One Year Ago, Today

 

   Following an absolutely stellar decision, a couple of days before, I found myself staring up at This:

 

 

Courtesy of Sligo General

One Year Ago Yesterday

  

 I woke up. Got up. And made a steely eyed decision.

" Dear Mags ..... "

 

  I've just written that, on Notepad. I have a physical writing pad here. I just guessed I'd waste a hell of a lot of paper, scratching shit on that. Binning it. Starting again. Binning it. I knew I wouldn't get started. 

  Couldn't get started on Note either. Then, I had the bright idea to come here. Where I've spilled my guts for the last god knows how long. To the ether.

   This is to the ether. Because no one ever comes here any more.  They don't care. And I don't care that they don't care. This isn't for them. It's for the ether. Or where ever souls would go. If we had souls.

 

  My Family Tree, on line, tells me it was a decade or more since my mum died. Un fucking believable! Flash! And ten, a dozen fucking years have snatched away. Incredible. 

  I went back to england, to say goodbye to my mum. She was living in a tower block. Place they liked to put older people. We were due to go for a pub lunch with her. I went down stairs for a crafty smoke.

  And, as I stood there, enjoying my roll up, the door opened and out stepped Mags. I'd seen her already. Coming in or out. She hadn't seen me. I figured she too must have been visiting her own mum there.

  Now, I was standing there. I just said, " Alright, Mags? " and she stopped dead. It had been thirty years. Bit of a fucking surprise, for both of us really, I s'pose.

  The fuck do ye say to the very good friend of a very good friend. From three decades back? And I'm not very good with words, at the best of times.

  " Just here to say goodbye to my old dear, Mags. She lives here. She's dying. I'm in Ireland now. Leitrim. "

  And, with that, the flash flood hit me. The doors burst open and my sister and brother were there, with our mum. Chattering and hurrying. Debating last minute plans. Heading for someone's motor. Sweeping me away.

  My eyes locked on Mags'. Seeing her mouth move in a silent agony. Knowing just how her mind must be racing. Like mine was. In silently screaming agony. Desperation.  What can I say?!? 

  And then, I was in the motor. Surrounded by a hubbub of meaningless chatter. And Mags was getting smaller, through the window. And I'd never see her again.

 

  My sister's fucking useless. See, when mum was diagnosed as fucked, Jan' moved in, to nurse her. She must have been there the best part of a year, I'd guess? I wasn't talking to her, at that point. Hadn't been for some years. We're a dysfunctional lot.

  So, I heard it from my brother, at some point, that Jan had met Mo', in the laundry room there. Mo' and I went back a ways. Thirty odd years back, around that point. Then we'd gone our ways in life.

  Christ, we'd run deep together though. For years. And, Mo' actually said to my sister how she'd like to hear from me again. Actually said that. Face to face.

  But, my sister's fucking useless. Fuck knows what she said. How she even looked at her. How she managed to side step the issue.

  I wonder if she even said; " He's in Ireland now. " Perhaps she just said; " Oh. Dunno. I haven't spoke to him in years. " Anyway, she managed to kill the conversation. Relating it to our brother, at some point. He eventually telling me. 

  That would have been at some point before we ~ Jan and I ..... well, I, actually ~  buried the hatchet and it was agreed I'd come say goodbye. And that's how I came to suddenly find myself face to face with Mags. Mo's life long best friend.

   I'd imagined Mags was visiting her elderly mother there. Because, it was a place for older people. It's only since dawned on me. Mags (and Mo') have ten years on me. We're 'older people'! Mags fucking Lives there!!!

  And, in that thirty seconds, after thirty years, all I'd managed to say was, " I'm in Ireland now. And the flash flood hit. Pulling me helplessly away.

  As my mind screamed; " Oh shit!!! I haven't got a fucking business card on me! Could she even fathom the twisted code needed to ring Eire?  My email addy ~ does she Have email?! ~ is too long and complicated for her to grasp. My home address too ..... " Gone!

  If I'd Only pointed at the block and just barked: " What Number?! " .

  And that's why, to this day; I go down to the stables, to feed those hairy fuckers. I look at Rosie. See how absolutely fucking beautiful she is. And I think of Mo'. How I'd love to show her Rosie. How much that would unfold, for both of us.

  Over a decade. I've googled. I've tried. I've even trawled the obituaries. My best hope if to pen a swift note to the House Mother of that block. Include my email and number, for Mags.

   Can't do it. I'm not very good with words, at the best of times.

 

Early Start

  Got up, this morning ~ well, yesterday. Tuesday, 30th of March. Let the Dogs out. Turned around and the lot of them were transfixed by the starling nest box outside my door!

 

  Balzac's standing up there. Nose a bit Too fucking close to the hole in it! (Has that bugger actually still managed to grow that much more?! Surely to fuck he must be too old to grow now?)

 

  Small Dogs are yipping, leaping, sitting transfixed.

 

  But, it was the fucking box itself that got me. It was actually Rattling!

 

  Like, this is a fucking big box! Made of nine inch plank. Inch thick. Over a foot tall. I've humped these muvva's up enough ladders and, I can tell ye; I don't fucking like it!

 

  And this one's Shaking! Audible smashing and banging going on inside it!  No wonder the Dogs are fixated! I am!

