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This is a question Down on the Farm

Have you ever been chased from a field by a shotgun-wielding maniac? Ever removed city arseholes from your field whilst innocently carrying a shotgun? Tell us your farm stories.

(, Thu 24 May 2012, 13:19)
Pages: Popular, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Apaches is probably true.
The fatality rate on farms is something like 8 deaths per 100,000 people per year - sounds low, but that's about one a week. By comparison, in the building trade it's more like one every two weeks and that is considered unacceptably high.

The problem is that there are so many things on farms that will just not give you a second chance. Most of the accidents are caused by people getting squashed under things. Those big round silage bales wrapped in black plastic weigh about a tonne - it's a big ball of wet grass. Even straw bales will squish you, and a small stack of bales is easily high enough for you to seriously injure yourself if you fall off.

Tractors, though, are all kinds of dangerous. Very old ones didn't have roll-over protection, so if it turned over you'd be squished. One of the key safety features of the Ferguson System of hydraulics was that if you are ploughing and the plough gets stuck under a rock the tension in the top link will pull one side of the height control back and lift the plough out. Prior to the Ferguson three-point link system, ploughs were just towed behind like horse-drawn ploughs, and if they got stuck the tractor would keep going forwards with the plough chain holding it back until it wheelied up and fell over backwards, squishing you. Starting to see a theme here?

Of course, farms use a lot of powered implements, driven off the tractor. Many old designs have fallen out of favour or in some cases been banned outright. Here's a potato spinner where a metre-wide wheel with forks on it spins at about 50rpm, lifting potatoes from the ground along with any potato-sized stones which get flung a long way. Lethal. Forage harvesters used to be used for cutting long grass to make silage - they consist of a sort of spinning metal drum with hinged spoons about the size of the palm of your hand, under a metal cover with the spout coming out the top. They are closely related to the flail mowers you see used for cutting hedges and verges along the road. This will also throw stones quite some distance, and quite a lot of people have been killed by flying stones.

It's worth taking a moment to see how these implements are powered. Tractors have an extra bit in the gearbox called the Power Take-Off (PTO) which lets you couple a shaft up to the back and drive it from either the engine or the rear wheels, depending on if you want a constant speed or a speed that follows the tractor's speed. This is coupled to the implement via the PTO shaft. For the technically-minded, that's like a little short car propshaft. For the non-technically-minded, that's a spinning metal tube with jaggy bits sticking out at the ends. It wasn't until the late 1980s that it became mandatory to fit PTO shaft guards, which consist of a metal hood over each coupling and a free-spinning plastic sleeve over the shaft itself that you secure with a short chain so it doesn't spin with the shaft. The shaft spins at 540rpm and if anything gets caught it *will not stop*.

Prior to fitting shaft guards the most common accident was people getting their sleeve or trouser leg caught in the shaft and pulled in. This typically results in their arm or leg being wound tightly around the shaft. If it didn't get torn off in the accident, it would need to be amputated since there's no way you're putting that bone back together. Stick a bundle of dry spaghetti up a garden hose and wrap it around a broom handle if you want to try modelling the effects.

Drum mowers are like rotary lawnmowers with a big sort of disc thing underneath with blades sticking out. Again, flying rocks, spinning shafts and the sheer weight of the thing when you try to hook it up means that it's constantly trying to kill you, even when it's just sitting there.

The best have to be Roterras though. A Roterra is a kind of giant rotovator driven off the PTO shaft with big sharp spinning blades that chop up clods of soil into fine tilth. To prevent damage if they hit a rock, they have a slipper clutch that stops the blades if they jam. So, what happens is this - the blade hits a rock, the clutch slips with a horrible squeal, the tractor driver puts the PTO shaft out of gear (hopefully) but there's still torque on it because the shaft has "wound up" a little. Either that, or they forget to put it out of gear and leave it engaged with the clutch slipping.

Then they go to kick the stone out from under the blade...
(, Mon 28 May 2012, 14:36, 21 replies)
Farm Sledding.
Ross-on-Wye, middle of winter, lots of snow. Mr. Farmer and I have fed the hanimals, and there's not much else to do, so we spend the afternoon having a competition to build the best sled. Rules are simple: it must be able to transport two grown men. Fastest sled wins a carton of beer.

Mr. Farmer gets all serious and builds a very pretty timber sled with runners and a bizarre steering mechanism. He is quite the craftsman.

I'm not, (Australian, you see) I opted for the low tech version; found a long sheet of sharp, rusty corrugated roofing iron, clubbed one end until it curled up in the air, nailed a timber pallet to the other end, tied baling twine from the pallet to the curly front, to ensure the curly front wouldn't dig into the snow and impede forward motion. So, with all the weight toward the back, there was a good amount of "rocker" (think surfboard) to the whole shape. And it took about 10 minutes and 40 nails.

