h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Entry: The Fox - A7685517
Author: Tom the Pom - U235897

Taking a liberty in submitting Tom the Pom's entry, but I really enjoyed reading it - made me laugh on several occasions (like the peas, and the sock and the football). As a slice of life, this is a good thick square of no nonsense rich fruit cake.

It might get some more readers here.

Thanks Tom, it went excellently well with a Sunday morning .
Waz

Tom the Pom, I tried to leave you a message on your homepage to say that if you objected to 'The Fox' being in this review forum, just to say so and I'd remove it again. But I can't post to your page, probably because I'm not registered on the WW2 site that I think you're registered under.

I've said it now, here, anyway .

Waz

G'Day Waz, ah wuz chuffed tu the top o' me socks when I read your wee article about, "The Fox."
I have many more like stories that are based on fact so if you would like to read them just drop me a line. Cheers mate :0)

“OH, RATS”

I can remember occasions when me Mam would blurt out, “Oh rats!!”
Me Dad wasn’t as refined as me Mam and if something didn’t go right for him he would use a four letter word that the Vicar would not use in church, well not on a Sunday anyway.

Mum might be sewing and prick her finger with the tiny sharp needle and a tiny droplet of red would stain the snowy white handkerchief she was embroidering.
“Oh rats, I wonder if that will come out?” she would whisper to herself exasperated while holding the tiny red mark up to the light.

On hearing the word, “Rats” my mind would flit to the yearly rat round up of Thornton Abbey Farm.

Everyone who owned a shotgun, whether it was a twelve bore or a four ten gauge, were invited to John Smith’s farm for a days rat shoot.
Actually, they weren’t sent one of those wee cards embossed wi’ gold writing that stated, “the Right Hon John wants yer tae get yer boddy owwer ere ‘ere pronto cos we is extrminatin’ sum vermin”
“ Oh and by the way there’s a free keg of beer on tap in the wagon shed so bring yer awn tin cup”


Well you know how it is when word gets round “There’s summat fer nowt goin’ doon at John Smith’s farm cum Setdi” (One could get something for nothing down at John Smith’s farm on the coming Saturday)

Saturday eventually arrived and it was a beautiful morning.
Round about midday I noticed people passing our house and thought, “App’n theer’s a trip goin’ sum weer?”
Since the railway station was about a quarter of a mile down the road, folk from the village would have to pass our farm cottage to get there.

Normally we very rarely got anyone going past, let alone calling.
Then I noticed most men were carrying guns and the penny dropped, “It were rattin’ day”
I ran down to the farm and on turning off the lane to walk into the farmyard it was like walking into Pettycoat Lane in London.

There were bikes lined up against the hay stacks, bikes lining the wagon shed walls, four youths had even turned up in a pony and trap and having got out of the trap they were in such a big hurry to get to the barrel of beer that was sitting on a pile of empty sacks they omitted to tie up the horse who had wandered over to a clover stack and was having a good tuck in.

“ Oy, git yon bloody ‘oss away from oor clover stack”

Unfortunately the Foreman turned up just then and spiked the youths ambitions regards free drinks before the rat shoot, and retrieving the mallet and tap from one youth informed him, “Us duzzent opp’n barril until end o’ t’ shoot cos app’n some daft bugger ‘aif pissed cud git shot accidental like, naw wor ah meen?”

And because the foreman was about six foot three tall and built like a brick dunny, the youth mumbled, “Oh yea! absolutely! Ah meen sure, ah couldn’t agree more, ah’ll jus’ go an’ watter me ‘oss!!”

“ Roight yoos lot, we start wi t’ barn an’ werk towards t’ stacks an’ don’t shoot toward a stack if’n yus close tu stacks cos app’n yu cud fire um” and with a wave of his hand the shoot began.

“Weere’s Fred wi ‘is ferrits?”

“Am ower ‘ere” warbled Fred the local ferret fancier, waving one arm like a fiddler crab.
The other arm was steadying the box that had his, “Babies” in it.

“ Well come ower ‘ere an’ stick yer ferrit under these tiles”
And because the demand lacked, “Please” which would have made it a request, Fred mumbled,” Ah naw weer ah’d like to shove me ferrit!!”
Even humble folk like to be asked, and not told to do something.
It’s called Democracy.

Actually Fred was a scruffy little man with a flat cap and a short neck.
The short neck with outsize ears gave the onlooker the impression that someone had whacked him over the head with a heavy plank of wood and it was only the ears that had stopped his head from shooting out of his butt.

Fred’s right shoulder was now sagging under the weight of the ferret box
Taking the webbing strap from his shoulder he lowered the box gently to the ground and withdrew the little wooden peg that was secured to the box with a bit of string and a bent nail.
Now the metal loop on the lid could be lifted off the staple on the box and lifting the lid he took out a snow white ferret wi’ pink eyes and climbed the ladder that was already in place at the side of the barn.

When he got to the top he offered the ferret into the guttering that ran the full length of the barn beneath the tiles. The ferret shambled along the guttering for a short way then it did a left turn and disappeared under the tiles.
Fred the ferret wallah then came down the ladder with a smirk on his face, and turning to the foreman he warbled, “shit’ll ‘it fan any minit noo”

A small head popped up over the guttering and there was a loud bang as someone let go with a four ten shot gun.
“That wus me f----n’ ferrit” screamed Fred
“ Aw sorry mate, good job he weren’t in thee troosers, ah missed anyway” grinned the shooter.

