even looked last year, when I had the windows below replaced.

Barely six feet off the floor? That, to me, suggests a bird looking hard for a spot. That's why, this year, when I put a Nest Box up for them, I put it about twelve foot up.

Facing north. On the back of my cow shed, where they'd be left in peace. Starlings like their peace.

Here it is:

March 15th that went up. Had a starling laying claim to it by 7th April. About a week after the winter flock broke up.

Past couple of winters now, I've registered ~ and recorded ~ that there's a flock of c.50 sticks around this area. Where do so many come together from? Where do they go, when the flock breaks up in spring?

I have no answers. But, having now rung the youngsters in that box this summer; Maybe we'll find a clue in due course?

Anyway, within a week, that bird had a nest of Juncus Rush stems built. Big, deep, messy looking affair.

Funny how hole nesters, like starling and jackdaw seem to like filling cavities with rubbish.

Here it is, look:

Box stuffed, about four fifths with extraneous crap! Next year, all things being equal, I must try offering a shallow nest box too.

Test the hypothesis; 'Do birds fill deep holes because deep holes are all they can find? Or, do they do it for some reason known only to themselves, yet prefer?'

By 20th April, they had a full clutch of five eggs. I don't think Fabergé could improve on nature here, do you?

Sorry if these photo's aren't exactly art works themselves. They're usually taken in a great hurry ~ so's to lessen disturbance to the birds.

At arms length. Off a ladder. And, obviously then, 'Blind'. I just get the best I can, under the circumstances.

Anyway, all went well for 'my' starlings. I'd provided then with what I'd take to be an optimum sized box. Placed at a good height and in a good position.

Thus, a week or so back, I was privileged to ring five, fat and healthy youngsters in there.

They were a tad older than this, when I rung them. And, yes; They shit all over me! LOL!

That was May 13th. In fact, on April 18th, I saw another pair of starlings drooling over the occupied nest box. I set to and made another box there and then. Had it up within the hour.

That second box was adopted by a pair about a week ago. I've since seen them dragging in the nest material.

I suspect, right now, she'll be laying. She'll probably lay her full clutch just about the same day as the first pairs brood fledge.

I built them. And they came! Have you any idea how fulfilling all this has been, is being, for me?

Starlings are declining. Probably because they simply have no where left to nest, in this 'Rip that rotten shit out and slap some nice UPVC in' world.

A nine inch plank of rough sawn timber, and a few bits and pieces? Home for about three families.

Want more information? Just ask :-)

An Afternoon With A 'Master' .....

2011-05-18T07:30:00.000+01:00

OK. This is a post about Bird Ringing / Nest Finding. If ye've just blown in here from Google, looking for some 'W/we' shit? Boy, are you in the wrong fucking place!

So; Chris' is the nearest qualified Instructor to me. He agreed to entertain me as a prospective Trainee. Then he drove for Two Fucking Hours, just to get here!

I'd also been told that he's one of the Best damn nest finders in Eire. He'd shown another Ringer some shit that had blown his balls off.

I simply couldn't accept that this guy was even gonna come near me. Shit of this calibre doesn't happen to me. It'd fuck up. Chickens counted before eggs hatched. I knew it.

And then, after a week or two of false starts, there's this fucking motor coming down my track. Just ten minutes past the ETA! This guy had even found me! :o

Turns out we're, roughly, 'Of An Age'. We shook hands and started the sort of secretly tentative conversations one starts with a complete stranger who ye looking at getting to know for some time. Trying to guage what's acceptable.

Within what seemed like a few sentences, Chris is telling me how he was doing some work for some bloke.

" Guy's got a fucking Kalashnikov leaning in the corner! I've asked him; 'Is that thing For Real, or just some repro'? "

" And he's told me; ' No. It's real alright. God help any cunt who comes fucking with me! '.

Now; What the fuck Is that yellow Dog ye have there ....? "

And off we went! :D Yakkety yak. Mist Net up. Cup of tea and House Sparrow, male.

* A 'Mist Net', in case ye don't know ~ and why should ye? Is a very fine net. As in light. Made of like threads of sewing cotton. Stand ten feet from one and squint? Ye can't really be sure it's there. Birds fly into it and get tangled.

Chris removed it from the net ~ a job Not for the novice, or ham fisted. It took even him some countable seconds. The head, feet and wings seem to each get stuck in a separate 'hole'. Got to be calm as fuck and gentle as a lovers breath.

He showed me how the bird is held. How its little leg is presented. Ring placed into the special pliers. Slipped into the tiny, delicate little leg. Crimped closed.

Then, because he's a Fully Qualified / Licensed, The Complete Shit, Ringer; He measured the wing. Pointed out some all but invisible, to me, differences in some tiny feathers, on the wing. Told me how this esoteric shit said this bird was born last year.

Then, he popped and wrapped the little fucker in a plastic cone. Weighed him. Wrote all this shit down in a full sized, A4 Ledger. Then let him go.

Faaaarkk!!! I'd just stood there and watched a real, live Ringer do his shit! Fuck! Unbelievable! And this was right there in my compound! Not some Bill Oddie shit on TV! I Was There!

Bit of chat. Cup of tea. Great Tit in the net. Chris hands it to me! Now, thankfully, I've 'had to do with' handling wild birds, in a dim and distant, misty part of my past. I wasn't flapping. Nor was the bird.

I put the ring on. Chris did the scientific stuff. Then we went hunting nests .....

First stop was the Blackbirds nest I had. Four chicks. Fat as moles. Right on the limit of being young enough to still ring.

And the nest was empty. Some fucking cat, or crow had helped themselves at the optimum age / size! I wanted to grab a gun and go blow something ....!

Chris gently pointed out to me how he'd once done a survey of Blackbirds. Found forty odd nests in a given area. End of the season? Every single fucking one of them had been taken by predators!

Yet, next season? Another forty odd Blackbirds nests appeared in the same area. Dunno. Maybe we should just accept Blackbirds chicks are a major 'Fast Food' in the food chain, out there?

Maybe cat owners, who let their ' Free Spirits ' and ' Natural Hunters ' go wandering about, off their properties and out of their control? They'd better realise there's 'Natural Hunters', of Cats, out here too.

There's a hierarchy, out there amongst the fields and ditches. Cats aren't the top of that chain. No matter what they think.

Not while I'm around.

Land Surveying .....

2011-05-11T21:54:00.000+01:00

No wonder who ever does this for a job can charge a fortune! You ever tried it?!

