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.
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