A big rat suddenly reared up in the guttering and a young lad shouted “ Gawd! luk at ‘im, he’s a big un”

All eyes swiveled to where the lad was pointing

It was dramatic, it was like watching H.M.S. Sheffield when all the big guns move up and swing round majestically about to take on the might of the Bismark.
Then “BOOOOOOOM!!!!”
Like someone had flicked a switch all the guns fired in unison.
Shoulders jerked back as the recoil of the guns punched into them.
Brick dust flew off the wall and the cast iron guttering cracked, shuddered, but stayed put.
An iron bracket clung to the wall on one remaining wall bolt and made a noise like a dog with asthma as it swung back and forth like a clock pendulum.
Blue smoke from the guns rose up to the heavens and made the scene even more dramatic.

The big rat rocketed on it’s back up the sloping tiles and at the top departed the roof like a rocket bound for the moon.
At about fifty feet up in the air it seemed to run out of lift and did a wheelie, and all eyes that had followed it’s flight into space paused, and began to lower as they followed it’s trajectory back to earth where it landed with a soggy thud.

I remember when Dad and I had laid in the farm cart until two o’ clock in the morning with a view to killing a fox that was thinning out the cackle berry layers.
I heard a snoring noise coming from the granary above us.
I said to Dad, “Can yu hear that?
“Wot?” asked Dad looking puzzled
And there it was again “zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz aaaghghgh!!!”

“There must be a tramp sleepin’ up there in the granary”

Dad spat, and dust about thirty feet away spouted up off the dry ground of the wagon shed like a .22 bullet had hit the ground.
“ Naw taint! yu daft bugger, it’s bloody rats, there’s a big bugger wi’ ony three legs an’ ah seed ‘im a couple o’ times, but we’ll git ‘im wun dae, yu mark me wods.

The chap with the ferrets had moved the ladder and put another ferret under the tiles on the opposite side of the building.
Suddenly there were rats running in both directions along the spouting.
Some decided to come down or they accidentally got pushed by others down the down pipe and on emerging at the bottom they scattered and made for the straw stacks.
But the terrier dogs were quick and very few got away.

One terrier laid a dead rat at the feet of one bloke who snarled, “ So yu got wun, wotcha want… a bloody medal? ger off an' find another wan” and off the dog went.

Then one of the youths and a lass emerged from the clover stack and the lass was all smiles and an old bloke sniffed and warbled, “She’s caught her awn rat! but ‘e weern’t naw wot’s wot till ‘er owd man cums lukkin’ fer ‘im wi’ a gun, next year app’n?

The foreman then took the tap and mallet from the sacking and without more ado whacked the wooden tap into the beer keg and everyone lined up with their tin mugs and the odd glass.

The Farmer went into his house and the curtains were drawn and we retired into the wagon shed and swapped yarns and jokes.

As night closed in some decided to get home before lighting up time because to be caught riding without a light could cost one a fine of seven and sixpence.

It was only when the barrel of beer was finally declared empty that what was left of the ratting group decided it was time they were home.

The last to leave made sure the gate was closed and latched then he too scurried into the gathering gloom up the lane after the others.

Tom Barker

Excellent, Tom Barker !

