The sheep fiasco

Me and farmer Toby and one of the said sheep

There has been much confusion surrounding the events of last summer and no one seems to know the real story. I get hounded everywhere I go by people wanting to know the truth, I have even had letters posted through my letter box claiming that they know what I did last summer, although I haven't heard any more about the subject since.

But, at the request of Toby the farmer I have decided to finally spill the beans and release this tale into the 'electric moors'. (inter-net) and you will finally understand why I love farm, but I don't love sheep.
It was summer last year- a good year I recall. Carrots were at their finest and my tomatoes were large and plump like a series of swollen glands. The cows were doing well and I had already had 14 new calves added onto my little spot of heaven in the rolling hills of Devon. They all were doing rather well and were still in high spirits despite the room (or lack of) in the cow pen. The only thing wrong with my idealistic life was a slight problem I had with my arms seizing up occasionally but it was nothing to worry about according to the local "doctor" (old farmer Bill), So all was well really.

It had been a hard day and the darkness was creeping in, so I went indoors and rested my feet beside my open fire -nearly burning my new cords in the process- and lit up my pipe. I was just staring to nod off when I heard a knock at the door. I though to myself 'who the devil could that be at this hour?! it's half bloody seven in the evening!' and I grabbed my air rifle. (you can't be too cautious in these parts. Oddly enough we seem to get a lot of door-to-door salesmen, god knows why but I most certainly do not want to buy another Box Jellyfish for £3.20! The last one killed 13 of my beloved geese)

I cautiously opened the door to see a dark figure approach. I aimed straight for the genitals and fired my round narrowly missing. I frantically tried to reload the gun as the figure flinched and started to raise his hand up towards me. 'probably trying to give me a leaflet on discount cruises to Malta in a rubber dingy' I thought to myself. 'I'll get the bastard'. Then the figure spoke what I first took for as Latin so I fired another shot, but it was actually my good friend Toby who owns the farm up from mine. Turns out he was shouting some nonsense about me almost castrating him, not Latin like I first thought. I apologise and invited him in for a game of Backgammon or 2 but he insisted he couldn't stay long and the he didn't have time for a Backgammon tournament. He informed me that he needed my help the next morning and that we would discuss it further when I got there. I agreed and said I'll be up at his field by half 7 (I practically had too seeing as I almost blew away his manhood). He then headed on his way and I returned to my sanctuary of comfort by the fire and then dozed off into some dream about getting a new rainbow coloured John Deer tractor.

Now you are probably wondering where the wife was throughout all this, well I'll be honest, I hadn't even met the old haywench back then. I was just a young rogue farmer with nothing but a pocket full of dreams and pipe tobacco. I was setting sail for the glory of farmdom and I couldn't let a woman get in between me and my grand fantasy of owning an A-Z farm. Artichokes right through to Zebras. Yes yes, i know, not entirely legal to own a Zebra in Devonian fields but what the hey, i felt like John Hammond from Jurassic Park (minus the steady income and trendy cane)

Anyway, I woke eventually at 7 and prepared my breakfast by boiling away some chicken stock left over from Sunday lunch to make my oats and gravy. I put on my favorite tweed vest and cap and headed up to Toby the farmers field and what i saw when I entered took a little while to sink in. I saw Toby himself sat atop a large keg of Scrumpy, pipe-in-mouth and balancing a sheep on his lap whilst pulling a calf right from its rear.

"woaap, there she goes. That's another one for the troop, hop along you little goblin" and he placed the sheep onto the floor along with the lamb. I know it is bad, but all I could think of at that point was how nice they would both be boiled up in a bag with some of my lovely potatoes and tomatoes. At that stage in my life Boil-In-A-Bag was all the rage, everything was boiled in a bag; custard, stews, sandwiches, scones.etc the list goes on. if you can't remember this pinnacle of human endeavour then you were probably out or something.

So I greeted Toby and he said that all of his lambs are giving birth (47 in total!! Plenty spare for the old 'Boil-In-A-Bag') and I was needed to assist. I enquired as to why the scrumpy was there

"well we can't do it sober now can we!"

I told him that he was most certainly right as I had no experience of lambing so I couldn't even do it sober let alone 'scrupmed'. He told me that it's as easy as lambing a lamb which reassured me somewhat so i though I'd give it a blast. Toby grabbed me a glass and poured out the nectar of the gods; the cider started to flow.

