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

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 –

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.

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.

A piece on farriers.

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

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.

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.

Sitting in my local takeaway, waiting for some tastless mush that’s going to cost me £18.

Home made curry is out of the question – I nearly killed the wife with the last one. I’ve hung up my garam massala, and sold the remainder of my curry gravy to some Rawandan terrorists I met in Safeway.

I know this takeaway makes tastless mush, I know it’s gonna be horrible before I order it. Anyway, I’m sitting in my local takeaway, waiting for some tastless mush that’s going to cost me £18.

I pick up ‘The Sun’ newspaper, and there’s a big spread on the front about brave prince William. About how he’s been in Afghanistan, and a thick fonted headline boasting that he’s killed thirty people in Afghanistan. About national pride. About him on a machine gun machine gunning the poor bastards. About him calling in an airstrike and killing some more. Like a DVD cover on the paper. I think ‘The Rock’ was posing with him in one shot, in another he was holding up a child’s head.
There is some sick colonialism in this newspaper, and do they really expect us to believe those posed pictures with the ginger cunt prancing around like Lawrence of Arabia – he’s been in Dubai the whole time playing XBox with Osama Bin Laden. It’s all too much. I stop reading. I wonder why they’ve got this rag in there in the first place. Why are Indians getting the BNP newsletter in for their customers ?

The bland food is coming, and I know that they’ll forget to put the right chutneys in – but at least this curry won’t put my family at risk. I suppose I should name and shame the curry recipe book – well, it’s the ‘Curry Bible’ by Pat Chapman. If you spend thirty odd quid on all the spices, spend about four hours blending and generally fucking around with them, then combine them with more fresh ingredients, most of which are so obscure you’ll have to buy them online… I guarantee you’ll create something that has no place existing on Gods Earth, and which, when ingested, will do for your intestines what that little Alien did for John Hurt in Ridley Scott’s sci-fi classic.

Black Atari plastic dashboard in front of me, grey sky through the windscreen, maybe it’s raining, maybe it isn’t. Warm jacket on, about eight thirty, start the engine, radio on. Down a bumpy drive, down a little lane, down another little lane, onto main road. Play with the radio. Maybe its raining, maybe it isn’t.
Listen to music, some songs are good, some songs annoy, grab a CD, open the case and put it on. Keep driving. Overtake a car. Dodge a puddle. Think about work. Think about ideas, think about life. Hear a good song, think about things. Drive. Get closer to work. Maybe slow down a little. I’ll still get there. Fiddle with the radio. Drive. Cars growl past, dry stone walls on either side of the narrow road blur, change gear up, change gear down.

Get to work, do work. Finish. Approach car, get into car, black Atari plastic dashboard, grey sky through the windscreen, maybe it’s raining, maybe it isn’t. Warm jacket on, about four thirty, start the engine, radio on. Out of the car park, down a hill, onto a road, drive. Fiddle with the radio. Drink a sports drink. Cars growl by, now they’re on my right side, they were on my left this morning. Think about tea, think about life, dodge a puddle, overtake a car. I don’t like this song, put in a CD, remember things in the past. Grey skies through the window. Fiddle with the radio. Rain, skid, quick brakes, brakes lock, sliding now, horizon turning right around, then a bump.

Then quiet, then a slow drift in my mind and a look through the windscreen, questions to myself, panic. I get out, more fear. I look down, then heartbeat, then cars stop, then people, then shouting.

Questions, shame, guilt, loss, hatred, refuge, home, rest, screams, split, drink, hide away, wait.

Appearance, verdict, shouting, questions, shame, guilt, loss, hide, drink, wait.

Black Atari plastic dashboard in front of me, grey sky through the windscreen, maybe it’s raining, maybe it isn’t. Warm jacket on, about eight thirty, start the engine, radio on. Down a bumpy drive, down a little lane, down another little lane, onto main road. Play with the radio. It’s raining slowly.
Listen to music, some songs are good, some songs annoy. Keep driving. Overtake a car. Dodge a puddle. Think about work. Think about it. Hear a song, whistle. Drive. Get closer to work. Maybe slow down a little. I’ll get there. Fiddle with the radio. Drive. Cars growl past, dry stone walls on either side of the narrow road blur, change gear up, change gear down. Turn around. Now the cars are growling on my right.