I own a little scrap of land here. My cottage is on it, obviously. Then there's a few out buildings and the various features that define the area. Hedges, ditches, tracks and such.

Thing is, see; Being countryside, my markers are fences, hedges and things. Open fields in between. I can't say " 43, Acacia Avenue " and anyone know where I mean.

And, talking about, " About two thirds down the hedge along the back of the field below the trees. " Would be about as much use as a one legged man at an arse kicking contest.

Yet, I'd like to be able to create a map of the area. Detailed enough that, when I keel over, someone else could locate my wild bird Nest Boxes.

So, armed with both a 30M tape and an electronic gadget called a Range Finder ~ think of binoculars which tell ye how far away the point or object being viewed is? I thought I could crack this.

Fuck me! Measuring the outside of the cottage wasn't too much drama. Lots of note scribbling. But, I got there.

The cow shed and horse pen were a bit more complicated. I had to measure off fixed points, like gate posts. And there were turns and distances across tracks and such. But, I stuck at it and reckon I got it all about right.

I'm plotting all this on graph paper, see? One tiny square to a meter. Quite enjoying it. Seeing the map take shape. First my own land. Then sneaking out to cover the fields and tracks surrounding me.

I can take this as far as I like it, of course. And I'd very much Love it to encompass all of Pat' and Noel's lands too. I have boxes up on their properties too, after all. I could also plot 'Open' birds nests.

It's the fir trees that fucked me up. Pat has this fenced in stand of sitka spruce, just behind my horse pen. A rectangular piece of ground. Professionally fenced.

And I took tape readings of its length and depth. Then I taped from its edge to my track, across the horse field.

That's when it all fucked up. When I counted the squares from the fence to the fence around the trees? That fence joined the horse pen at the far end.

But, out there, standing beside the fence? It hits the back wall of the horse pen, two yards in from this side. Horse pen wall's twelve yards long ..... Fuck.

Swear to god; I've been out there with everything. Taking and checking my measurements from every fucking fence and gate post. Everything measures up.

Yet, nothing makes sense! Those trees and their fence are a good ten meters to one side of where the measurements put them! Bastards!

I've tried to 'Triangulate' shit 'n all that. Thing is, my Range Finder doesn't seem able to measure a distance inside about twenty five meters. Too close for its own signal, I guess?

Then it started raining. And I was running in and out, trying measurements and still coming up right and wrong. It all got a bit much.

I'll try again, tomorrow. Fresh head on. To be honest? The real nigger in the wood pile here is the Blackcaps nest. I have them tucked down, right in the key fucking corner I'd like to shoot some range rays out of.

Very nervy birds. They'll desert if ye so much as look at them sideways, in the early stages of incubation. Once the young have hatched? Hell, we'll be ringing them! But, for now though? I don't want to go within eight foot of that nest and eggs.

Damn. I've been sat here, staring at my map, so far. Trying to spot the angles. Thinking how I'll need different coloured pens and felt tips, to illustrate features like hedges and Nest Boxes.

The light's going now. But, I can still see the gate of Pat's cattle crush at the top of my track. If I measured the gates there and the width of the track? I could take a bearing from the big ash tree and .....

Why can't I just relax and do anything by halves? Maybe it's because I'm so damn aware of how little time I might have left .....

Shit needs to be done. I want to leave a record of my work? I have to do the work to Make that record.

Busy day tomorrow .....

Never just assume ye'll still be here next year.

I'm Gonna Be A Ringer ....!

2011-05-01T01:42:00.002+01:00

No! Din'! They're called " Campanologists ". Fucking rope hangers. See me yanking a rope to make some fucking great bell go 'Clang!'. Deaf enough as it is!

No. Ringing Birds. And I don't mean, " Hullo? Do ye offer a 'Full Service', home visit? " either. FFS!

For anyone who's lived in a cave all their lives; This is about putting little rings on the legs of wild birds. Basically, we ring them in the nest or we catch them and ring them as adults.

Ring has a # and that leads back to a load of information about that particular, individual bird. So, if I ring my Starlings, in my nest box right now? Their rings will be their little ID Cards.

If one of them is then found dead, or caught by a Ringer, in Russia, three years down the line? He'll be able to trace that bird back to my cow shed wall. Hatched, May, 2011. I'll also be able to find out that one of my birds turned up in Russia.

The scientists at the BTO (British Trust for Ornithology) will be number crunching Thousands of such records, of course. And that's how we come to have books and Papers, explaining how birds migrate and shit.

That sort of information isn't just snatched out of the ether. It's scientifically proven by quiet people, around the world, steadily finding nests and catching birds. Putting little rings on their legs. Recording it all. And adding that shit to the Big Data Base.

This is something I've pipe dreamed of being involved with All My Life! But, I'd simply assumed the only way in was to be from a Grammar School ~ at least ~ education. Lick the arse of the local Nature Reserve Warden, day in, day out, for years.

As well as being a non smoker. Not swearing, having a sense of humour, or ever taking ye head out of ye own arse. Except to lick the arse of that local Nature Reserve Warden ....!

I dunno. Maybe, forty years ago, that was about right? Today? Forget it!

Take the BTO. I'm involved with their Nest Record Scheme. I ~ like thousands of others across Britain and Eire ~ search for birds nests and record their progress.

It's headed by a Doctor. Obviously. Right there; Bet he went to Grammar School. Doesn't drink. 'Retirement' age. Wears 'nice' jumpers, like Giles Brandreth, the whole shebang. Eh?

What? " Dave " ?! Ye fucking kidding me?! Listen; Dave and Carl are the two main men at the NRS. I'll never forget ~ and wish I could find! ~ a photo they published.

It was one of them posing a demonstration of how to search, with a stick, for warblers nests.
Caption read: " And here, Carl demonstrates poking around aimlessly, with a stick, amongst some bushes. "

I laughed till I cried, when I saw that! Made all the better by the fact that this 'crusty, austere old wet blanket' was, in fact, patently young enough to be my son.

And was having the piss taken out of him, by his colleague, who, himself looks like a Mad Hippy, in an official publication! :D Mad as a box of frogs, the pair of them! But, completely human and approachable for it.

Chris? The guy who's agreed to train me as a Ringer ~ an 'apprenticeship' which can take a couple of years! They don't just make ye do a days course and set ye lose to fuck about with wild birds, ye know?!

