Trefoyl's Comment Answered .....

Tefoyl, I decided my reply, to ye below Comment was getting so involved I might as well send it as a Post here.

I was explaining that every Comment here has to pass my eyes and be waved through. This is purely and simply because some times a person will forget themselves and use my real name. I was explaining that to account for having originally assured ye it was me talking.

Life, on line, is a cabaret. I like my avatar and handle. The shit I come out with just wouldn't work if I signed it " Collin Rhodes " or something, would it?

'I'm a writer' ? Heh. Forgive me but, as plenty who have followed my 'career' for a while would know by now; If half the people who told me that would buy it? I'd probably have written a book by now ;-)

Anyway, me delete this Blog? Not fucking likely. If nothing else, it gives me a place to type the word " Shit " and not get my message fucked with :p

But, as ye see, it's giving me shit again, look. Can't sign into my own fucking Blog to respond to a Comment with a Comment of my own! Shit like this pisses me off big time.

For anyone wondering why I'm not beating my way in here to say shit much anymore? Reason's simple: Summer. Eire just had Summer. Two weeks in the year when we get to pick one or two of the ever growing lists of jobs we need to get done. And go for it.

I, as it happens, managed to concrete 95% of the horse pen. I also repaired the ditch ~ The Ditch ~ and reframed / hung the door. Now it's raining again. And, guess what? My fucking back's gone Again!

Mixing concrete? Humping doors over land? No problem. Leaning forward to hitch a Dog onto his chain, as I do, several times a day. Every day of the year? You got it! So did I. Like a fucking lightening bolt. Straight in the lower spine.

Jezuss fucking christ! I dropped onto my knees like a sack of shit. I screamed so loud " Nigger " backed off and dropped to his belly, begging Insane Dad not to follow through and kill him for what he'd done so wrong. Poor Dog. I mean, one minute I'm all gently, " Here, Niggy, Niggy " and smiling. Next second I'm contorting and screaming, apparently throwing myself at him!

As it happens, I wasn't. Nor was I Meaning to throw my right knee cap at that fucking rock! But, I managed it. Fucking bulls eye! Me, rolling and screaming. Nig' shitting himself. Rest of them shouting and bouncing. Only thing missing was some stupid, Chav cunt with a fucking phone camera. I'd have been all over You Tube in minutes.

Saw a horror film, when I was a kid. Culminated in someone opening a box to find a detached, female head inside it. And this girls head was staring out, crying in this raspy voice; " Kill me! Kill me! ".

I could never work that out, as a chavvie. What could be so bad about just being a head? Ye could watch TV. Talk to people. Read shit.

My Dad was 'killed' in a motor wreck. Broke his neck and, had we had the science then that we have today? They'd probably have managed to keep him alive, from the neck up. I wonder what his last words, or thoughts might have been?

Bloody Back's Gone, Again ....!

It's at times like this when ye Mother, or Brother will drop round, isn't it? Take care of the little things that need doing for ye. Maybe get ye a bit of grub together. Feed the Dogs. Tea and sympathy. Eh? You, maybe. My old dear's long dead and my Brother's hundreds of miles away in another country. Out here I bite the bullet and carry on as best I can. No good feeling sorry for yeself, I can assure ye.

So, aside from a small pack of 'Interesting' Dogs ~ as in; No one else could get near them or, thus me anyway. I actually have this mad donkey and my beautiful Cob mare, Rosie. Donks is daft as a brush and just looks for mischief all the time. Rosie, of course, is as gentle as a huge feather in just about everything she does.

So; I have them in the pen, obviously. Field's a swamp. And I keep their hay in a small shed in the corner. They need a bale of that hay, every day. Come what may. Without fail. I have to get it out for them then.

In I come, hobbling about like Master Po, on my staff and make for the shed. Drama enough getting the gated door open. And there's the hay. How in hell am I gonna hump a fucking bale of the stuff out of here?!

As I always say to the Dogs; " Well: It needs to be done so I'd better get on with it. Cos there's sure as hell no bugger gonna come here and do it for me! ". Into this pokey shed I clamber. Look, balefully, at these bales. Take the strain on one and start screaming!

No. Heaving on the bale wasn't so bad. I was screaming at Rosie! Dear, sweet bloody thing had decided to join me in there! Trying to help out by eating her hay in situ. So, there's me, staggering about in the half dark, with my stick going through the pallets I'm standing on. Fucking great bulk of a horse stamping about in front of me. All I could do was try to keep my balance as I screamed at her to get the fuck out of there! LMAO!

How I never got trod on, collapsed in a heap of abject agony, or just plain had a heart attack, I'll never know!

Never mind. All's well that we manage to survive in tact. They got their hay ~ all be it dumped onto the ground in their shelter. From where they're strewing it amongst the shit as I type! But, they're fed. Even tottered back down there and gave them their supper of meal ~ dosed with worming paste tonight.

Now I have a pint of my Coopers Stout in front of me. Stove's lit. Dogs are settled down for the night. I wouldn't have it any other way ..... Well; Maybe aside from the whiff emanating from poor Chain Dogs cage. No Way could I have her out on her lead today! Dash of disinfectant will sort that out, presently. At least the pressure's off her bladder now.

Maybe, when I wake up tomorrow, this back'll be a bit less sore? If not? We'll just have to get through on 'emergency measures' again.

Yep. Life can sometimes be a tad trying, out here. But, it's seldom mundane or boring!