THE PLOUGH BOY
Part one

With legs apart like the Colossus of Rhodes or some night club bouncer trying to make himself look more imposing, and to my mind oblivious to the fact that he was an easy target for the first yobbo who came round the corner to give him a swift kick in the nuts and thereto gain the advantage and rob him my Dad with an almost theater like gesture like he was playing King Lear or perhaps MacBeth would take out his black pipe and tobacco pouch from his waist coat pocket while mentally pinning me to the wall with his steely gaze, well I think he liked to think he had a steely gaze, me, I just thought his eyes looked like two blokes side by side had just urinated in the snow to see who could paint the best pattern on a misty morning while observing, “Bit thick this morning” Jim!
And Jim’s reply of “aye it’s a good length an’ all” had them both tittering at the old joke.
‘Ah went an’ got yer a job” Dad warbled with a smug look on his face, then fishing out a penknife from another waistcoat pocket he proceeded to de-coke his pipe while glancing at me anticipating an answer.
Black ash and white powder began to fall to the mat as the knife blade made a rasping sound as it scraped the tiny bowl clean.
My Mother would make a “tsk , tsk” sound, and Dad would sometimes be sitting in his old chair near the fire and on reading in the paper that King George the Fifth’s Silver Jubilee was going to cost thousands of pounds and here was my Dad scratching to buy a pint and an ounce of chewing twist.
Dad would take out his pipe and spit into the fire to express his disgust.
Sometimes he would miss and hit the black polished surround that my Mum had spent hours on with a brush and a tin of Zebra black grate polish to make it look sparkling and clean.
If Dad’s aim was a bit off and the offending tobacco juice, not unlike a B.B. lead air gun pellet, would ricochet and hit the dog who had been on the mat with it’s eyes closed.
The dog would then get up and with a disgusted look at my Dad would creep to the back of the settee where it was not so warm but it could sleep perchance without the chance of an acid bath every ten minutes.
Our dog was not keen on tobacco juice so instead of licking it off he just rubbed up against the back of the sofa and it was deposited there to dry
Trouble was, about three months later when Mum was cleaning the chairs and sofa she spotted the patch that by now had rotted the cloth and left a gaping hole.
Dad who had just come in from spending the day mucking out the pigs, cows and horses and spreading manure from the horse and cart in his Wellies found he was in even deeper manure when he got home.
I could tell me Mum was a tad upset because she kept looking at the clock and was waiting for him and almost drooling with fury.
Then we heard the back gate bang.
There was the noise of boots being scraped on the back door scraper.
Mum took up her position near the table with one foot tapping in 6/8 time indicating she was about to march out and clock him.
If this story had a sound track we would be hearing “ Annie’s farewell tae Chairlie” played on the bagpipes.
“Look at that” raved Mum.
“Look at wot?” asked Dad taken completely by surprise as he entered the door, ignoring the old Gypsy warning of , “When up to your nose in manure, keep yer gop shut”
Mum was so busy backing up her mouth with hand gestures, while Dad‘s stood there like a signaler on deck of H.M.S. Sheffield taking in semaphore signals and getting ready to duck should Mum suddenly swing the anchor.
Meanwhile the dog, who was no stranger to these verbal outbursts, rose like one of those huge hounds one sees at the noshin’ trough of King Charles the First and tucking his tail between his back legs slunk silently into the back kitchen and curled up under the cold sink with what sounded like a disgusted groan.
Every time Dad tried to open a conversation at the dinner table Mum would remind him of the hole in the couch.
“Ah cud do wi’ some--” he began, but was cut short as Mum glared and her top teeth that resided in a drinking glass at the side of her bed all night, but now restored to her gob for dinner, suddenly came down on the piece of rabbit leg like the blade a guillotine.
She was so mad she bit through the bone.
Mum gulped like a great white pointer shark in a feeding frenzy, then calmed down a bit when Dad suggested, “Yu gits yer knickers aw in a twist fer nowt an yu could ‘av’ broke yer false fangs.”
Dad didn’t give a stuff about the teeth but he could see some of his precious sugar beet money going towards new ones should these get broken.
Then he got the bright idea to take Mum across the river to Kingston upon Hull where he promised he would buy her the new three piece suite of her hearts desire.
They went into Woolworths, but Mum said she wanted a three piece suite and not a couple of deck chairs so they decided to look in Marks and Spencers.
There was a doorman at the door in a blue uniform with gold braid and what looked like scramble egg on the tip of his cap.
Mum straightened up and I could almost read her expression, she wished she had remembered to wear her tiara and treble row of neck pearls.
Like The Queen she walked regally through the door ignoring the blokes hand as it was held behind his back to catch any small coins my Mum might deign to drop into his palm.
But she ignored the hand with a sniff and offered him a sweet smile as she glided onto the plush carpet inside the display room
Then Mum saw it, and clasping both hands together like she was about to pray she glided majestically forward as if on skates with a look of rapture on her face.
It was a settee with two matching chairs, and it was covered with light brown real leather.
I had seen one just like it in the country manor house of Lord Whatsisname in the yearly glossy magazine.
If Dad bought that he would have to get a second job on nights somewhere and work for the rest of his life just to pay off the interest on the hire purchase.
Then when he died from lack of sleep they would put him on show in a glass case somewhere to pay the rest off.
Even if the tied house that came with the job had been his, it would not have raised enough to buy that suite.
Dad was indeed in the deep brown smelly stuff and put the thirty bob back into his pocket.
The thought of pedaling to Barton one very dark night on his bike and robbing Barkley’s Bank crossed his mind but the thought of ten years in Dartmoor without his baccy made him discard the idea.
Dad had to almost wrestle my Mum away from Marks and Spencers.
The journey home without a three piece suite was like a nightmare.
Mum sat there in the saloon of the river ferry boat glaring, Dad sat there and was not game to even light his pipe.
Every time me Dad moved Mum would glare at him.
In the end he got up and went up on deck and looked down at the foam careening past the bow and I thought, “ Will he? won’t he? but he didn’t and the boat docked and we all got off and trundled up the
wooden slatted slope to the train.
All it needed now was some rain and I truly think Dad would have sat in the train and cried all the way home.
Finally we got home and a few days later Dad saw an add in the paper and he borrowed a horse and cart and went to Barton where he bought a three piece suite and came back home then he and uncle Jack moved it from the cart and into the house.
I remember Uncle Jacks remark as he helped Dad in the with the new sofa, “Whar di ye gan tae get this Charlie? ah’ve seen better wans oan the tip”
‘eyup Charlie man, whar’s the legs???”
We now had a settee with no legs.

End part one.

THE PLOUGH BOY

Part two

Dad got on his bike and went back to Barton to get the four legs he had left behind.
But when he got there the shop had shut and everyone had gone home.
He left a note tucked in the letter box requesting the shop owner to send the legs and they were sent.
Dad was mad because he got another bill for the delivery of the legs.

But when the legs arrived and Mum screwed then into the threaded sockets under the settee and we found we could sit on it and dangle our legs.