Chris' is also one of the best Nest Finders in Eire. He was here on Friday. Spent the afternoon with me. Muvva Fukka!!!

I'll tell ye all about that, in a new Post. Otherwise, ye eyes would be bleeding, trying to read so much shit. But, there it is. I've been accepted as a Trainee Ringer.

Shit. I've probably wasted most of my fucking life now. Because I always thought he had to smoke a pipe and wear a Fair Isle jumper to even be looked at.

Wrong!!!

Life .....

2011-04-24T02:50:00.000+01:00

Don't ever take it for granted ....!

I was standing around, chatting to Noel, today. In his open barn. I'd caught up with him whilst I was out searching for birds nests, to Record. Had my binoculars with me, obviously.

So, as we're chatting, I'm watching for any bird movement. I saw a flash of 'something' into a nearby tree, on the roadside.

Threw the bin's up. Got the 'Look', and was able to tell Noel it was a pair of Goldfinches. Just before they flashed off, back to our right. I wondered about their nest.

Carried on chatting for, maybe ten minutes? Then I went off to check another of his buildings, for nests. Ten minutes of that and out I came. Found Noel had gone on about his work. And I walked onto the road. Turning right.

Black, red and yellow. A tiny, bright patch on the road. I picked this scrap up and was examining it, trying to make out the second leg, in case of a ring, when Noel's wife and son pulled up, simultaneously, in different vehicles. On different errands.

I showed them the little scrap of feathered skin. Spread the tiny, black wings, displaying the yellow bars. Pointed out the lack of head. Explained how it would have looked, on a Goldfinch.

I simply said that it looked as if a Sparrowhawk had got this one. (No need to belabour the lack of head or any body. Even to born to it beef cattle farming folk). A passing motor had possibly flushed the hawk. Obviously flattened the bloody shred I held.

Goldfinches aren't exactly rare, around here. Can't say Sparrowhawks are either. Never yet found either's nest though. Be damn hard pressed to choose between which I'd sooner, to be honest!

Dunno. Just goes to show though. Even as I was absently pondering looking for their nest; So they'd both flown ten yards to the right. And one of them had been hit by a Spar'.

One less Goldie's nest for me to worry about. But, where are those Spar's ....?

Life .....

The Cat That Gave Me The Cream ....!

2011-04-23T21:42:00.000+01:00

Un fucking believable bit of luck! As some of ye may have gathered by now; I'm a bit totally obsessed with birds nests, in just about any shape or form.

I also happen to despise cats with the sort of passion only a Dog loving, Pest Controlling, Birds Nest Recording border line pathological case could.

Well, isn't it just funny how, once in a while, the whole fucking matrix farts, and everything comes together? It just did!

I'd been out staring at a corner of ditch where a pair of Wheatear's have their nest. This is becoming an annual ritual. Bloody things! I spend hours doing this.

Gave them best, as I inevitably do. Came 'home', meeting Noel on the way. Had a great chat with him and gained the go ahead to put House Sparrow boxes in His barn ~ which Has active sparrow nests right now. Sadly, inaccessible behind steel girders.

I was just strolling back down the track, approaching The River, when the birds told me to get my shit together.

Fuck me! Friday week back, Steve was bringing me home and the headlights picked out eyes in Noels first field. I asked if Steve had caught the glimpse. He had.

He reckoned fox. I disagreed. They lacked the opalescence of fox. That almost 'dull' yellow? These were like lime green little light bulbs. I called cat. Unfortunately, I'd been drinking that night so wouldn't take a gun out.

This evening? I was sober as a beak! It was a fluffy, tabby and white. Frankly, I couldn't give a shit what it was. I hurried home. Fed the Dogs and horses in record time. Headed straight back out with the rifle.

Sadly, the bastard was long gone and far away ~ for now ~ by the time I got back there. But, obviously, I staked the place out anyway. Just sat on the bank side and observed the wild life around me.

And that's when two little birds caught my attention. They were messing in the hedge, across the field on the opposite side of the track.

I paid them some attention. Watched other things. Saw one of 'my' birds fuck off to a tree, evidently feeding ~ these were clearly Warblers. Couldn't tell what, at that distance with my eyes.

But, the other one was staying around the hedge. In fact, now I paid attention? It was tending to return to a small area. Somewhere just out of sight, below the dip where grass met the level of the hedge sinking into the ditch.

About four such return trips did it for me. I trained the rifle 'scope, off a fence post, and proceeded to stare.

Bingo! Even though I honestly couldn't make out the species, or even the particular colours of this tiny bird, through my ~ made for a completely different purpose and range ~ rifle scope. There was no mistaking the big bunch at its beak! Nesting Material!

I'll get back there with my bin's. Get a make on what bird this is. Then, I'll probably be able to find out how long they build for, before laying. I'll study the information, so's not to risk a desert.

Then, when I judge the time is right? I'll walk right actoss that small field and peer into that hedge. I'll be starting my first ever, self found Warbler Nest Record!

Absolutely pumped about this! I'm reading everything I can get my eyes on. I'm spending hours just sitting and watching, trying to catch up with more birds and so trace their nests.

Now it's started to pay back! :D

Fucking Scary, Me ....!

2011-04-17T23:08:00.000+01:00

I mean; Ye wouldn't want me after ye, in the woods. Not if I had a knife and you only had a gun. Ye'd have to be well on ye toes not to spend the last seconds of ye life wondering how the fuck I'd pulled That one off.

I used to slip through the woods with bare feet, when I was a younger man. (Oh, alright. Fair enough; Much younger!) Padding about like some carnivorous 'WereDeer'. I could've slipped in and fucked ye shit up then.

Just sort of grown to assume I was past all that now. Haven't done it in decades. Completely out of practice. Too fucking old to be playing 'Cowboys and Indians' with myself anyway.

Till today. Had a crafty pint and a bit. Just sat there, on the grass of my compound. Orange Dog baking in the sun behind me. Watching my Starlings popping in and out of their box like the Changing of the Guard. Bliss.

Then it struck me. I'm supposed to be Nest Recording for the BTO. Fine. Starlings duly recorded. Count their eggs any time. Now; What about Ducks and shit? That'd make a change. I wonder if there's any swans nesting on that lough over the way ....?

Off I went. I was on a mission. Spring has sprung and the Old Feeling was stirring within me ..... Game On!

That's how I came to find myself in the conifer plantation. Following a deer trail through this virgin place where the last man to set foot was probably the one who planted this shit. Seriously!

