Farriers

Look at the fucking mess the ancient farriers made to people's horses

Of course, people’s hatred for farriers goes back further than the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It predates the Pics, Copts, Elves and some even claim there were cases of ‘Farrier Battery’ dating back to Cro-Magnon times. This is impressive in as much as that the Cro-Magnons didn’t ride horses, but archeologists have found skeletons with broad hunched backs, big hands, gold teeth and curly hair with huge holes in their skulls and spears sticking out of them. It is thought that these were the decendents of the first farriers, and that subconciously the tribes that bred them ’sensed’ their impending generational descent into the profession. Like gubbly teethed lionesses, arse squashing their retarded cubs to fucking death, they smoked the farriers early descendants. Unfortunately though – some made it through.

From mankinds shared origins in Ethiopia then, this instinctive hatred has been a constant. The scientific evidence backs me up all the way here.

Consider the Chauvet cave drawings in France, widely regarded as mankinds first attempt at drawing, and previously misread as a simple hunting scene. A line of stick men throw spears at what appears to be a buffalo/horse hybrid. Closer inspection reveals the spear tragectory as the first man in the line, the nearest the horsey thing. Apply some simple colour filters and you can see a little gold tooth in his mouth.
It also depicts the horse running away, as if lamed. The tribe are clearly punishing the farrier –

 

Economics

A quick study of the various economic indicators indicates that the UK may now be out of the worst of the recession.

Other reports from equally reliable sources indicate that there’s another wave to come.

Conflicting reports indicate that secondary measures instigated by bankers and may cause a shifting movement in the lower back, causing us to shift into a third money gram as economists are describing it.

Moonchart listings are varied, HOWEVER Dancing analysts HAVE spilled oysters

Spilled oysters all over their woolen blend trousers.

Thought by some to be causing this current wave of secondary shift Again reports regarding this, and other, financial situations have the critics split.

The median level of different splits in opinion – taking all the previous factors into consideration, has resulted in some older commentators to leave the financial sector entirely and open a string of freelance camel showrooms.

This splinter group, or ‘Nebular Action Thinktank Entirely’ as writers have observed, are likely to spit in their opinions at any time soon. Should they firstly reform in the first place.

At least, that’s what reports indicate.

Sauces:
Red
Brown
Levi Roots Piri Piri chicken arse stinger.

 

Farriers

Posturing, pirhouetting petulant little ponces, peg teeth, shining through windscreens of expensive 4wheel drives.
I’m working on something just for you, you cash drinking fucking bastards. You dogshit-feeding scum. I’m lacking the right kind of violent energy to do you justice at the moment. Consider this a promise – bastards.

On a lighter note – the good lady of the house was quite severely concerned tonight when, upon inspecting the penis of our Exmoor pony, found it to be encrusted in a black smegma, oomska black crusty jam type fucking coating on the motherfucker.
In response to my suggestion that she ‘just wash the fucking thing then woman.’ She informed me that you can’t just wash a horses cock. You firstly need to buy a special fucking potion to do it with.
Horse cock washing cream.
Probably costs a fortune.
I’m lost for words.

 

Coming Soon…

A piece on farriers.

 

Big Girl

Cleveland Bay, pure. Bright bay, 17.3 hands. Big Girl. Bella, formerly Bertha.
Big Bertha, Big Bella, Big Girl.
Thick stable doorway, old former 17th century barn.
Me in the doorway,
Big Girl trying to squeeze on through.

Me feeling squishpop on upper layer of shoulder muscle fat compound.
Quick rapid roll away and I manage to dodge the giant as she squeezes through. Nearly crushing me against the stone doorway.
This horse once dragged a vet along on a rope, he was clearly a skilled waterskiier, as he slid upright across the overgrown yard, his heels channeling through the scrubby grass and mud and leaving a trench of Carry-On mud. Pure James Herriot. The vet laughed it off, and laughed even harder when he found out I’d bought the monster horse. A big, Charge of the Light Brigade motherfucker, from the dodgiest horse dealer in town. Motherfucking horse dealing cocksuking motherfucker.
Sorry, I’ve got to go, I was geting into that too. Sorry, pressing business.
Thanks

 

View from the Ridge

Fallen off the perch.
Standing on the bus.

GE Capital bank.
Breathing, standing over me,
breathing, down the back of my neck.

No dragons in these hills, no toast
Just mostly broken things that I must repair
But try explaining that to a credit management representative squalking from deep in a ruptured cancerous bowel.

Was I simply surfing an economic wave, wrapped up in my limited abilities and screaming around like a twat in the hills. Or can I limpet onto this motherfucker and ride it out like Turner knockin’ out the rent from a ships mast in a storm at midnight.
We’ll see.
I’m so broke I’m thinkin’ about buying a banjo, some cut off denim dungarees and a straw hat and dinglin danglin doo and doo doo doo and shit.
Or something.
Stop, persona.

 

Notice

Hi
Thanks to those of you still checking up on the blog. I owe you an apology for being unproductive. Been very busy with things. Will sort this thing out soon. Tomorrow.