Swings And Roundabouts .....

Thought I'd tell ye about this:

  Having, late yesterday, started emerging from The Pit (I'd become borderline depressed, having been practically off line for the past month or so. Not too clever when ye live in solitary!)  I found I'd bought a new duvet. This is good. It's part of my grand master plan to have a shower. Get my bed sorted out. And stop sleeping in these half rotten clothes.

  The quilt is unopened though, as yet. Because another part of my plan is to get the stove fired up for the big occasion. That's dependent on when my mate ever comes up with the new stove door catch I commissioned him to make.

  And then, there's the question of the mattress. I need another, second hand, one. The Dogs and I tend to get through about one a year or so. No sense in buying brand new then! Fuck, no!

  We've completely fucked this one. It's now a challenge to lay on. A real bed of exposed springs and sticky into ye bits. Nasty!

  Now, I'm not exactly flush, right now. Having spent lavishly on 3 ie and Vodafone, trying to sort my shit out.  Fucking quilt cost me €25.00. Because the usual shop was out of stock till the next day. They charge me €10.00!!! Right kick to the balls, eh? I had to go to the Dickensian shop and pay through the nose.

  Amazingly though, the little old lady in there cheerily asked me; " Is this for you, or ye Dogs? " Without even thinking about it, I said it was for me, and my Dogs. Because we all pile in together. " And what Dogs do ye have ....? "

  It's only since sunk in that A/ I didn't know this lady from Adam. B/ I've never taken one of my Dogs into town. C/ There are absolutely No fucking secrets in small town Eire! 

  Isn't that lovely though? A community in which a virtual recluse, who appears in town for a few hours, once a week, can become known as a man who worships his Dogs, and Every fucker knows it! 

  I think that's fucking priceless!How much do You know about ye next door neighbours? Them about you?

  Anyway; So, today, I'm up at Pat's, attending my / his rodent boxes. He's appeared and is watching me changing over trays. Pouring fresh bait in. He's said he must pay me for the bait I'm using!

  I'm like; Get to fuck!!! Since when has either of us held our hand out for doing eachother a favour, dinny? He cut me in on the Farrier, yesterday. Got my donk's feet sorted at group discount, with his. Today, I show him dead rodents. Swings and roundabouts.

  And, today, having seen to the boxes, I figured I'd just stash these fresh box liners up there. Save fetching them home and back. So, I thought I'd put them up on the wall plate of Pat's little, dry, general storage / lose shit shed. The one with the permanently hanging open door.

  So, I duck in there and, what the fuck do I see, up against the wall to my immediate right? Discarded, single mattress!!! Something's happened to it. There's a scratched out patch on one side.

  So what?! My Dogs eventually do that to All my mattresses. And they cost me €40.00 a piece to replace, from the 'Second Hand' (Read; Dead persons home clearance!) shop in town!

  See Pat again, I'll have a word. He can run it down here, on the tractor. Right there, he's saved me forty fucking quid! Couple more years worth of bait, however ye look at it!

  I fucking Love this way of life!

Time Doesn't Always Heal .....

  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.

Pest Control ....? Fucking Easy!

Anyone can do my job. Right? Money for old rope. Chuck some blue stuff about for rats. Wasps? Just puff a bit of white powder at them and hold ye hand out for loadsa munny!!! Ye reckon so? Try this .....

Van pulls up at my gate, last monday. Pushing 22:00. Bloke telling me he has a wasps nest in his roof space. Great! It's getting darker and they'll all be in bed. Perfect time to go after them. I grab my kit and off we go.

As he's assured me it's visible and accessible, I'm even happier. I figured I could use the aerosol can on this one. No need for pumping up Dusters and screwing long tubes together to shoot shit between his slates, in the dark. I'd just sneak across the joists and frag the fucker. Nice little earner!

So, we get there and up goes the ladder. My back's been gone for the past fortnight but, it was well enough by then that I reckoned the exercise would do me good. Up he goes. I follow ..... WTF?!

This cunt's got more fucking fibreglass than B&Q! It's almost knee deep in the stuff up there! Where the fuck are the joists then?! " Just follow my footsteps and ye'll be on a joist. " He says.

Brilliant! So, now I'm supposed to tread exactly where ever he's just trod. Keep my eyes ~ and hands ~ on the rather eclectically positioned rafters. And not crash suddenly back into his fucking kitchen below?! This wasn't enjoyable any more.

Presently, we work our way over to a wall. Eighteen inches thick it was. I could tell that. Because, at above waist height, there was an eighteen inch hole in it. And matey's indicating that the bastards are 'In There'. Great.

