Muck Heap Vs. Chelsea Tractor

This farmer brings the horses some hay. In a Land Rover.
Him and his missus. Bale for horses.

Comes down the drive in this spotless silver Landrover Discovery – a Chelsea Tractor. Twenty five grand, or two hundred a month at 19.9%.

They like hunting – they’ve got eighty poor fucking salivating dying hounds in a big cage. Big hunters.
Probably hunt all the time. Probably not just happy with swatting a fly – they gots to trap it, then feed it some fucking glue. Then pull it’s wings off as it squirms its last squirm. Red cheeks, dead eyes.

So, Land Rover, so, the gleaming penis extension glides down into our yard, and for some reason (well, I know the reason – because he can’t drive properly) he decides to drive the LandRover over the side of my muck heap (well, it’s the horses muck heap but I’ve been known to spill a few fluids there myself from time to time).
Now this is a big muck heap. This is a pile of animal shit and fucking straw and any other evil putrid shit I scrape off the yard, it’s around six foot high in the middle with a big spread of about ten foot. There are all kinds of evil organisms squirming around in the bastard, it’s been known to make hens puke – and hens don’t puke easy.

So, his car is now in the shit. Go iawn. And as it’s a Chelsea Tractor, it’s slipping around the place, fucking throwing up shit all over the side of the thing. Mature horse shit, all over the doors, thick under the wheel arches. Farmer is looking desperate in his skidding, demographically targeted, ecological monstrosity, caked in faeces.
Such a sight, a heart warming lost battle.
Posing car Vs. megalith of animal Shit, and shit wins.
Eventually the poor sod span out of the muck heap, turned around, enturdcrustulated his hands whilst fiddling with the trailer, then I paid him, then thanked him, then he buggered off down my drive.

My closing thoughts for this shit little story are these – Farmers aren’t immune from consumerism, and I felt sorry for him, but more worse sorry cry for his dogs.

 

Ploughing the Same

I’m watching the bloody news, and there’s this local report on a ‘bartering’ system in the Suffolk countryside, set up by some crazy woman. She stands there in front of her Aga, resplendent in some bog dirty floral hippy smock, blathering on about how there’s this underground community of like minded berks she’s set up. Pure Wicker Man.

Cut to the news reporter cleans the windows of her fly-blown shack, and in return gets a voucher. In return for this voucher he can get the services of another person, to do any odd jobs around the house or garden he might see fit need sorting the fuck out.
Cut to clips of other members of this ‘bartering’ community. There’s one biddy that’ll weave you a basket, another that will sort a playa out with some jam, another that will plat your pubis into the shape of rare birds from the Fenn district. I exaggerate – but you get the picture. Like minded hippy folk, dog owning, good people.
But then it cuts to scene of another ‘helper’, this is only a quick flash, showing ‘Mr. Jones’, who, for his contribution to this band of country specialists, ‘Does woodwork and carpentry for £15-£20 an hour’.

Reader, you know it, he was a builder.

£15-£20 an hour, tax free, above the fucking going rate for skilled craftsmen – or as I like to refer to them, ‘bastards’. £12-fucking-fifty is the going rate to have some half-man half mongoose come into your house, come into my fucking house, walk in there in clodopping spasto-boots ensconced in mud, concrete, shit, spegma, dead slugs, Wehrmacht strength glue, L’Oreal Elvive, and glide across your floors like Torville and Dead – leaving a trail of coloured, chemically burnt in evil fucking industrial action paintings on your Coir matting, or Husk for you Kosovans out there.

Demand tea, tut, frown, scrunch, get all bloody Simean when I’m trying to explain the job to the bastard before I rush off to work (it’s 8.00am). Explain the job, draw a diagram, write it down, tap it in morse on his brow, show coloured pictures at the end of a maze at the end of the lab to the fucker. Press the red button, press the red button.

He did a good job though. Tidy. Nice finish.

So, to conclude, they’re not all bad. Just most of them. 98%. You are more likely statistically to die in a plane crash which involves crocodiles than you are to not get thoroughly fucking in the arse by a builder, in February.

Peace.

 

Dirty Harry

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.

 

Creaky Shuttle

AKA N.A.S.A.

This was an introduction I posted on this ‘Political/Feminist’ newsgroup. The reason I was visiting a ‘Political/Feminist’ newgroup in the first place was to gather research for a book I was co-writing with an Australian pornographer.

