I knew this guy who'd lost his left hand in a farm machinery accident
...oh, hang on.
(K.W.A. Knickers With Attitude, Thu 31 May 2012, 11:55, Reply)

Cunning Cattle.
..I'm currently posted in a small rural town on Western Queensland (that’s in Orstraalia), as per conditions of my work. I truly love my work. Open skies during the day, laptop and beers at night.

Tonight, I had dinner at the (only) pub in town, and I got chatting with a helicopter pilot over a beer or two. He herds cattle on one of the big stations here in the the scrub. He’s herded plenty of cattle into the yawning maw of the many Road Trains destined for the abattoir. But, for the past 8 years he has seen one massive bullock hiding in the scrub, too smart to let the whirring blades of a helicopter scare him into running like a fool.

The pilot has this begrudging admiration for this one bullock that has learned to not give a shit about helicopter mustering, but instead, enjoy the good life wandering across endless miles of open plains, munching on half-arsed grass tussocks and maybe shagging a pretty cow or two. By visual estimation, he weighs a tonne.
I love that the chopper pilot is not fussed spending too much effort chasing this wily animal, the crafty bugger is living the life of Bovine Riley, he’s got it sussed, and the station owners are none the wiser so long as the annual beef quota is met.
( Ken Oath, Thu 31 May 2012, 11:25, 9 replies)

[your farm joke here]
oh man, I hope this week is tales of hilarity from the supermarket.
( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Thu 31 May 2012, 11:04, 6 replies)

My friend moved to a remote farm in Wales
He'd had enough of the rat race so he sold up and got out.

After a couple of weeks his nearest neighbour came to introduce himself - he lived on the next farm, which was four miles away.

"Having a bit of a party next weekend, thought I'd invite you" he said.

My mate accepted, and thanked him for the invite.

"Better warn you though, it usually gets rowdy. There'll be a lot of drinking, gambling, swearing and fighting. Might even be some sex too"

"Ah, that's okay I'm a grown up now" said my mate. "What shall I wear?"

"Whatever you like" the neighbour shrugged "It's only gonna be the two of us"


athangayou, athangayou

*runs*
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Thu 31 May 2012, 9:54, 4 replies)

I've recently moved out to the countryside from a fairly large city
I'm a pretty gregarious guy, so I was introducing myself to the locals in the pub when one guy said "Come over here and meet my wife, my cousin and my sister".
There was only one woman there.

coat/veal etc.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Thu 31 May 2012, 8:42, 7 replies)

No-go-carts.
As I have detailed earlier - I grew up on a "little" farm in Zambia, Africa.
One of the benefits of growing up on a large, commercial farm was access to - wood scraps, metal/machinery scraps, welding equip. & large machinery sheds full of tools.

Of course being kids of varying ages some of our first "builds" were box-carts - you know with a seat, plank, 4 wheels and and rotating front piece with ropes for steering.
Unfortunately we were blessed with a distinct lack of hills so powered vehicular motion was soon required as we were each only so prepared to push each other around. We also discovered (somewhat painfully) that wood is a less durable build material than metal.

So we built our dream cart out of steel tubing, one of my uncles rally car bucket seats, bicycle wheels on the back and mower wheels on the front connected to another steel tube that hinged at the centre and was steered by a long loop of rope. We also bolted on an old washing machine motor (don't ask me the wattage - I was tasked with scavenging, grinding and some welding) connected to a transformer(?) & then a 12V car battery. This was used via a bike chain to drive the rear wheels using old bike cogs. Our "ignition" was provided by someone (rapidly) putting the clips on the battery and you holding on for dear fucking life.

NO BRAKES.
Other than feet.

What we discovered -
- an old car battery provides a remarkable amount of *instant* acceleration.
- using a hinged bar and rope to steer will often lead to a *little* bit of over-steer; resulting in the vehicle trying to do an instant right-angle turn (no matter how gentle you try to be) & often causing both yourself & the cart to tumble sideways. Bearing in mind that we were all different sizes so you had no guarantee of being able to place your feet on the steering piece to assist you.
- 12V batteries hurt to touch generally if you are completing a circuit.
- Tinki (who was the only female member) showed herself not only to be the the bravest of our group but also the most susceptible to broken bones.
- the best testing environment would be built of reinforced goose-down as both gravel and asphalt proved to be rather unforgiving.

It was about 4' long and quickly got unbolted, cut up and decommissioned after it's 1st few runs.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Thu 31 May 2012, 6:06, 18 replies)

I'm so inbred
that I'm my own cousin's cousin.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 31 May 2012, 4:06, 28 replies)

Welcome to New Zealand
Having moved over to New Zealand from jolly old Blighty about 5 years ago I have received numerous culture shocks in the form of farming related events...

Within a week of getting settled in we were cruising along the state highway when I happened to glance in my rear view, only to see a weathered old farmer in his leather hat driving a battered old Ute (also known as a pick up truck to the rest of the english speaking world) with a full grown sheep plonked in the passenger seat, legs splayed apart, wearing a seat belt. We were soon to discover that this was not an uncommon sight round these parts...

Even watching a spot of TV over here can be an educational experience. I know understand what a "drench" is even if I don't understand why something you inject into a pissed off looking cow can still be named as such. I know have an overwhelming urge to own a ride on lawmower, or a quad, even a combine would be nice. Did you know that certain types of grass produce a greater amount of fat solids in milk per head of cattle? No? Well you probably don't care either, and nor should I. Yet somehow living in a country that still bases most of its economy around agriculture and farming permeates your brain in a way that is hard to describe.

