ANYONE FOR A NICE BIT OF CAKE?

Its that time of year again. Come rain or shine village fetes and fairs, or whatever you want to fucking call them always go ahead. Judgements are made and friendships are won and lost. Length and girth are never more highly scrutinised, as many an embarrassed home grown cucumber will tell you.

My village keeps to this standard of raised eyebrow’s, wide cucumbers and village life intrinsically. But this year we had a problem; it wasn’t just the weather we were battling but our neighbours too.

The neighbouring village arranged their fete for the same damn weekend as ours! This could only mean one thing: battle stations – obviously.

A new vicar had come into that village and had decided to go head to head with us, threatening to do it bigger and better than we could; truly throwing down the gauntlet.

She, (yes I know - She) promised longer and wider cucumbers, sweeter jam, Olympic heroes, more accurate fortune-tellers, jugglers, monster trucks and the fucking Levellers!

How could we compete? Even their face painters had fine art degrees!

So we took the lead on a retaliation mission on behalf of our village. We had two ideas for an initial strike: The first would be to ransack their whole village, capture the fete organisers, dip them in treacle, fuck them in the arse and set fire to their houses.

The second, to infiltrate proceedings and sabotage their events leading to embarrassments for them and therefore sending their punters to us.

So which one do you think we went for?

Clearly the second one. If we went all in to start they may be able to counter our blows, as I’d also heard on the grapevine that there was going to be an appearance from the Kazakhstan Olympic wrestling team, Which indicated to me they were planning for a possible hostile retaliation from us.

So the stage was set: I assumed the rank of officer in charge, fittingly titled Field Martial. Then there was Air Martial Knuckles The Magpie second in command to me. Frank The Peacock adopted more of a pathfinder role and fittingly was in charge of reconnaissance, as we needed a specialist who could keep a low profile and get information back to us quickly.

Preparation for the two events began early on the Friday and I instructed all of our village community to concentrate solely on making the best fairy cakes in the history of fetes!

Frank The Peacock set off to the neighbouring village on a recon. Hours went by and he didn’t return. I had to make a decision and quickly. Our lack of information on their preparations meant that we would have to attempt a night strike and possibly a last minute morning intervention too, but Frank finally came back at dusk…..

He looked quite dishevelled. He was wearing a leotard, and had his face painted in the style of ‘The Ultimate Warrior’, off of pro wrestling in the 90’s. He had clearly won a blow up hammer and was totally pinned on candy floss. It would appear as though our neighbours were having a fucking dress rehearsal.

Frank your cup cake scores high!

This infuriated me. Fetes were all about impromptu fun, this methodical minister at the helm clearly wants things to go like clockwork.

Frank said that the Kazakh wrestling team taught him how to a ‘gorilla press drop' followed by a ‘running splash’. Back on the farm we hadn’t made one cupcake yet, an epic fail was on the cards.

                                                 Frank after dress rehearsal

So I gathered the whole team in the farm yard to discuss our retaliation. For some weird reason I felt the urge to look up to the sky. Parachuting in with a large package that could only resemble an air to ground missile system and wearing Aviator sunglasses was Knuckles The Magpie.

As he landed he shrugged off his parachute with the swagger of a military service man preparing for a cameo on a Ross Kemp documentary. He through down the rockets and commanded us to attention!

“I am in charge of this shit now. It has gone beyond practical jokes and espionage. We are going to bomb the motherfuckers off the map”.

He had totally broken ranks. What a cunt! This isn’t the first time he’s busted in and taken over either! He bypassed the rest of us in the farm yard and called in an ants nest as ground support. Then he fucked off towards the other village, with the ants marching behind him.

All I had to do was stay here remain calm, and make cupcakes.

Top Gun Kes NEVER lets the side down: Fantastic work!

Nice creative approach Ermantrude!!