Anyway, in the interests of context and shit, I just thought I’d add that. The book (which comprised of the dirty Aussie and me bursting into various bizarre newsgroups and trying to wind everyone up, for comedic effect) unsurprisingly remains unpublished. The Australian cunt event has the bare faced nerve to post comments on here, so watch out for him – he’s an evil carousing shyster bastard. And a pornographer for Christs holy sakes.

Roland Emmerich was the only man that could have directed ‘Independence Day’, likewise only Kubric could have made ‘Clockwork Orange’ and Sellers was the only man capable of pulling off ‘Dr. Strangelove’.

But if they made a movie about my cock, there would be only one team of professionals worthy of helming the massive project – N.A.S.A.

The scale would be enormous. Lucas’s THX sound would not suffice, because the deep thrombing sub-bass level bass deep noises my shlong makes would take a new advance in delivery only a team of approximately
340,000 Harvard trained scientists could muster.

The visuals, of course, would be presented digitally, no finer definition would deliver the full levels of colour and vibrancy expected by an eager public awaiting visual presentation of such a monolithic slice of shaft.

Puny Meg-naplex 3300 screens would have to be significantly rescaled to contain the full breadths of my pulsating member, anomorphic enhancement would be impossible. It would have to be presented in true scale – and this in itself would present a delivery problem on a scale with the virgin birth of Christ.

The narration would call for a voice on the level of James Earl Jones – James could deftly explain the nuances of my cock to a frightened audience, explaining the history of a shaft so significant that it defies the Gausian curve and makes play with prior theories of physics and geography – yes geography!

The news coverage would be global, the premier attended by royalty, presidents and leaders from all nations. There would be visits by beings from other planets – initially questioning the time delay in their satellite transmissions from Earth – but later realising that the problems were due to a tear in the fabric of time from my morning wood.

Box office chaos would bankrupt many smaller countries- causing massive bans and censorship leading to widespread world wars, famine and poverty, as the 3rd world saved up to buy tickets to see my cock on screen.

But, at the end of it all, standing in the smoking ruins of the planet, all peoples would come together in the shadow and feel a sense of pride and hope at winessing one of the miracles of the universe gliding across their skylines. All hail the collosal serpent. The tattoo on it’s monster head reads…

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom… know what is enough until we know what is more than enough.”

William Blake

 

Tourists (u/c)

Thoughts on tourists, by someone who hasn’t been away in eight years.

“If it’s tourist season, then why can’t we shoot them?” Steven Wright

People think that the countryside is a peaceful, natural and unspoilt idyll, where gentle folk go about their daily business, gathering damsons to make jam using secret family recipes and tending to their animals on windswept hillsides.
Most people visit the countryside on family breaks, taking nice walking holidays or maybe indulging in a little sight-seeing followed by some real-ale in an oak-beamed pub.

So country people work hard, and put up with ugly winters, working through the freezing cold and biting rain. Then the sun pops out, and brings with it tourists.

With this in mind, I have taken the trouble to write a simple guide for those of you thinking of a country holiday this summer. Think of it as a ‘Ten Commandments’, a fun summer guide, which, should you follow it carefully, will ensure that you maintain good relations with witless country folk. Here we go then.

1. Stay the fuck out of my face you cock-chugging bastards.

2. Leave your fucking SUV’s at home, on the drive. We all know they’re on Hire Purchase. That isn’t a status symbol, it’s a shiny black sign screaming ‘PRICK!’
If you aspire to look like Tony motherfucking Soprano then what the old-womans cunt are you doing on a camping holiday in the countryside?

3. Keep your fucking kids under control you urban razord blade savage fucking scum. ‘Tis not nice when they rampage around our supermarkets like they’re at the special needs play centre. Pop into ‘Pet World’ on the way over here and buy the little shits some muzzles. Put them on leads for fucks sakes. If you’re going shopping leave them back at the tent with grandma savage and daughter Beyonce fucking savage.

4. Eat out you cheap fucking scum. You’re on holiday, spend some of your bastard money here. Stay the fuck out of Tesco. Go to some local greengrocers, explore the place you car-bound fat fucks. Go for a walk somewhere. Don’t turn our supermarkets into a Roman chariot race.

5. Stop asking me for directions – you know I’m only going to send you the wrong way.

6. Our road signs mean the same as your city ones. Do you understand that you cock-jockeys ? Follow them. Stop treating this place like the Paris fucking Dakar rally. Just because a country lane looks quiet doesn’t mean you can shoot down it at 60, in the middle of the bastard road in your BMW X3 or whatever the fuck you’re paying 29.9% interest for this month you prick.

