SOMETHING ABOUT SELF-FARMING (it's a joke about self-harming!!!)

Do you get it???
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Fri 25 May 2012, 13:12, 11 replies)

Oooo, there was this one time when I....
... oh no wait, that wasn't a farm. Never mind.
( PMGT -Bacon., Fri 25 May 2012, 12:50, Reply)

I knew a bloke who went to a farm once.

( PMGT -Bacon., Fri 25 May 2012, 12:48, Reply)

Did you hear about the farmer with a gambling addiction?
He bet his hedges
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 25 May 2012, 12:42, Reply)

Farm joke punchline
'...but if those pigs say anything about me they're fucking liars'
( bigmeuprudeboy is using powerpoint or paint...have MERCY, Fri 25 May 2012, 12:18, Reply)

Normal for Cornwall
Clicky
( Rusty Shackleford www.junt.co.uk / @joeyrobbo, Fri 25 May 2012, 12:08, 1 reply)

fuck off, you cock
getting woken early on a fine and sunny summer's morning by a cockerel giving it the full doodle-doo is actually quite pleasant.
if he's still doing it 3 hours later, it begins to lose its appeal.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 25 May 2012, 12:06, 4 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.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Fri 25 May 2012, 11:48, 1 reply)

My mates family pig farm.
A mate from school's family owned a pig farm many years ago. He would work there most Saturdays and school holidays. He asked me once if I would like to come along one Saturday to earn a bit of cash as they were having a big delivery of pigs and could do with an extra pair of hands. I agreed sounds fun so I thought. Saturday came and I got up early hours and had to cycle to the farm which was probably only five miles away or so. When I got there I was greeted by his family including his grandparents. I couldn’t believe the smell, I was trying not to heave most of the morning. So my mate told me my duties so I tried to get on with them. I was pretty useless to be honest just felt like I was in the way most of the time. The pigs are nightmares, they just barge into and bite the tops of your wellies which was just constant. Then it was the pigs dinner time, now the feed they had come from huge bins of left overs which also gave a horrific stench. Now I don't know how but it turns the left overs feed into some kind of soup which runs down these pipes in to the pigs troughs. Soon as the soup sprays out of these pipes the pigs go fucking crazy. The smell of this soup is even worse than their shit. They run to the troughs and start chomping away on what looks like filth. Whilst they're eating we would do mucking out. Whilst I was mucking out one of the pens I noticed a pig on its own and on its side. I told my mate. He shouted for his nan who came over. She walked over to it and said yep its dead. Then she dragged it out of the pen by its back legs! Can't remember what they did with it but I wouldn’t be surprised if it ended up in the soup bin.

The day’s work finished and got paid a tenner. Went out that evening to hang out with some mates and got mugged by three rude boys.
(Headsbollockskuntz, Fri 25 May 2012, 11:38, Reply)

I think it's best you don't tell your mum.


One miserable autumn day I had been invited to go round my mate Tim's house. As he lived on a farm he was allowed to bomb around these two clapped out Subaru pick-ups and his dads old Land rover discovery, as long as we stayed on 'is laaaaand. Being eager to show off he drove us up to a field that you couldn't see from the farmhouse. I had a go swerving round the big round bales rally style and all was well as he decided to show me how it was done, skillfully power-sliding the thing round a few times narrowly missing the hulking hay-masses all the while laughing at my white-knuckle wincing from the passenger seat. Great fun! we'd had our fill so he turned the thing around to come back, as we were driving down the hill on the wet stubble the cars grip gave out and we started drifting sideways (passenger seat first, I might add) at an increasing speed, whence there was no traction came forth traction. The car dug in and rolled, I remember vividly the sight of hay stubble pressed into the window, all the while Tim and the dog flying around the inside of the car as he wasn't wearing a seatbelt (neither was the dog). After a full rotation the car came to a stop on its side, Tim was now lying on the passenger door sort of sitting on my lap moaning about how during his washing machine travels around the car the gearstick had torn him a new one. The dog was going batshit crazy from the fright and I was just wondering what the fuck had just gone on!
The walk back to the farmhouse was a silent one, Tims dad was a big scary man and we'd just re-modeled his work vehicle with a new concave look. We got the bollocking of our lives, all the while I was looking at Tim's dad's just-about-the-right-size-to-kill-someone hands. We were banished to the bedroom, we decided to play a board game, you know, to keep ourselves out of trouble.