I was in there just for a recce. Wondered if I might chance upon any hawks nests. But, I'm noting the deer foot prints (" Slots ") and shit as I sneak about. All senses on full alert.

And that's when I realised it. The scraping of the back of my hat brim, against my shirt collar, was doing my fucking head in. It was so Loud!

Every time I paused and scanned the tree tops around me, there was this awful roar of felt brushing cotton.

That's when I realised how absolutely silently I was moving. Through even the most ridiculously low and close cover.

Crispy carpet of deer broken branches under foot. Dry as dust. Yet, I was unconsciously placing my feet between each one.

I thought to myself then what a danger I could be placing myself in. If there was some 'farmer' in there, with a gun?

Catching a glimpse of me slipping so silently, like a shadow passing, about the place, he might think I was some wild creature and take a shot!

That's when it occurred to me; " I'd fucking hate to have me after me, in here! I'd be fucking dangerous! Never hear myself coming. "

I remember Jack Hargreaves once showing some old countrymen in some woods. He explained how, for all their knocking on a bit, these guys could still slip through a wood as silently as cats. Despite their hobnailed boots.

And there's me. Steel toe capped whellies. Moving silently as a wraith. " Mr SAS ".

You ever want a piece of me? Bring a gun. I'll lure ye into the woods. Then I'll Really fuck ye up ~ with just a knife.

I haven't lost it. This geriatric Geronimo can still manage that Viet Nam Stealth Walk ;-)

Mink Raft .....

2011-04-16T23:18:00.000+01:00

Well, " Trunky " seems eager to learn about it. My cousin, Celia, over in Spain, is convinced I manufacture luxury loungers.

I've been working on the bugger all afternoon. So, I'd might as well get it off my chest, for now, and explain it to ye.

Funny. It's such a totally familiar concept, to me, that I never even gave a thought to the point that others may not have a clue about the fucking things!

I'll start with a blunt description then. If ye then realise it's boring, ye can fuck off. But, for any with an interest, I might well say a lot more about the things.

In a word then; A 'Mink Raft' is just a floating platform on which one sites a trap for a mink. (Ye can fuck off now, if ye like). Only, like an onion, it has skins. Not furry ones either.

See; The 'Big Thing' is that ye don't put a trap on it, to start with. No. Ye tether this 4' x 2' raft, with a little box in the middle, in mid stream and leave it there.Only, inside the little box is a specially prepared bed of soft clay.

Mink are vile bastards, see? Always on the look out for something to kill, for the sake of it. And they're pretty good at what they do. Largely because they get into Everything, looking for their next victim.

So, up the river comes a mink. Intent on killing everything else on that river. He spots the raft and figures he'd better check that out.

On he gets, and spots the little box. Might be something hiding in there. So, in he goes. Finds nothing and fucks off.

But, he doesn't go too far as he really does like to kill Everything. And catching everything else on a stretch of river can't be done over night. Not even a mink.

Then, I blow into town. Open the little box on the raft and have a look myself. Yeppers. There's mink tracks, clearly showing in the special mixture of soft clay I'd planted inside that box.

Now I have proof positive that a mink's in the area, I take out the clay and put a trap in the box instead.

Pretty soon, back comes the mink. Still poking his face into every place anything surviving may be holing up. He comes back to the raft. Slips into the box, to check for signs of life. And so His ends.

Beauty of all this, see; It's like Health and Safety going it's usual OTT way. But, it does make sense.

Stoats and Pine Martens are protected, in Eire. As are Otters. Only, the box has too small a gate way to let an otter in, so we needn't worry about them.

Pine marten can certainly get through a mink sized hole though. Stoat could get into almost anything. Be a crying shame to kill them, instead of a mink.

First advantage then is that it's in the middle of a fucking river! Stoats and pineys aren't exactly noted for messing about in rivers. Unlike mink. More traditional tunnel, on the bank? Bound to catch a piney.

But, even if a stoat or piney defies all logic and swims out to the raft? So what. All he does is leave his foot prints. I see they're not mink and go away. As would even the most intrepid piney or stoat.

I'll be doing all that's humanly possible to keep kids from gaining access to this raft. I reckon I can make it practically impossible for anyone ~ without bolt croppers and great determination ~ to get at it.

That said? Not having a trap on it for the majority of the time it's there is still a reason to sleep more soundly of a night.

And, what if I set my raft. The community put more ducks on the river. And one of those ducks decides to check out my raft? No problemmo. I'll recognise the signs and will be able to take further measures to keep the ducks out. No harm done.

They reckon, once ye find mink foot prints, and so set the lethal trap? Ye usually have the bastard within a few days. Then it's back to the clay pad.

See? So, rather than constantly niggling with the hope that nothing goes wrong, the complete absence of a trap at all, for the vast majority of the time, is sweet.

There's sure to be adventures to come though. I've got to make the thing yet ~ Today I just applied a couple of coats of paint to the main wood surfaces.

They reckon a raft'll last three years. I figure protecting the wood with paint might buy me longer. Certainly look better.

Let me get one made and I'll show ye it. Then, eventually, there'll be the story of Dean O' and I fucking about in the river, getting the anchorage points worked out.

First though, the Tidy Towns Committee needs to cage me in that bridge. No Fucking Way am I setting any traps beneath bridges where kids can get. Ever!

This Is Encouraging .....

2011-04-14T02:34:00.000+01:00

I've just realised that I haven't had a 'Comment' in a week or two. Nothing so unusual about that. Enough of ye find the system simply defeats ye. Understandable. It's beaten me to my own knees more than once. And I run the fucking place!

More than that though; I realised there were no 'ticks' in the little bit there where ye can 'Rate' a post. Click on the box to say ye found it " Interesting ". " Funny ". " A Complete And Irredeemable Waste Of A Valuable Few Minutes Of Ye Life ". What ever.

Well; That can give one pause to wonder: " Is any cunt actually looking in here any more? " . I wondered. In fact, I wondered so much that I did something I rarely bother to do. I checked my " Stat's ". I can do that here.

How nice :-) There's a nice little, double figures a day popping in here! I've never had ~ as far as I'd know ~ and certainly never expected Hundreds! Why on earth would I / should they?

No. As long as some peeps are bothering to drop by and check for new stuff, every now and then? That's nice. It shows I'm not wasting my time, Comments, 'Ratings' or not.

This sort of thing though gives one pause to wonder:

WTF?!