10 hours into the day and 36 lambs later I started to get either very good at lambing or drunk enough to convince myself that I was. Scrumped up and "in the zone" I had a moment of drunken bravado where I bet Toby -who was elbow deep in sheep- 8 of Martha Brights prize pumpkins that I would succeed to lamb 2 sheep at the same time. He removed his arm, raised his glass and said 'your on' while nodding slightly and taking a swig. I then grabbed the 2 nearest plump looking sheep and placed them either side of me. Then I began to squeeze the two sheep with each hand in an attempt to induce the lambs out in a technique I can only describe as the "squeezing-the-last-bit-of-toothpaste-out" method, but sadly it came with minimal results except a lot of complaining from the animal in question. I decided the only option was to do it manually. I downed my cider, rolled up my sleeves and plunged both hands deep into the abyss.

What happened next you would never believe. My arms had somehow became lodged in and had seized up completely. I rolled around on the floor in an attempt to get my arms free but was unable to. In a fit of panic I ran towards farmer Toby with arms locked and spread wide with sheep placed atop each appendage looking like I'm about to start, enter and win the Devonian version of The Gladiators. I frantically explained that my arms had seized up and that my hands were stuck.

"Well, look at it this way, at least its not 2 male sheep. Go on, have another scrumpy!" he told me
"Are you insane?! That's the last thing I need. I need to see a doctor" I said

Well, 7 scrumpy's each later Toby and I had completely forgotten about the 2 sheep attached to my arms and the barrel of cider was dry, so we decided to go to the pub. I remember walking through the village singing at the top of my voice, one of those classic everyone loves, you know, something by the wurzels. Anyway, people would look at me with the most horrified expression and at the time I hadn't a clue why -the cider had gotten the better of me- but regardless, I continued onwards towards my Mecca.

On the way we struck up a conversation on Star Wars as it had always been a favorite of mine, I'd always liked Tokyo and loved how it was set in the heart of such a vibrant city; so for me it was a favorite. We were discussing who you wouldn't want to be a celebrity guest on the next series of Autumn Watch. You'd have, say, 5 characters and you'd nominate each one up for eviction in turn until you had your final character left who would be whom you'd want to lure out some badgers or just generally converse with Bill Oddie during the calm bits as we all know it can get a bit intense some times!

Just as we approached the pub it was my turn and I said that I'd put Han Solo up first because of his Carbon Footprint. So we stumbled into the pub and I entered the door of the tavern.

"I can't believe you put your Hans up first. There's no holding you back is there" said farmer Toby rather loudly

Needless to say, we got thrown out immediately and told to "Bugger off you sheep interferer's". Somewhere along the way I had lost Toby, so I decided to try and take a shortcut home through the square and past the hall. As I was walking/stumbling past all of a sudden my cords loosened above my waist and fell right down to the floor revealing my tweed undergarments in all there entirety! I tried but was unable to pull them up due to my seized arms, so I had to act fast. I saw the empty hall and ran towards it as quickly as I could.

I opened the door with my foot and headed in. I turned around to search for a means to pull these ruddy cords up only to be greeted by the silence of a whole entire hall of shocked onlookers. Whats worse was that it was a commemorative do for war vets and that's the last thing I needed, a room full of hardened veterinarian's who have probably been through far worse lambings in the war. I thought that all they'd do was complain about my obvious lack of  "code of conduct". Sadly it was far worse than that, I stood there absolutely scrumped, half naked and for some strange reason decided to say a wise piece of information that Toby had given me earlier.

"whadd?! well at least it ain't 2 male pigs is it!!" I said whilst struggling to not spew the oats and gravy from my gullet.

I then got called a 'baaa-stard' by one man and a few other names by the more unreasonable veterinarian's. 'Frisky Farmer' was one of them, 'Sheep-Fister' was another... Then i remember ambling towards one of the tables, vomiting on a war Vet and then collapsing through the table in front of me.

I awoke in A&E some time later and the man upstairs hadn't gone easy on me, he left me with the largest hangover available to man. Farmer Toby was next to me  and he said that the sheep were removed and are all doing fine. He had explained the whole situation to the doctors and I was free to leave. I left them a gift of Farming Weekly that i brought from the in-hospital shop to thank them for there support and I then later went on my way after a few words with "the fuzz" about the whole fiasco.

So there you have it, I am NOT what you youngsters call a 'Ram Rod' or anything of the sort, it was all just a hideous mess. I just hope the wife can forgive me. Oh the shame...

Signing off for today.

Happy fi.. *cough* er... farming

Hoes and Shit

Traditional Hoe (£4.35 at Moleavon)

Now, I get a lot of people asking me "Farmer Josh, you grow the best spuds around, when do I start to plant them and how can I get mine to taste as good as your award winning potatoes?" So I am going to explain a bit about hoeing, growing and using compost/manure for growth.