What ever. I figure I'll hit them from the hole. Vaguely wondered if it'd be a tennis ball, or the full football sized nest. Held my trusty Clu-Liter Classic through and had a look around for the nest.

OMFG!!! I, more or less managed to keep my composure and calmly and firmly instructed the client to now vacate the roof space. I told him to close the hatch behind him. And, what ever else should follow? NOT to open it again.

I pointed out that the rest was my own responsibility. If things got nasty up here? That would be my problem. I was paid to do this shit. I was here to protect him. I took the necessary risks.

Off he went. I heard the hatch close. I started taking the fucking risks! First off, with a barely stable back, I had to hoist myself up and start wriggling through this poxy little 'Monks Hole'. I'm coming through it like a bloody crocodile. Body held stiff and straight as I pulled myself through by my hands.

At least, I was relieved to see, there were 'floor boards' on the other side. Bit warpy and iffy looking, maybe. But ..... But then I actually touched one. It crumbled like a fucking wafer! Oh, Shit!
Frankly, I don't remember much about the next bit. I just, somehow, managed to get my body through that hole and my feet onto the only discernible joist, as I clung, desperately, the the rafter above. And I wasn't too sure about either of those. This was an Old cottage!

So, there I am. Perching on this half rotten joist. One hand locked to a rotten rafter. I'm a good eight foot from the nest and, if it all goes to rat shit in the next couple of minutes? I've no where to run. Just What The Fuck am I doing here?!

With my free hand, I reach for the aerosol in my thigh pocket. Idea is that ye give it a burst of this stuff, to stun them. Then ye steadily approach, giving them another burst. Finally, to stroll up like John Wayne and pump the shit straight into the nest. And I'm eight foot away and can't move an inch. Brilliant.

I stretched my arm out as far as I could, toward the nest and I hit that button! Jet of shit shot out. Air turned acrid. I sprayed. Silently screamed. Sprayed. Prayed. Sprayed. And the can was empty. I thought; " One fucking buzz, and so will my bowels be! ".

I sat. I stared, wide eyed. Nothing! Right; Fuck this. I'm getting out of here! And off I went. Back along my joist. Through my hole. Across the mine field of invisible joists and back down to the normality of this guys kitchen.

I filled out my paper work. Took his forty quid. Told him that, if there was still visible activity by Wednesday, I'd come back and re treat the nest at no cost to him what so ever. I guarantee my work.

It's saturday night now. He hasn't called. Thank Fuck! I got the bastards.

Oh, and that nest? Size or a tennis ball? Size of a football? In my game, ye get use to that. Now, just Look At what I had confronting me; In a place I couldn't possibly have escaped from, had it all gone tits up!

Size of a Fucking Black Bin Bag!!!

Like everyone seems to think though; " Pest Control? Anyone can do that! Pop down to B&Q for some stuff ..... Fuckin' easy! "

Yeah. My trade? " Fuckin' easy. " Just like a professional Electrician, Plumber, Plasterer .....

Some People .....

Had a call the other day. " Is this the Pest Control? " Yes, ma'm, it is. What can I do for you?

" Well, ye see; I have fleas, in my garden. My Dog goes out there and he gets fleas. "

I mean; What The Fuck is That all about?! What's she expecting Me to do? Go round there and scorched earth an entire fucking acre of grass? 'Fleas in the garden'.

No, mad woman. You're in fucking Denial! You have fleas. Your property has fleas. There's probably tiny red spots on ye fresh, clean sheets in the morning and ye ankles are itching like wild fire. That I could deal with. And I could advise ye about treating ye Dog too.

But, would ye listen? No. Because ye so whacked out on the prospect of accepting such facts of life that ye'd simply remain convinced that they Are in ye garden. And that anything I did was a panacea and a way of getting money off ye.

Of course, I should have nipped round with the FicamW and done a treatment and talked to her about the life cycle of fleas and so forth. I just can't be bothered. Too much like hard work for the price.

Rodents? Things that go bump in the night? Feral cats? That's my sort of thing. Fleas 'in gardens', Electric Fly Killers? I leave shit like that to the other guy, down the road. I hope the pair of them meet up and are each very happy.

" Fleas in the Garden. " I advised her to keep the grass short. I'm not completely heartless; That'll help prevent the poor Dog picking up Ticks next. And I don't want That call either!

Collateral Shrews .....