 

  Well, with the racket, and the movement of the thing, I figure it's got to be a fucking Pine Marten in there. Bitch one could probably slither through that hole.

 

  Or a rat? Equally plausible.  But; What The Fuck was either of them Doing in there?! Battering this, I dunno ~ Three or four pound ~ fucking box about?

 

  No Way I was opening the top face of the damn thing! It's at face height. I wasn't too interested in having what ever it was leaping out, right into my eyes!

 

  Fuck this. Went and got my " See Snake ". Electronic endoscope. Hang over from my Pest Control days.

 

  Fucking batteries were dead. Replaced them. No luck. Fucked if I know.

 

  Stood there. Staring at this fucking box, on my wall. Dogs seemed to have lost interest now. Fucked off. Box seemed quiet enough too. What's a man to do?

 

  Fingered the little hook off. Got my face up close ~ I hate this shit. But, I need to See what's in there. My eye sight's so shot these days. Opened the top opening, top half of the frontal door .....

 

  Oh! (Closes the door) Pardon me!

 

  Now, here's the fucktest thing! I swear to god; Before I got out of bed, this morning, I had a dream.

 

   Now, we all know  how fucked up and partially remembered dreams can be. But, what hung with me, from this one, was when I opened some door.

 

  I needed a piss, in my sleep, and this was one of those ~ Translates as ~ 'looking for a place to pee' dreams? 

 

  So, in this dream, I've  opened a door.  And there's some young girl I've previously met, in this dream. And she's standing under a shower!

 

  Obviously, I'm like; " Oh! Sorry, love! ". And have almost broke my fucking spine with the speed I've turned away and fucked off.

 

  And, weirdly, that's about exactly what I did, when I lifted that door; And got a split second glimpse of ~ I'm sure it was! ~ Two Starlings, in amidst a load of fresh straw 'n shit, in the bottom of that nest box!

 

  Yeayy!!! I've watched my 'usual male' claiming that box since about November. I've seen two birds popping in there, weeks ago.

 

  But, to actually eyeball Two birds, rustling around in there. Actively building a nest. Before even April? Well, that's just cool 👌

 

  I rung about 105 chicks, last year, from my starling boxes. Then, the govt's took over with this social control bullshit. 

 

  Either way; My birds are showing me good signs! I aim to break the Ton mark again, this year.

 

  Given my freedom? I'd planned to widen my net of Starling Boxes for miles around! 

 

  I'm happy to spend the endless time ~ and money ~ making them. Taking them. Putting them up. Checking them.

 

  Dunno though. Fucking governments have got us all strapped down now, look. Hunkering down. Servile.

 

  'But, it'll get better!' You cunt! Cite me one, single fucking example of when a modern day government has given us back a 'right' they once took from us?

 

  Me? The Dogs and my Starlings?  Just watch a Murmuration. Know that we're part of that.

 

Too Few Dogs

   Had a chat with an old mate, the other night. He mentioned he'd checked in here, to see if I still had a pulse. He'd seen how I've lost le Ding and Evil Little Dog.

 

  Well, the fact that he mentioned this place sort of reminded me I haven't posted much lately. Then, I just let the Dogs out for what'll be their last 'Break' for the night.

 

  And, as it so often does now; As three little hairy bodies rush past me out the door? I, almost unconsciously look for more.

 

  I'm more of a five Dog man. I like a proper little pack around me. Three just doesn't cut it.

  Nothing for it though. I've decided on my plan of action, for the future. 

 

  Balzac, the 'new' Dinger is an empty headed skin full of shit who's only ever known life with me and the Small Dogs.

 

  They, in turn, have now come to trust me implicitly. Balzac. My compound. Me. That's their little universe now. Anyone, any thing beyond that is scary to them.

 

  And so it's now my sworn duty to simply out live them. I think I might have mentioned this before? 

 

  I'm no great fan of the idea of dying, frankly. But, what Really torments me is the thought of these Dogs being left behind.

 

 To be dragged away by strangers. Terrified and confused. Fuck, no!

 

  So, I have to outlive them. Then, I'll become the patron saint of old, little, fucked up Dogs.

 

 I'll try to hoover up as many doomed, unwanted little terriers and such as the pounds death rows have available.

 

  I'll let them sleep in a warm room. With full bellies. They'll get to end their days looked after. Not stuck with a needle on a cold, stainless steel table.

 

  And, I'm sure, some will get unlucky. They'll outlive me and find themselves back in the cold, concrete blocks of the Leitrim " No Kill Shelter ".

 

  Till the van comes, to ferry them across the county line to the Very Kill place they have an arrangement with.

 

  Sad. But, I'll be fucking dead. Not a lot even I can do from That position then.

 

  Oh, and why aren't I starting now? Simple. Balzac, for all his size, is a gentle giant. The little Dogs can run rings around him and he just accepts it.

 

  But, those little dynamos are fucking murder! Forever chasing, leaping on and biting Balzac. He 's fine with that.

 

  But, a strange, new, little old Dog that just wants some peace and quiet?! Hell, no! They'd be begging for that van!

 

  I'd hope I have about another decade in my yet. Hope to see these three out in that time.

 

  Shit goes south for me, before then? I ain't fucking leaving these behind. Not if I can help it.

A Quite Random, Childhood Memory ~ And The Horror!