Anyway, we drag our respective sleds up to the summit of the steepest field. Mr. Farmer makes a lot of derisive comments about my sled's aesthetics. I make lots of derisive comments about his fancy-boy sled.

The slope looks a lot steeper from the top, with the steely cold Wye River below. Mr. Farmer's sled was up first, he sits in the driving seat, and I sit behind in the navigator's seat and shove off.

Nothing.

Another shove.

Nothing again. The runners are too skinny and merely sink into the snow. It doesn't even move with 1 person aboard. He sulks.

No worries, let's hop on mine. I sit up the front of the pallet, Mr. Farmer sit on the back, shoves off and FUCKING WHOOOSH, we are very quickly sliding down the slope with very little control. There is so much velocity the wind is getting under the sled, making the front flail around and slap the snow, throwing up a blinding snow cloud. I realise we have no way to stop the contraption, but what the fuck, we are really moving!

We are nearing the bottom of the slope, and Mr. Farmer screams something incomprehensible in my ear, but the wind is too loud. I then feel the sled lighten and realise he has bailed, tumbling down the slope behind me.

I turn around and yell abuse at him for being a big poof, just as the previously unseen single strand of barbed wire catches me fair across the chest.

Fucking. Ouch.

Apparently I briefly resembled a pole-axed teddy bear, arms and legs briefly pointed forward, cheeks puffed out in a big OOF as every bit of air was driven from my lungs. Tore the shit out of my jacket too.

I still won the beer. Couldn't drink it for a few days, hurt to raise my arms. Also, had to wait 2 days for Mr. Farmer to stop laughing.
(, Sun 27 May 2012, 13:14, 21 replies)
Mmmm bacon (could be a repost)
Whilst out walking with my wife, after she’d recently given birth, we arrived at the back of a farm. Over the fence we could see a huge pig and my wife ever the animal lover beckoned it over and began to stroke it. At this point she totally underestimated the size of her new breast and one of them touched the fence, which turned out to be an electric fence. The current travelled through her boob down her arm and directly into the pigs nose. The pig screamed a scream I would never want to hear again and ran off. It was hilarious.
(, Sun 27 May 2012, 20:57, 4 replies)
Field Trips
Back in my younger days (about ten years ago) I was a trainee teacher and was sent to a school to shadow a fully qualified educator of our countries little darlings. The kids I was dealing with were five to six years old and still full of the wonders of life.
One day we took them to a farm so they could see their future dinners up close and as much as I hate to say this there were no unfortunate incidents that are worth reporting, there wasn't even a sick on the bus story to tell.

The next day we're all back in class and the kids are still clearly excited from the previous day so the teacher uses this as an excuse to see if they learned anything from their trip.
The questions weren't to taxing, stuff like 'what's a baby sheep called?' 'where does a cow live?' and right at the end just before playtime the teacher asked 'What sounds did we hear yesterday children"
and there was a cacophony of moos, baas, quacks and barks until one little voice piped up
from the back shouting "GET OFF THAT FUCKING TRACTOR!"
(, Thu 24 May 2012, 14:23, 4 replies)
Audi vs Chicken
With no apologies for length... My brother wrote this for my blog, and I'm sad to say that in ten years it's still the funniest thing to appear on the website. Bastard.

Back-story: His partner has a horse. It is kept on a farm. It has chickens.


This might come as a shock to some people, but chickens are the most stinky, repulsive and nasty creatures to walk the earth. Not only would they eat anything and everything put in from of them, they'd eat each other at the drop of a hat given half a chance. They're like rats with feathers and with more attitude. And what's with all that horrible red dangly skin stuff around their faces? It looks like they're all wearing Harry Redknapp's eyelids. And I hate the way they strut around giving it the large one.

Anyway, when we arrived, the farmyard was covered in the little pecky tossers. I backed the car up at 0 mph across the yard until I reached the barn. I then crippled myself heaving bags of stuff into the barn whilst she cooed and kissed the horse like a 'My Little Pony' advert.

When I was done, I noticed that the chickens where gathering around my car - and one of the fuckers even pecked the door! I ran at them shouting that piece of language that is internationally recognised in a way that the inventors of Esperanto can only dream: "Fuck off!"

Chickens shot off in all directions like a feathery firework. I check under the car to make sure that they'd all gone. Oh God, there's one still under there, next to my front wheel. Not moving, and its head's under my wheel. Bollocks.

"I've fucked a chicken... No, really...With my car. Help."