Poor little bastards. Four of them. Two under the sink unit. One in the Pest Room. One outside it, in the kitchen. I fuckin' Hate catching shrews. Most perfectly harmless little creatures there are. And the most perfectly useless too. Nothing will eat them. Don't know why. Never read of a decent explanation either.

Weird thing is, they're insectivores. So, what are they doing coming after my peanut butter? And, if they'll eat peanut butter; Who's to say they won't eat grain, wax, or what ever other formulation of Bait I might put down for my mice, instead of traps, look?

Anyway, I seem to have cleared up this latest incursion by the House Mice. Magpies enjoyed the treats. Maybe I'll get the tiny live traps out, next time? Never been happy about killing captives in those things either though .....

Shrews, eh? Some things all the Training, Manuals and even a life time of experience never quite gets round to covering the answers to.

Here's One For My Fellow 'Pesters'!

Ye'll appreciate this one, lads ....! In town yesterday and, as I do, I went to my local which I use as a base. I fetch my shopping back there and drop it off before going out for some more.

So, there's a bunch of local lads stood around outside, having a crafty fag. Even as I approached them, I can here the under chorus of " Here he is! This is ye man! He'll know what to do! ". I'd been here before. My mood was already souring.

" Here, Ditch; Ye man here has a wasps nest. Driving him crazy! What's he to do about it? " I just stopped. Sighed. Looked their spokesman hard in the eye for a bit. Then said, with just the merest hint of suggestion: " He calls me ....? "

Ye know the routine. First they look completely baffled. Then, for that split second, their expression darkens as they look at ye as if ye some cunt who's just in some way insulted them. Then the realisation dawns with them that ye just didn't get what they were talking about.

" Naaaaah, naah! " He perks up again. " He has a Wasps Nest. What should he do with it? Drop of diesel ....? "

If my bag wasn't a shoulder one, and empty at that point. I'd have dumped it on the ground. So, for the full effect, just imagine me dumping Two bags, full of shopping, either side of my feet. I heaved a big sigh. Then I put my face closer to this guys. Looked right into his eyes. And I said, very plainly and clearly:

" He gets a DR5 ..... One or two Extension Lances ..... Bucket of Ficam D ..... " Of course, before I could even get to Bee Suit. Thousands of pounds worth of Training. Years of fucking Experience. So on and so forth, this guys face has frozen into a slack mouthed, bulging eyed, absolute picture of purest incomprehansion.

He just couldn't get it. When will they fucking ever?!

I picked up my bags and pushed on into the pub.

A Bridge Too Far .....

Just mouching about outside this evening when the phone rang. Bloody typical, isn't it? Things always go off when ye have a bucket in each hand and the Dogs are racing about, waiting for ye to take ye eye off them for that moment of distraction, so they can rush off to where ever they've had in mind for days now. At some point during the conversation, le Ding dashed. Little bugger! Get himself shot. I tell him so but, he won't listen .....

Anyway, it's this guy asking if I'm the Pest Control and going on about how he appears to have a problem and is looking for what to do about it. Never my favourite type of calls then. I like " I've got this fucking great plague of rats here! FFS! How soon can ye get here? I'll pay any Call Out Fee as soon as ye arrive! Please; Help! ".

I like those calls. Because it means the person recognises they have a problem. That it isn't about to just go away. And that they need Professional help. Not just 'That bloke down the road who says .....' Also means they don't take a Professional Pest Controller for any more of an idiot than they would a Mechanic or an Electrician. There's three job descriptions. Can You spot the fuckin' Charity amongst them? Many seem to think they can.

So, this guy's a brit, by the slightly posh accent and another clue or two. Obviously has this inherited cottage that he rents out for the winter, then takes a holiday in himself. Only, he's got guests who aren't paying any rent and are causing a pest of themselves. To the degree that they've gnawed through his water pipes and almost flooded the place!

I say 'almost', because he was lucky. The last person out turned off the water at the stop cock, see? So when el Tootho turned up and set to work, it only produced a limited pool of water, in the roof space. This alerting my caller to something amiss. He sent " Frank " up there and Frank reported the bitten through copper piping. Enter the Pest Controller.

Now, I'll always do what ever I can to advise a caller, to a sensible extent. But, I'm afraid, this guy's still out on his own now. He's got a Gray Squirrel, see? I figured that out after a brief interrogation. I was thinking how he's repeated to me where my web site says I'm based. Trying to remember where he'd said he was. And hoping for a nice little job.

How cool to take out take out one of the first Gray Squirrels to have crossed the Shannon and now be in Co. Leitrim. He Was in Leitrim, yeah? " And, where did ye say ye were ....? ..... North East of Sligo?!? " Forget it!