  Sat here, today, just piddling about harmlessly. Mind relaxing. And the Isle of Wight popped into my head. From my childhood.

  I may have been anywhere between about eight and ten, at the time. I doubt an elephant could remember That far back.

  But, anyway, I was very much still a kid. My Dad made regular, long, late drives. Taking Dogs to races.

  So, when I found an unfurled ~ thankfully, as yet, unused ~ Durex in his bedside drawer? It needed some thought. Like; WTF Is This?

 God knows how. But, I somehow worked out that this thing was willy orientated. Why would Dad put this thing on his willy?! Willys are for peeing with. Right?

  So, I thought about it a bit. And I cracked it! It's late at night. Dad's driving home, alone, from somewhere. He wants to pee.

  No problemmo! He simply whips out one of these things. Puts it on his willy and pees into it! 

(Look; Black and white Television was a big thing, back then. No fucking smart phones. Nine year old kids were Kids!)

  So, school trip to the Isle of Wight. We've done the thing. Seen the sights. Advised that there's the loo's, before get back on the coach.

  And there's a Durex machine in that loo! Wow! Could this be my time to shine? Show my school mates a thing or two?

  What's still almost as consternating, to this day, is that a couple of lads of my own age were rolling on the fucking floor ~ figuratively! ~ as I pondered my possible purchase.

  " Look! " They howled. " Ditch is gonna buy a johnny bag!!! "

  Over brained cunts were destined for Grammar School, anyway. 

But, yeah. Today, it drifted back to me. And I actually considered the possible consequences. What if I had?!

  Fuck knows how I'd have kept it on my flaccid little dick. But, if I'd just clutched it in place. And peed ....? 

  Just envisaging the teacher, like the fucking Bomb Disposal Squad: " Ditch, listen to me very carefully. How far down your trouser leg is it hanging ....? "

 

The Phoenix ~ Fancy Another One? Nick S.

   September fourth, last year, I first wrote about a pub that was my home from home for some years. Tom Browns' " The Phoenix ". 

https://ditchshitter.blogspot.com/2019/09/tom-brown-and-phoenix.html

  If ye don't particularly remember that one? It'd be worth following that link, to read it and get yeself up to date.

  Then, ye might better enjoy getting an even fuller taste of the place, and times, by reading the follow up post I did about it:

https://ditchshitter.blogspot.com/2019/09/the-phoenix-another-pint.html 

  Please; Read those. Absorb what I was talking about. Most importantly? Note the mention, in the first one, of:

  " A  Bloke in there I was ready to front up to. Knifes edge from going for it. Ferret and a little girl later? Life long fucking mutual respect. "

  That bloke was Nick S.

  Looking at the time frames? That shit was probably about, what? Thirty five, forty years ago now?

  I've no real idea how old Nick was, at that time. Certainly older enough that I knew he was a shit ton more experienced in life than me.

  Maybe not quite " Old enough to be my father ". But, certainly too old for just any 'Older brother' effect. Maybe we'll settle on a more " Uncle " image?

  Okay. Enough for now then. I've given ye enough to go on, with ~ maybe ~ reading those first two posts. Now this one.

  But, I feel happy I've laid the preface to my next  'The Phoenix' post.  That one'll now be completely dedicated to Nick.

  Because, through the complete, total and utter fucked upness that is the internet; A couple of months back now, wasting my remaining time gazing at random shit on you tube ....?

A Little Look At Snape

   I gave Snape ~ my Snapping Turtle, for anyone who's been asleep this last few years ~ a bit of a feed, last night. Human grade beef steak. Put the rest in my curry, tonight.

  Eddie was asking to see him so I got the camera out. Ye'll have to forgive the less than Baileyesque results;

 I'm trying to take film under artificial light. With the camera in one hand. Feed Snape with the other. And concentrate on the focus, while trying to concentrate on not getting snapped by mistake!

  Used my phone, to try and lend some scale to things. Did the best I could, under the circumstances. 

  Anyway, here's a brief clip. Hopefully it'll give ye an insight into what an absolutely mental little fucker Snape is.

  I fuckin' love him! He's got So much character. He's like a little, half wild, water Dog 😄

An Absolute Near Death Experience!!!

   Jesus fucking wept! I'm So Lucky to be sitting here, typing this! This morning, I nearly managed to pull off a double killing. Me being one of them.

  Ye know me, I like to tell ye the whole story. But, this is a story from within a story. So, excuse me if I make it a bit more condensed on the exact details. They're for another story.

  Snape. My beloved Common Snapping Turtle. Got him in January 2017. He was about the size of a Half Crown. Bought him an 18" x 12" fish tank and he was lost in it.

  Now? Bastard's got a roughly 10" x 10" shell alone and weighs a fucking ton! As I found out yesterday, when I had to lift his plastic box.

  So, he's gone through a few, ever growing, enclosures over the years. Now though, I'm actually working on the physical side of 'building' his Big enclosure.

  Basically, I'm sectioning off a corner of the room and shall 'furnish' a cut down IBC water tank for him.

  That's why this whole room is in disarray. My mind's fried. And the Dogs are Not Happy. 

   Snape's as happy as he can be though. He's still in his usual box. With his heater and filter. Me netting out anything visible which the filter misses. Changing out a couple of litres a day, religiously.