Mum did thaw out eventually and Dad did stop spitting at the fire grate.
But now flowers in the front garden were suddenly dying for no apparent reason.
And a bloke who lived in Thornton Village a mile away had a dog that was blind in one eye and no one knew why, except me and I was saying nothing , my most earnest desire was to grow up and not be deformed like the dog.

‘Thas got tu be up at fower o’ clock termorrer an yu cin borra me bike tu get tu Barra’
“Oh God” I thought, “What am I in for now?”
My Dad’s bike was held together by bits of string and rust.
And Barrow on Humber was three miles away.
Since the brakes didn’t work the rider had to be an acrobat, holding one leg over the front wheel and with the boot rubbing on the front tire hope the bike will stop before it hits the wall or, and God forbid, someone else?
On a down hill slope forget it, just hang on and pray.
Just hope there is soon an up hill slope so the bike will slow down long enough for you to dismount with dignity.

Dad had written the address of the Farmer in Barrow village and I set off the next day.
Since Dad was out of work I thought it was ironic he was laid at home in bed while I going to work.

The way I saw it was the clever farmer would be paying me less because I was young.
My Dad would end up with the money without working for it and I was the sucker.
Dad knew how to plough and had probably spun the yarn to the farmer I had been taught being brought up on a farm.
Of course I knew how to plough but had never done it on my own all day.
In short my Dad was chucking me in at the deep end and was not there to help should I hit a snag.

I found the farm and the dog that looked like a cross between a Border Collie and a Suffolk Punch horse.
It began creeping towards me with huge white fangs dripping saliva.
Picking up half a brick and holding it aloft as though to throw it I stopped when a voice snarled, “GO LIE DOWN”
So I did and kept very still since I had never before encountered a talking dog before.
But the dog then immediately shut its drooling gob and slunk away.

“ Na then young un, is thee the Barker’s lad frum Barton?” said the voice, and had to glance sideways to see a gray haired man about sixtyish leaning on the bottom half of a horse stable door.
“An’ ah don’t want tu see yu threatinin’ mah dog aggin” he added dourly

I thought, “Charming”
The voice droned on, “Well is thee gunna lay theer aw dae like a bloody monument or are us off tu git sum werk done tu dayer?”
“ Not being a mind reader what did you have in mind”, I quipped in defence.
“ Aw ah see, yo ‘as some cheeky buggers in Barton as well us av’ in Barra” he returned now losing the scowl.
Then almost with a grin he said, “C’mon ah’ll show thee Prince, tha’ cin tek ‘im an’ ploo yon field at corner o’ Goxhill road an’ New Holland road.”

The big black horse was magnificent.
The mane was waved like a woman’s hair and the big brown intelligent eyes were watching me knowing I was a stranger.
“Tha’d better mek friends wi Prince cos tha’s goin’ tu tek ‘im ploughin’ shortly” said the Farmer.
Then the horse snorted and it sounded like someone trying to kick start a thousand cc Harley Davidson twin motor cycle minus its silencer.

I looked at the hoof on one hind foot and noticed it was twice the size of my head.
I also observed the huge iron shoe nailed to that foot and thought that if all the metal on the four feet was rolled out flat then corrugated, there would be enough to cover the roof of our house.

But I was horse smart and would not let him draw me too close so he could stomp down on my foot.
A horse this size has the weight to crush the foot and the recipient could be crippled for life.
Like the Clydesdale, the Lincolnshire Shire horse is a huge draught animal and I had to stand on tiptoe to put the heavy saddle on his back.
The saddle alone was as much as I could lift but after a struggle I finally I got it onto the horses back.

According to the farmer the single bladed plough was already in the field and I left the farmyard leading Prince.
As soon as we were clear of the farm I dived my hand into my pocket and gave Prince a sugar lump.
The change was immediate. We became friends.
I hooked the plough up and raised the blade then lifting the handles I told Prince to, “Go on”

Then the Farmer said I was to bring the horse back to the stable for an hour at midday and I could sit in the stable to eat my sandwiches.

The first day this occurred a young lass about my age brought me out a mug of tea.
I had never set eyes on her before and was quite taken aback when she snarled,” This is not my idea, if I had my way you would come and fetch it, I’m not your bloody slave”

She had put the mug down and was at the door when I called, “I’m sorry, and true, you are not my slave and I would not dream of drinking this tea, and if all people in Barrow are as rude as you I do not wish to be here to cause you any further embarrassment, good day, and by the way you might tell the Farmer he can look for another plough boy or do it himself.

I took my time cycling home on the old rusty bike.
It was a beautiful day and I stopped at Barrow Mere to look across the river to Hull.

When I got home Dad hit the roof.
Then I hit the roof
Then Mum hit the roof, “ I see, one hasn’t got a job, the other packs up a job, what happens if I walk off the job?”
Two days later a letter arrived from the Farmer at Barrow, “Dear Tom lad, tha cin ploow good, tek no notice o’ oor Doris, she ‘s like her Mam, all gob an’ knickers, come back an’ ploo fer me an’ ah’l mek it woth thee wile” Signed, Jim Blewitt.