I move the car forward, to reveal a truly haunting sight. The chicken was squashed into the mud and its head and neck were at a really fucked-up angle. It's lifeless eye was staring up at me and we were just debating if we needed to let the farm owner know when its beady black eye blinked at me! I nearly shat myself.

"I knew it would be alright", she said matter-of-factly. "It'll be fine in a minute"

"What do you fucking mean it'll be fine?", I whisper, fearing discovery by Mrs Farmer. "It's been run over!"

"No, it'll have had worse."

"Come again?"

"They always get trodden on - it'll be OK."

"It's not been trodden on though, has it?", I retorted, looking wildly around for signs of the chicken's owner. "It's been fucking parked on."

She then proceeded to pluck Lucky from the puddle of mud (she made a loud squelch and left a perfect Kellogg's-like imprint) and carry her into the barn. I got my car keys out and flicked the mud out of its beak. It made some very odd noises while I had to run around aiming kicks at her concerned comrades who, unlike the solidarity and niceness shown in Chicken Run, were trying to eat their former friend.

On closer examination, I discovered a tiny droplet of blood on Lucky's beak. In other words, the sole visible injury that the chicken sustained after having an Audi parked on its head for ten minutes was a nose-bleed. A fucking nose bleed. Why don't they make cars out of the stuff that chickens heads are made of?
(, Thu 24 May 2012, 13:59, 7 replies)
City driver in a farm town...
So there I was, driving through the countryside in my Honda Accord, I'd just had my bully guards polished and it was driving better than Tiger Woods in a lap dance driving range.

I noticed through my tinted sunvisor that a large 6ft 5” 7mm man was hanging around by the local duck pond. I pulled over and observed from afar with my Honda branded binoculars.

What I saw next made me boil with rage so much that my trousers fucked off, showing a cripplingly tight pair of muscle pants with a half broom-on ready to pounce. He was trying to sell massive drugs to new born duckings...the fucking PONCE.

I front flipped over to him, to give him a piece of my mind, but before I could say anything, the huge drug dealer swang at my chest with a knife, barely missing my Dungeons & Dragons jeans jacket.

Mistake number 1, I pressed my Accord key fob once, the indicator lights flashed indicating my growing level of 2.5litres of pure rage.

He then said that my mum can't reach the top shelf at the supermarket.

Mistake number 2, I pressed my Accord key fob twice, the indicator lights flashed two times indicating my growing level of V6 but with good fuel economy of pure rage.

He then went to touch my car...

THUNDER STRUCK! 3 strikes and you're out an waaaaaablebabies!

I backflipped through the sunroof of the Honda and put it into first gear, wheel spinning with caustic might, pinning the drug dealer to a nearby farmhouse, I screamed at him:

“You can try and stab at my jeans jacket with secret pocket for Panini football stickers, you can insult my mother who is actually average height, but you CAN'T TOUCH THE ACCORD AND FEED BABY GEESE MASSIVE SMACK, YOU FACKIN' BOOBY!”

I pulled my handbrake, forcing the boot of the car to roundhouse the punk in the face, instantly making him regret ever fucking with an Accord driver.

He wriggles free for a second and threw a goat at the 19” alloys of the insurance group 13 beast, but the my solid diamond Halford's windscreen wipers deflect the flying horned grumpy-sheep, I then use the quick release hood to uppercut him so hard he instant thumps out a poo from his bum onto the floor, tearing a whole in his joggers.

I get out, showing him the might of my now orbit inducing Broom-On which made him scream with fear. Chris Packham had also turned up to watch some buzzards circling the top of my now Himalayan bellend.

I grab him by the teeth and say to him slowly “Get out of here before I put my Accord in second gear...” Which instantly mades him cry and throw up. I kneed him in the whole body with one strike, sending him instantly into the next county.

What I didn't notice that the whole time a farmer's daughter and her 4 BFFs has been watching the Honda and were pawing at their muffs like a bunch of Pooh bears with a full honey pot.

I shouted to them to come and have a look at the new seat cushions I'd recently put in and that was it, Double Ds were fucking flying all over the proverbial shop. They all wanted to go for a drive and I couldn't turn them down.

They all jumped in and sat down...in the driver's foot well, ready to give my Honda fob and solid mouth polish.

I drove slowly as I didn't want them all to cum too fast at the though of being in an Accord so I kept it below 200mph.

The end.
(, Tue 29 May 2012, 19:09, 12 replies)
Jason & the muckspreader
My Father used to be a farmer and on his farm he had a chap called Jason. Jason was the nicest guy you could meet, public school educated, very well spoken, as big as they come and had that good natured demeanour that comes with the knowledge that he could crush your head were he so inclined. He would work the harvest and other times during slack periods at his Father's business and Jason could do pretty much any task on the farm.