  And, he's always my first port of call, when I get up. The Dogs jump up and leap around. Snape lives in an opaque plastic box of water. I need to physically lift the lid and visually check he's okay in there.

  And this morning was no exception. Got up. Let the Dogs out. Kettle on. Come in here and look at Snape.

  Okay. He'd evacuated what was left in his bowels, after a fucking good sort out the other day. Water was a bit murky. I'd get my little fine meshed net to work and clean his filter.

  It's what's called a " Cannister " filter. Lives inside the tank. Fully submersed. Snape's is one of the biggest they do. Probably about 10" x 3"?

  What ever. I have it laying, rather than standing in his box. Because the water's not deep enough. 

 And, living in a world with just two other objects, one of which disturbs the water? I guess it attracts Snape's attention and he likes to 'play with it'.

  He actually shoves himself beneath it, so it's resting on his back. But, this lifts the intake end out of the water. So the motor is left sucking air, at the other end.

  To combat this, I've learned to drape the flex over the rim of the tank, pull it so the heavier, motor end, is lifted just so, just below the surface of the water. Thus keeping the bottom end submerged.

 And, I keep the flex in place, jammed under a heavy brick beside the tank. Have done for a year or more. Works.

  So, today I get up. Dogs out. Kettle on. Come back in here to check on Snape.

  There he is, playing with his filter, again. He's got it, basically, balanced across his' shoulders'. Like a weight lifter. I saw that.

   And, in the next nano second, my barely awake mind also noted the filter wasn't sucking and spurgling, as it would normally do when he lifts the motor end out of the water.

  But, the motor end Was in the water. There was barely a quarter inch of the casing out of the water.

  And, there was the black flex that fed into the motor casing at exactly that spot. And there was the blue wire, which should have been encased in that flex. 

  And there was the brown wire. And I could see the copper at the end of the brown wire, which shouldn't have been ending.

  And a little pillar of smoke was snaking up from it. And I was dimly aware of a sizzling sound. And that I'd just disgraced myself .....

  If Snape had just relaxed his muscles, as I've just let my own shoulders drop in relaxation, after remembering that Horror.

  If I'd functioned on thought, rather than absolute, instinctive, muscle brain reaction? 

Another fraction of a split second, and Snape could have relaxed. That Live wire would have submerged. I'd have grabbed at the filter. Plunging my hand into the water.

  I was a fraction of a split second faster. We live.

If Ye Not On The List .....

I'm Locking The Place

   There, just so you all know. Don't worry; I'm not shutting it down. Nothing like that. I'm just gonna make it a private party. Invitation only.

   I tried it out, yesterday. Got a couple of mates to help me out by testing it to see what happens.

  I locked it and sent a mate an Invite. He said A/ It went to his fucking spam folder! (Great! FFS!)

B/ Once he happened upon it, it asked him to do what ever and register here, using the invite, with a Google email account.

 Well, I figure about 90% of people have one of those. Use it or not. If ye don't already have one? Is it worth your while opening one, to get back in here? Up to you.

C/ I got another friend, who I didn't send an invite, to try and come in.

 Apparently,  two rather no nonsense looking blokes in black bow ties looked at a clip board and said; " Sorry, love. Not tonight. " 😲 

  So, it certainly works! You're not on the list? You won't be coming in.

'But, how do I get on the list, Ditch?' That's the easiest part of all! Ye just shoot me a word, to:

 

ratcatcher@mail.com

 

  That's my dead letter drop. But, I check it ~ spam folder included ~ every day. 

 Just head it " List ". Give me a clue who I'd know ye as, and ye'll have ye invite inside of twelve hours. From that addy. And check ye fucking spam folder! 

  Now, sadly, I know there's gonna be 'Collateral Damage'. Some people have it set so they get alerted to every post. They'll see this.

  It's the ones who drop in, at random. Possibly binge reading, of just glancing over it. If they don't catch this? Very soon now they'll meet the bow tie boys 😧 

  There's not a lot I can do about that. I don't have the email addy of every fucker who blows through here!

  Anyway, there it is. If ye reading this, and want to keep reading? Hit that Ratcatcher mailer, now!

 I won't be sitting here, constantly warning ye we're about to lock. I've said it here. Now, I'll lock the doors as and when I take a mind to. Probably before my next post.

  And, do I have a post for you!!! Fucking mind blowing! (Blew mine, anyway!) It'll be a bit involved.

 May need ye to look back at an earlier post or two? But, I reread the post I have in mind, and I enjoyed it ~ surprisingly! 😁

  Now, decades after that one was set ....! Wanna see it? I'll check The List.

 

Evil Little Dog ~ RIP

   Minutes ago. Peacefully. Seemingly painlessly. 

 

Here, in her home. Familiar surroundings. Family around her.

 

  I was talking to Pat, today. Said she was going. He said she must be fourteen years old. No complaints then.

 

   Spoke to him again, just now. Seems we're promised vicious rain, tomorrow. But, if we get a dry patch, he'll come and dig a hole.

 

  I'll pop her in the fridge. She won't mind that. Nor will I. Why would I?

 

  She was a Great little Dog. This place will sorely miss her.

The Perils Of Home Brewing

   So, having restarted making my own beer, about a decade or so back now, I noticed what complete bollocks many people talked about it.