The Farmer came out of the pig sty and called “Ah’ll be with thee in a minit lad.”
Then surprise, surprise, he came out of the house dragging a reluctant lass who kept her eyes looking at the ground.
“ Tha’s got summat tu say so gerron wi’ it” grunted the Farmer.
“ I ‘m sorry I was so rude to you the other day it won’t happen again” stammered the wench.
and I replied, “ No it won’t, because I have bought a new flask and I will bring my own tea. But thank you anyway.
I finished ploughing that field and the farmer was pleased with the resulting chaff he got from the local pub.
“That lads ploughed afore” and, “Aye well ‘e were brought up on a farm ap’n, an’ ah knaw ‘is Dad, Charlie Barker.

Then old mister Blewitt the farmer’s Dad died,
The Farmer said, “Ad like thee tu clean all that harness and brasses cos were goin’ to tek ‘im on ‘is last wagon ride t’ cimitry, my lass will come an’ gi’ thee a hand cos ap’n we could be late fer chetch.
( church)

The two of us sat there all afternoon cleaning and polishing in silence.

Then the harness was finished and the farmer thanked me and said there was no more work and I left.
As I got about a hundred yards away I turned and the farmer was leaning on the gatepost watching me pedal away. He waved and I waved back, and then the girl waved and I waved back again, and suddenly her face lit up with a radiant smile.
Then I was gone from Barrow.

End. Tom Barker.

You made me laugh out loud. Lovely. Thank you !

I love this Completely bizzare, but still utterly wonderful to read.

WHAT A LOAD OF BULL

True event in 1925 by T.O.B. Born May 23rd 1921.

I remember as a lad living on a farm in Lincolnshire when we used to ramble across fields collecting brambles and when we got home Mum used to cut the crust off slices of bread and having washed the brambles would cook them in a pot adding a little sugar, then lining a basin with the de-nuded bread she would tip the contents of the hot pot into the bread lined basin then put more bread on the top and cover it with a plate and then put a heavy smoothing iron on the plate to hold it down and compressed.
Then Mum would dab a little iodine on our cuts and scratches we had collected reaching for those out of the way brambles.
When the bramble pudding had cooled Mum would turn it upside down and ease off the dish.
And there in all its glory would be a beautiful purple bramble pudding in the same shape as the bowl it had been made in.
It was then transferred to our pantry to cool off and the next day when cold custard was poured over it was delicious.

The last time Dad detected the aroma of the waste product of milk was when he traced the smell of cow manure to the front room and on seeing the two green lines ending at the four pram wheels he moved the pram and about three yards of double green line that was stuck to the pram wheels came off the beautiful flower patterned genuine Turkish carpet like strips of masking tape.

I knew it was a genuine Turkish carpet because I had seen my Mum buy it in Woollies store in Hull for the princely sum of two bob.

We lived on a Farm and of course a Farm is not complete without a Bull.
But there are old Bulls and young Bulls and most are fitted with a copper ring in the nose so that a handler can control the Bull using a staff with a hook on the end.

A Bull’s nose is very sensitive to pain and the Bull is thus controlled.

Some Bulls on Farms have excellent eyesight and this variety usually seem to have extra long pointy horns.
They seem to be able to reach speeds in excess of 40 m.p.h. from a standing start in 4 seconds flat and spin round on a dust bin lid.
Weighing in at just over a ton and with muscles on its neck like a Clydesdales backside when mating, this was one Bull one had to give way to or get trampled and gored to death.

Usually a Bull like this is kept in a field with tall hedges round it and at the gate to the field a board is nailed to the gate, “BEWARE OF THE BULL”
Also, since the gate is made of steel tubing and the gateposts are double the size of normal gateposts and set in concrete and the gate has a huge padlock and extra strong chain on it should tell the casual observer something.
“Duh, must be a bull in da’ field Fred” and Fred on perusing the notice and having made out,”Bee, ugh, ull”, then guesses at the rest, replies, “Tha cud be roight mate!”

The reason why a Bull like this is kept behind tall hedges is because if the Bull can see over the hedge it will destroy the hedge with it’s sharp horns to get at what ever it can see moving in the distance.
There are reasons why a Farmer would keep a Bull, he could be proud to be the owner of a magnificent animal, he would enter him in shows and win medals and cups, he would make money by leasing the bull to make more little bulls and cows.

That is why most Bulls worth their salt are free in the fresh air and sunshine and on good grass and are secure in a grass field.

One day a Bull got into our back garden where there was a sheet drying on the line.
The sheet was flapping in the wind and one such Bull that had got loose was trotting up one hedge side that led to our back garden.
He was pondering where to go and what to do next for a laugh when he spotted the sheet on me Mam’s clothesline fluttering in the breeze

On seeing the flapping sheet the Bull broke into a gallop and with legs going like Catherine wheels he leaped the short hedge at the bottom of our garden and charged the sheet.

With a, “Ping and a pong” the two pegs holding the sheet flew off the sheet and the clothes line did a fair imitation of Robin Hoods bow as it twanged back and forth.

But for the Bull it was one of those days when nothing goes right
The sheet that had been held by the two pegs was now ruffled in it’s middle, and was offering resistance.
Then the horns poked through it.

Normally the sheet should have just slid off, but since it was now captured by the horns and draped over the Bull’s head like a brides veil it obscured the Bull’s vision.

The Bull stood there for a moment with it’s head moving from side to side and one could almost hear it’s brain ticking over,” Duh!!! who put the light out?”