I mean; What the fucking hell is That all about?! What language is that? What was the person searching for? How long before life on Saturn picks this up and thinks; " What The Fuck is this 'Ditch Shitter' lunatic on?! "

Bugger! The thing is; I came in here to mention that point, just as a swift opener to a whole load of stuff I wanted to talk about.

Trouble is, the shit I wanted to tell ye about is still happening. It's sending in news like bullets flying around my head. Net result is that; It's taken me so long to respond to Half the goings on here, I'm now too fucked to type sense about it!

Never mind. As I quietly cave in tonight, thinking of a rushed and busy tomorrow? Good shit is bound to be made.

Jesus, how ironic. All 'winter' hunkering down, surviving. Now 'summer's steaming up? I'm so fucking busy doing shit, I haven't got time to sit typing about it!

Shit I'm gagging to talk about: Dogs, Birds, Nest Boxes, 'The Idiot', Irish Law', Mink, The River In Town, Mink Rafts, Biodiversity, Tidy Towns Committee, Horses, Home Brew, All sorts!

I'll get round to most of it ~ sooner or later. Just a bit hectic right now. Check by to keep up! ;-)

I've Seen Ye. Stick Around And I'll Kill Ye .....

2011-04-10T02:42:00.001+01:00

So, unusually, I'm in town today. I didn't mind though. Figured I'd make a bit of a day of it. Took my binoculars and figured to have a look around at the wider birdlife / nesting activities.

I've done that, and then I thought I'd go down and check out my Gray Wag' box, under the twin arched bridge over the river in town.

As I reached the cross roads, it suddenly struck me that I needed to draw some cash. Walk up to the ATM, then back down to the river? Or the other way round?

Fuck it. The other way round would take me back past my local. Where I had a pint sat on the bar. It was a steaming hot day. I was already fucked from steaming up and down, doing shit. Bank first.

I made that decision because I am god like. Had I gone to the river first. Or done Anything else a split second sooner or later than I did? Ye wouldn't be reading this.

Because I wouldn't have been writing it. The Matrix would have glitched. As it is; Read on ....!

So, I've munged me up and rolled on down to the river. Strolled onto the footbridge beneath the double tunnel bridge where I have my Gray Wag Box. And sat down for a quick and comfortable examination of the situation.

I'm delighted to report ~ for those with the least interest ~ that bird shit on a couple of rocks in the river, right by the nest box, show the GW's are definitely haunting the spot. I'm quietly confident they'll adopt that box :-)

And, having ascertained that, I lowered my binoculars. That is to say, being right handed; My brain sent the message for my hands to lower my binoculars from my eyes.

Somehow, my CNS produced a slightly leftward and down action, as part of the would be 'removal'. And some instinct, still within me, managed to scream a warning.

Because, even as my hands lowered, my eyes still glimpsed. And I smacked those bin's hard back against my eyes. And I looked ~ with the focus wheel already set to perfection ~ at the big, black cat.

That's what my brain went for. " There's a fucking great, black cat just heaved itself out of the torrent. There, in the left hand tunnel! Look at the wet, black, spiky fur on that muvva fukka!!! Wow! "

Split second later, my real brain kicked back with: " Illogical, Captain. Cats don't emerge from fucking rivers. Pass beneath bridges ~ running deep with water ~ then slip into the water at the far end, like ye just witnessed."

Minutes later, I'm relating this to my main man; Hugh Logan. Hugh told me this:

" Ditch; In a life time of living here, I've heard men say: 'There could be mink on that river.' 'There must be mink on that river.' Even, 'There are mink on that river.'

But, I've never yet heard of Anyone who's actually Seen a mink on that river! And, for you to have seen one? In broad daylight? On a busy Saturday afternoon?!"

Yeppers. The town has entrusted me with the duty of protecting 'our' stretch of river, while encouraging the birds. I'm taking my role extremely seriously.

And now I've been sent a sign: " The Butcher ". I've Seen the duck slaughtering bastard! I want his arse!

Just Gave Myself A Haircut .....

2011-04-03T15:36:00.001+01:00

With the weather just starting to show signs of picking up a bit, I decided it was time I had a hair cut. Only, my trusty Whal clippers, that have served me faithfully for about fifteen years now, have gone on the blink.

I need to get them into the barbers, in town. Let him have a look at them. I'm sure it's just the blade alignment.

Not one to let such matters stand in my way, I picked up my big scissors and went to work ~ without the aid of any mirrors. What would I want a mirror for? Fucking look at myself?! FFS!

Job Done!

Bear Grylls, eat ye fuckin' heart out!

Who The Fuck Are These Girls ....?!

2011-03-22T02:41:00.000Z

OK. I've just checked. I didn't mention them, the first time. Now things have 'developed'. So, here's the craic, so far:

Few weeks ago now, I'm sat here, minding my own business. Happen to glance out the window. There's these two females coming down my track. Hundred and twenty yards away.

Taller one's a blonde. Other one has brown hair. I'm aware that they're both dressed in bright, clashy colours. Blue and red patches of colour. Sort of gaudy shit hikers wear.

Seeing a blonde female and a smaller, brown haired chick marching boldly towards my cottage, the old mind does a quick computation:

Got to be Pat's wife ~ she has blonde hair, like that. And he has a teenage daughter with brown hair. Obviously, they're coming to bring me a message from Pat. Cool.

Then I realise the Orange Dog's about and the front door's open. I call Orange Dog in ~ so she won't bite them, if they get too near the gate. Then, spotting that le Ding's had a crap, I automatically bag that.

Glancing up at my visitors, I see they've turned around and are heading back away! They'd obviously saw me and turned back. WTF?!

Thinking about it, I realised that, if Pat wanted to get a message to me? How about he'd fucking phone me? Wouldn't go sending his family on a hike down here.

Thought some more and decided, based on those bright coloured clothes, it probably was Hikers. Couple of tourists. Out to take in the countryside. Saw the track to this place. Took it as a road and came down it.

Yet, ye can clearly see my cottage from the top gate. 130 yards away. They must've been at 100 yards when I showed myself. It was Me that turned them. Not seeing a cottage ahead.

I mentioned this to Lyn Logan, in town. She said that Irish people wouldn't give a fuck. They'd sniff down any track. Just to see where it led. Can't remember her opinion on why they turned back on seeing I was about though. I figured tourists.

That was three, four weeks back. The other day, I leaned back and glanced out the window. Here they come again!!! This time, I simply shrugged and told myself they'd have seen me through the window.