  One of the most laughable, and yet held to be a god sworn truth, was that ye absolutely Had To stick a fucking air lock on ye fermentation vessel!

  There'd be these fucking loons, on home brew fora, gravely intoning to newb's that it they didn't securely fit a " Bubbler " to their bucket lids, they'd have four horsemen outside their place.

  All this shit passed on with the sage air that, " I've been in this game for three years now. I know my shit! " Fucking idiots!

  Commercial breweries ferment batches the size of small swimming pools. In what Are, effectively, small swimming pools! No lids, let alone stupid little air locks.

  Back in the day, when I first started home brewing, we'd ferment in what ever five gallon, plastic bucket we could get our hands on.

  And we'd chuck a towel over it, to keep shit out. Dust and flies. Shit like that.

 Anyway, for about five years now, I've had the privileged ownership of two, gorgeous stainless steel fermentation bins.

  Lovely things they are. All shiny and good. Come with clip onable lids with a rubber, internal grommet. And a small hole in the lid.

   I imagine this is to allow the gasses to escape. Otherwise, ye'd have a fucking pressure cooker situation!

  Either way, I've always made a point of just popping a small, inverted jar over this hole. No air tightness about it. As ever, just to stop any flies or ~ god forbid! ~ a stray mouse getting in there.

 Never had a bad brew in these five years. And I brew on a constant roll over. I rest my case.

  Other week though, I went in there, to get a pint. (I pour mine directly from the fermentation bucket) And I saw a beige coloured ring around one side of the bottom of my jar.

  I thought how unusual it was for my brew to ferment so vigorously as to foam up through the hole, these days. Then I noticed how uniform this stuff was.

  My brain having got passed the surprise and my eyes adjusted; To my horror, I realised it was a fucking great Slug!!!

 Good three incher! Wrapped around the bottom of the jar! (We all know how slugs like beer)

  Well, pretty revolting. But, I never gave it too much thought. I just flicked him off with my knife and carried on.

  Next night? He's back! This I consider taking the fucking piss. So I cut his head off.

  I'd often considered the horror of drinking four gallons plus of beer from one of those buckets. Then finding the bloated body of a mouse, when I came to clean it.

  But, a slug? And I think of that poor kiddie, in Australia. Ate one, for the beer induced craic, while having a laugh with his mates. 

And wound up a dribbling, rolling eyed fucking vegetable. Strapped into a wheel chair as his brain turned into skull soup!

  Imagine, cleaning the vessel ye'd drunk a load of beer from; And finding a fucking great Slug had been in there, all that time!

  " Fuck! Where did I put my glasses? ..... Hang about! Is this a simple lapse of concentration ~ or the very first sign that my brain's irreversibly turning into mush?! "

  *Shudders!!!*

A Little Project I did, recently .....

   Pretty much writing this one for my boss, in honesty. Wanted to show him what I'd got up to. I'll chuck in some embellishment though, for anyone else who may not be as familiar.

  Basically then, le Ding finally shuffled off this mortal coil and so it was time for some very long planned changes.

  The most truly massive change will be to my snapper turtles accommodation. Put simply; Dingo Dog always slept on the foot of my bed.

  So, if I were laying there, I'd look down to my feet and there'd be le Ding. Beyond him was Balzac, in his cage. Behind him was a chest of drawers, on top of which sits Snapes tank.

  Now though, Balzac gets to sleep where he likes. Right now, he's in his cage, the door of which is always open now. But, I think he sneaks onto the bed at some point. What ever.

  Now, my 'bed' is a Futon. In case ye've been living in a cave for the last fifty years? That's a thin mattress. Laid on pallets. They have a zipped cover. Heavy canvass and eye wateringly costly.

  Dogs, over the years, had destroyed a few of these things. Digging and scratching at them. Hundred quid a throw. Fuck That!

Thus I'd taken to covering the futon with just about what ever I could ~ plastic and such. Anything, to keep mucky paws and diggy claws off.

  Now, everyone's up to pace then.

 And, I was about to put a brand new cover on this futon. Well, we all know that repeating the same action and expecting a different result makes one a cunt. So .....

Here's my futon

  That's a tons worth of brand new cover. I then put a brand new fitted sheet on it. But; Dogs.

 

  Best I could come up with, utilising what I had to hand, was a bit fucking Heath Robinson, to say the least!

 

   It was also, predictably, very fast getting old; Waking up each day to having to hump the fucking thing up against the wall and secure those bungee straps! The plank helped keep it up ~ a bit. But, fuck that!

 

    11:00 the wood arrived. I set to with a vengeance. I Knew I had to have it finished, before I could go to sleep.

 

 It was definitely a two man job. But, there's no one else here. Tough luck. So, I just had to suck it the fuck up and apply the principle my old, SAS mate had told me worked for him:

  

  " Pure bloody mindedness. " 

 

  I won't bore anybody with the finer details. Suffice to just say that I worked like a man possessed. 11:00 to 19:30. Never once stopping for a rest. 

 

  Due to size constraints in my little work shop, I was laying on the floor, horribly contorted, trying to drill holes while holding postures a yoga guru would have been impressed with.

 

  How much does thirty three foot of nine by one plank weigh, screwed together in six foot lengths? 

 

  God knows. But, I really had no fucking business shifting That between rooms and chucking it about! 

