Ben Hur, Goats and a Hangover …

Our posh but very nice neighbours (Mike & Pat) were happy to have our goats on their grass, and we were happy to oblige because it saved our grazing. Therefore there was nothing untoward when one morning Cindy said “I’ll put the kettle on if you put the goats out on Pats lawn. Gert’s (the mum) got her tether chain with her but Oscars (Billy kid*) chain is still out with his tether spike, and as Oscar might not follow you out you’ll have to lead him by his collier.”

(* Yes, we did eat the Billy kids, but this one is another blog)

Over night Gert was tethered to her Ark, hence she had her chain with her, and Oscar free ranged in the chicken run. I didn’t normally get involved with the goats, Cindy did the milking she had built up an empathy with the critters, so there was an uneasiness in air as it was me, and not her they spied approaching them, fetchingly attired as I was in my old boots ( sans laces) and baggy shorts. It was still early enough that the nice posh folks had their curtains drawn and the birds were BLASTING out a dawn chorus which coupled with the persistent two tone bleating of agitated goats was not sympathetic to the aftermath of the several pints of cider which was still trying to impose its numbing presence on my skull bone.

I got the kid out of the chicken run, holding him as instructed by the collar. Unhitched Gert’s chain and started towards the grazing. Gert broke into a trot, anxious to get to the grass and to get away from me, the kid although young was getting to be a ‘handful’ and sensing the panic of its mother was pulling so hard it was rearing onto its back legs. To help with this torturous situation I was bent at forty five degrees, because when Oscar was on all fours, he was only stood a little over two foot at the shoulder.

I pride myself as being pragmatic, so rather than endure this situation and end up with a permanent stoop and arms proportionality so long as to never fit a ‘regular’ suit again. I had an idea …….I hauled Gert back to me and hooked Oscars collar to the other end of her chain so I could lead them both on the one chain ….‘Ben Hur style’. Proving that even under the haze of receding cider intoxication and applied torture. I could ‘sort it’.

All I did was to shut my eyes for a few moments, they wanted to be shut, I needed them to be shut! The tugging of two goats and that bloody bleating was doing my head. The sun was warm in my face. I was fighting to keep awake. OK, I may have remonstrated with the critters (just a little) asking them to “please be quiet” or words to that effect. Their instinctive ‘fight or flight’ mode kicked in, they went into flight mode, so now instead of the buggers being in front dragging me out across Pats lawn they were swinging out sideways and parallel with me. At this juncture I defiantly did question their antics in a slightly more animated and vocal way, which severed as the final impulsion they needed to cross behind me and run out tight which left me with a twenty foot tether chain warped around my naked legs being pulled tight by two goats who were not about to stop pulling and release the tension because the critter in middle (me) was now screaming every profanity he knew (which is lot), crying and starting to bleed.

How I laughed, laying on the grass outside my neighbours bedroom window ‘reeling in’ a kid goat whilst its now demented mother was taking up the slack in the chain instigating a cheese wire sawing action across the back of my knees.

Still looking on the bright side, the sodding kettle was on, so there was plenty of sterilised water!

Hardcore & cider

As we swapped shifts Ron shouted over the clattering roar of the printing press “do you want some hardcore Joe” ( my name’s Rob, but they called me Joe) “no thanks” I said “our video’s on the blink, we need a new one“. “No, not porn, you pillock*, builders rubble” (*old printers term for esteemed colleague).
Ron’s boy had some hardcore to ‘dispense with’ but it HAD to be done the next day. We didn’t actually need any hardcore, but it was a bargain and hardcore is always handy! (but perhaps that’s just me) plus it was on some distant agenda to make a ‘hard walkway’ from our old garden into the new field, so I paid Ron and sealed the deal.
I got back off that night shift about 4 or 5 am on Saturday morning, and went to bed, only to be disturbed a few hours later by the aggressive hissing of air brakes. I heard Cindy and somebody talking in the lane outside, then the sharp hiss of releasing brakes and the lorry drove away, assuming it was somebody asking directions, I went back to try and get some sleep.
I had not had the chance to tell Cindy about the pending delivery, to be honest I forgot, so she was a bit taken aback by the question “were d’you want this dumped” from the driver of a Really Big Truck fully loaded with hardcore. She woke me, I tried to explain, “you’re a nightmare” herself said disappearing back down the stairs. I would have liked the change to have a sodding nightmare, shift work had destroyed my so called ‘body clock’, sleep was something I couldn’t even dream about!
The RBT was too big to turn around in our little lane so he had speed off to find a turning place. More than an hour later RBT returned with a less than calm driver. Son of Ron had tried to turn around in a junction with a grassy island. A local farmer had to drag him off with a tractor. The grassy knoll was left trenched and ready for main crop spuds.
On returning RBT hurriedly backed into our little lay-by, tipped his load and drove off. Leaving us to admire our new rockery which partially filled our section of the lay-by and spilt out into the lane. The next time(s) RBT came he reversed the quarter mile down our lane around the narrow blind corners, good driving but not conducive to other road users AKA neighbours, who as they reversed in convoy back past us and then had to wait for the RBT to shed its load glared at us, not brave enough to confront the driver of a RBT. Cindy asked “how much of this stuff have you actually agreed to buy? “some” was the best estimate I could offer ……..“nightmare!” said herself.
Over the course of that Saturday morning RBT came back four times. He filled our drive our lay-by our ever suffering neighbours lay-by and partially blocked the lane.
The only way available to us to ferry the hardcore ‘around the back’ was a wheel barrow. After several hours I was wilting, it was hot, I was tired, the loads were heavy, Cindy was ‘little’ and bless her could only offer minimal assistance. Some of the lumps were so big I had to sledge hammer them into lift-able chunks. We only had the one wheel barrow, which one mad collie dog accompanied back and forth on every trip barking insanely and trying to bite the tyre, which on some occasions could be deemed funny.
Tony, the farming neighbour pulled up in the lane, he looked at us, looked at the lump and looked at the wheel barrow, shook his head slowly and drove away.
A quarter of an hour later Tony returned at the helm of a smokey, noisy, and seen better days, little red dumper truck (with a damp flowery cushion to guard against piles). I can’t recall the exact conversation, but “I can’t watch you crazy f****er’s” was the gist of it.
I do not have an empathy with things mechanical. It’s mutual, I hate them, they hate me. But in this instance I was prepared to let bygones be bygones. That little red dumper took a bit of mastering, the steering needed two full turns of the steering wheel to take up the slack in both directions. The clutch was a bit ‘snatchy’, but the brakes were fine, once, but not in our time! Having watched me remove part of the external rendering from our kitchen wall, failed to stop in time and crashed into the lump and stall multiple times, Tony walked back up the lane, still shaking his head. Me and the dumper became mates! By tea time we had shifted the lump, swept the road, and collapsed with a mug of chilled cider.
Whilst slowly drifting off into a cider induced coma, I concluded that we didn’t actually need a new video …what we needed, was a dumper truck!