We had a 200 head herd of fresian cows and cows in that number produce a phenomenal amount of shit, shit that is the best fertiliser for silage fields. One day Jason was tasked with muck spreading one of the fields about three miles away from the main farm buildings and merrily got on with his task, flinging high pressure liquid shit from his tractor pulled muck spreader until a hiccup occurred. The stream of faeces petered to a trickle, Jason pulled up and went round to the side of the machinery pulling out a broom handle wedged in the trailer for such purposes and robustly tried to dislodge the blockage.

As he thrust at the offending article he parried it aside releasing a gush of foul smelling bovine excrement from the still running machinery into his face and down his body. Poor Jason trudged the three miles back to get hosed off rather than beshit the tractor cab - I still remember the boom of his well spoken voice "Oh John, I've been a terrible twat!"
(, Mon 28 May 2012, 20:59, 3 replies)
roidin thur traaaactor
As a 14 year old I used to work on a farm at the weekends, doing (literally) shitty jobs and helping out in the slaughterhouse sluicing down the walls and sorting out piles of still-warm and twitching cow guts.

The farm itself was a very small holding and the equipment was pretty damn old. They had one tractor which looked like it was built in the 50's and looks pretty much like this:

www.hpj.com/wsdocs/ffa/images/News/shane_blaes_old_tractor.jpg

Imagine it with inflated tyres, painted grey and with a filthy old sack instead of a seat and you're there.

The farmer was a smug cunt who I hated, but he also paid my wages (50p an hour in 1984? Utter cunt). He said he had a job for me to do and would I like to drive the tractor?

OH YES PLEASE, SIR!

I'd never driven anything "grown up" before, so I was as excited as a puppy in a room full of kittens. He disappeared and came back driving this heap of shit into the yard, where he attached a scary-looking trailer to it and pulled up outside the cowshed. He handed me a shovel, pointed first to the floor then to the trailer and said, "this shit - in there". 2 hours later, the trailer was full of shit (much like the farmer) and I went to fetch him.

"Grand job lad" he said. "Now you get to drive the tractor".

So he drove it out into the entrance to the field and parked up. He then explained that my job would be to drive the tractor up and down the field, muck-spreading - for the scary-looking tractor was a mechanical muckspreader.

Now I don't know if anyone is familiar with these things, but it is basically a huge conveyor belt that moves the shit slowly towards the rear of the trailer, where scary-looking rotating prongs flick the crap out to the rear. The whole contraption works through the forward movement of the wheels.

As I had never driven a combustion-engine driven vehicle before, he showed me what to do.

"See that pedal there lad? Press that if you want to go faster. That pedal there? Press that down if you want to stop."

Seemed pretty straightforward and I did a 100 yard test run to check I understood the concept. He seemed happy, opened the gate and sent me on my merry way, me beaming from ear to ear on my very own tractor, flicking cow shit to the four winds.

The field was on the side of a hill and the first part was up, so I ascended the incline, pressing the "GO" pedal. The ancient old engine roared, belched filthy smoke and I headed up the hill, looking back at my bovine dung fountain. As I reached the top, I hit the "STOP" pedal and slowed down, to do a U turn and head back down the hill.

Off I went again, little smiling Dixon shit flicker.

As I descended the hill, the tractor started picking up speed. As the wheels were now turning faster, I noticed this was causing the shit to flick higher and higher, so I stepped on the "STOP" pedal. This however caused the tractor to speed up further downhill - so in a panic I tried the other pedal, which made the engine roar and gave more speed. At this point the tractor was going so fast it was causing the shit to be flicked violently and was going over my head, up my back, in my hair, behind my ears, with me all the while pushing pedals and pulling levers like the first chimp in space having a panic attack. I reached the bottom of the hill and it levelled off and the "STOP" pedal worked again.

I had to go through this "Up the hill, engine roaring, down the hill 'jester in the stocks being pelted by dung'" process another 5 times until the trailer was empty.

When I got back to the gate, the farmer was waiting for me with a bright red face and tears in his eyes from laughing. I got off the tractor and I looked like fucking yin and yang.

A few years later when I started to learn to drive properly and was slightly wiser, I realised the "STOP" pedal which he had showed me was in fact, the clutch.
(, Fri 25 May 2012, 22:13, 7 replies)
my great grandfather
Lived in the south of the USA and had a very successful cotton farm. unfortunately he lost all his farming equipment when the employment laws changed.
(, Thu 24 May 2012, 16:23, 1 reply)
A friend of a friend....
No really, although I did meet him and heard this story from him. I seem to remember his name was Sean.