Handsome James' cup cakes: Clearly slicker than your average ;-)

I had to motivate the entire village community and the rest of my farm yard friends to make the best damned cup cakes ever! - and on a Friday night too!

meanwhile, as Knuckles approached the other village he dive bombed the fete sight with all his smart bomb system had to offer. With precision accuracy marquees and stalls exploded one by one. The fall out was sadistically stylish, with Kazakh wrestlers running in every direction, monster trucks burning into oblivion and flaming levellers scattering the bomb site, tamborines smashed to pieces and their entire back catalogue (excluding live albums and best of's going up in smoke).

So, rather that using A Weapon Called The Word, Knuckles stole a missile system from the fucking Royal Air Force and blew up their fete engulfing everyone in flames including the Levellers. The smart bomb system worked immaculately Levelling The Land with devastating efficiency. Although their fair was diverse, grandiose and encapsulated the rural Zeitgeist, it couldnt withstand the latest military hardware Her Majesties Armed Forces had to offer.

Knuckles believed it had to be destroyed and before customers got there too, as he did not want to be killing people, rescuing bleeding children and then giving them Mouth To Mouth out of guilt. Rather than landing, hunting down this new vicar; saying Hello Pig why are you doing this unnecessary competition? He sent the ants into her cake infested vicarage to destroy what had been made. God knows how he knew they would be there. They did this in fine fashion however, although some did not report back, as we think they had been converted or killed.

Dave The Piercer's effort: Nuff said.

This was a fair strategy, but my nose is particularly out of joint. Knuckles comes from a land where everyone is Pagan enough to second guess where female vicars hide their cakes. He has seriously disempowered me. I got the villagers and my farm yard friends making seriously nice cupcakes that went down a storm on the day but its him that’s remembered as a hero and not me. If he had his way it would be me Sending Letters From The Underground as I would be worthless enough to be fucking busking for a living, way down the fucking pecking order. Our bond is now broken. I will struggle to differentiate Truth and Lies from him form now on.

Comms will be down during further bombing raids on other unsuspecting, competing villages. There will Static On The Airwaves as he takes off into the night leading with his own ego. This won't be the first time another community tries to take us on and as we fight back he will take over. Don’t expect me to take it lying down, buy a four pack of Special Brew and sit under a tree sobbing like a bitch.

Well Knuckles, the feud is on my friend, you cunt!

I need to save face.

 The John Deere Dealer won the day: standard.

Next week > Green Blade Rising: Get more, get milk!

www.twitter.com/jockthebull

And then took second with a mint varient: skills.

RURAL CRIME'S WHITE NIGHT PART 2

I am a symbol of farm yard ferocity, the scourge of the unholy and a straight talking power house that protects the countryside from those seeking to cash in at hard working country folk’s expense.

I operate at night and I have a modified tractor at my disposal. It has been stripped down and painted black. Its decals removed and its brand colours taken. It has been tamed and had its original identity taken. I have brain washed it into vigilantism and banished its green bonnet. Its new purpose is pain, not ploughing!

It all started a week or so ago when Frank The Peacock and Handsome James made a complete mockery out of crime fighting. They tried to frame some Russian prick who was a known export scammer. Needless to say it all went wrong as they deployed a softly softly approach letting him fuck off back to Russia with three of our fucking John Deer’s.

I knew I would have to go all in if I wanted to add another demographic to my security regime. I already deal with gypsy cunts but get a degree of support from my ally’s on the farm.

Doing in dodgy Russians is difficult. They are well educated in the arts of deception and seem to know every trick in the damn book. I would need to tool up, dress up and go it alone.

So me, Frank The Peacock and Knuckles The Magpie went shopping for appropriate attire. We scoured the shops but to no avail. We spent all day shopping and came home with nothing. I felt like I had been dragged around the shops with my parents. Frank and Knuckles can Pfaff like a couple of wrinkly old fanny’s; fucking about in BHS and constantly summoning me over to look at absolute crap.