This is where I found the air rifle. we'd used it earlier that day to shoot some targets and stuff lying around the farm and I knew for a fact Tim was a crap shot, he literally couldn't hit a barn door (we'd tried).

Tim's farm was in a particularly beautiful area of the Sussex countryside with footpath running by the house, as a result there were a lot of walkers and cyclists around the farm. About 25 meters away I saw a rambler with a particularly hideous hat on, I dared Tim to shoot him knowing full well that it was an impossibility for him to hit anything let alone a head-sized partially-obscured moving target.
The rambler went behind a hedge, Tim took a blind shot. CRACK! it sounded like a full-palm slap to a leather sofa, he got him square in the neck, we could hear the poor mans moans from inside the house. DOUBLE FUCK! we were in for it now, the gun went under the bed and we ran for it, I was running across the yard when I was accosted by our hapless victim.
An irate bearded man clutching a bloodied wound on his neck asked me whether I'd shot him, I denied and ran away. after hiding in a pheasant coup for about an hour, Tim's dad found us and drove us back to the house. One humungous bollocking later and Tim being carted down the local police station, I was sat in the kitchen waiting to be picked up, "I think it's best you don't tell your mum about this" said Tim's mum.
My mum shows up and on the way home asks how my day was, "yeah, not bad" says I.





Apologies for length and general lack of wit.
(Rambunction, Fri 25 May 2012, 11:34, 2 replies)

I ate some food that (probably) came from some kind of farm.

( P-MONKE We're all fucked, Fri 25 May 2012, 11:27, Reply)

Doggy trauma!
On a large country estate I frequented when I was younger they used to hold regular shoots, and anyone could pay to attend. Which meant you got all sorts of muppets, 90% of which you'd never let near a gun if it was up to you. So one day, a line of guns was waiting for the beaters to drive the birds to them. Now, shooting etiquette dictates that once a bird passes over your head you are not allowed to turn and shoot it, it's just bad sport....yeah, yeah I know, guns, birds....it's all bad sport.

Anyway birds fly and one muppet turns and shoots a high pheasant after it has passed over him. Said bird then goes into a death dive and plummets hitting the windscreen of the head keepers landrover so hard that it smashes through. Head keeper opens the door of his landrover to find it looking like a charnel house, the bird had basically split and emptied itself over the interior of the landrover as a final "fuck you". Also in the landrover is the keepers spaniel that is now cowering under the dash covered in bits of bird. After some choice swearing he coaxes his spaniel from the landrover and asks another keeper if he'll take his dog home. The other keeper opens the door of his landrover and makes to wave the dog in, dog pauses takes one look in the door and goes around and hops in the back!


The other funny thing about this story was watching the guy from the landrover dealership come to collect it after it had been sat in the sun for a couple of days. He got out and threw up twice before he finally drove it away.
(repooc, Fri 25 May 2012, 11:23, Reply)

Tractor dude
I grew up in Devon and had a few friends who lived on farms. In those days you were allowed to drive a tractor on the road at 16 (no idea if that is still the case). Once we turned 16 we all dreamed of being just 1 year older so that we could get a car to impress the ladies but not Robert. He had a tractor and was a year ahead of us. While we were still cadging lifts to parties from our parents Robert would chug up in his stinking cow-dung covered tractor like some kind of shitty lothario expecting the ladies to swoon at his maturity and sophistication. It didn't work.
(Tom Jones's Mojo Hasn't had any since, Fri 25 May 2012, 11:23, Reply)

I funded travel in Oz by working on a banana farm
The worst job was picking the bananas; they grow in big, heavy bunches with the fruit arranged in a sort of spiral. The bunches had plastic bags over to shield them from the sun so you ended up with quite a nice little house complete with spiral staircase.