Sure enough. Having finished reading the post I was looking at, I checked: Empty track. They'd turned on their heels again.

Now, here's the fucker; Who the hell takes three week / month holidays in Leitrim? Tourists, be fucked! Yet, there's two types of people who boldly stride forward like these two were:

Seasoned Hikers, striding out along a mapped route. Or people on a mission, going somewhere they've been before and are perfectly accustomed to going.

Saw Pat, this evening. Asked him. No way would his wife be wandering about at the times I saw these girls. She's looking after kiddies all day. Regular as clockwork.

Yet, nor has Pat ~ who's out and about at all hours ~ ever seen any females / dress fitting this description. And, my track leads to no where but here. There's fuck all beyond here that anyone would want to approach through here.

I mentioned this to Dean O', the other night. It's almost as if they were coming down here to visit my Dogs or horses. No. It'd be the horses. Because the Dogs are in, with me, till I get up. Then I'm about, look.

But, the horses are penned behind a high, solid gate. Can't even see them in there .....

Just what the fuck are they doing, coming here? Do they come here before I get up? Do they come when I'm in town, one day a week? (No. If they knew what day I was away, they wouldn't come the other days, when I'm here). Fuck.

And they turn on their heels the moment they glimpse me. Yet they come back and try again. What the fuck is going on here ....?

Stay tuned .....

Today's " World Sparrow Day " .....

2011-03-20T00:24:00.000Z

Just came across this. Their web site is Here.

Always had a soft spot for sparrows. Reached a pitch of obsession, about a decade ago, where I heard of the existence of a green type, found in Viet Nam. I was just about ready to jump on a plane and go out there, just to see one!

Anyway, as that site'll explain to ye, if ye interested; House Sparrows have had a shit time of it for some years now. We still haven't pinned down quite why. It's a fucker.

Best, it seems, we can do is to feed them and offer them places to nest and rear their young.

To this end, there's developed a newer fashion for what's called " Sparrow Terraces ". These are, basically, a single box with three compartments. Each having its own entry hole.

They're a bit of a PITA to make. Commercially available ones are of varying quality. (Total crap to mediocre) They also cost a small fortune for what ye get.

Fuck all that. I make my own boxes. I'm also making them for the local towns 'Community Committee' type outfit. They buy me a few planks. I swiftly knock them up all the nest boxes we can find a place for.

I was making a couple a day, for myself. Today, Dean O' fixed my power saw for me ~ I asked him; Did he walk on water too?! ~ and I thus managed to whack out seven boxes, in one, short, afternoon!

Here's my House Sparrow boxes, ready and awaiting:

See? And I can add more, as the need arises. All having front facing holes means I don't need a two foot gap between each 'end' box. Why waste that space, like row of 'Terraces' would?

Anyway, yeppers, I'm a bit obsessive about nest boxes. Now that I've finally got the hang of my own 'new' area, I've started putting boxes up.

To help me keep track of my own activities ~ and share with anyone else interested ~ I've opened a Yahoo 'Group'. Nest Boxes.

It's as much intended as a personal journal / calendar as anything. But, if anyone wants to learn more about Nest Boxes, or record and share their own experiences? Great! Feel free to join up and in.

I'm currently working on a photographic guide to how I build a basic box. I'd hope to have that up there within a week of now.

Meanwhile, I've slung up some 'Articles' on the various different boxes, for different birds. Few photo's of some of my own boxes, as they are, out there right now.

Anyway, this isn't an advert for the 'Group'. It's there, primarily, to store my own records. But, if ye'd like to see what I'm up to, in that department? Maybe talk about and adopt some ideas? Share ye own stuff there? Be my guest.

I'm Free ....!

2011-03-13T00:45:00.002Z

Nicotine free. Un fucking believable! After forty years of smoking, I gave up the fags and turned to Snus. After a year on Snus ..... I've been off That since this year.

It's all down to " Phil' ". Philomena. Landlady of my local. Most sweet and caring woman I've ever known. Having had that pig flu' for a week, from new years day, I'd not been near the snus for a week, I guess.

Mentioned this, in passing, to Phil', just as casual conversation. Only, she misconstrued what I was getting at. I'd Never intended snus as a way off smoking, let alone off nicotine altogether.

But, she took it that I was saying I was clean. I'd won some fight I'd never even considered myself in. She clasped her hands together and looked at me like ..... I don't know. But it broke my heart, right there, to think I could ever disappoint her.

That day, I knew, I could never put even snus in my mouth again. Never have.

Gave what I had left to Dean O'. Never ordered my regular quota. Just 'Got over it'.

Funny as fuck, actually. I'd drain the last suck from a mug of tea? ' Snus!!!! '. The urge would slam into me like a train! And be gone, just as fast.

Weird little shit, like that. Like how a smoker will push their plate away and reach for their fags, automatically. Little things would make me 'Need' snus.

Even going out my gate. It triggered the response of getting all the way up the track, going to chat with Pat'. Then realising I'd left my 'baccy at home. Couldn't possibly relax and chat without a fag. Forgetting my snus was the same.

Now? Those 'Flash Back', split second moments have lessened to the point where I really can't remember the last time I even had one.

My name is Ditch Shitter. I no longer need, nor crave, nicotine. I'm free.

Kudos To Dean O' .....

2011-03-12T18:44:00.000Z

So, cutting to the chase of an otherwise extremely long story: Dean O's pulled up at my place, tonight. Just after I realised that really was fucking Snow flakes I was seeing ....!

Never mind that. I'm ready to roll and have my Gray Wagtail nest box in my bag. Pair of Obo nails in my pocket. And I think to check Dean has a hammer in the van.

He has. We're all set then. This evening, I get my Gray Wag' nest box popped under the bridge in town.

One of us to hold it in position. Other to beat the masonry nails into the underside of the bridge. Team work. Fuckin' easy.

Stopped off at Dean O's, on the way. He grabbed his Hilti Gun ~ why beat spikes when ye can blow them in? And his own gum boots too. We had water to walk in. Unknown, but certainly above the ankle depth.

Fuck almighty! First, the gate to the bank to the river's padlocked. No worries. We're big boys. Over the fence ~ wrong side of the fence / bridge. Dean 'O points out how we'll easier approach the bridge from the other side. Off we go.

It's getting dark, by now. Just how deep Is this fucking river anyway? Looked a piece of piss, last week. In broad daylight. Tonight, I watched carefully, as Dean O' trod, carefully. I made sure to try and tread where he had.

