Fox Craft .....

  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 .....

  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 ....? 

 

No Water .....

The water died, last night. Pretty much 'Just like that'. Did a Tommy Cooper on me. I hit the tap and nothing came out.

Not sure what to make of it. Better make something of it, I suppose? I'll need five gallons or so, just to keep the horses alive. Their water having gone dry a couple of days or so back. I presumed that was due to the feed pipe having frozen.

Already made a note to myself to find some of that foamy stuff one lags pipes with. I don't fancy another bout of crawling, on my hands and knees, dragging a five gallon Jerry Can of water down there.

Oh yeah. I've been doing that already. Had to put my knee pads and gloves on and crawl about thirty yards, dragging a fucking bottle of water for them. Nothing else for it. Ice, ye see? I go over on that shit and smash something; What happens?

Reach into my top pocket and 'Call Someone'. Work it out: 'Ditch has called. He's flat out, in his compound. Broken something and is laying in the ice. Dogs are loose. We know those fuckers. They'll be on the defensive. Have to shoot them to get at him.'

I Think Not! Sooner fucking lay there and die than listen to any cunt blowing my fucking Dogs away as they try to stand guard over me!

That shouldn't be about to happen though. I just have no water. Bastard of a situation. Had to make my bit of gravy with beer, tonight. 'Fed' Chain Dog a chunk of ice, taken from Rats bowl, outside. Just about to go out and fetch what ever's left in that bowl, to see them through the 'night'. Till I pry myself out of bed later on. And figure out what to do next.

Burst pipe, I imagine? Water expands as it turns to ice, doesn't it? Thaws, and then pisses out of the split it's made? And my water comes from a local reservoir of some sort. Underground well, I shouldn't wonder.

I believe Noel's responsible for our water here. Haven't got his number. Have to ring Pat' then. See what he knows. If his phone's turned off? Have to walk up there. Lock the Dogs in and try to figure out how food can be slung to them, lest I slip on the ice out there and end up in Sligo.

Brian Plummer could have wrote similar to this, of course. I've never read his " Cottage At The End Of The ..... ", which ever it was. But, I feel a sense of understanding. How it's everyone's dream to live, alone, in the middle of no where. Just you and ye Dogs.

'Tis, to be honest with ye. I wouldn't change my life style for ..... well; Life! But, it has its moments. Like when the damn tap runs dry and ye have nowhere else to go.