SEVEN FOR A SECRET

 

It appears I have been kept in the dark Jock Strappers.

But as you know the key to all good secrets is what manipulation tactic you use to break them.

For the last few months the farm’s new owner, Lord Augustus has systematically given cool stuff to everyone accept me.

He’s put our manager on an expensive course of professional development, our union rep gets to learn fashion design and our top tractor pilot - TGK got a chance to go one on one with the makers at Manheim, Germany.

What’s more he’s going to hire three new apprentices, a new gamekeeper and sponsor the vicars tea party!

He has systematically disempowered my black ass in the most embarrassing of ways.

The whole beef herd are talking about it. It’s shameful. Its like I was a rank outsider, someone who means nothing to his affections.

Any way two nights ago I was minding my own business chatting to a very drunken weasel at the top of my field when I saw some lights appear in the farm yard below. It must have been gone eleven at night.

They looked kinda like tractors but on closer inspection turned out to be diggers and earth moving equipment.

Massive flood lights were then erected and they proceeded to drive into one of the farms adjacent paddocks, which boarders my field

Any way there seemed to be lots of toing a froing and shit was still going down passed one a.m. I’ve got to admit, this was making me a little nervous.

The anxiety levels had started to rise and I was trying to count cows in order to get some sleep.

Then Jock Strappers, there was an incursion!

There is a stone wall that separates my field with the other paddock, both of which channel down into the farmyard. These fields have always been used for pasture and this other paddock was usually used as an over spill for female colleagues to get some much needed r and r after a hard days work  – if you get my drift – hashtag wink face.

Now, I don’t like incursions at the best of times. Plus this whole new area of getting freaked out about stuff really was starting to get on my tits. Massively.

So I bullied up and ran down the hill to the stone wall and asked politely to speak to the Forman of the gypsy rabble that seemed to be undertaking these earthworks. At this point they seemed to disperse rather rapidly!

Just to digress – if any of you reading this remember going out for country walks as kids and seeing  young bulls over the fence in groups in fields, there would usually be one that stood out right? And say if you were to run at them there would usually be one that didn’t scarper off soon as look at you, one that held his ground as if to say – “By all means come running at me, jump the fence into my field, go on, run at me in my field, see what happens” – sound familiar?

Well it’s like this with gypsy workmen. One stayed, held his ground and didn’t run off at the site of a massive black bull heading towards their newly established fucking building site.

And what a cunt of an individual this man was.

We are talking the worst that a Poole accent has to offer, missing teeth and the tattoo of the goddess of creation ‘Stacey’ on his wrist.

Any way, turns out he was pissed off at having to be there so late at night. Said he’d never really seen a bull before, so wanted to have a good look. Harped on about being brought on site at short notice to prepare the ground for a new shrine and to install a gate in the stone wall. This surprisingly charming gypsie fellow went on to explain that the boss lady said that the installation was in fact, for the bull!

Fuck me backwards Jock Strappers. There was me thinking Augustus was getting all Hindu on me and is building a shrine to worship my bad self.

I could totally see why to be fair, after all – I am very powerful.

Bless them though, these gypsie workers don’t half work fast. Literally by dawn there was a spanking new gate on the sidewall which divides our two fields at the bottom of the hill. By that time I had managed to get some shut eye at least. Then I noticed over in the other paddock was a lovely leather clad marquee type structure  with a kind of bunting on it that looked a bit like streamers. The ground where the machines were was neatly rolled out and made to look as though there had been nothing going on at all.

I was loving this. Knuckles the magpie flew over and landed next to me. He said he had been kept awake all night and was so wide-awake by dawn he thought best to get up.

Hang on a minute; shouldn’t he be up any way, in a dawn chorus kind of way?

He thought it was a good shout erecting a shrine to worship me. Then he started chirping on about married life so I just stopped listening.

What a bell end.

Then he stared moaning about the noises just before sunrise. He was shocked when I told him I had managed to get some sleep as he said these noises were weird. Like nothing he’s heard before. Like music, but clearly animal at the same time.