Anyway, this guy was dating a girl who lived on a farm in the country somewhere.

He'd been seeing her quite for a while and all was going well but he wasn't getting any, until one day they went horse-riding together. The young lady seemed to be getting more and more excited as they rode until, eventually she dragged him from his saddle and practically raped him.

It turned out that she was turned on by horses, so much so that even the smell would get her in the mood.

Fast forward a few weeks and they are in her bed together, but she just cannot seem to get in the mood. This is when Sean has a genius idea.

He runs downstairs, clad only in his boxers to the field by the farmhouse where her horse is tethered and starts rubbing himself against the horse. His plan being to acquire the smell of horse and thus turn on his lady friend.

Apparently the police who happened to drive by at that moment and catch him, near-naked, rubbing himself up against a horse, were quite understanding, if not a little amused, once his shame-faced girlfriend vouched for him.
(, Thu 24 May 2012, 16:59, 6 replies)
A friend of mine was voted Farmer of the year once
He was out standing in his field.
(, Thu 24 May 2012, 14:24, 2 replies)
Never underestimate poodles
A friend of my father had two poodles.

Yes, I did say poodles. Not the miniature pampered fluffballs that so many have been cruelly forced to become, but the original, tall, lanky hunting dogs. Very loyal, very intelligent, very intimidating.

Anyway, he took them with him while working, and on one occasion had to call at a deer farm. He tied them up outside, provisioned them with a water bowl and a blanket to lie on, and the client came out to meet him.

"Oh, let them run around," says he. "The deer will give them a good bit of exercise."

"Sure?" asks my Dad's friend, "They're afwully fast."

"Naah!" says the farmer, dismissively, "They'll never catch anything."

Predictably, half an hour later, through the window of the farm office, the client was greeted by the sight of two poodles hauling the carcass of a medium-sized deer from the nearby copse.
(, Mon 28 May 2012, 11:49, 4 replies)
I used to go mushroom picking in the farms near my house
I was picking mushrooms in field with nothing but grass and single goat when I came across a deep hole in the middle of the paddock. Curious, I dropped a stone down the hole, but couldn't hear it hit the bottom. I noticed a large plank of wood lying nearby. On a whim I dragged it to the hole and toppled it down. While watching it fall, I heard a galloping behind me. I turned to see the goat, head down, horns out, charging straight at me. I just managed to dive out the way as the goat whooshed passed and plunged down the hole. Spooked, I decided to leave, but as I was climbing over the fence the farmer pulled up in his car.
"Pickin' mushrooms, were ya?", he asked
"Yes", I replied, "It's a good time of year for them"
The farmed looked around and asked, "Haven't seen a goat, have ya?"
"Nup", I lied.
"That's odd", he said, scratching his head, "I had 'im on a 30 foot chain to a railway sleeper"
(, Thu 24 May 2012, 22:44, 4 replies)
Killing Geese.
Geese can be quite violent buggers when cornered.

Berkshire farm, lots of Geese, Cows, Ducks & Pigs.

Christmas is approaching, so it is time to start killing Geese, Cows, Ducks & Pigs to sell to happy families for Christmas dinners.

I have been instructed how to kill a Goose; Mr Farmer has devised in ingenious method. Quick, cheap and, in his opinion, humane....

The Theory...tempt the flock of Geese into the yard with food. Grab the nearest Goose and tuck it under your right arm, in the manner of a violent struggling honky bagpipe. Grab the head with your left hand, position the head under a long metal bar on the ground, stand on long metal bar, thereby crushing the goose’s head and pull hard until neck breaks. Goose will die with dignity and grace. Simple

"That's how you do it Lads"....um...ok. I guess he’s the animal husbandry expert. He’s thought this one out.

Mr. Farmer observes proceedings from a safe distance...

The Reality: temp geese into the yard with apples. So far, so good. Goose picks up an entire apple with its beak and munches the whole thing in one snap. Num Num, Honk. Gone. Gimme more.

Ken Oath marvels at the clever goose's ability to munch an entire apple, given the goose's limited beak length and also given the apple was positioned right at the tip of the Goose's beak, where one would think there is very little physical crushing ability. (Fuck. Try crushing an apple, right at the tip of a pair of chopsticks. Super-goose).

It's true; these thoughts did flash though my mind, as I positioned myself to grab the goose with the intention of jamming its head under an iron bar and pulling hard until it died. Ok, sidle up to goose, respect the beak, respect the beak, and quick! Lunge and Grab!

But...the average free-range, healthy, muscular goose, as well as possessing super-goose jaw muscle strength, has street smarts, so they flap like hell and fight for their life when you grab them with intent to kill.