7. Don’t go mountaineering in flip-flops, and stay the hell away from the hills in bad weather. Paying Mountain Rescue geeks to peel you fuckers off the bottoms of our valleys is costing our local economy a fortune.

8. Avoid making constant inbreeding jokes when your own families look like the cast of ‘The Hills Have Eyes’ in shell-suits.

9. Wetsuits are not suitable attire for a bar. I don’t care how close it is to the sea. Combine this with sunglasses on the forehead and bleached surfer hair and you risk serious injury at the hands of the local populace.

10. You can get some real bargains in Spain, and it’s full of pubs, and they do chips and everything. Think about it – you know it makes sense!

I have run this by my local tourist information centre and they are working on the posters as you read this. Big font I told them. Big fucking font. Goo goo gag a.

Nurse!

 

Driller Killer

You know the drill. You pay them money, they hurt you.

You go there, you have to take time off work coz the lazy sadists only work Monday to Friday.
You sit in their waiting rooms. The one here looks like a Sauna, cheap wood panelling, fucking awful little seats, a big fuck off stack of reading age 5 womens mags, gypsy experiment monthly and two car magazines from 1982.

Now readers will know that I ain’t scared of getting covered in shit or anything… But there’s so much wear on these car mags, so much crust and fucking dirt on them, so thick is the SARS on these festering clumps of crumple that it almost makes you forget that dentists earn over £60,000 a year.

I note he hasn’t skimped on the stainless steel framed photo of his wife Irene hanging on the wall, the jew-gassing turd.

So I’m reading about the new Ford Cortina, and this mountain of fucking problems with a perm sticks her head around the door, pure fucking ‘The Thing’, tentacles on the sides, Mr. Mcready – the dentist can see you now. I drop the mag, and a cloud of dead skin billows around the Sauna.

Now this driller has personal problems. Oh fucking yes. I’m not going into them on here, in case he fucking reads it and fucking kills me with some injection, but suffice to say the cunt has issues. As do all the fucking miscreants that work at my local dentist. They look like the cast of a Jess Franco film for christssakes.

Now during the 80’s and 90’s I used to make a tidy sum pirating videos. A lot of horror films got banned in the UK, and people used to pay me top dollar to provide them with copies of ‘the nasties’ as they were known. High up on the list of banned titles were films such as Cannibal Ferox, Last House on The Left, Zombie Flesheaters and A Clockwork Orange. Most notorious of all however, were the cycle of Italian Nazi exploitation films. I’m talking about Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS, SS Experiment Camp and the classic Gestapo’s Last Orgy. As I sit there and wait, I consider that with the right costumes, a small camera crew and some good LSD I could probably make a fucking wicked Nazi/Exploitation film with these bastards. I make a mental note to mention it to Burtalot Hurtalot as soon as he’s finished fucking my teeth up.

So I lie there, the dentist is suitably brusque with me, The Thing puts a bib on me, dentist fucking swings his little extending metal tables around like a pure twat, I want to chin the cunt and he hasn’t even started hurting me yet. He’s playing with more of his gadgets, burbling out his dental jargon like a senile Auschwitz-Birkenau employee. Numbers, letters, substances. It would be no exaggeration to say that by now I’m shitting myself. I hate dentists – and they hate me right back.

I get an injection, then it’s back to the crusty car mags for ten minutes. I notice my hand shaking as I turn the pages. The Thing pops around and I skulk back in. Back with the bib, back with the chair. Tom Berrenger looks down at me and tells me to take the pain. Take the fucking pain. The cunt starts drilling and fucker hurts. I stare at Berrenger, I count the stitches on his scar, sweating. The stare into air, that noise and the fucking smell, the vibrations and you just wait for the pain to hit, and dental pain is like no other. Screw you – I’d rather shit a hairy baby out of my cock than go to the dentist.

I lasted about three minutes then my head moves. Hell, in ‘Nam they were getting that white powder. Sorry Tom.

‘It’s hard to hit a moving target’ he tells me. Nice phrasing you sick Noma studying fuck. I tell him to keep going. He’s drilling and I’m.. maybe.. pulling a bit of a face, but keeping still mind, but laughing boy doesn’t like that – oh no. He stops, looks at me like I just shat on his carpet, and asks me if it hurts. Disgusted look.