Crouched over. Carrying weird shit to be carrying under a bridge in town. In the dark. It felt like 'Being in the SAS'.

Well, it probably felt nothing like that. But, weird, uneasy, scary as this felt? Fuck being in the SAS! This was quite enough 'excitement'.

Then the Bangs! There's Dean firing the Hilti, to shoot the nails in. Only, it's more like " Bang! Ping! Fuck! " This fucking tool fires nails into scaffold tubes. I've seen it. But, natural Irish stone rocks? No fucking way!

Just as he ran out of nails, I felt one stuck in the wood of the box! Bastard things had been ricochetting around our fucking ears in there!!! FFS! It Was like being in the fucking SAS!

So, this box is plainly coming back home with me. I'll need to figure something else out. But, I suck it up and don't make any miserable comments. We'd tried.

Then Dean O' says the most remarkable thing. He says; " Only way to do this is to use an SDS drill, and plug into these stones. " I, 'jokingly' say that, yeah; But, I don't think any of my extension leads will reach this far.

" No. " Comes this voice in the darkness. " But, mine will. If I bring the generator ..... " Then I hear purposeful strides against the current. He's off .....

All fucking credit to the guy. I mean, this is my baby. Yeah? My project. I'm the one obsessed with fucking nest boxes. It's also Friday night. Dark. Freezing fucking cold and we have " Dexter " waiting to be watched and beer to be consumed.

But, no. He's slung the tools back in the van and drove all the way back to his place. Fucked around, testing the genny. Loaded up some more tools and driven us back down to that god forsaken river.

I now have a Gray Wagtail nest box securely positioned beneath one of the bridges in town! I'm a Fucking Happy Bunny!

The knock on effects of that box being there will now spread, like a tiny, soft ripple, through the whole community. And it'll bounce back too; To the benefit of wildlife. How cool is that?

And all because my mate, after a damn hard weeks work, was willing to pick up the tools and sacrifice another hour of breaking his fucking back, stooping around beneath a dark bridge in a freezing river.

I fuckin' Salute the guy!

Irish Humour .....

2011-03-06T17:46:00.000Z

Over on Boards.ie, the massive honeycomb of fora within fora, they've been discussing " Annoying Cinema Behaviour ".

Of course, everyone's mentioned the mobile's, the feet against the back of ye seat, the dick sitting bolt upright in front of ye.

Then, " FTGFOP " comes out with this one:

Perfect Cinema

No food.
Black coffee available, but that's it.
Several staff in screen room wearing night vision goggles ready to taze any idiots that start yapping.

...or maybe poison-tipped blowdart.

"Yaketyak"

*pfft*

Laughed till I fuckin' cried!

Fox Craft .....

2011-03-02T00:52:00.000Z

Talking to a mate, the other day. Well, 'Talking' as in reading and replying to e mails.

Known this guy half my life. Only half my life, mind. Shows he turned up late and has stayed around a damn long time. We used to enthuse about ferrets, Dogs and shit.

Now we burble to eachother about loss of bowel control, while farting. Strange aches, pains and maladies. And the fact that we're not going to live for ever more.

Life's a bitch. Ye marry one. Costs ye an arm and a leg. It fucks off. Then ye die.

And life goes on ~ Being a bitch for those left behind.

I wonder if foxes see it that way? 'Ye born. Chased, shot at and driven at. Sooner or later ~ if a wheezing chest or falling out teeth don't get ye, al' a Plummer ~ Ye get fucked, physically, somehow and die.'

Not all foxes. " Big Jim " asked me, just the other week, about how crafty foxes are. I casually replied that much of what we consider 'cunning', in a fox, is simply down to better senses of smell, hearing ..... Shit like that.

They smell our soap ..... Alright. Fair enough; Your soap, FFS. Smell tobacco. Hear us moving. Shit like that. Maybe fifty yards away. We reckon they're crafty as all fuck? No. They just have far better ears, nose and eyes than us.

Then, an old mate brings ye a snippet like this:

" I shall diversify now briefly . A mate, an ex - lorry driver used to lay - up in a lorry park at Gatwick, next to the A23. Paul is not a country person. Anyway he spots a three legged fox scattering rabbits on the verge. "No chance my crippled little friend ", thinks Paul to himself.

Rabbits come out of cover to resume feeding. Fox comes out of cover to resume chasing. Rabbits scatter and dive into the hedge. Except one who swerves into the road and is the victim of a lagamorphian RTA.

Ping. Fox has his supper.

Apparently Paul witnessed this crafty feat several times over the ensuing months. Foxy knew all about spacial awareness too. It would actually wait for a gap in the traffic before retrieving its prey. "

Couldn't make shit like that up, could I? And nor would my old mate. Crafty fuckers, foxes.

Hands of the Strangler .....

2011-02-22T22:37:00.000Z

I'm in Hugh's, the Butchers today. We're just finishing a good chat and I'm about to leave when some guy comes in and proclaims;

" Aaah! The man who'll catch all the rats! ..... Now, tell me, friend; How do ye catch and kill all these rats? "

Guy was perfectly serious, of course. People just carry on that way here. So, I answered him perfectly seriously, of course:

" I strangle them! "

He's, like; " Be' Jesus!!! Ye strangle them ....?! "

" Yeah, " I says. " And will ye just look at the state they leave my fucking hands in! All their biting me, as I strangle them! "

Held up my hand, for him to see.

Guy was fuckin' mortified, of course. There I stood. Living proof of my own legend. Scars to prove it.

This shit's in my blood, see? All of it. My Dad taught me my first steps in rat catching. That's true. I knew the principles, plus, before I even had my first day at school. But, that's all taught and learned shit. This, as I say, is in my blood.

Gypsys 'Tell Fortunes'. Yeah? Well, in Romanes, the one time language of the Gypsys, it's called " Dookerin' ". Look up an " Anglo Romani Dictionary " sort of effort and ye'll find it there. 'Dookering. Dookripen. Dooka. Ducka.' Fucka.

It's all bollocks, really. Ask any Gypsy who knows enough of the old language to have a clue and they could tell ye. " Dookering " means Bullshitting! Blarney. Gift of the gab. That's all it is. All it ever was. It's natural to the blood. Repartee.

The state of my hands? 'Rat Strangling', my arse! That was in my blood too. Just had a spot of that 'Prickly Heat' shit, a week back. Scratched so much I almost ripped myself to fucking pieces!