Goose takes violent umbrage against my attempts to kill it. Goose wrenches free from my grasp and loudly attacks my rapidly retreating arse.

I felt the ensuing bite through the three layers of clothing (overalls, jeans and undies) and felt the warm trickle of blood running down the back of one leg. Fuck, that hurt!

Now that is a fucking strong animal. And a loud flappy strong animal too. And they have horrid spurry things on their wings.

Although, they quickly forget about violence with application of a couple more apples, so you can grab them with renewed venom, and make sure their fucking heads go under that fucking bar and they develop a very long fucking neck. And fucking die. With fucking dignity and buckets of fucking goosey grace.

But, in a macabre sort of revenge, they take absolutely forever to pluck. The feathers are surprisingly resilient to removal. Defiant to the end.

Tastes good though.
(, Wed 30 May 2012, 12:00, 2 replies)
Many moons ago my dad was a farmer who was also a bit of a prankster.
I grew up in the middle of nowhere in farming community close to his roots so I'd warned my girlfriend about my farming links and a bit about my dad being a little eccentric. So when it came to the time when I was ready to introduce her to my parents she was more than a little nervous but she'd made a special effort.

The look of horror on her face was legendary as she saw my 85 year old dad bent over, limping through the dark kitchen, in his donkey jacket tied with an old rope, flat cap and his double barrelled shotgun broken over his shoulder. He greeted her with a frail and croaky voice,"Hello young lady, my young boy has found himself a wife I see?"

The look of the girlfriend was clearly one of,"Fuck what have I gotten myself into here?"

As she went to shake his extended hand he stood upright, removed the cap and donkey jacket to reveal a guffawing yet perfectly respectable 55 year old dad wearing his sunday best.

She saw the funny side of this prank and went on to marry me but she did say it shit her up at the time.

We don't live anywhere near any farms nowadays.
(, Fri 25 May 2012, 11:48, 1 reply)
Seeing this page is usally full of puns
Anyone hear much about that tractor movie?

I've only seen the trailer...
(, Thu 24 May 2012, 13:46, 3 replies)
Pigs Nuts.
Again: Berkshire farm, Christmas looms, all geese are dispensed with.

Time to “adjust” the male piglets for fattening.

As with all males of the species, the theory is, by removing the nuts at a young age, the male hanimal rapidly loses interest in shagging and fighting and spends the remainder of its limited life snoozing on the sofa, watching tv and getting really fat.

If they are left with their cods intact, bloke pigs will become aggressive, blithely shag their Mum and siblings (think Norfolk) and as any butcher will tell you, mature Boar meat is tainted and inedible, therefore useless to anyone but the local hunt hounds.

(As an aside...the local hunt will happily collect dead farm animals to feed the hounds. They hire a flat bed tow truck for the purpose of removing large dead things. A full grown dead Boar will feed the dogs for only 2 days. I guess a fox doesn’t go very far at all. Weird huh? Why not chase dead animals instead).

So, time to de-nut the male piglets. Now, grab piglet, make two quick slits down it’s hefty nutsack with a razor sharp knife (really weird animal, male piglets, all nuts and tummy when young). Two bleedingly fresh steaming nuts slop to the ground, and there is surprisingly little squealing.

But..... this is where I get a bit squeamish...the piggy squeals for a bit (as you would), wheels around, sees two freshly shucked testicles...and...the greedy bugger gobbles them up! Retch, Retch , Retch.

I mean, Fucking Hell. What kind of depraved animal eats it’s own recently departed testicles?

Still, hasn't put me off bacon.
(, Wed 30 May 2012, 12:52, 11 replies)
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Interrupting cow.
Interrupting c-MOOOOO!
(, Mon 28 May 2012, 12:21, 10 replies)
Pheasant Shooting
A long time ago, as as part of my UK/Euro life experience, I worked as a farm-hand on a very nice farm in Berkshire. The owners were a nice couple. I lived in their house and in addition to working a full week, would generally help out on weekends.

One Sunday, Mr Farmer decided he wanted to show me some English traditional country life, so we trotted off to shoot a pheasant. The local "wild" pheasants were pretty tame, they wandered around the paddocks, eating wheat grains, occasionally stopping to inquisitively cock their heads at you as you buzzed past on the tractor.

So we wandered down to the wheat paddock, and sure enough, there was Mr Pheasant, cruising around, pecking at the ground, having a pretty happy pheasanty time of it all.

Mr Farmer wouldn't let me use the gun, which was a bit of a disappointment to me, as I have shot many animals my childhood (rabbits, wallabies) and I respect guns and the role they play in harvesting food (and the damage they can inflict).