‘Well, yeah, but keep going, get it finished’
‘We can’t have you in pain’
‘I’m okay, keep going’
‘Well, does it hurt, yes or no, it’s not a sliding scale, it’s a switch that’s either on or off’
‘Well, it hurts a bit’.
‘Well we can’t have you in pain I’ll put a dressing on it, then do it again’ and this bit of the procedure the cunt does in about three seconds flat. No laboured build up to this part, he just bungs some Wehrmacht funded chemical into my tooth and tells me to go.

Now, I pay for this shit. I’m confused, my mouth hurts and tastes like I’ve just blown Optimus Prime, my fucking lips are dry and I am on the brink of tears.

‘Cannng aah ashhk yo somessing’
‘They’ll give you another appointment downstairs’
‘Ffanc yo, shory ffo thu trougl – I wash wonderig ihf yo, thish ffuckig shkank, add thu othher ffuckig gimpsh id here wud rike to make a modern-day nazi exploitation film, you know the drill, like SS Experiment Camp. You could play with your fucking steel implements, put some costumes on these fucking minions you’ve got hanging around the place, get your cock out, torture some motherfuckers… I’ll film it and supply all the coke, and don’t worry about the BMA – I’ll use pseudonyms…everyone’s a winner! Now how about it you sick old bastard ?’

‘Sorry, didn’t understand a word. Now if you go down to reception they’ll book you in for another appointment.’

 

Builders

I am talking about builders. Builders are all bad. Builders are a carousing bunch of fucking shyster bastards.

I know you can’t generalise – but I am and they are. If we had to destroy all builders I know we might lose a few good men, a few honest builders might perish – but surely this would be a small price to pay. The few would have to lay down their lives that we might rid our planet of this scourge of evil degenerates. And they are always men. I’ve seen a couple of girl ones on TV, but I don’t really believe they exist. The fairer sex don’t do building.

Besides… there is nothing fair about builders.

I think we can trace their malice back to their background – again I would qualify this generalisation by having spoken to numerous builders over the last ten years (a deeply unpleasant activity and one I would urge you all to avoid, because if there is one thing worse than watching a builder fuck something up, it’s having to have the bastard explain how he’s managed to do it afterwards).

Builders were the stupid kids at school, or to use the correct educational term ‘the window lickers’

Gradually emerging from the depths of hrough a process of attrition and male-rape from another builder, have learned vaguely how to do something with a saw or hammer (other than beating their little sister until she submits).

From then on in it’s an add in the local paper and telephone directory, or maybe half an hour a week in a ’special’ college for special children and builders, and hey ho off they go, for £150 a day tax-free. The bastards. Lying in wait for an unsuspecting member of the public to call them up and ask, ever so politely, if they could do something – for money.
Then their into full builder-mode. Them um, they ah, they come ’round when it fucking suits them, they start the meter running the moment one of their (multiple10000 offspring) answers the ‘phone. They’ve got you. They own you. You owe them.

No job is ever simple, no job ever straightforward. By age twenty five the average builder has 75% more facial wrinkles than the average person (www.researchonbastards.com) from screwing their ugly bastard faces up at jobs. ‘Oooh, well, I suppose I could….. but then ……’ – hell, go ahead, insert your own fucking scenario.

Is there another job where you don’t turn up for a morning because you were getting things ready to do the fucking job ? Do ambulance drivers turn up on foot, frown, then fuck off to the ambulance showroom to pick out an ambulance and some bandages ? Do cafe owners take your order then fuck off to slaughter a pig, bake some bread, milk a few bastards cows, toss-off into the mixture to turn it sour and add viscosity, and then bring you back your fucking cum-sodden bacon sandwich – I don’t think so.

Is there another job where you can fuck off from one thing, half way through it, then turn up intermitently when it suits you to peruse the fucking Godzilla-esque carnage you’ve created of someones home, whilst they cry, shudder, nursing a hooping-cough ridden baby in arms wet with tears of bankrupt sorrow – I don’t think so.

Is there another job where it’s acceptable to come into someones home, fucking come in there, do a shit job, do a fucking job like an untrained orang-utang, fucking shit all over the walls, start dry humping the fucking television whilst your wifes trying to watch Home Xtreme Makeover Celebrity Fat Child Auction Factor For The Queer Guy Extra, block the drive with some skanky fucking pikey van filled with crack-raged teenage offspring ‘helpers’ and other assorted career criminals peering out and planning which of your pets to rape. I doubt it very much.