Then the Bull took off like the London to Brighton Express, and the sheet was streaming out behind it like a bride who was a week late for her wedding.

But right smack in the direction the Bull was going was a huge walnut tree the root size of which would have covered the same area as our house did.
The tree was so big that even if the Bull’s brain had signaled,” Steer two points to starboard or two points to port” by the time the spinning legs had responded it was way too late.

The speeding Bull’s head hit the huge tree with a sickening thud and although the head and the rest of the bones stopped, all the meat and offal was still moving at 30 M.P.H. plus and shot forward about four feet and hit the tree with a loud splat.
Two huge nuts shot forward between the Bull’s front legs and hit the tree like a Postman franking a stamp on a letter.
There was a double heavy, “Thud thud” then they ricocheted back like the elastic bands of a sling shot leaving two half round impressions in the bark of the tree.

Then one could see all the muscles scrabbling to get back to where they belonged on the bones and when all was finally still the Bull’s eye that had been doing wheelies like an electric fan that had just had the switch flipped and they stopped and the eyelids dropped and remained closed.

The tree had shuddered like a dog shaking water out of its wet coat and a few leaves dropped to the ground
Then the bull keeled over and hit the grass like he’d been shot in the head.

Later on a wagon and two horses came, and the Waggoner unhitched the horses, then with some chains round the Bull they dragged it to the wagon by offering two thick wooden planks to the back of the farm wagon and chocking the wheel so the weight of the Bull did not nudge it to move.

Offering the chains over the front of the wagon the Waggoner attached them to the two horses and then to the Bull.
On the command “Giddyap” the two horses took up the slack of the chain, and I watched with bated breath as the two horses got the weight and their back ends crouched down to get more purchase.
Then as if with one mind they threw all their weight into the harness and it creaked but held and the
Bull slid towards the bottom of the two planks.
With thudding hoofs digging into the road to get a better grip the two huge shire horses dragged the heavy body of the Bull up the planks.

But the bloke knew what he was doing and as the Bull began to slide up the two planks, and suddenly the Waggoner grabbed one hind leg of the Bull that looked like it was going to catch on the end of the wagon and he pushed on it till it folded up and out of the way and the Bull was then in the cart.

As soon as the Bull was off the sloping planks and on to the flat of the wagon the horses seemed to lunge forward as the drag of the sloping planks was eliminated and for a moment it looked like the Bull was going to take out the front of the chocked wagon.
The Waggoner shouted “Woah” to the two horses and the stopped pulling and the chain went slack and the Bull seemed to settle on the floor of the wagon.

Throwing the chains into the wagon and then un-shipping the two planks the man put the planks on top of the Bull and hitched up the two horses to the cart.

Putting one horse back into the shafts and unhooking the two chains that hung each side of the lead horses harness the man connected the chains to the two metal loops on the tips of the shafts.
With one horse in front of the other and both pulling the cart the man then got up onto the cart and doffing his cap to me Mam he shouted, “Giddyap” to the horses.
When the cart had first arrived, the horses had pulled the cart quite easily but now with one ton plus of bull in the back of the cart they had to put a little more effort into it.
But soon they were off the grass verge and onto the hard road and disappeared down the lane.

We learned later the Bull was not knocked out but had died of a broken neck.
Later someone had carved with a penknife into the tree bark just below the artwork donated by the Bull. “BULL WOZ ERE 1926”

I don't believe it's a true story at all

Bit of artistic licence maybe... but a cool story .

As a piece of writing there's bits that need a little shaping, perhaps - in the intro. It wanders a touch before the story gets going. Good read though.

On Saturday I came across something I'd never seen before - at the junction of two roads, outside a pub, the ring for tethering bulls for baiting. Not used for over a century they say, but you could imagine it.

Hi Tom the Pomm,
we, or I on behalf of we of the Continuum, was wondering if you'd be ok with my selecting three or four extracts from your writings here to put into a CAC Edition for h2g2's Post?

It would be a page like this one A21373067, from the previous but one issue of .

The extracts would be in new entries, linked back to you and your home-space here on h2g2.

Waz (wearing CAC Continuum hat)

BARN YARD HASTLE

or

BARNARD CASTLE

I joined the Army in Sept 1938 and served seven years with the colors, albeit four of those years were in various German POW camps, where I continued to harass the enemy by sabotaging their railway wagons.
But then WW2 came to an end and after being de-mobbed I spent some time in a resettlement unit near Peterborough.
Then I got married and settled down and was working at a Chemical factory in my home town.
One morning I got a letter and a Rail Warrant instructing me to report to Barnard Castle to spend a fortnight going on maneuvers with some Territorial blokes since I was still on the Army Reserve list and would be for another five years.
Because I could drive a vehicle and had a license I was told to report to the M.T. Section
There I was presented with a 30 cwt truck with a four wheel drive and told to look after it while it was in my keeping because they wanted it back in good condition when I had finished with it in six weeks time.

One day I was told to report to C Coy square with my truck and wait for some blokes to fall in and wait and the usual inspection.

