Saturday, 26 February 2011

Having Issues with the Disco

It was spitting with rain, but after a while it stopped doing that and started raining properly. I pulled into the verge and began setting the Land Rover for bad weather, which involved hanging a bucket from the rear view mirror to catch some of the rain that leaked inside the car, and replacing the fuse for the windscreen wipers that had developed a habit of switching themselves on whenever they felt like it.

Then I set off again. Very slowly. The suspension had given up behaving itself and gone flop. Not all of it, the front was still okay, but the bum of the car was now only about an inch off the ground so driving it felt like I was doing a wheelie.

Pootling along at 15 miles an hour, I couldn’t help thinking evil thoughts about Auto-Slaughter, and GBH; Grievous Banger Harm. It was all I could do to stop myself from pulling over, grabbing a branch and giving the thing a Basil Fawlty thrashing, or driving a stake through its heart.

Vampire, that’s what it was. It sucked blood. Some cars are nice, and some are just downright nasty, and this one was wicked to the core. The radio hadn’t worked since the day we got it, the heated seat would only work on the hottest days of summer and was so pleased with itself it would ignore all attempts to turn it off, and the electric windows would only go down, not up.

Fill it up with diesel and you empty Kuwait.

I pootled on.

The windscreen had cracked in the snow, a big split from one side to the other. Vampire car—where was the heart of a car anyway? The engine? Probably. That’s where I’d drive the stake. Hammer it in, all the way in, in the… the… well under the bonnet in the big metaly bit. I’m not great with mechanics.

Didn’t Stephen King write about a possessed car? Christine, I think it was called. My lump of Land Rover certainly wouldn’t have a girl’s name. There was nothing pretty about this Disco.

I pootled on.

At one point I had a string of cars and vans and lorries behind me. Along a straight bit I hugged the side and let them all pass, ignoring all the irritated hand gestures.

The thing is I need a big 4x4. I need something that will go off road and onto my land, something that will tow the animals about. I guess as much as the Land Rover hates me, I hadn’t exactly been kind to it. It hadn’t had an easy life.

Still, I felt no sympathy.

It’s amazing how bouncy it gets without suspension. Hit a pebble any bigger than a marble and the whole thing shudders as though it’s driving over its own private earthquake. But worse, much, much worse, is when it hits a pot-hole.

I hit a pot-hole just at the moment a Police car overtook me. I’m pretty sure it’s not an offence to drive a knackered car, albeit a legal one, slowly to a garage, but it’s still a worry. They went past slowly and I tried hard to look relaxed, like I do this every day. Then two things happened simultaneously, I lifted my hand in friendly acknowledgement, and hit a pot-hole.

I rattled about that much I could have lost fillings. The Police continued up the road, probably too busy laughing to bother pulling me over.

Cursing the vampire car, I pootled on.

Making the garage in record slow time, I pulled in.

“Well, I’m not certain what’s wrong with it,” I stammered, unable to meet the mechanic’s eye, “but I don’t think it’s serious. Just needs a bit of TLC, and it’s such a good car, never lets me down.”

Friday, 11 February 2011

The General is home!



I threw down the tailgate and announced, “Give it up and go nuts everyone, the General is back!” The General ignored me and so did all the rest of the pigs. He made his way out of the trailer and stepped into his old pen for the first time in more than a month, sniffed the air and ignoring the pigs and food in the middle set off on a reccy around the perimeter fencing.

Meanwhile I’d gone from a fine rendition of, The General’s Back in Town by Thin Lizzy to Robbie Williams Let Me Entertain You, mashing it up with some Wurzles I’ve Got a Brand New Combine Harvester. I was pleased to see him back if no one else was. I wanted them all to go mad but pigs can be very conservative at times. Unlike me.

Having lost my glasses the week before and now using an old pair with an old prescription that severely limited my eyesight, I was confident nobody was around to see me acting a fool, working on the ancient rule of if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.

Just as I reached the chorus, fifty stone of handsomeness sauntered along the last few feet of the perimeter and stopped in front of me. Truth is, I’d really missed him. He’s my mate and I’m his. While he was away I’d missed not being able to talk to him, not having someone with whom I could share how I was feeling and gossip about what was going on.

I guess we all need a confident and I felt comfortable with the General as mine. I stopped singing and larking about and went quiet. For ages we just stood next to each other. I put my hand on his shoulder and leant against him and he leant back. Then he wandered off.