 

  I'm too old. Far too skinny. And the heaviest thing I've lifted in years has been a bucket of water! That fucking near killed me!

 

  In fact, I'm not in the least bit bothered to admit that, when I'd finished and sat in this chair, with an early ration of Jameson before me? 

 

  I hurt So Fucking Much. I was So physically and mentally exhausted, I could very easily of just sat here and cried!

 

  I'd, quite simply, given it everything I had. I think my mate would have mildly approved.

 

  Don't examine it too closely. It's more bodge than perfection. But, I'm an old rat catcher. Not a fucking joiner. It sure as hell does its job though!

 

  See the cunningly thought out little drop down side flap there? Mm. I have a gammy toe. Periodically gives me shit and I have to get my foots weight off it.

 

 To do that, I have to put my foot off the futon. Can ye imagine trying to sleep, with ye calf laying across a one inch board?! 😎

 

  And, when we get up of a morning? Couldn't be easier!  Just needs a little hasp now. And some Dog Mats 😀

   Worth all that blood, sweat and fucking near tears?

 

  Abso fucking lutely!!! Most rewarding and worthwhile little project I've ever done around here, I'd say.

FFS!

 So, today, following the traditional, three day bender, I wander into a forum and find This!

 

 

  Of course, I didn't completely lose my shit ~ Much!

Dingo Dog, RIP.

   Well, he's gone. Figure he lost his pulse a few hours ago. Laying there, out in the sun. Gasping. Tongue sticking out. Couldn't seem to take the water I was offering him.

 

  Choices? Put a shotgun to his head. Make a noise that would scare my other Dogs. Make a fucking god awful mess that would be there for ever.

 

  Drag him off to a vet's? Saturday. Local, " We don't come out for Dogs, Any day! " shit house is shut.

 

   Arrange a taxi to the 'Emergency' place? Next county away? He wouldn't have lasted that trip.

 

  Nope. Just left him there, for nature to take its course. Which it did. It's been obviously coming for months now.

 

  But, each night, he's wanted his grub. I've given it. He's ate it. Anywhere between two or five cans. I've gladly fed him as much as he'd eat.

 

  Cans. Lately, " Chum ". He seemed to prefer soft, tinned meat to raw lamb. He got offered both. Ate both, in part. Up till last night. Ate it then.

 

  One less for dinner, tonight. He's in the wheel barrow. Down in the stables. Pat's coming, Monday, to dig the hole I'm simply no longer physically capable of digging.

 

  Oh! I can sweep up the saw dust though. Last year or two, le Ding had taken to ~ when ever the feeling came upon him ~ drinking a bit much water. Then honking it up on the floor here.

 

  Mopping up water / slime from a concrete floor gets old. I reverted to what my Dad showed me. Gave this place over to a kennel. Strewed saw dust everywhere. Easier.

 

  And now, he's gone. Shit will move forward around here. Balzac will, Tonight, become the Room Dog. Faaark!

 

  Tomorrow, I'll likely have to remind myself that it's Him, stretched out, or curled up on my futon. Not Dinger. Ding's gone. Fuck.

 

  le Ding always slept on the foot. On top of the quilt. Funny Dog. Never once was able to convince him to sneak inside and join the pile of who ever else was snuggling there.

 

  That's enough. I've got to figure out the new feeding regimen now. Ding always ate his grub in the kitchen. Balzac in his cage. Sausage on the futon.

 

  Tonight, what? I don't know. And I've got to figure it.

 

  " Valentino " ~ Kev? Thank you, mate. I kept my fucking promise. I swore to ye, I'd give Dingo Dog the best fucking life he could hope for.

 

  Twelve? Thirteen years old? That Dog never, in my presence, knew a cold, hungry, lonely day. Never had a fucking hand raised against him. Barely a day he wasn't actually told he was loved.

 

Still is. But, it's dinner time now. For the ones left. And how the Fuck am I going to work this new feeding regimen out?

 

  I never thought of This. Shit!

 

  Miss ye, Ding! Now, finally, the fucking tears!

 

To " Sonicated " ~ A Public Apology

  " Sonicated "; It's been playing on my mind that, in a moment of outrage, I publicly called you a " Worthless cunt ".

  I'd like to apologise for misrepresenting you.

  What I, obviously, should have said is that you are a Worthless, Lying Cunt!

  Thank you.

A Day Of Joy!

   I've spent the day playing email tennis with someone at a major paint place. McDonnell's, to be precise and give them due credit.

  I wanted a small tin of smooth, white Hammerite and also thought to ask about some wood stain I've used and now wanted a lot more of.

 But, which has practically gone off the market and the producers ignored my enquiry.

  Anyway; Yesterday, I went into town and ordered a shit ton of planks.

 I want to make more starling nest boxes and worked out it'd be easier to have them delivered. So, I bought a load, to make it worth paying a tenner for delivery.

  As I'm waiting for the truck, Pat turns up. Our postie drops my Amazon shit off with Pat. Saves him worrying if it'll all go in my post box. Which it, often as not, won't anyway.

  And Pat brings me not only my sand belts, which I was expecting. But my Belt Sander! And the couple of pairs of new strides I'd ordered!

  I'm well happy then. But, none of it's any use to me yet. Can't sand the wood till I have the stain to cover it, before bare clean wood gets grubbied.