So I sought some clothing advice from that well know fashionista Top Gun Kes. She said she could knock me something up that would take crime fighting right to edge of envelope, faster than its ever been before….. She had me in in a fucking US Navy jump suite. Yeah great, real slick Kes. I mean what the fuck, that’s going to really protect my black ass if I take a beating!

So then I asked Dave The Piercer for his style tips. Should seen this one coming, as last Christmas he got drunk and said that his new years resolution would be to model himself on the lead singer of Right Said Fred. Dave is one to stick at his word and has been wearing open arsed jeans for the last six months now. Subsequently he had me kitted out with some pink patterned combats, with my arse pertruding through the material as if to say:

“Come on now, take me”.

I always knew there was something suspect about that piercing poofter.

So I thought fuck this, a massive black assed Aberdeen Angus in the buff is enough to deter any would be scammer or thieving fucking gypsy. So I began my duty on a light July night and waited for signs of trouble.  

And trouble arrived, big time.

15 gypsy transits rolled up ready to strip the farm from its metal and fly tip their day’s garden trimmings. Right behind them in a blacked out Mercedes Unimog there was four Russian cunts warring suites and Barbour jackets. One could only assume they had bumped into Dave The Piercer as he was stumbling home form the village local and on the spur of the moment asked him for some mafia gangster fashion advice. I shouted allowed, alone and in the damp twilight air

“Fucking Jackpot”

Now lets get this in perspective. this blog was designed as a social commentary, an inclusive interlude that matches many funny things against the charm and whit of the team behind me; my friends, my colleagues and those that have my back. However, certain things fuck me off to the point of petulant frustration. I am a fucking demi god when it comes to muscle power and this time I eclipsed these ass holes alone and naked.

The vans rolled up first, looking for a nice hedgerow to dump their spoil before they targeted the farm for metal and anything else the thieving cunts could salvage. Well all I can say to that is Evel Knievel broke a record or two for jumping over vans. I developed that somewhat by taking a run up, jumping and landing one them, using the undulating farm land to my advantage.

In the first charge I managed five in one go. I smashed them good and proper; pancake thin. In the blink of an eye many gypsies died and many transit vans became at one with the land.

The next five were in my sights, but these cunts had got a bit brave and decided upon charging me back in a diamond formation. They drove straight for me! These guys however were Irish gypsies and they clearly didn’t realise that we were on a hill side. They tumbled to their doom. Shame they missed the crack. The final five drove off in despair, looking to impede somehow on whichever council would put up with them. Fair play I say. They knew their limits.

So the last stand saw me and four gang land tractor exporting, farmer extorting Russian mother fuckers…. in a fucking Mercedes Unimog; dressed as trendy English aristocrats. I mean what the fuck?!

Mercedes-Benz are well made and symbolise wealth, efficiency and touch on some aggressive design cues. I however am the symbol of the BULL. And we all know what company that represents J. So I charged at them with the desire of the Diablo, gaining the momentum of the Miura, massacring their Russian assess with the Mancunian mercilessness of the Murcelago, goring at their remains with garish gracefulness, grossly reminiscent of the Gallardo superleggera, acrimoniously sentencing them to certain death faster than the Aventador can do 0-60 and finally smashing them to pieces in crescendo of noise and power that could only be matched by the mighty Countach.

Smashed right up, done right in, the bull is all-powerful and every now and then has to act as an individual. These mean country streets are safe.

This has all been a little intense so NEXT WEEK: Cake…..

RURAL CRIME'S WHITE NIGHT PART 1

As I pointed out on Twitter the other day I came across a fucking twat Swallow bird from south Africa trying his luck at stealing some fertiliser form the farm yard. As soon as I sprung him he fucked off, but this is the third time we have had thieving on the farm within the last six months.

This highlights the issue of rural crime in the UK and how many people generally have an urbanised perception of where crime takes place and how it affects us.

Lets face it; stuff on the farm is expensive. In order for me to spunk on all cylinders and have the energy to fuck cows constantly… I need supplements, not silage and that aint cheap!! Livestock feed is getting ever more expensive as is fertiliser.