The blokes drifted out of the barracks and in full combat gear and formed up.
Then a Sergeant who looked like Smoky the Bear waddled onto the scene and began an inspection and walked up and down the ranks muttering, “ Ger a new blade in yer razor!”
and, “Get yer ‘air cut, gorrit?” then standing in front of another bloke he looked him up and down and then slowly shook his head and the bloke he was looking at began to slowly shake his head as well in unison while staring glassy eyed at the Sergeant.
A voice from the rear rank muttered, “ ‘ere! ah bet ‘e thinks ‘e’s lookin’ in a bleed’n’ mirrer!

As I sat there in my nice warm truck watching this comedy unfold it began to rain and I thought, “Oh Gawd! a fortnight of this is going to drive me and the truck up the wall’

My reverie was shattered by a voice screaming , ‘Right you’se blokes ---on truck’

The uniformed ranks suddenly broke and scattered then made a beeline for the line of waiting trucks.

There was an almighty bang as some one let the tail door of my truck drop, and it suddenly stopped swinging as someone prized the metal step down that was attached to the door.
Hob nailed boots suddenly began clattering in the back of the truck then the side door to the cab opened and a Second Lieutenant got in and said, ‘Right driver when you are ready, go to the main road and get into the convoy and just follow the truck in front of you’
I had not heard the back door being fastened so I thought I ought to check it since the safety of the occupants was now my concern.
‘ What are you doing’ snarled the Officer as I opened my side door.
I said, ‘I cannot set off with the back door down Sir’
“I told you to go, now go’ almost screamed the Officer.
“ Sorry sir ‘ said I, and I jumped out and sure enough the tail gate was still down.
The blokes sitting inside grinned and one said, ‘Och we wus juist noo tossin’ wha wus gan ti shut the back gate fer ye’.
I paid no heed but slammed the tailgate up and put the securing pins in then went back to the cab and got in.
The fuming Officer had a little notebook out and asked me for my name and number.
Having written it down and white with rage he very quietly asked, ‘Do you think we might join the rest now’
I made no comment but set off for the main road and made a mental note of the types of Officers I had met during my service and thought that if I ever got round to writing a book I would call it, “The Good, the Bad and the friggin’ Rich”
But some b----r beat me to it.
Well they changed the, “Rich” to “Ugly” but the meaning is near enough the same.

However this pillock fitted none of the afore said descriptions, so I just put him in a category all on his own, “Le Back Stud Miserable” or perhaps just plain “Dumbkopf”

I waited for a gap in the line of other trucks that were on the road and having got in we moved more or less at walking speed until about quarter of a mile had been covered then the speed picked up.
We arrived at a wooded area near a farm and we were told to park near the haystack.

The young Officer snarled to me, ‘Right you can join the rest in digging a trench over there’ and he pointed indicating the haystack.
He added with a tight smile, ‘If you think you are going to sit in that truck and watch us dig you are mistaken’
“Us dig Sir?” I enquired, “You mean you are really going to show me how to do it Sir?”

It did not bother me one bit, I had seen this type so many times before and they were boring.
One bloke standing near me grinned, “ Oi don’ thin’ ‘e’ loiks yew’ owd mate?”

Then the Officer drew a line in the dirt at the rear of the haystack with his cane and told us to dig a slit trench there.

‘The enemy will advance from over there’ he quaffed, and taking hold of his field glasses
he peered at some cows grazing on the side of a hill.

One of the blokes digging next to me caught my eye and grinned, ‘Weer the f-k did yu find that twit?” and nodded after the Officer who was now striding toward the farmhouse as if his trousers were made of vulcanized rubber and were two sizes too small at the crotch.
I said I had not found him but we were saddled with him for this exercise, but he was a pain in the butt in my humble opinion.

We dug the trench and I suggested we pull some straw out of the stack to put over the trench to disguise it and then we could hide under it and when the lollypop bandit came back he wouldn’t know where we were.
One bright bloke said, “If we lay our rifles ower the top they will hod up the hay and no bugger will see us and we can get wa’ heeds doon”
I said, ‘The trench should be the other side of the stack, we have no field of fire here it is blocked by the stack and since any enemy that is coming at us from our now blind side we might just as well have a sleep until they came to take us prisoners.”
One Geordie bloke said, ‘Wha giz a s--t, ahm gitt’n mah heed doon,’ gee’s a shoot wen the ass’l gits back tae wha’
Then suddenly a Lockheed Lightning plane flew over and Geordie grumbled, ‘It’s al’ reet fer him, he’s gan ter be hame fer his tea an’ his missus while us silly buggers is sittin’ yer in the f-n’ mud an’ rain.’

That night the blokes were scattered all over the place, no one knew what was happening and we were just going through the motions so to speak.
It was cold and wet and I got into my truck that night and got under the tarpaulin and went to sleep.

The next day we got back to Barnard Castle camp and I was told to have the day off because I had been out all night on the exercise.

What turned out to be a long boring day suddenly brightened up that evening when another very pleasant Officer (Well! they always are when they want something for nothing, but I don’t think this bloke even had a clue on how to be unpleasant) came into the room and upon sighting me asked, ‘Are you a driver?’
‘Yes sir’ I replied.
‘Good!’ he chortled, could we go to your truck immediately because we are going to Darlington’
I protested, ‘But Sir, I do not come back to duty until tomorrow, I was out on an exercise all through last night’
‘My dear chap’ sighed the Officer in pleading tones, ‘ There are about thirty of our chaps drunk and in the lock up in Darlington and if we don’t get them out before morning they could be fined.”
‘ The Police Sergeant has assured me if we get them out tonight they will forget about it, but if they are there in the morning they will have to go before the Magistrate.’