But there's an insight into the ancient Gypsy art of 'Bull Shitzu'. The ability to spin on a pin head. Using what ever's to hand to ones advantage.

I have only felt free to pass on this arcane knowledge after long contemplation of the demise of Brian Plummer. Otherwise, he'd probably have heard of all this and bred a 'Pit Bull' cross Shitzu. Called it the " Traditional Romani Fighting Dog " and written books about it.

That would have, no doubt, further boiled Lloydys piss ~ already hot enough, with all that Shiraz and curry. Likely wouldn't have done my own blood a lot of good either.

But, there it is. Plummer's dead. Phil and I can't be too far behind him now. How ye'll gnash and wail when we're All gone, eh? Who then to entertain ye?

Now I must go. Keep getting these texts from some bird who wants to interview me on TV .....

Ye think I'm joking, don't ye ....?

Dear " Anonymous " .....

2011-02-22T13:50:00.001Z

It's generally not considered politic to post peoples real life names on places such as this. This is the sole reason I have had to set it so Comments pass by me first.

Unfortunately, I can't Edit a comment. Just post or delete it. Yours I had to delete. I delete Any comments along the lines of; " Hey! Lord Lucan! It's been too long, man. How's it going? "

My e mail is what it's always been. Feel free to use that.

And, Some Where, In Darkest Leitrim .....

2011-02-17T00:42:00.000Z

Ditch Shitter stirs .....

Well ..... Wow! ..... Fuck! ..... I s'pose That was 'Winter', again, eh? Muvva fukka!

Creepy how, looking back, I always go quieter as the calendar year ends and ~ as it happens ~ my birthday draws closer with the end of the year.

Freaky shit. I wonder if I'll just go quieter, one of these years, then never re emerge from my own spot of hunkering down through the harder times.

Or if I'll just shut up, in mid flow, one of these days, and be gone for ever more. Just a ghostly segment of shit on Google Cache and the odd forum.

Weird shit to think about. Sure. But, then; I got " 'flu " ~ or some shit ~ this winter. Haven't had 'flu in about thirty years. Always swore a dose, now, would surely kill me. Fucking near did!

Really weird experience. As far as I remember? Fine, 31st Dec. Woke up 1st Jan? Rough! (Though I'd Not over taken the night before. This was weird shit!)

Then there was a few days where I just lost a 'Day' or so! Stupid shit like sleeping for 24 hours plus! I remember, one point, waking up at 02:00 and having to stagger about like a blind drunk ~ stone cold sober! ~ feeding my Dogs and even mucking out my horses!

Fucking wonder none of us starved to death 'in my sleep'!

Anyway, no; We're all still with us. I'm with It again. I hope to get back to being with You. Just 'dozed off' there, as I tend to do when all there is to think about is my creatures and I keeping fucking warm, fed and alive.

Magpies are creeping in. Carving up 'my' land into their own little parcels. Gray crows too are quartering the fields out there.

And here's me, getting ever more rabid about protecting and providing for our hard enough hit, small, wild birds. I'm making Nest Boxes like a cottage industry. Spending even more hours getting the word out, on a receptive forum board.

So on. So forth. I'm back.

Look out for shit about Dogs, horses, birds, shot guns, bad habits, good drugs ~ prescription ones! ~ and any other shit that occurs, now that I'm thinking again.

Later!

Michael Heggarty ~ A Legend Lost .....

2011-01-23T09:31:00.002Z

Town has just become a poorer place. I was in there, yesterday, and heard of the death of Michael Heggarty. It's hard to express how I feel. Town will never be quite the same again now. There'll be no chance of seeing Michael there.

Michael was a fucking Legend. Totally and completely shot to fucking pieces. The guy only had to walk into a bar for the locals to start grinning behind their hands. Even just the sight of him could set people off.

People who'd known him all their lives too. Because they recognised there was no telling what Michael was going to come out with next. (See Here)

I never did get a photo of Michael. God, how I wish I did! He looked something like " Frazer " ('We're all Doomed, Captain Mainwering!') crossed with the mad prof from " Back to the Future ".

He had the wild hair and the wild stare. Long, loose limbed bloke. They reckon he'd work through a nuclear strike. Employ him to dig a hole and he'd dig that fucker until it was dug.

Wouldn't matter if it pissed with rain. He wouldn't even stop for a tea break. He'd be drenched through to the skin. Shovelling more water than earth. But he Would Not stop working. Known for it.

Known for his sacks too. Mad fucker. Always had his sack or two. Always tied up at their necks. Sometimes one. Sometimes two. Fuck knows what was in them. I asked Mike about them, day I heard the news;

" What the Fuck did he keep in those damn sacks, Mike? " I asked. " Everything. " came the answer. Mike probably knew Michael all his life. I just accepted that answer. Always will.

Anyway, there it is. Michael's dead. And the entire damn world is a piss poorer place without him. Guy was a fucking legend. A Character. I always told people; " Come here? Ye've got to see Michael Heggarty! ". Like the Colosseum, in Rome. Now he's gone.

It was cancer, by the way. I'm not sure, but; I think I heard he was originally diagnosed some time (years?) ago. What ever. Seems he refused any treatment ~ what's the fucking point, one may well ask!

Then, he was whisked into hospital. He'd never raised a word of complaint to Anyone. No one had a clue he was sick.

So, he was taken to hospital. Inside the space of Nine Days, he'd gone from being admitted to hospital. Shifted out to the Hospice.Then he was gone.

Town will be a hollow place without him.

Something To Be Getting On With .....

2010-12-29T05:34:00.000Z

Sorry, folks. It's December, remember? Around this time I simply batten down and get on with day to day tasks. Precious little to talk about. A swift check out of my past postings should prove this.

Anyway, I'm more in reading, than writing, mode just now. Hunkering down whilst the weather passes over us. And here's a little something that's given me somewhere to creep off and hide my mind. When nothing else has presented itself as available and distracting.

This is old. It's American. It's about ~ basically ~ a " Pointer ", I s'pose. What the fuck: It's about a Dog. And it's written in a timeless fashion that is probably Out of fashion, these days.

But, read this shit. Imagine trying to read it to ~ let alone having ~ ye kids read it, these days. How many would get it?

From a time when people Knew Shit about the true relationship between Dogs and people. Before the Dog became a fashion accessory. A passing thing. Disposable.

" Old Spot "

Back, presently .....