The occupants of this house were big fuck off marsupial rats who would wait until you had the bunch over your shoulder before running down, along your arm and down your leg into the bushes. They were frequently followed by the guy from Papua New Guinea with a massive machete who would chuck it at them because he liked them for his tea. He was quite a good shot which he put down to the fact that up until 10 years ago he practised on people from other tribes....
(LetsGetDownToIt, Fri 25 May 2012, 11:08, 2 replies)

I worked on a farm in Canada last winter
Driving around in the tractor, taking bales of hay to feed the cows mostly. Though I did find it quite amusing that the bulls, who obviously were kept in a separate field, had an old abandoned house that they all lived in. I suppose it gets cold during a Canadian winter, but watching five bulls troop out of an apparently ordinary house was decidedly surreal. I wanted to put webcams inside, it would have made a brilliant sitcom.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 25 May 2012, 10:31, 9 replies)

I walked across a farm once.
It was nice.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Fri 25 May 2012, 9:50, 2 replies)

I saw a tractor once.
The farmer was using it to tow a trailer full of hay bales, and drove to a nearby field where he unloaded them.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 25 May 2012, 9:08, 8 replies)

Grandad
My grandad had a small farm, and he kept working well into his seventies. One windy day I arrived to find him walking down the yard carrying two buckets of water. I offered to carry them for him. "No lad", he said, "they're to stop me getting blown over."

He used to go out into the hen-field and grab a hen for sunday lunch. As he got older it became more and more difficult for him to catch the hen. So he took to using a shotgun. Blasting a hen from 1m away with a shotgun doesn't leave much hen behind.
(Smale is stuffed, Fri 25 May 2012, 8:59, Reply)

While camping in the west country
one night, me and my best mate took two purple
oms each, smoked a stack of weed and went for
a wander. We walked into a field and saw this.

It was mental.
( Bela Lugosi's Dad, Fri 25 May 2012, 7:26, 2 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.
( Ken Oath, Fri 25 May 2012, 4:22, 13 replies)

I grew up in Dartmoor
where there's nothing but farms! Over the years I did my share of farm work, horse work and forestry. Farm folk range from the cleverest and most inventive people you'll ever meet, to the most inbred and scary.
After school finished, I went to an agricultural college (which these days seems to be a college of canoe paddling and generally being a dosser) and did a couple of engineering courses.
There was a big range of people there but one guy stands out in my mind. His nick name was due to the not quite mustache he sported, and had very dark, eyes, greasy dark hair and a generally scary look and manner about him. The sort of look that suggested that one day he might end up on some kind of list.

ANYWAY...

One night, I'd been in the student bar with a few friends, one of whom was a girl 'studying' horses. Nice girl, but the sort of teenage girl who when asked out by a bit of a freak (after she'd had a few pints of cider) would piss herself laughing and tell him to fuck off. Enter Mustache man who'd had a few. He asks her out and meets with the above reply. He runs away. Half an hour later, he's back, really pissed with blood running down his arm. He won't let anyone look at it. I think they gave him another drink. After a while the bar staff tell him he's not getting any more until they look at his arm, he runs off.
The head warden is called and they organise a few people to search for our strange friend, but he can't be found. An hour or so later he's discovered. He'd staggered down the half mile drive and on to the college farm where, still bleeding, he'd stolen the main farm tractor. After crashing two fences, he planted it in a ditch and was found asleep in the cab. The blood was from where he'd tried to carve the girl's name into his arm with a pen knife.

A few years later, I'm at a party doing clay pidgoen shooting. This guy shows up, looking exactly the same. I was very nervous when they handed him a shotgun.
( The Togaboy The world will end on, Fri 25 May 2012, 1:47, 3 replies)

This could probably have gone in Twattery a while back...
Back in the days of yore, when me and my friends were in our teens and into smoking and drinking 'cos we were well cool, we used to go and muck about on the local farmland. Nothing exciting, just piss about and do what teenagers do; smoke Lambert and Butlers, drink our parents' gin, laugh at the cows stupid faces, that sort of thing.

On one particular day, we went to one of our usual hangouts, a particularly classy establishment otherwise known as a hay shed. We chose it because we had REAL ACTUAL GIRLS with us and we wanted to make vague attempts at touching their boobs, so it seemed like the perfect setting (The perfect setting when you are a teenage hornbag being 'anywhere').