  Oh! I forgot to mention; Pat'd also brought my Brush Cutter back, the other day, from the bloke in town. Completely overhauled and working a treat.

   Seventy quid I was more than happy to shell out! Having left fuel in it and generally left it to fucking rot ~ as is my way, due to my head.

  Sadly; I just managed to cut a clear path to my grave yard gate when the harness fell apart. FFS. Same problem as the brusher!

  Never mind. Ordered a new one. That'll be here next week. Then, once I get a new bridge installed, I can get up to the grave yard and reclaim That from the brambles.

  And, saying that? Pat comes back with my new bridge! Some sort of steel length. Absolutely perfect for the purpose! That's in place now.

  Then, before Pat even gets away again? Fucking truck turns up with my planks!!! I'm doing fucking dances, by now!

  Driver, bless him, backed right down to the stables. Physically lifted Seven fucking 9" planks, in one go!?! And put them down by the door!

  Absolute fucking Awe of this guy! I told him straight; My arms would fucking Snap, if I even Tried to lift That weight! FFS!

  Then, Pat rushed down and gave me a hand to shift them into the stables. Job fucking done! 

  Tomorrow, I can take my mitre saw and stand down there and start slicing them up.

  Build the boxes down there. Stack them there. Boosh! No need to worry about the weather. The Dogs. Or carting wood, or boxes down there!

  I Then think to ask Pat if he can ask 'The Boy Bohen' to get me a price to replace this fifty foot of guttering that's blighting my life right now.

  That's in hand, at last, then! Great! That'll be more money well spent, and another massive load off my mind.

  Pat fucks off then, and I come in here. Oh, look; Another email from
McDonnell's paint people.

  I'd last told them:

 

  " alternative options in medium oak shades "? Okay. I'm ready to listen. I did a Belfast sink cover with Johnstones. Three coats and I was in love!

 

  Now, I want to do a Lot of wood similarly. Maybe, if ye shoot me a name or two, I can look on line for examples of how they end up?

 

  My number's xxxxxxxxxx. Afternoons are best as I never know when I'm going to surface and don't like talking before my head clears.

 

  So; I'm down for a tin of paint. (Freezer lid will look great again!) And now we need to sort out this stain. Then I can get stuck in! Deep joy!

 

  Thanks! "

  And, their unnamed person has come back to me with:

 

" We stock products by ronseal and sadolin that may suit you. I have requested someone give you a ring from the Athlone store to advise you on exactly which one to go for. They should be calling you tomorrow so your joy should be well underway ! 😊

 

Best of luck with it all and thanks for the laugh!

Enjoy your evening!

 

Kind regards. "

    Fucking talk about the icing on the cake!!! To have ~ quite unconsciously ~ brightened someone else's day, whilst having a belter myself?

  I'm So fucking happy now, I'm sat here, spontaneously bursting into laughter!!!

  Who, and where ever, you are? May You too have an absolute cracker of a day soon! :D

 

If You Have Time To Stand And Stare .....

  Completely 'knee jerk' espousal coming up, here. But, fuck me ....!

  I've been up all night. Body clock's shot to shit. And I have an unbelievable new bird trap out there. 

  This thing's incredible! Absolutely! Basically? I set it. I catch birds. It really is as simple as that!

  And dear god, what birds! Any fucking birds, to be honest! There's hardly a bird in the area Not wearing one of my rings now. House sparrow to Hooded Crow! I've had the fucking lot in there!

  So; I've been up, all night. 'Drunk myself sober' ~ if I ever actually got pissed? Never noticed it, if I did. And the sun's long since come back up. I've just made a mugga tea. I'll pull an all nighter, today. Fuck it.

  But, yeah! Had this trap set. Knowing I'd be awake to check it, shortly after dawn. And so I decided to let the Dogs out when I did.

  Nothing in it, yet. Plenty of birds about though. I was delighted to see the starlings come into boxes 5 and 7. Bringing food to their, soon to fledge, broods.

  Smiled at the Doglets, wandering around doing their things, as I leaned my elbow on the gate. Turned round, to look at the trap again. Shit my fucking self!

  Fucking Hare had been turning, as I turned. Barely twenty foot from me!

   She'd come loping down a hundred and fifty yards of straight track. Got within half a dozen of me. Been spooked by my movement. Now, she was loping off back to where she'd come from.

  Un fucking believable! Haven't seen a hare, here, in a few years or so now. And there's one, sneaking up on me like something out of Josie Wales!

  Talk about 'Living The Dream', eh?!

 

My Buggery's Working!!!

  I'm chuffed to bits! I've had it hanging there, on an ivy covered, south facing wall. Only been about six weeks. Just left it to it.

  Only, just now, I've wandered down that way. Just mooching around a bit. And I happened to glance at my Buggery.

  Fuck me, I wish I had a battery for my bloody camera! I'd so love to show ye! One hole, down the bottom, very clearly has sawdust dragged out.

  Then, higher up, there's two holes that have been sealed over with ..... dunno. Clay? They're so exquisitely neat and tidy. I had to stand and think;

  " Did I do that? Did I do anything, as I was drilling all these bloody holes out, that would have left such perfect little brown dots? "

  Obviously not. Simple fact is some little insect has been looking for somewhere to deposit its eggs  safely. And, just like I hoped for, has found My holes and thought;

  " Yep. Just the ticket! "

  How great is that?! 