On the assurance that I would get tomorrow off we got into the truck and took off for Darlington.

The Officer must have known the area because he guided me to the local Nick where we pulled up and the Officer jumped out.
I got out and dropped the tail door in anticipation of the blokes coming out of the Police cells.

Soon they began to trickle out in twos and threes, most holding each other up.
On spotting the truck one bloke guided the others to it.
‘Right me lucky lads this way fer the sky lark, Hic’
Then nodding at me he said, “Didnie tak ye lang ter get ‘ere frae oor camp laddie”
“But we showed that f-n’ shower the neet, why aye man, we ‘ad us a right f-n’punch up wi’ they locals”
‘Ah divvant nah wa’s gan ti pay fer thon mirror, sum biddy poot a hawf foo bawtle through yon bar lookin’ gless’ as weel, wit a waste o’ guid tonsil varnish, aye!”
They all got comfy on the latted seats and those who had to stand were hanging on to the metal hoops that supported the green tarpaulin that served as a roof over the back of the truck.
Then I shut the tailgate and put in the securing pins.
The Police Sergeant was then growling at the Officer, “Jist remember wit ah telt yez!” ”They’ll no get a second chance next time’
Some more muttered mumbling and then from the Officer, ‘You have my word Sergeant’

With the tail gate now secured and the Officer in his seat and the blokes in the back singing “I belang tae Glesca, dear old Glesca toon, whit’s the matter wi’ Glesca cos it’e goin’ roon an’ roon, ah’m ony a common auld worrkin’ chap, as ony yin ‘ere can see, but when ah get a couple o’ pints on a Sa’erday, Glesca belangs ter me.’ Hic, hic! We set off.

I started the engine and bearing in mind I had blokes in the back who were battling to keep their feet even on firm ground I took off gently.

There was another truck turned up so I only had half of the drunks in the back of my truck.
Every time I went round a corner the feet in the back did a rat a tat tat to keep their owners upright.
I was the leading truck and the time was coming up for 3 in the morning and I wanted to get to bed so I began to gun the pedal a bit.
These trucks with four-wheel drives tend to whine quite loud when traveling at high speed.
Soon, and well after midnight, two trucks were screaming through the drizzle and cold of the dark night loaded with stupefied swaying and trying to sing Sodjers.

I think some of the local villagers who were awakened must have been wondering what was going on.
We sped round bends and the Officer at one point was quite pale as he gripped the dash board and quavered, ‘Have you been driving long?’
I reassured him I had been driving in the desert during WW2 and now drove an Ambulance in my hometown.
He calmed down a bit but still hung on the dashboard.
We pulled into the Camp and the other truck pulled in a minute later.
‘Bloody ‘ell mate, you had yer foot down, I couldn’t keep up wit’ yer” spat the other driver.
The Officer said, ‘Damn good bit of driving, you have beaten my time from Darlinton to the Camp and I have a Lagonda sports car.’

The happy beer sodden sqwuaddies were tumbling out the back of the truck and one bloke shouted to me, ‘That’s the best f-n’, hic ride, hic, ah’ve hed of a long while, hic, thanks mate, and with a wave he staggered away with his mates.
Then a bloke asked me to give him a hand because his mate was laid fast asleep propped up like a pickled mummy with a contented smile on it’s face at the front end of the truck.

When I woke up the next day it was midday and there were no more parades or orders on the board, and some chaps were even now leaving carrying their suitcases and making for home and the following day I also left for home.
The Officer who had requested my assistance that night to rescue the drunks from the clutches of the law saw me leaving and pulled up his sports car and gave me a lift to the Railway Station in Darlington.
That was the last time I saw Darlington.
And if the toffee nosed pillock who took my name and number reads this I forgave him long ago, since we only come round this way once it is better to make friends than be enemies.

But I wonder if any of those blokes who where in that Cop shop in Darlington that night long ago would write in and verify this true story.

Tom Barker. 1st Bn A&SH
Born 23rd May 1921

G'Day Waz,actually "The Fox" was written from a true memory of when I was a lad of about five years old and living on a Farm in Lincolnshire.
Since a Christmas tree looks a bit dull without the trimmings we trim it with baubles to enhance it, so now at 85 yrs old I tend to write mostly true stories with a humour thread through them so they are more delightful to read. Cheers matey :0)T

O.K. by me Waz! go for it. I will look out for it . Cheers mate. Tom

O.K. Waz me owd mate!, ah'll drink ti thaat. Go for it! :0) Regards, Tom.

'Tis indeed true me owd flower, nah why wud ah lie tu thee? :0)
Oh and in case ah fergits wen it comes aroon' can ah wish yuz aw,
" A 'appy 'ot cross egg!" :0)

Thanks, Tom - I'll get on to doing the CAC page shortly and will report back. Might not be until the weekend though.

I take your writing to be true, with a little added artistic licence on occasion .
Waz

Cheers Waz! an if'n yo is takin' a short cut across t' field yon Bull is in, may ah suggest yu tek yu wellies off an' weer runnin' shoes wi spikes in t' soles. :0)