He walked over to the group. It was dinnertime and they were tucking into pig nuts and barging one another about, which is normal. I try and limit competition for food by spreading it as wide as I can, but even so they’ll still congregate and argue over the same bit even though they’re surrounded by goodies.

The General didn’t bother eating. He just bumped into all of the pigs one by one in a kind of greeting, the way we might shake hands or hug.

Bump: Hey, General, you’re back!

Bump: Good to see you man, what’s happening?

Bump: Do you mind, I’m trying to eat my dinn—Oh, it’s you! How you doing General?

Pigs only have seven audible sounds with which they communicate, and they’re reserved for the big emotions, fear, food, sex, etc. Behind that, all the subtlety of conversation is conducted in body language. Pigs are masters of body language. Of course it’s all interpretation, but when you watch them communicate amongst themselves it’s laugh out loud funny.

I don’t know if he was seeking out Whinny, whom before he went off was his special girlfriend, or if she was seeking out him. But they found themselves together. She turned her back on him and he nudged her bum. She ignored him. He nudged harder. She still ignored him. When he went to walk off, she turned and charged and bit him on the shoulder. Hard.

He immediately went into full love seduction mode and she went, oh no, no, no, no, no! And bit him again. Then she started squealing and running away while looking back over her shoulder at him, and he lumbered after her. We were all pleased to see him home.

Tuesday, 1 February 2011

Shep & Jo BBC Radio Devon

How is it possible to love doing something that makes you so nervous?

I’ve been lucky enough to get a regular spot on the radio talking about self sufficiency and giving fun tips. Yesterday was my first show.

I was on at five past four in the afternoon, so I started prepping for it about 10 hours earlier. I sussed out what I wanted to say and then paced the length of a marathon up and down my lounge as I rehearsed and rehearsed it. I desperately wanted it to come across as fun and interesting and witty, and I sounded great… right up until I went live.

The produce phoned me up and put me through to Shep and Jo, the presenters. We had a quick chat while some music was playing, and then they introduced me.

It’s like your brain splits in two. One half is concentrating on what you’re saying while the other half is kind of commentating, saying things like, ‘you’re live on the radio man, don’t mess this up… Oh! What did you go and say that for!... Don’t sound nervous, don’t sound nervous, DON’T SOUND NERVOUS! Ow, you’re sounding nervous…’

It’s really weird.

Shep and Jo are just so nice and so good at what they do. You don’t realise how clever and how much work goes into making the show sound so effortless and smooth until you’re part of it and get a tiny glimpse behind the scenes. I know with the writing, which is more of what I’m used to, to make it sound easy is actually really hard, and they do it brilliantly.

So next time I’m on will be the 1st March. I loved being on yesterday, really loved it and I can’t wait to do it again, and next time I won’t be so nervous!

Shep and Jo are on every weekday afternoon on BBC Radio Devon 103.4fm / 95.7fm and dab. Even if you don’t live in Devon, give them a listen.

I’m on the BBC iplayer for the next few days at www.bbc.co.uk/.../Shep_and_Jo_Part_One_Self_sufficiency/

Right, this media tart is off to muck out some pig poo. It’s a charmed life I lead.

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

Life


I am listening to the most amazing autobiography by Keith Richards from the Rolling Stones. That man should not be alive; the things he's done! That's one wild, amazing man, and what i love about the book is it's so honest and frank, sure he's had some great times, lots of great times in fact, but he's been through hell too.


The book is an audio book, unabridged and read by Johnny Depp, this other guy who sounds like Keith Richards, and Richards himself. It's a great, great book.


I've started listening to a lot of unabridged books recently, and it's made a big difference to me mostly i guess because I'm out working on the farm a lot. I've got this old MP3 player and i download a book and it keeps me going. I'd be lost without it, to the point that I've become a champion for Audible, which is the audio book arm of Amazon.


As a champion i get to offer friends and people who know me a free audio book which you can't get through their regular site. Here's the link




If you can remember a time as a kid, walking to school and day-dreaming about buying a guitar and starting a band and getting a gig and touring and getting laid and having a wild time, then get Life by Keith Richards, because he did it for all the rest of us who went on and got boring jobs.


If that doesn't appeal, then i think there are something like 50,000 other titles to choose from - if you find a good one, please let me know.

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

Okay, to bring you up to speed with the story of the year so far…

Well, I kind of held off pitching articles out to magazines because lots of people fix their New Year resolution to becoming a writer, and editors are bombarded with article ideas in early January. So I held off for the first week. Since then I’ve pitched a few ideas and been commissioned to write three different pieces for three different magazines, so that’s okay.