 

WHAT The Ever Loving FUCK?!?!

That's Exactly what I said. About five minutes ago! And, boy; Did I fucking Mean it!!!

  Ye couldn't make this shit up! And, it could only happen to me! Jesus fucking wept, I'm still high on it!

  I've gone into my back rooms, to check on Goldie ~ my little goldy mule who lives in there. He's alright.

  Coming out of the big room and just passing through the little box room and I paused to consider a rat snapper I have, on the floor, in there. 

  It's fired. Because I don't want the little Dogs getting their noses in it. Rats have found their way in there, some time since. So, now I just bait them, as and when the Dogs tell me they're back.

  So, I've looked at the trap. Surveyed the detritus around it. My eye's drifted up, to gaze balefully at the window sill. The carnage they wrought on my expanding foam.

  And, that's when I saw This!!!

  Now, just to bring ye up to pace here: That large mass, to the right, is my beloved " Moon Gazing Hare ". A hollow, clay sculpture which I've had, cherished and protected for decades now.

  Centre left is the glass cover of an angle lamp I salvaged, when I got here. I aim to put the whole lamp back up, in my horse pen. It's an antique and that glass is irreplaceable. 

  And, yes; That's a fucking rat!!! And, the fucking thing was breathing! What the Fuck am I gonna do now?!? Other than exclaim what is now the title of this piece!

  I don't own an air pistol. We're not allowed them here. So, a point blank through the spine and heart was out of the question.

  Obviously, there's no way I was going after it with a stick! One inch either way and I'd be in fucking tears! 

  Small Dogs? They'd fucking Love a go! But, guess what? Ellie Belly's in heat, as I type! So, she and Licky were in Licky's cage, Balzac losing his shit over them!

  I had to think, quick! Call myself a fucking rat catcher ....? And, I was very much on my own with this one!

  Fortunately, I kept my shit together. Strode smartly in here and grabbed my stove tongs! 

  Marched back in there and ~ ever so gently, even though I was sure he'd taken the bait and was non compos mentis  ~ I lowered them over his neck and Squeezed!!!

  And, fuck me, did that bugger go!!! For a rat that wasn't supposed to know what day it was? That fucker reacted!

  Brought him outside and beat his head the fuck off the wall. Dropped him. And we started dancing!

  I'm wearing my lovely, comfy Crocs, and this bastard's doing everything he can to launch himself at my feet!

  Die, you bastard!!! Few more hefty whacks and cracks with the tongs. Fuckin' thing finally stopped that shit.

  And, half a pint later, I think my pulse has about returned to normal.

  Couldn't make it up, could ye? Ditch Shitter. Even on fucking lock down, I'm living the life exciting! For fuck sake!

Let's Hear It For An Garda Síochána!

  Just mingling about in my kitchen. Clearing up, having just put a brew of beer together. 

I'm waiting on Pat, who's agreed to come down here and give me a hand with his donkeys feet. They terribly need doing. Farrier's a bit out of the question, just now, obviously.

  I tried, yesterday. Brown Donkey's about as passive as a piece of cotton wool ~ I chose her, from a small herd. 

  But, though I could lift her back leg easily? I just never had the strength, in my skinny and unused arms, to pull the handles of the hoof croppers together!

  So, the plan is that I'll manage Donkey, while Pat uses the croppers. I can then set to with my rasp, to make a proper job.

  And, that's when my alarm system told me someone was coming. Fully expecting Pat, I grabbed my rasp and went, smiling out the door.

  And there was the expected, white motor, pulling up to my gate. Only, this wasn't Pat's motor. His doesn't have the emblem of the Gardai emblazoned across the bonnet!

  My smile has frozen into a rictus grin! I'm so glad I'd just been to the ditch. Or I'd very likely have shit my fuckin' self, right there and then! 

  Fifteen years and I've Never had an unexpected visit from the Gards! My mind was racing. WTF could they want?

  Two strapping lads got out. Full uniforms. Leaned on their doors and one was speaking to me, over the din of Dogs shouting.

  I'm about ready to pass out with stress. Bellow at the Dogs to Shut The Fuck Up! And, finally, what this young chap's saying starts sinking in!

  Basically; 'Am I alright? Did I have everything I need? Any prescriptions needing picking up? Have I got plenty of food? Am I coping alright?'

  I couldn't believe it! Talk about caught on the back foot!

  Of course, I assured them my freezer was rammed full. My Dogs were all extremely well fed. I was, basically, perfectly well and wanting for nothing.

  When I gleefully added; " I even make my own beer! " All three of us roared with fucking laughter! And, that was that.

  But, what a fucking wonderful experience! As I read of police forces, round the world, basically taking the opportunity to treat people exactly like so much fucking livestock. 

  Throwing their weight around. Showing who's boss.

  There's My experience of our Gards. Barely ever fucking see them. And, when ye do? They're prowling around the countryside, digging out isolated, potentially vulnerable, people and making sure they're alright.

  That's made a Big impression on me, frankly. What's that old saying? 

  " There is no situation the arrival of a copper can't make worse. "

  Well, I beg to fucking differ! Fucking fair play to our Gards!