The actual shed itself wasn't too big, about 3 metres high, about 6 metres back and chock full of delicious hay (what is hay actually for by the way?). If I can set the scene, me and my friend, Pete, decided to sit atop one stack of bales, whilst a couple of others were sat below and were were all enjoying each others company. At one point, one of our group (notice I didn't say 'friend' there...) decided to muck about with a lighter, and set a hay bale alight. Despite our protestations that he was a massive fucktard, he set it on fire whilst mocking our objections as, in his words, 'It's alright! It goes out!'. And he was right. It did go out. for a second or two. Just before the whole side of a hay bale went up in flames like a giant fire-lighter. Right. Under. Our. Feet.

In roughly the same amount of time it took for me to shit myself, the whole of my line of vision was filled with thick, black smoke which was also filling my lungs. Without me realising it, Pete had grabbed me, pushed me off the top of the stack and onto the floor where we tumbled out the front door faster than you can say 'this fucking shed's on fire!'. I thank him immensely for getting us out just before the whole bloody shed went up in a big, deadly and quite impressive fireball.

No thanks to our fucktard companion, we all made it out, without dying or anything, and ran until we were far enough away to deny accountability for the now smouldering rectangle which used to be a shed.

I felt awful for destroying that farmer's shed, or at least being there when it happened, but not so for the guy that did it. He found it absolutely hilarious that he almost killed us both and burnt some stuff in the process. On the plus side, he was on the front page of a local newspaper a few years back for being busted in MASSIVE DRUG ring. So y'know... Karma...?
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Thu 24 May 2012, 23:42, 2 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"
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Thu 24 May 2012, 22:44, 4 replies)

Overflowing effluent
Visiting a farm with my dad - for some reason, can't remember now - I waited in the car while he did whatever it was he was doing. It was a hot spring / summer day, but had been raining heavily for day before - and some vile pit of decaying matter had burst its banks, and was slowly trickling over the farm yard.
Sitting in the baking car, windows firmly wound up to avoid the thick air, I was treated to a rising miasma of noxious methane and heat exhaustion.
Could have been worse - if the car had been as air-tight as I hoped, I'd have suffocated.
( Invisible Wizard - 9th Level Pissant, Thu 24 May 2012, 22:33, Reply)

When I was a little 'un, after he shat on the floor under the dining table, my dog got sent away to live on the farm. Hey, wait a minute....
(cutofyourjib, Thu 24 May 2012, 21:32, Reply)

Great balls of fire
Plenty of the usual tales of dicking around in the barns, fertilizer bombs, walking on thin crusted slurry pits in high summer, being chased by a farmer with a shot gun (only twice) but the one event that really sticks out as being impressive involved some hay.

Now anyone reading this must be aware that bales come in two shapes, the boring rectangular version and the round version. The round version is much more fun for many reasons, especially if you live in a hilly region of Somerset... The really interesting thing about hay (if it is possible) is that it burns a treat with the aid of a few strategically placed fire lighters. This is best done at night when in rural areas it can get very dark.

Once the bale is alight give it a push and watch it roll, best catherine wheel ever.
(bluehamster, Thu 24 May 2012, 21:09, 2 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.
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Thu 24 May 2012, 20:35, 5 replies)

Fertiliser
Some of my earliest memories are of being on a farm. My grandad ran a small dairy farm. Hanging around in the milking shed at milking time was lovely: the slow, calm cows, happily munching. My grandad wiping the shit off their udders with a wet cloth. The heavy, sweet smell of warm milk. The cats, waiting for a spill, or for the froth off the milk filter. Wonderful.

The cows would congregate by a gate when it was near milking time, waiting to be let into the yard. The area by the gate would get chopped up, deep mud, full of shit. One day, I must have been about 4, I walked down there in my little wellies: the gate was open. I stepped into the mud, got stuck. As I tried to free myself I slipped and fell. The next image I have in my head is of walking into the farmhouse kitchen, covered head to toe in stinking shit. My mum was sitting talking to her sister. "They say it makes you grow", she said, as I burst into tears.
(Smale is stuffed, Thu 24 May 2012, 19:54, 5 replies)

A Pun
What do you call someone who used to be really fascinated by agricultural vehicles, but is no longer?

An ex-tractor fan.

_{sorry, it had to be done}
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Thu 24 May 2012, 19:09, 4 replies)

No.
I've seen 'apaches'. Farms. No.
(inflateable, Thu 24 May 2012, 18:35, 1 reply)