Well, I am pleased to say that it is that time of year again, the trees are bare and the frost is receding- there's no better time to start churning up the earth and start planting your spuds.

Now, most modern farmers would suggest that you'd use a more efficient means to whisk up the soil like getting Churnmaster 4000 but quite frankly they don't know a thing about farming. I prefer to use a good old fashioned recently purchased hoe. I find hoes are much more efficient at doing the work than letting a machine do it and they really get stuck in to the job, and besides, if a hoe should so happen to snap you can just buy a new one from your local dealer for a small but fair price. (don't spend to much on a hoe. A hoes not for life, its just for farming)

When storing your hoes make sure they are kept in a small dark shed with barely any visible sunlight and keep them locked down away from any other hoes you have as there is a strong rivalry in the farming community. If one farmer likes the way your hoe works then he is likely to take said hoe and put a cap in your ass's hoof; which is always annoying to remove. So always -and I can't stress this enough- make your hoes look as cheap as you can. Don't buy fancy accessories. One thing which will show other farmers that you have a good 'un is if you are splashing your cash too frivolously on your hoes or even worse, on one hoe in particular.

Now, back to the farming side of things. This morning I got ready after my usual breakfast of oats and gravy (can't kick that old habit that mother weened me onto) and I put on my finest tweed vest. I then went out to my garden patch with my lit pipe and brand new hoe (used to be £10 a pop but was recently reduced to £4.35 at Moleavon! I was tempted to buy a few but the wife would get jealous that I'm spending more on hoes than her!) and I then started to get a rough idea of my plot layout.

Right, now I tend to go for the more unorthodox method of turfing-the-earth by doing the jump technique. Don't worry, I will explain.

To do this technique i will run with my object of unfathomable desire (hoe) and when I reach the spot of grass I'd like to turf up for spuds I jump into the air. I then bring the hoe down to the ground at great speed and once its got stuck in the soil just give it the occasional poke and leave it to its business. If it's a high quality hoe it will be done in mere hours. This gives you plenty of time, so light up your pipe, put on the wireless and chill with your hommy's. (janner for neighbours)

There is one main issue with this method, your hoe can be prone to snap mid jump technique, but don't worry, if you are a wise farmer you will always have a back up in the shed to finish the job. Anyway the plot eventually got done and my little patch looked terrific, titchmarsh would be proud.

Now, into my nice neatly dug rungs of earth I placed in the potato seedlings I had purchased at the market the week previous from Mrs.Cobb's, or alternatively if you are on Mrs.Cobb's bad side (which many people are) there is always old farmer Bill- he has spuds growing out his ears! (not literally for that would be a medical miracle, but he does have a large stall on tuesdays at Hatherleigh Market (look for the balding man with large 'lamb chops' sideburns and the most marvelous golden pipe you'll ever see))

After I had placed them neatly into the earth I proceeded to urinate one each one in turn and cover them in manure to boost flavour and improve yield. If you are desperate to plant your spuds but have no urine at hand -so to say- you can always use jam. Jam is a good source of sugar for your potatoes and will -as I'm sure you all know- turn them into sweet potatoes, so if that's what you desire then i recommend jam or another sweet preserve whole-heartedly. Same method for all you bakers out there, pour some jam into your dough mix and after baking they will be the most divine sweet-breads around.

Now I just have to wait for my tatties to sprout up good and proper and within a few months there will be potato pie all round. If you are interested in the recipe you just mash your potatoes with a touch of vinegar and bake sufficiently until golden brown, texture like sun.

And there you have it. Now, just in case curiosity is killing your cat and you are thinking "I wonder what the devil he gets up to of an evening?" Well, I can give you an answer. I am off to meet Mr.Fergison for a game of hoopla and an evening of merryment with some good old scrumpy! (Don't tell the wife mind, she thinks I'm out buying piglet's and sizing up old farmer Giles's patch. If if gets bigger and better than ours I am instructed to "tamper with it". God forbid if she happens to come across this page and find out the truth)

So that's all for today.
Happy hoeing, farming enthusiasts!

How my love of Farm began

So it all started 18 years ago now. I remember it well... My mother was a hard woman, her voice bellowing and strong like a Bavarian Gladiator and she was not a woman you'd dare to cross. By this age I had mastered communication and was quite comfortable walking around. One day as we sat around the dinner table with father (he was back for the weekend from the European dance-off's if I recall correctly) when conversation turned to the local village fate. All I heard was 'of course he is old enough, he has teeth don't he?!'
That's when father turned and told me... I was to enter the local Brick-Drag-Race at this years fate.