Instead, my role was to be the "Beater". "Oh...righto, no worries", I thought, "I'm expected to beat the cunt to death", and approached the pheasant with a large stick.

But no,no,no...as quickly explained with a hint of panic, the beater's role is to make a ruckus and flush the birds out of hiding.

"But the bird's not hiding. He's standing right next to us, listening to the conversation regarding his imminent death. Why dont you shoot him now?"

"Well jolly well make him fly. That's your role. We should do this properly"

So I asked the pheasant nicely: "Mr Pheasant, can you fly, so this bloke can revel in the true spirit of game shooting and blast you out of the sky?"

"Fuck off mate, I'm perfectly happy eating wheat", thinks Mr Pheasant, carrying on pecking the ground.

So, after some mild disagreement regarding shooting methodology, I coax the pheasant over to us with a few wheat grains, pick him up and hurled him up into the air. He fluttered for a bit and made to land back down into the field.

Within a micro-second Mr Farmer was blasting away like a lunatic, deploying the "blast away like fuck, something will get hit" method of game shooting. I did note at the time that there was little regard for the Beater's proximity in relation to the direction of the barrel.

After few seconds of very loud madness, the remains of a badly mangled pheasant plopped next to me as I cowered for cover in a bare field, and I can safely say the poor bugger didn't know what hit him, such was the volume of lead in his system.

We collected most of the scraps and returned to the farm, me vowing never to go near Mr. Farmer when he was in possession of a gun.

I was looking forward to trying my first pheasanat, but rather than eat it straight away, Mr Pheasant was hung by the neck, still with his guts intact, for Two Weeks!! By the time Mr.Farmer deemed it was "hung" enough to eat, the fucking thing was glowing green, utterly putrid, it's skin was starting to slough onto the floor and it was weeping a foul ooze out of it's arse. I helped to get him ready for the pot, but the smell was so bad it made me retch and I vowed not to eat the fucking thing.

So, I have yet to try pheasant. Next time I'll buy it from a shop.
(, Fri 25 May 2012, 4:22, 13 replies)
Sitting in a barn full of grain....
.....smashing rats with a mallet. They're too greedy to stop eating, & make easy targets when you're thirteen and pimply.
(, Thu 24 May 2012, 20:35, 5 replies)
Forklift mayhem
Being a country boy, for 3 summer holidays whilst at secondary school I worked on the local farm. Although I didn't get to drive the combine, they were foolish enough to let me loose in nearly every other type of farm vehicle going - including my favourite. The 'telescopic handler' fork lift. You know, the one you see on building sites which has the telescopic arm in the middle - weighs 2+ tons and can do a ton of damage? Well on a grain farm you can remove the forks and put on a big bucket scoop. It's very handy for shoving large quantities of grain around a barn.
It's also handy for:
1. Intimidating idiotic Range Rover owners intent on destroying the farm tracks that we used to move grain trailers on. Never play a game of chicken with a 15 year old in farm machinery.
2. Nearly tearing the side off the barn whilst reversing out with the arms fully extended up. I fixed it by pushing the side of the barn upright using the forklift from the other side...

And most importantly

3. Removing abandoned cars from farm tracks. When I say 'remove' I mean, pound the roof in, pierce every body panel with the forks, tip it onto its roof, crush it some more, drive over the front, and finally roll it into a ball before scooping it up and tipping it in the scrap metal bin. Never has so much fun been had by a destructive 15 year old boy.
(, Mon 28 May 2012, 20:40, 3 replies)
A farmer near me..
.. put up a big keep out warning notice, being the ever frugal type he made it out of herbs.


It is a sign of the thymes.
(, Sat 26 May 2012, 7:43, Reply)

I stayed on my uncle's farm when I was a teenager. At first it was pretty cool as I had never been on a farm before so cows and horses and stuff were a novelty. But after a week or so I was bored and my uncle could tell so he got his shotgun and taught me how to shoot. Awesome fun for a teenager! After a bit of practice he said I should take the dogs and go into the bush and do some shooting, so off I headed. I came back after a few hours and he asked me how I got on. I said 'Best fun I've ever had. Got any more dogs?'
(, Fri 25 May 2012, 19:37, Reply)
Pearoast For a Peabrain
I was once assigned to tend some air quality monitoring equipment located on a ranch in southern Arizona, so I'd make periodic visits to the ranch. Unbeknownst to me, the equipment was also claimed by an arrogant and territorial local pheasant.

