Landscaping is a vital part of any smallholding.

Anabelle and Timothy called ’round for Pims and croquet on the lawn. Well, I say Annabel, it was really builders merchants coming ’round with sand and hollow blocks and then dropping them two fields away from the house. Tonnes of the stuff. The fucking monkey lorry driver then drives over a newly sewn section of field – leaving big trenches.

Trenches so big that I was approached by the local historical society, enquiring if they might re-inact those fateful last days in the Somme, during the second world war, when so many of our young men went over the top to make Brill-creamed target practice for the people who make Audi cars.

I duly told the historical society to go and fuck a scabby dog. At night. Our laws on bestiality in Wales are stringent, bordering on pedantic.

Anyway, builders merchants. Oh, those swines of men who brush builders underneath themselves as they smoothly swim through the shit in the pond of life. Those snakey dumb bastards. I should have realised this earlier.

I should have realised this when I saw the tyres hanging from ropes at their yards. When I slipped on the disguarded banana skins and saw some Japanese tourists photographing them from a thick glass window at the far end of the timber section.

I stand at the till as they pick mites from one anothers backs, forraging eagerly, their dainty hands letting them down in the world of work. Fit only to work the tills. In this uber-non-customer friendly environment they reign, prancing and growling like the Silverbacks they so long to be.

And do they fucking know where anything is in their shops?
Do they know what the fuck they are talking about when they give advice to seasoned professionals?
Do they think a pair of big boots makes them some kind of a man?

I would honestly offer that positive discrimination in favour of women at builders merchants would be a fucking blessing. Okay so women can make shit shop assistants too – but fuck me, they might know where the fuck some of the motherfucking stock is at. They might be able to fucking read, punch buttons in the right order.

And whilst on about buttons – what the fuck is going on with the tills at these places. When every other retail and wholesale outlet on the planet is spending billions to speed up their EPOS systems, their tills, builders merchants seem to be getting longer as time goes by.

The fucking behemoth computer system the fucking chimps tap on, then tap on some more, then some more, then a fifty page printout spews forth. You could complete Oblivion in less time than it takes these motherfuckers to till up four bags of fucking cement.

I can’t even finish the story about the tonnes of blocks and sand getting dumped miles from the house, that motherfucker will have to wait. I’m still trying to work through it in my head.

But then, after that happens, the fucking horse-dentist on his way out of here, fucking has to driver past the fencer. He can’t wait and pull in on the side of my drive like a professional and respectful motherfucker. He has to get all Lara fucking Croft on his ass.

He takes his four wheel motherfucking drive off road, through the same fucking patch as the bastard builders merchant, and further fucking enscar my poor bloody little field. The bastard.