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Green wellies, Cows and posh nosh.Yes folks, it's been a long time coming, but welcome to Mr B's 'Get 'orf moi land' page.My passion for all things green and pleasant began as a wee nipper, after seeing my dad toiling for hours and cursing loudly, after next doors cat had crapped on his Lupins, pissed all over the Delphiniums and scratched huge holes in the lawn. (I knew loads of swear words from the age I could speak.) And those posh birds are well naughty: They can’t resist passing past an old hay barn and demanding to be thrown over a bale and taken roughly from behind, or walking in the living room dressed in a schoolgirl outfit and insisting on be spanked to beyond an inch of their well groomed lives.
Oh, the long hot summer nights of 1998 are forever in my thoughts. Growing your own fruit and veg is great fun and when I lived in the Sussex countryside a few years back we had a garden full of the stuff. And various girlfriends just loved the thought of getting their chops around some nice juicy Cox. Golden Delicious, cooking and Russet apples were also in abundance and my plum surprise always went down well.
One evening a special dinner was prepared: the beef was from a cow called Nelson, so called because it only had one eye. The poor thing kept bumping into sheds and trees: so I fed her at 8.00am, the butchers arrived at 12.00 and by 7.30pm sharp I was carving large chunks off her arse and serving them up with fresh Veg from the garden.
One vegetarian at the meal did freak out on hearing this story, but then again if people want to be veggies they should have all their teeth filed down and be painted black and white, stand in fields and say 'Moooo' lots. Talking of saying ‘Mooo’ who is that woman in the veet leg wax commercial, ‘Take the bull by the horns' she squeaks. 'Mooo' she gestures Listen darling, I’ll see you by the barn door in about 5 minutes……..and I’ll give you something to Moo about… The pet sheep were fun, (oh pleeeese, I’ve heard all the jokes) Yes a whole herd of pet sheep. And we had a pet goat called Jamima. And couple of pigs, who reminded me of some of the girls I’ve lived with. There was a very attractive woman down the road who had a cockatoo, but that’s another story.
There was one really mean looking Ram, called; wait for it “Rammy” who took great delight in head butting anyone or anything that entered his field of Babes, as he called them. His ego took a battering when every year a special harness was fitted around his middle with a blue dye ball attached. Imagine a suspender belt for rams. (That’s if you want to of course) This was to tell us which of the sheep he had been mercilessly shagging as it left a mark on its back. (The lady of the house got me one for Christmas, I don’t know why.)
One girl we knew got rather legless after a night down the pub and someone borrowed Rammy’s belt and rubbed the dye all over the back of her skirt. She left the village in total shame soon after. And not because she was pregnant. Only because when she came in the pub people couldn’t resist saying 'Baaaaaaaa'. And one night my girl at the time was feeling just a little bit frisky ‘an well up for it, so on the way home we climbed on top of several big round hay bales and went at it like rabbits, only due to using my foot as a grip I loosened one bale, which rolled off down the hill, smashing the shed to pieces, flattened most of the veggie garden, annihilated a couple of sheep and came to rest in the river. Causing a flood in next doors field. And the road. Oopps…! The Farmer was furious and the next night came in the pub waving a distinctly familiar looking pair of her knickers about as they had also trundled of with the bale. Luckily no-one admitted to the offence.
Also at this time my band ‘Pump’ was out gigging around the country and the house next door was a full of musicians. (You could tell they were musicians because no-one got up before mid-day, lazy bastads.)
There were the usual comments of 'Oi, I bet he’s growing some of that marijuana in there...' nodding at the large greenhouse. So one day I thought sod it, and purchased some fine seeds and with tender loving care raised the tiny saplings like they were my own children. Days were spent watering and feeding, nights gently misting and pruning until harvest day arrived. Meanwhile high court judges and a chief of Sussex police were dining on the big patio. Which looked directly onto the greenhouse. We had 8 plants in all, and in a frenzy of lung lust the crop amounted to several large Safeway bags. Delighted with our efforts the gang of musio/reprabates rolled lovingly a dozen large spliffs. After about half an hour several of us were sick, a couple coughed so much sick came out their noses and I had a throbbing headache. ‘So you only used the female plants of course’ said a local farmer, laughing ‘cos the male plants are useless’. ‘ All the plants were male and tasted like ground up nappies, and we felt like shit for days. The little lesson here was to stick to swilling lager and something about the female of the species is more deadly than the male. A very lovely lady I knew took me to the Chelsea flower show www.rhs.org.uk on several occasions and after morning tea and nibbles at Eaton Square, London. UK, with the Dowager Countess and Lady Astor we meandered through the fantastic displays and arrangements.( can you imagine a scruffy Croydon git hanging out with the poshens) The hard work and dedication that the entrants put in was truly stunning, and then it was ‘orf to Fortnum and Masons for a spot of sushi… ‘Yeeuuuchh…’ give me steak and chips any day.
So summer is in the air, the sap is rising (is that why I wake up every morning with a tent pole in me bed? or is called being single) and just last week I saw two squirrels chasing each other all over a tree. Then the bloke squirrel jumped on her back, his tiny butt going at it fast and furious and after about 10 seconds flopped off, climbed to another branch and fell asleep. Meanwhile the lady squirrel Sat there with her arse in the air, looking dazed and motionless and dreaming of being the next Chantelle. It’s not hard to imagine as they share the same I.Q. ‘Oh the romance of it all’ See ya Bxxx |
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