Flowers tucked into a wall at the side of the road, beneath them muddy tyre tracks cut into the grass.

‘So he killed himself’
‘Jesus Christ, I didn’t see that in the papers’
‘Well, it was years back, and they don’t like to print too much miserable shit – it’s only a local story, not what people want to hear’
‘The poor sod, imagine having that on your conscience’
‘Fuck him, the kid’s the one you should feel sorry for’
‘Gary was working there, you know he works for the council, worked for them for years…’
‘Yeah’
‘Well, he strims the grass at the roadside, and he swears that the tyre tracks are still there’
‘How could they be ? Surely the grass would grow or something ?’
‘Gary reckons the tracks come up each time it rains’

Black Atari plastic dashboard in front of me, grey sky through the windscreen, maybe it’s raining, maybe it isn’t. Warm jacket on, about eight thirty, start the engine, radio on. Down a bumpy drive, down a little lane, down another little lane, onto main road. Play with the radio. Maybe its raining, maybe it isn’t.
Listen to music, some songs are good, some songs annoy, grab a CD, open the case and put it on. Keep driving. Overtake a car. Dodge a puddle. Think about work. Think about ideas, think about life. Hear a good song, think about things. Drive. Get closer to work. Maybe slow down a little. I’ll still be there. Fiddle with the radio. Drive. Cars growl past, dry stone walls on either side of the narrow road blur, change gear up, change gear down. I’ll get there.

This post is about me going to get some new tyres. Because that’s how I roll! Does imbecillic gestures with arms and fingers.

Don’t tell me about the tyres motherfucker.

I mean, it’s a Saturday – we shouldn’t even be here. You’re fixing the tyres (that are leaking air) on my Rover (yes, I own a Rover motherfucker… you got a problem with that?).

The bloke is fixing the tyres, then he starts talking to me about them. Bastard.

First thing was that the front one had gone flat whilst the Rover lay dormant for a month. So I pumped the bugger up with my own generator/car pump thingy we bought off this insane American woman a while back.

So the bloke’s opener is “Did you pump with up yourself ?”

“Yeah”

“I thought there was something – it’s sixty five, nearly seventy. They’re only supposed to be thirty five.”

I laugh nonchalantly. His assistant chips in with “The back one’s flat as fuck too.”

“Yeah – could you do them all?”

Assistant wombles off, and I’m left with laddo, fucking moidering me about the tyres, then the rims, then how he’s going to do them, then sealing the tyres, or rims, or whatever. Telling me about the shit.

Now, it’s bad enough having to go and get the fucking cars tyres fixed on a Saturday morning in the first place like, but what I object to is the blow-by-blow from the fucking tyre bloke.

He goes on to tell me about rim problems, alloys something, bloody something about the pressure. Something about the weather and the pressure, something about something else, something about about the Anglo Persian Economy sidetracking conblifial Doturates on sky of Island. Something about (I just stopped listening and kept yeahing the flob)

Flob. On a bus-shelter roof, hanging down. Thick flob, some sinus in there probably. Dangling in the January wind.

So I gob on the floor of the garage, a real gooby fucker. No I didn’t.

I gob on the floor. And you should see the look he gave me.

“I thought you were a real man” I told him.

“What ?”

“What’s the problem with me flobbing on the floor of your fucking tyre hangar then you cunt ?”

“Nothing – it’s just the judgement that I find problematic”

“Well, you shouldn’t be telling me about the technical tyre shit on a Saturday morning then”

“I was only making conversation”

“You call that a conversation – shit, the woman who cuts my hair got more wit and wisdom than you. You should hear her theories on Britney and slimming”

“Come on – this is a tyre hangar”

“Okay, maybe you’ve got a point”

At which point I put his head in this spinning machine thing, welded and buffed his face into my rim, phoned up ‘Pimp My Ride Wales’ and got ‘Ice Taff’ to install a goldfish bowl into his arse.

It’s screening on Sky in April.

They tell me it’ll be the making of me – and help tyre boy boost sales no end.

I should be going now. My nurse has some new tablets for me. They’re stronger than the other ones. She assures me they are good. They fucking cost enough.

Peace out.