If you want a half decent tractor you are looking at a hundred big ones and the combine we have here including the servicing and break down package costs more than half a million.

So when fucking chancers come out to the country stealing farm kit and other expensive shit it really makes my but itch.

You know the sort; Gypsies and cunts that want a quick buck. I have given many a gypsy a quick buck myself - literally, my transit van tally stands at 17 and 0. Yes that’s right you cunts, come looking for metal on this farm and I will crush your van.

I also once crushed the postman’s van. What a fucking let down to the Royal Mail that prick was. I Moo’d good morning to him and he told me to fuck off and that he knew I could actually talk. Big mistake.

Unfortunately as I crushed his van I squashed his cat to death – What sort of two-bit postman has a fucking cat in his van any way? As the van began to implode a parcel was projected out the window at the same speed a Thai Whore can fire a ping pong ball out of her pussy.

Actually that was a good analogy, as the parcel turned out to be a massive black dildo with the girth of a grain bushel bucket. The force was so extreme the packaging of this black beast came off. All you could make out of the address was that it was destined for the vicarage. Nuff said.

Any way back to the issue at hand. Because rural crime is so prevalent it makes us all hate certain types of people. I wasn’t born to hate but it wears you down when it happens so much. Gypsies I can deal with, I can talk their language, I destroy their vans and the farmer shoots their young. We have a good penal system on this farm. Any gypsy getting caught in the act usually gets branded too. Although Knuckles the Magpie will insist on only branding during a full moon, so sometimes we have to invite them back at certain times of the month.

The only rural crime lords I can’t stand however are the fucking Russians:

And this leads me to vehicle export scams. These are big business and tractors are its bread and butter. If you imagine the average price of a car compared to a tractor, the mark up is insane. It would seem as though developing eastern European and Eurasian markets want our kit.

Frank The Peacock has been secretly investigating a gentleman new to the area, possibly of Russian descent. He is a charming guy and has struck up a chord with Handsome James. Frank tells me that this Russian geezer, goes by the name of Terrance - yeah - Terrence the twat! He told Handsome James he can get great prices for three of the farms aging John Deere’s down at the dock if they take the number plates off. Handsome James however, is on to him and intends to catch him red handed and get him brought to justice.

I’ve harped on about Handsome James’ approach before. He’s almost too slick for his own good, never leaves any loose ends, flies ice cold with no mistakes. He’s values driven and wants to give heart and soul to the underdog. I never had him down as a white knight but in an open court forum he would be king.

But what if he gets it all wrong, what if he gets stitched up and cant rely on Frank The Peacock as his inside man? What if the Russians conspire to get at him or take him down? What if Handsome James had to take on three Transit vans full of gypsies? He wouldn’t shoot their children, rape their wives or crush their vans!

I would. This countryside needs a crime fighter that lays it down an eye for an eye. A people’s champion, strong enough for a sustained attack on thieves and clever enough to out whit Russian scammers. We don’t need a court room crooner, a negotiator or a planned perfectionist; we need something a little darker……

NEXT WEEK: Rural crime’s White Knight part 2: JOCK'S JUDICIARY....

"This tractors purpose is pain not ploughing"

twitter.com/jockthebull

RESPECTED REPRESENTATION

The weekend before last was ruined. Saturday morning I received a letter stating “Notice of potential redundancy” on a fucking Saturday morning!! The farmer is thinking of getting rid of the beef heard and investing more into cereals, as they seem to be more of a cash cow at the moment.

I thought to myself that If this goes ahead I’ll give him a cash cow he’ll never fucking forget, the fat prick.

I have listened to the advise of Handsome James. He is the farms union rep and he is one slick son of a gun. He is one of those clever wheeler-dealer sorts with the academic cred to back up his swagger. Straight away he pointed out the original contract I made with the fat cunt when I moved from east Dorset and how it’s quite tight. But The farmer argues that it’s the beef heard that’s got to be affected in this decision as he is only half way through his farming diversification strategy and cant pull the plug on it now.