Shit, then they bill you for it.

People critisize George Bush, indeed the whole western democratic structure for destroying the infastructure of nations – but they’re fucking gently stroking blades of dewy morning grass compared to the havoc wreaked by the building profession to the homes of millions around the globe. Forget Amityville – I can positively hear my house screech in terror each time I invite one of these shitheels around to ‘do a job’.

It would be fair to say then, that my faith in the building profession is not what is used to be. Experience is the keen knife that hurts, builders repeatedly take that knife and twist it around my eye-sockets.

Then I have to pay them, somehow.

 

Dismemberment

This post regards the time I, like a stupid cracker, cut half my ear off by mistake. It’s a cautionary tale, I re-read it myself from time to time simply to marvel at my own stupidity.

We have mini-hospitals here in Wales. We live between a mini-hospital and a big hospital, so in the event of an emergency it’s a toss up – which way do you drive ?
Do you go to the big one, and risk waiting for hours, ignored as you die slowly from blood-loss. Or do you go to the mini-hospital – and get some seventeen year old trainee who’s nursing ability doesn’t go farther than making you a refreshing cup of tea. It’s a gamble.

When I accidentally chopped the bottom off my left ear (it wasn’t completely off, it was dangling by a thin piece of skin) I discussed the matter rationally with my wife, and opted for the mini-hospital. Big mistake.

They didn’t have a fucking clue, although they all had a good look at it. We declined the tea and ended up doing an extra-long journey to the big hospital. A young doctor named ‘Theo’ saw me right away, put some white paper sheet over my head (with a little hole in it for the ear) and sewed the thing back on. The sewing was in two stages – bottom of ear back together, then ear up to head (the wire had sliced into the side of the ear, then torn downwards on it’s way out). The bit where he sewed it onto my head really hurt. Under the white paper sheet I was making all kinds of faces.

How did I do it ?

Working on the smallholding of course!

The previous owner (or ‘Cunt’ as I like to refer to him) had erected massive aviaries all around the place. These monstrous cages housed his exotic bird collection. These monstrous cages were built from steel, bolted together, and wire, fixed to the steel.
I used various techniques to dismantle them, but on a hot summers day with Metallica blaring from my ghetto blaster I decided that going in shirtless, with a big fucking sledgehammer (16lb – I thought the 14lb’er I own too light) and spin around smashing the shit out of everything in a Braveheart battle thrash metal frenzy.
This worked a treat, I spun in the cages, sweating, bits of wood metal and wire flying all over the place. James Hetfield was singing about raping and I was getting back to my Viking roots with some ultraviolence. That was until a piece of wood spun around and hit me hard on the side of the head (near that soft bit behind the eye).
Everything spun. I said something like ‘ouch’. I touched my head and there was blood there – so I staggered towards the house and called the wife out – to see if she could kiss it and make it better.
She reacted in her usual calm way and began screaming that my ear was hanging off. By now blood was pissing out, and we decided a visit to the hospital was in order.

I think there was around fifteen stitches (I’m not good with remembering numbers). I looked like Frankenstein for a few weeks, but then it heeled up nicely.

As with most injuries, I think there was a lesson to be learned here, that being to wear safety goggles, and ear-guards when dismantling big metal cages. Also to take ones time with the cage, this lead to me buying an angle-grinder – which has since come in useful for a variety of jobs around the place. So every cloud has a silver lining.

It ruined that Valentines day though.

 

Fat Cats

The cats here haven’t been doing shit since we got central heating installed. I’m afraid this is another one about cats. At this rate I’ll be posting knitting patterns on this motherfucker. Watch this space yarn-fans!

They used to be out in all weather, terrorising, mutilating and murdering anything that moved, and creating Joel Peter Witkin-like sculptures across the dining room floor with the gooey remains. Many a morning I’ve slipped on guts, careless, cursing and barefooted. The feeling of mouse entrails oozing between ones toes is an integral part of countryside living around these parts.

Then last month we had oil central heating installed – the house had become unbearably cold, and so stretching my credit to the absolute limit (and sending interest repayment spiralling into the ionosphere), I had a full system installed. Now it’s like the Caribbean here, all day every day.

In this tropical atmosphere the cats have become soft. They reside in languor, draped across the furniture – occasionally venturing out into the cold for a hurried piss. The two short haired felines have taken the playing the steel drums, whilst the Persian has started to grow dreadlocks and demands yams with every meal.