Then he changed the subject and said he was thinking about finally hanging up his cloak. I was just about to kick right off at him when out of the morning missed and through the new gate to my field came Beth the Manger, dressed in only what could be described as, like… coloured robes.

Following her out of the morning mist Jock Strappers was what can only be described as my gift.

Knuckles’ beak fell to the ground in amazement as though we were in a cartoon.

I was speechless.

My present was swaggering it up behind Beth the Manager wearing a fucking trilby and walking to the beat of a by gone progressive blues ballad that wasn’t actually playing.

Words cannot describe how this became the benchmark that all #wtf? moments will be judged by between now and eternity. 

And as my gift came into my field following my manager walking up the hill towards me, he fucking blotted out the morning sun…

Yeah that’s it Jock Strappers, Lord Augustus has bought me an Indian.

As in elephant!

That’s right we are talking the whole nine yards. This dude was massive. Had tribal tattoos, was wearing the most random outfit, had his toe nails painted, was wearing a gold ring on his finger and was fucking whistling! Yeah -  As in music!

God knows how Augustus has pulled this one off but we are going to get in some serious shit with the RSPCA.

You just can’t go around employing fucking elephants! They are artists not farm workers!

Ever seen an elephant make plough?  – No!

Ever seen an elephant tow a bale cart? – No!

Ever discussed crop yield mapping technology with an elephant? – No!

Got my drift? – Good.

So this guy goes on to introduce himself as ‘Abs’ and says he’s an artist. Said he was named after the Buddhist hand gesture for fearlessness and that his full name was Abhaya Mudra.

So that would be like calling someone ‘high five’ over here. What a dick.

So I was all like, ‘Alwright Sheba, house tricks’?

Then ‘Abs’ just had to put me right speaking with the confidence and calmness of a Jedi. He said that it was in fact Ganesh who was the Indian elephant god and that he himself was in fact a Buddhist. He went on to say that his heritage was Elephas maximus and that he was an Asian elephant, as people get confused and think they just live in India. He said his sort extend quite far eastwards.  

Well excuse my ignorance.

I told him a little about myself too.

I said I was Jock the Bull and that I was very powerful.

Unfortunately, he said he too was very powerful.

And this is true Jock Strappers. Abs was standing a good ten feet tall to the shoulder and must have been around twenty foot long.

#measuringtothetruebaseofthetrunk ;-)

Beth then piped up and said that Abs had been brought in especially for me. She said Abs doesn’t come cheap and that he is here to give me spiritual guidance and build my confidence.

Yeah, because elephants tend to do that.

She said Augustus wanted me to benefit from some enriched wisdom and had pitched the idea to her after meeting me for the first time.

I’m living in a nightmare Jock Strappers

Who does she think she is?!  – She shoulda been like – ‘Sure buy him in some more cows, let him get a laid a few times, he’ll be right as rain after that’.

But nooooo!

She’s all like, yeah so lets buy the services of an elephant guru, cos that’s perfect business sense.

#farmmanager

And that above is irony not subtext!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m sick to death of people thinking they know what’s best for me. Weather it’s the fact that I’m not profitable in the first instance, or that I’m in need of ‘guidance’ I feel controlled and isolated. Don’t forget the buzzards wanted me out because I was instrumental in rescuing this place. Even they wanted a slice of the lets control Jock pie.

And then, the shocked to death magpie standing by my side is so fucking pre-occupied with his mad crazy missus that it takes a poor old snake, mending a fucking roof to get proceedings going to combat this fucking abuse.

All this just isn’t right.

A couple of years ago Knuckles the Magpie would have eaten those buzzards for breakfast. He would have hand plucked their sorry assess and then burnt them to death all Wicca Man style – probably just with the bear flame of his zippo.

Elephants…. Jesus Christ whatever next?

Things have changed round here.

I’m off,

I’m leaving.