As I approached the equipment, the pheasant would endeavor to approach me from behind. Every time I turned my back, the pheasant would peck at my legs. Incensed, I whirled around and kicked the pheasant, but I was never able to land a solid punch on the lightweight bird. Every time I kicked, the demented bird would merely jump upon my shoe and ride it angrily up and down like a seesaw. Kicking the bird just made it angrier, which just made me angrier in return. What the bird lacked in strength, it gained through obsessive determination that I just couldn't match over hours of pitched battle. Years later, I plot revenge, but quail at the thought of a rematch.
(, Fri 25 May 2012, 19:18, 3 replies)
Fat fisherman fends off ferocious bovine.
Look up the mull of galloway. Go on. It's a lovely spot for sea views and can be great for rock fishing.

The peninsula sticks up about 500 feet from the irish sea and of course, the car park is at the top.

Between the parking and the shore is a large and very steep field of grazing cattle. Half way up this field while weighed down with heavy fishing gear and wearing waterproofs is not a convenient place to be chased by a bull.

Not being a slim chap and already breathing like an asthmatic on a prank call, I was in on position to run.

Like some form of rodeo clown the most I could manage was to jump up and down shaking my bag and shouting like a pissed tramp. Somehow it worked and the tonne of beef stopped and circled. A smart crack on the arse with a fishing rod sent it off in the other direction.

I think of it as a miraculous escape and hence choose to walk around the edge of the field now.
(, Fri 25 May 2012, 13:51, 5 replies)
So I'm going to the b3ta bash on Saturday, where I'm sure I will be photographed wearing - and doing - all kinds of things
Could the shitcunt autistic users of this forum please let me know what they deign acceptable modes of dress and conduct? I'd hate to spoil your wanking fantasies by wearing the wrong T-shirt or something.
(, Thu 24 May 2012, 15:20, 74 replies)
Have a post that is re'd:
We used to keep chickens.

They hatched a brood of chicks - all little yellow fluffy things, and one black one, which was always the last at everything, as he was the chick equivalent of the fat kid at school who had one permanently blocked nostril and the other one was always running, who gets picked last for everything.

I went to feed the chicks one day, and replinished their water. They raced towards the plastic dish that served as their bowl, squeaking and bleeping with delight, and the black one was, for the first time in his life, at the head of the pack. As he got to the bowl in his excitement he stamped his big flat foot on the edge of the dish, thus spanging himself as hard as possible right in the face while drenching himself and all the others and destroying their water supply.
(, Wed 30 May 2012, 15:43, 1 reply)
Bang! Oops.
My aunt and uncle have a farm in County Durham. I used to spend a lot of time there as a teenager. My uncle taught me how to handle guns and kill things because that's what a growing sociopath needs. You haven't lived until you've competed at keepie-up with my uncle, a shotgun and a wood pigeon.

As it turns out I'm a pretty good marksman (which the air force later utilised in competitions).

So there I was sitting on the gate of the grain shed. A .22 on one side and a 12 bore on the other. The .22 was for knocking off the rats that periodically raided the grain store and would be seen surfacing and running along the back wall. The 12 bore was for the pigeons and shit that depleted the crops.

A little sparrow landed in the yard and began pecking around. Nothing else was in sight to shoot so I thought I'd give it a shock. I picked up the rifle and aimed a few inches in front of it.I wasn't really paying attention and not really aiming properly or holding the gun properly.

As I squeezed the trigger urgent messages began to come from the back of my brain a little too late that I wasn't looking along a pin and v sight on a single barrel.

*Boom*. The sparrow became a cloud of feathers and gore. I hadn't braced or balanced for the kickback so I flew back off the gate and had a soft landing on a couple of bales of straw.

The broken collar bone took 6 weeks to heal.
(, Tue 29 May 2012, 22:59, 10 replies)
When I was about 18/19
There was a group of us student types who where drinking on the edge of a field when a cow happened over.
Of course the idea of cow tipping came up but as the cow was awake most of us insisted that the cow would counter balance the shove and just give us a nasty bovine glare.
One of the lads who was known for bragging and doing retarded things (e.g. sitting in the canteen merrily smoking a candle) announced that he was going to "knock the cow out with one punch"
Long story short, he got licked in the face and broke his hand.... he was a cunt and everyone was happy about it. (The broken hand not the cow punching)
And that cow went on to play for Chelsea... happy endings all round.
(, Tue 29 May 2012, 11:33, 1 reply)
Man, pig, no cup
A mate worked on a farm in the summer holidays when we were at uni. One morning he was caught short and desperately needed a shit. The guy he was working with said "do it in the pig pen they love it"

So Paul hung his ass over the fence and curled one out and a pig tucked into it like it was an ice cream sunday. Which once I heard about it it nearly put me off bacon, nearly.
(, Tue 29 May 2012, 9:13, 15 replies)

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