Spring returns to Greenback Estates
I thought I had better point out that this piece was written at the height of the Foot & Mouth epidemic, when huge piles of dead animals were being burned in fields all over the country....
Mrs Badger:
“Come on, wake up you lazy sod, it’s
breakfast time and we need some milk. Here’s the jug, and be
careful which cow you pick on, we don’t want to catch T.B.
again. And when you get back you can do something about that
roof. I’m fed up being woken up at all hours of the day by
those bloody wallabies bouncing about. They’ll bring the
ceiling down one day”
Mr Badger:
“For God’s sake leave me in peace woman. It
feels as if I only went to sleep five minutes ago, and if it’s
supposed to be Spring again why is it so bloody cold?”
Mrs Badger:
“How do you expect me to know? I’m a badger,
not a rocket scientist. Little Brian and Belinda will be awake
soon, and woe betide you if you don’t get your bum out of this
burrow”
Mr Badger:
Grunt, snort, grunt, grumble, moan.
Over on the other side of the wood, Mr. Fox returns to an equally damp and murky hole, struggling under the weight of his booty.
Mr Fox:
“Hey Lordy Lordy, who’s the main man? I got
lamb, I got pig, and even a big chunk of cow. Now get this,
some of it’s even barbecued!”
Mrs Fox:
“But I only asked for a curry”
Mr Fox:
“But this is quality nosh, and I only had to nip
over to the pasture. No more car dodging for me to get to
those dustbins in the town. I don’t know what they’re
celebrating, but someone’s having the biggest party you’ve
ever seen. I singed my whiskers getting all the best stuff,
but it was worth it; I think I’d puke if I had to eat another
vole. We’re moving up in the world lass. I think it’s about
time we started looking for a bigger den to signify our new
found status.
Mrs Fox:
“Ooh Mr Fox, if you play your cards right I
might let you do that special thing to me tonight”
Mr Fox:
“Now you’re talking dirty”
Meanwhile back at the badger’s sett, Mr Badger returns:
Mr Badger:
“It’s hell out there, and not a cow in sight.
And you want to see the state of the forest floor! There’s a
pack of wild boar moved in. Bloody hooligans the lot of them,
and you wouldn’t believe their manners. If they find a nice
juicy worm, they don’t just eat the worm, they swallow half a
ton of muck with it. It used to be such a pleasant
neighbourhood before all these refugees moved in. Those damn
wallabies are bad enough, stamping all over the place with
feet like cricket bats. Before you know it we’ll be surrounded
by beavers.
Mrs Badger:
“Excuses, excuses, you’re just sodding
useless. I sometimes look at you and wonder why I shacked up
with you in the first place. And what’s that disgusting
smell?”
Mr Badger:
“I don’t know, but its all over the ground by
the farm gate. I didn’t realise until I’d walked all over it”
Mrs Badger:
“Well you’re not coming in here stinking
like that. Go back out again and roll around in some crap for
a few minutes. I’m fed up. I’m going back to sleep, and if you
dare come anywhere near my bum with those tweezers you’re
dead.”
(The reference to the tweezers is a bit of an in-joke.
Badgerbunny, and friends on the Greenback Estates, prized
highly, the trout flies made from the pheremone enhanced hairs
of the females' nether regions. I will say no
more.)
Blast You Filthy Baroness
Early on Sunday morning, accompanied by my two fishing pals, Arthur the Cone Headed and parchment-skinned Viet George, I ventured forth to a babbling brook in search of the spotted breakfasts therein. Arthur cut his hazel wand from a bush along the way, and Viet-George carried his well used, springy bamboo pole. For hookbait, we had a tobacco tin of plump dock grubs, and for groundbait we had weevils.
Strictly speaking, we did not have the necessary permission
to angle in these waters, so the approach, by necessity, was a
hush-hush affair, carried out on all fours. Now George,
although adequately versed in the art of concealment, was
defiant to the last, and swore that he would defer to no man,
(or woman). Regular cuffs around the ear from Arthur were
necessary to persuade him otherwise, and restore harmony and
discipline to our clandestine operation.
After twenty
minutes of commando-style crawling, interrupted only by
erratic bursts of fisticuffs, and anguished cow-pat removal
interludes, we found ourselves peering into a clear, dark
pool, overhung with bushes, under which our quarry lurked.
Hardly daring to breathe, I peered down between the damp
grass stalks, and taking a handfull of the scratchy, writhing
weevils, I tossed them into the waters. From under the bushes
came a sound of much swirling and galumping. I retreated back
into the meadow to prepare. Arthur had already assembled his
rudimentary outfit, and with a fat, creamy dock grub impaled
upon his home made hook, he lowered it into the pool. At that
moment, the air was split asunder by the sound of a voice,
loud and shrill, laden with hidden menace and violent
overtones.
“ Oi you, get off moi land”.
The piercing
eyes looking down from atop the steaming, snorting gelding
showed no pity or remorse. The cruel swishing of her riding
crop gave a premonition of things to come. Baroness
Greenback’s feared reputation had been deservedly acquired for
her long record of merciless and sadistic treatment of common
poachers.
I originally posted the following piece on the Bourne website. I have a horrible feeling that some people took it completely seriously, as I kept being asked where the McDonalds was in Bourne.
Head For The Hills
With the predicted onset of global warming, it is predicted that sea levels will rise, and that the East Anglian coastline will once again revert to an outline similar to that in Roman times. You might laugh, but if this was to happen, it would flood the Fenlands right up to the outskirts of Bourne, causing damage running into hundreds of pounds. On the bright side, Bourne would become a coastal resort, although instead of sandy beaches we would be looking out over miles and miles of mosquito ridden sludge. As the waters gradually began to creep over the land, the fen dwellers would be forced to abandon their houses made out of old wooden doors, and head inland.
After about thirty years or so, the few hundred survivors would be concentrated around a small patch of dry soil near Crowland. Diseased, inbred, and poisoned by living in close proximity to an aggregation of speedway and banger racing tracks, the malaria ridden remnants of the old fenlands would begin to strike out for pastures new. Like a scene from The Living Dead, the pale hordes, festooned in black, peat stained rags, would crawl their way along the tidal creeks, ending up eventually by the decayed and rusting ruins of the drive-in McDonald’s in Bourne’s south-east quadrant. As they crawled towards the safety of the high ground, uttering strange guttural cries, the local residents, defending their territory to the hilt, would stand in serried ranks on Stamford hill, scything them down with garden implements. It could happen you know.
Now, if you have the stamina, go directly to the dark and
murky excesses of fishytales2.
Just don't expect to
understand any of it.