Well, we wall know about the diversification strategy…. The heard of bison’s. The same bison’s that burnt to death on Frank’s birthday. Subsequently, there is only half the heard left. It just doesn’t make sense. This farm needs some aggressive management. I didn’t want to be too heavily indebted to that dark bastard Knuckles the Magpie and it’s not sensible to ask him too many favours. So I thought I’d deal with this issue myself.  Handsome James keeps pushing for a more modest resolute approach; to “diplomatically iron out the farmers thinking and persuade him that the industry appreciates the full flavour of his beef herd”. Well He can fuck off.  I’m sure I can persuade him to come round to my sort of thinking….I will put his powers on the back burner for now.

So I sat down with an ants nest the Monday after to draw up some battle lines. Ants are fucking intelligent. Do not doubt them. We decided to use the same strategy they use when they are playing in majour chess tournaments: attack to defend.

This left me with no option but to call in the heavies. Soldiers of fortune, hard as nails mercenaries from a bleak land far away. They are armed, ready to battle, completely dead to emotion, fear and consequence. That’s right folks, I had a problem, I needed some ruthless motherfuckers to fix it and I have hired…..some Welsh Badgers.

I got them on the cheap as they are fleeing the governments proposed badger cull. They are well known in the welsh valleys for acting like full on Celtic cunts, generally ripping up the country side and all that lives peacefully in it.

Normal badgers will eat your young livestock, terrorise your cats, rip up your fields and generally be a fucking pest. They are vermin at the best of times need to be destroyed. However, Welsh Badgers do the same but by turning on the style and dominating like a Welsh Dragons. They work as a pack, just like when they play rugby. If you try and tackle a welsh badger in a rugby match you will bleed before he does, fact. They will pile drive their way through this farm and I am going watch like Mafia Don; relaxed, focussed, modest and in fucking charge.

The redundancy wasn’t official when I got that letter. It was proposed. But I couldn’t let the situation escalate. I had to go in guns blazing and if Handsome James wants my help with tracking down any more tractor export scams he can fucking cop on and help me with this approach too.

So last weekend I deployed the Welsh badgers onto the farm and all hell was let loose. Firstly they raped, mutilated and set fire to all the domestic badgers in the local area. That was literally only a morning’s work for them and it allowed them to establish their superiority. Kinda like taking out the enemy’s air infrastructure during the first stages of a war. Those calculating Welsh bastards certainly know how to send a message of intent. After that they focussed on the remaining bison and literately disembowelled them whilst they were still alive. At the same time they cut their lips off with garden sheers, then began to list the lips on eBay.  Then they started cutting into their bellies with fossilised Velociraptor claws, which they stole after raiding the American Museum of Natural History a few years back. As each bison drew its last breath they were sadistically allowed to watch the listing of their lips being confirmed on eBay, which was just sick; but I fucking loved it.

Buy buy diversification strategy.

Then they turned their attention to the arable land. Their plan was to call in some Irish Gypsy badgers and build a road on it, thus ruining this year’s crops and making the farm a logistical entanglement of concrete similar to Spaghetti Junction. At this point Fat Fuck Farmer stepped in. he was crying like a baby and had clearly soiled his trousers.

One of the badgers chirped up and said in very broad but croaky welsh accent  >>

“ We’re representin the bull and we are ready to negotiate”

And that was the redundancy situation over. I’ve now had a pay rise and some new, tight cunted, fresh faced and foreign lady cows are on their way for me to start a new line of tasty steaks. Handsome James feels a bit shit, as he couldn’t sort the situation out for me. But sometimes you have got get a bit serious, call in some terrorists and really take the bull by the horns. 

NEXT WEEK: CRIME IN THE COUNTRYSIDE WITH A PESKY RURAL RUSSIAN!

https://twitter.com/#!/JockTheBull