That's an Hour away from me. It'd cost me £100, round trip. (I work Local. People come and get me. I get a taxi. Or I just drop by in passing. I Do Not spend two fucking hours plus a day, just to set and check traps for squirrels in roof spaces!)

I'm sorry. I feel bad for the poor guy. He genuinely has a serious problem there and it won't go away or just get any better. If that bastard starts on his wiring, up there ....? But, what can I do?

Ironically, as I don't know of any other, trustworthy, 'One Man Band' operators out his way, he'll probably end up looking in the phone book next. And calling one of the Big firms. And that ~ double irony ~ will likely end up costing him even more than paying me for a couple of taxi rides would. And I couldn't vouch for the level of service he might expect either.

But, north of Sligo?! Just a bridge too far.

Meeting the Opposition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that's all quite another story.

My Little POW's

It was back in October of 2008. Over seven months ago now then, that I caught a magpie, alive, somewhat by accident ~ and no small miracle. I don't want to go into the details here of how that came about. But it led to the story I'm about to relate.

See, finding this hapless bird in the most - for him - unfortunate circumstances and completely at my mercy, I actually stopped and considered the situation. Rather, that is, than automatically and without thinking, knocking him on the head.

Look at it from my point of view. It was October. Not a lot of nests active at that time of year. So he couldn't be up to much mischief. Fact that he was caught while picking over old chicken bones in my compost box rather proved what his existence was like at that approach to winter. And, anyway, he wasn't a Job. No body had noticed him. He hadn't been bothering anyone. There was nothing in it for me.

Upshot was, I took him in as a Prisoner Of War. He was, after all, the enemy. It would've seemed worse by far, to me, to have let him go free than to have knocked him off. Do that and I'd likely only end up killing him in the spring or summer anyway. Besides which, I'm far from a teenage kiddie with everything to prove to everyone. I have my own mind and that mind said to do as I did.

So it was he came to be transferred to my Larsen Trap (For a bloody good article on these things, which I just happened to stumble across, go have a look at this; Larsen Traps)

I set the trapping compartments, more or less as a matter of course. But, also to see what might happen. See, most people consider there to be a 'season' for Larsen trapping magpies. Spring and summer. I fancied trying out a little experiment.

Guess what? I had another one in days! I left that one in the trap too. Gave it a water drinker and started feeding them both their daily ration of a slightly less than golf ball sized portion of fresh, minced beef.

Then, sadly, inside a week my first one died. I suspect it was the shock of his mode of capture. Perhaps he'd sustained some physical injury that didn't show? Anyway, he fell off his perch, poor old thing. So I transferred the newer bird to the decoy section and got on with my life. For a couple of days or so. Then I caught another!

Now, let me tell ye; There's something rather endearing about these intelligent and soon to become trusting little birds. Take them out of the wider environment and what are they? Gone is the infuriating vision of merciless nest robbers. There's no primal challenge of the sly and sneaking target. They become, I can assure ye, just rather pretty and amusing little things who want nothing more than their breakfast each and every day.

Just to underline here; Magpies like to eat meat. It's the best - if not only - way we can provide their 'natural' diet (unless we intend to go about catching bugs and grubs for them on a gargantuan scale of time and effort!) Furthermore, they Must be fed Every Single Day, without fail. Miss a day? Bird dies. Simple as that.

I've also gone to extreme lengths to keep them protected from the prevailing elements. The trap is wrapped up against the winds and rains. But I've fitted a perspex sheet to the sunny side, so they can enjoy the light, without the rougher weather getting to them. They can't go hide in a birch tree, after all.

So, anyway, there they are. Hopping about in their Larsen Trap, up on my flat porch roof. They've been there for months now and are perfectly happy. They haven't a care in the world and they don't need to work for a living, nor fear being shot as they try to do so. And I'm honestly rather fond of them too. Every day I come up my ladder calling, " Hullo, birds! Here's ye breakfast. " And I check them over as I pop their balls of beef in for them. I'd miss it, if anything happened to them.

Of course, I dare say some of ye may be sitting there thinking; " Oh, come on, Ditch! Ye say ye fond of them, yet ye committing them to a dreary life inside a pokey little Larsen Trap?! " Fair point. Only ye see, I've been busy. Extremely busy. I've had a seemingly endless stream of things to do around here. But now I'm working my way through my 'next jobs'.

Here's my next 'next job'. I've been in touch with Sales and hope to have one shipped over here any time now. I look after my creatures. They'll have one of These.

Here's one of my little mates, look (Click for full picture);