They continue to create turds of a toxicity level Al-Quaeda scientists would be proud of – but that’s about it. Their hunting days are long gone.

As a result of this we now have rats. Our green thing (a large container which looks like it used to be part of a lorry, and which some previous ‘broke assed’ owner installed between the stables and the barn, used as a storage facility) is alive with the buggers. It’s gone all James Herbert (before he became a mewling ponce).

We’ve been using it to keep food for the horses and chickens, and it’s become a fucking mess, full of old cans, empty corn bags, old paint cans and general crap we toss in there. Not surprising then that on Sunday the wife saw a monster rat running around in it. She screamed so loud one of my fillings cracked. I immediately brought out my air rifle, in the hopes of finally killing something with it. No such luck. The rat got away.

We cleaned out the green thing and stored the animal feed in a secure place. No more nest for the rats. I left the door wide open in the hope that some other predator would pop in and get medieval on the rat family. I considered pissing on the nest, but didn’t for fear the sick fucks might like it.

I am sure it’s the rats that have been taking the chickens. Single birds have been going missing (as mentioned in previous posts), and returning looking ill, then dying. A fox would simply have massacred them. I blamed the buzzards, but now I’m thinking rats. Bites from rats would potentially have poisoned the birds. From this I can conclude that me installing central heating has cost 2 birds. Also that I need to find a way to restore the fighting spirit to my two short haired moggies, currently rolling a joint (after a heavy meal) on the sofa behind me. This is a complex ecosystem I have created. It needs constant management.

 

Should We Kill Foxes ?

“Experience is a keen knife that hurts, whilst it extracts the cataract that blinds.”

It’s 11th December. Not nice. Weather could strip the skin off your face, get water on your hands outside and it’s like Men Behind The Sun over here. This post is a consideration on whether it is right and just to kill foxes, and represents a balanced argument I feel.

I let the chickens out, we keep a few, free-range, for the eggs. I like the little fuckers. They cluck, scratch, and follow me when I’m working outside. They forage for worms and eat some of the most evil looking bugs you ever did see. The cockerel looks after his bitches better than Dolemite. He’s a true player and has fucked me up on a number of occasions. I have the scars to prove it.

Anyway – He got his arse-feathers bitten off last year fighting off a fox, I found him up a tree three days after the attack, bum raw. He pulled through though.

Last Saturday a chicken is missing. Gone all day then I saw my Lurcher Sean (after Mr Connery – I name the male animals around here, and I don’t fuck around with no ‘Tigger’ fucking names neither) sniffing and there she was, flat on the ground. Harvey was trying to hump her, but she was, to use a medical term, ‘fucked’.

So I carried her to the house, put her on the ground, then she stood up. Still ill. Examined her, took her into the house, put her in a cage with bedding and food. She lasted ’till the evening, then died. Which brings me to the point of this post – foxes. And buzzards.

Years back when I was in University, the only decent essay I wrote (there wasn’t much call for that type of thing on a business course) was about fox hunting. I looked up all the stats, did my background research and knocked out an earnest ‘Distinction’ grade thing on why it was all wrong, how it didn’t really control fox numbers, and all rich people are wankers (in many parts of the country toffs breed extra foxes simply to give them a better chance of catching them in the hunt – hardly reducing the number for farmers then!). I even wrote to my local MP when Tony Blair didn’t make good on his promise to ban hunting with dogs (he’s since gotten around to it, but then of course invaded Iraq and spoiled everything).

But the main thing is, whilst living in the city I didn’t keep chickens.

First time foxes attacked here I re-thought my whole attitude to hunting. Second time I bought paid off some ‘good ole boys’ that live locally, encouraging them to go for a good blast around where I live. Third time I bought an air rifle. If it ever happens again I’m getting the full fire-arms license and going on a postal wildlife massacre throughout Wales.

Poor little hen (she died earlier, remember ?) crawled all the way back here once before – a fox (or buzzard) took her back in July, she was gone for over a week. Then one afternoon she came hopping back, ate some corn and went about her henny business. Saturday her number came up, just over a year old.

I know foxes got to eat. But as an apex predator I reserve the right to riddle the local wildlife with bullets to secure my chickens. I changed my mind on hunting. I don’t want to wear a costume, blow a horn or ponce around on a horse.

Must control all ground action through superior firepower.

“All my misfortunes come of having thought too well of my fellows”. Rousseau