I was on Radio 4 last weekend. It was a piece I recorded before Christmas for Open Country. I was bloody terrified, as you can hear at the beginning – or so I’m told, because I can’t listen to it, no way.

Here’s the link: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00xgqwz/Open_Country_15_01_2011/

However, on the back of doing that, I pitched to BBC Radio Devon for a regular spot on their drive-time show to talk about self sufficiency and money saving tips and ideas, and only got it. So now I’m going to be on the Shep and Jo show on the first of every month.










http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p005xcng

I’m currently stressing over two book pitches out with publishers. Serious finger crossing time!

I know this is just a fleeting overview of things so far, but combine them with the farm and animal work and it’s been a busy start and things don’t look like tailing off.

Tuesday, 21 December 2010

Rant against suckling pig

Okay, stand by for a full on Kermodian-style rant…

It’s Christmas, I understand that. A time to enjoy all the things you’ve not had the money, or the time, or whatever, thought the past year. Let’s face it it’s a time of self indulgence, and on that level I’m all for it.

But where during the past year would anyone sit down and think, you know what, I’d love to eat a baby?

So why over Christmas would anyone want to eat a suckling pig?

I’ve been asked a dozen times in the past week to supply suckling pigs, two from really, really well known top London restaurants.

Do these people know what a suckling pig is? It’s a piglet under eight weeks old who’s still feeding from its mother. I would literally have to pull it off the breast, take it to the abattoir screaming, and have it killed – even the slaughter men hate doing it, and these are not squeamish boys.

God that’s barbaric.

And when that’s done, it would go off and be cooked. Okay this next bit is a guess because I’ve never eaten suckling pig on principle, but it’s an educated guess. It would be flavourless. The meat would have had no time to mature, intensify and develop any depth of flavour.

It might be tender, but any good cook can make pork tender, especially the pork I produce.

I rear my pigs to between eight months and a year old. They have a good, free range, happy life, without stress or fear, and plenty of time to develop a real distinctive porky flavour. To me, as a producer, that’s important.

However, the quality of the pork is incidental in this rant.

Come on, if you’ve a choice on the menu this Christmas, please pick something other than suckling pig.


Thursday, 2 December 2010

So ridiculous, and yet so sensible

I’d planned on a full day’s logging down on the land, and so went prepared with a flask and sandwich.

Last summer I had spent 6 weeks coppicing an area in the woods, and all the trees that I felled I cut into lengths and stored in a stable to dry-out for the winter.

Dry and seasoned, the wood was now ready to be chain-sawed into sections and split with an axe to the right size for our fire. Of all the non-animal jobs I do, this is by far the most important as we have no central heating, so the fire is our only source of warmth.

However, before I could begin, I had the normal rounds to complete. I let the chickens, ducks and geese out, fed and watered the pigs, put hay down the horses, checked on the sheep and goats.

Finally I was ready to start. After coffee.

I poured a cup from the flask and took a sip. It tasted bitter in the plastic mug, as though too much instant coffee had been used. To make matters worse, it was black. I tried another sip, but it was just too strong.

I needed milk.

All the milk at home comes from Amber, the goat, but she’s just gone down to a once a day milking in this cold weather, and that’s done in the evening. Still, no matter, I only needed a little squirt.
The goats love people and hang around like pet dogs whenever anyone’s there, so it was easy to sneak up behind her. Making a fuss I snaked my hand down, took hold of a teat, placed my cup beneath it and squeezed. And missed.

I watched the milk fire right down the side of my mug and splash on the floor. Bugger.

Wise to my plan and indignant that I should have been so forward and rude to have done it in the middle of a field, Amber gave a squeal and kicked out with her back legs before trotting away.

What I should have done was give up and drink bitter coffee. What I did was start a long campaign of subterfuge of which an M15 operative would have been proud.

I bluffed, double bluffed, even on one occasion triple bluffed until with immense satisfaction grabbed hold of the teat without her noticing what I was doing, and caught a huge squirt of milk right in the centre of the cup.

Amber huffed and trotted away (if she really didn’t like what I was doing, then she could easily withhold her milk so I knew she was only mildly pissed off at me). I tipped the milk into the flask and gave it a shake.

It wasn’t until I took a sip (it was lovely, like having cream rather than milk) that it dawned on me how odd it was to have squirted milk directly from the udder into a coffee and drunk it.