The Brick-Drag-Race is probably the most bizarre thing you will ever encounter. The point of the game was that you had to race in a peddle tractor around all the local villages (about a 17 mile route) with a sledge being dragged behind you via string with a brick in it. If the brick falls out of the container you are disqualified, If you come last however you are branded an outcast and thrown out of the village only to be adopted by Madonna at a later date.

Being only three I decided to not test mothers patience and accepted unwillingly then went off to bed.
I then awoke to hear the most horrible noise. I opened my eyes and there was none other than my mother at the bottom of my bed beating a wooden spoon on the bottom of a saucepan whilst blowing a whistle at full pelt. I remember her shouting 'come on! come on! You've overslept your training! It's half 4 in the morning! Breakfast is downstairs!'. She yanked me from my bed and escorted me down to the kitchen where all I saw was a large bowl of oatmeal and the brown stuff. That's one thing mother could never have to much of, gravy. She'd always say "go onnnnn, you will have a splash more gravy won't you?" whilst already pouring it on your Lemon Meringue- clearly mad now I think about it, but anyway she's happy now. She works at Oxo and I haven't seen her this happy ever since father got lost salsa dancing his way round Europe. Apparently he got too carried away in the worlds biggest conga line and 673 days later ended up in Tibet and is now a man of the cloth; a monk! but that's a story for another time.

So I ate my bizarre breakfast and then got dragged out into the yard to do squat-thrusts over a well lit fire. After 200 of those mother eased off a touch and gave me a pat on the back and said 'well done boy' then she swiftly booted me in the buttocks and I continued my gruelling training regime for another 3 agonizing hours. For some strange reason one of the tasks was being spun on a swing repeatedly which I didn't fully understand one bit (so I could withstand the "G's" of the Brick-Drag-Race apparently).

After this was complete father came down with the family's lucky hat and placed it on my head telling me the same story I'd heard a million times before (my great grandfather survived a small blast from a nazi grenade in WWI from wearing this hat, and a pair of undergarments but that was all he was wearing, don't ask- silly bugger got drunk and lost a bet to the Colonel and had to go to war in his long john's)
So we headed off to the fate with lucky yellow hat on head, I couldn't possibly lose.
I got to the line up and sized up the other competitors 'just a bunch of dribbling babies...' i thought to myself whilst slightly psyched after my morning torture and gravy. I was told to stand next to tractor number 7 and board the vehicle.

I walked up and saw that she was a beauty and I knew we were gonna win, there were only 10 other competitors. I did a few checks on my brick sled and the rope then sat on the blue Ford 7740.I looked at father and he smiled and did a thumbs up, then I turned to mother and she shouted "if you don't win me and your father are getting a divorce!" and then smiled and blew a kiss towards me. Father seemed shocked all of a sudden, I don't think mother ran there "deal" by him first.

All of a sudden the commentator mumbled something and everyone stood to attention. Then the farmer to the right of me raised the starting gun and fired the 12 bore shotgun into the air. This was it I was off.
Most of the 2 days were a blur and all I can remember is flocks of old Janners gathering at the edges of fields shouting abuse and throwing sheep faeces at the less speedy of us. But one thing which does stick strong was the feel of unity, of man; machine and brick united against all odds in an event so mad it would make Pete Doherty's everyday activities of stapling Goats to his chin and the like look like an episode of Vets in Practice.

Needless to say I was winning, we were going through the final village, my competitor Jonas was right behind me and he had been the whole time. We approached the second to last corner and my mum joined me again cheering me on 'you can do it, cause if not I hope you'll enjoy being adopted' I peddled on as hard as I could and I joyfully reached the finish line in 1st place! I raised my arms high in the air high fiving all the farmers on the side of the road and swearing at Jonas who was bursting into tears. Then the worst thing happened. The commentator said 'there has been a mistake, the boy bears not Brick, he is a Brickless-Boy. Disqualified'
I looked around and to my dismay my brick was missing. Little did I know it at the time but the cheeky bunt in the photo above photo -Jonas's dad- stole my brick on the final hurdles.

Anyway, after this we went home, dad went back to Europe to take part in the worlds fastest Bosa Nova with 43 other dancers in the streets of Hamberg and mother didn't get a divorce. But the event planted a seed, much like the potato plant and it grew into a... well... potato, but a potato of dreams, I knew from after that weekend that I wanted to be a Farmer and that I loved Farm.