Shotgun wielding maniacs are another hazard altogether... If you go hiking (or tramping as they call it over here) through the wrong patch of "bush" then you are liable to stumble upon one of the many Ganj plantations going on out here and then be chased by some angry looking guys with rifles.

Hunting is another favorite passtime out here. Deer, boar, possum you name it they shoot it and eat it. Took the family out for a walk one day and as we were loading up our backpacks three big Maori geeezers emerged from the bush, one of them with a huge boar hanging off his back. They proceeded to plonk said boar onto the ground and, with the precision of Michael J Fox trying to play a game of Operation, proceeded to hack it into chunks with a very large blade. We watched with a mixture of horror and grim curiosity until one of them noticed us staring and offered us a leg (still dripping blood). I politely declined and we went on our way sporting an interesting green hue.

I could go on but most of you have probably given up the will to live by now.

ps - having read the other QOTW posts I can confirm that yes most school kids do still knock around without shoes and yes they have been known to stand in cow poo to warm their feet (witnessed with my own 2 eyes). Also we don't have Boots the chemist over here (sorry).

Length? About 1000 Miles from the tip of the north island to the bottom of the south...
(goulash51 Lurking with intent since, Thu 31 May 2012, 3:04, 5 replies)

Possible leg pulling...
but I have a friend who is a Maori, a native New Zealander. He was telling me just last night that when his father was a kid, he, and many of his school friends would get around with no shoes. On their way to school they would stop off near cow laden fields and stand in fresh cow pats to warm their feet (As New Zealand is a fucking cold and windy place).
Real life shitsocks.
(technocore, Thu 31 May 2012, 1:26, 1 reply)

The Rapist Goose.
Well as I mentioned it and this seems like the appropriate QOTW... Here Goes. This is all absolutely true and can be verified by at least one peron on B3TA by the by. I can't fucking stand Geese to this day.

Well as I said in my last post, I grew up on a small farm in a quaint part of Devon. We had quite a big long Devon farm house, stone built long in shape and a (well at least to me at that age) vast stone flagged kitchen. In the kitchen we had a back door that led out onto one of our smaller fields in which we kept about a dozen geese a few sheep and a gander to keep the foxes at bay.

Alot of you may never of really got to know a gander before (when i say gander I don't mean an oggle from a passing tramp) This is a male Goose, an absolute monster despite its white feathers and giant duckish proportions, and believe me they keep the Foxes a fucking long way away.

Our Gander was something apart, he was an evil poultry satan, with unflickering blue eyes and a hiss that even Chuck Norris would shy from. Any way, one morning I was padding around the kitchen whilst mother was doing the dishes and she asked me to fetch the water bowl from the field for the geese, a small round blue washing up bowl. I obediantly obliged, never had any trouble before as a I usually went with my Mum, Brother or Dad to feed the geese. So relishing the new found responsibility I struck out like a Hobbit in search of a flaming hole in the ground.

Still wearing my night nappie and nothing else. I trudged quite merrily out of the door, and striding confidently towards the water bowl......

WHAM!!! On my face on the floor, couldn't get up, having my neck bitten, and being pounded on by a very fucking randy Gander. All the Gander saw was a demure slightly goose like nappy clad arse waddling across his fucking field the term "fresh meat!" must have crossed his mind. All I could do was scream, took like what seemed hours for my mum to come out and grab the fucking thing off me. My Dad swiftly went out side and caught the mucky feathered rapist.

Now with relevance to an earlier post My dad dispatched of the Goose, he didn't show me him doing it but showed me the carcass afterwards. He then took me straight back to the fence of the field and made me feed the rest of them. We had the neighbours round for sunday lunch too. "Fresh Meat!" Indeed you bastard.

Now as regards that earlier post. A bar across the neck doesn't always work first time, the best thing is to bend the head over the top of the bar with the body under the armpit and pull upwards whilst firmly holding the head, my Dads' preferred method however was to put a police cone over the goose and wait until the head popped out through the top. Then a good slice with some ridiculously sharp shears or machetti, it was also quite comedic if they got loose watching them try to run about in a police cone. Oh and as for plucking a dunk in boiling water to soften the skin and feathers, pluck, and then for the final stubble my mum always used to use my dads' razor, she never told him.

Sorry for length and poor typing I am typing this with broken fingers. :D Not joking.
( skeltonator Needs some new daps., Wed 30 May 2012, 23:26, 1 reply)

Q: What do you call a sheep who's had his legs shot off whilst flying a spitfire? A: Douglas Baaader

( 2 Can Chunder Word to your mums, I came to prod bums, Wed 30 May 2012, 23:12, Reply)

Well.. I'm no good at this, but here goes.
When I was a wee tucker I had the priveledge of living of a small farm in Devon, nice quaint setting and from there I have my first experiences of growing up. We had a one eyed pony called Pickles, upon whom I learnt to ride. The fucker had a knack for throwing my 4 year old self off his repugnant mutant pony back, and then trying to bite me to death. All slightly terrifying.

We also had a very big corrugated steel framed barn in which we used to keep the hay. As many others here will be aware from a young age this is as exciting to climb as foolishly endeavouring to climb a post communist tower is to a drunken Russian teenager.

Well one day little me is left unsurpervised for a while, so what does little me decide to do? He decides to climb the enormous stack of hay in the barn, all the way to the top. Standing on said bales I could just about reach one of the joists holding the roof up. So gamely I grab hold and decide to swing. THEN OHHH GERR FUCK! (probably not the exact words that crossed my mind at that tender age) Then. WAAAAAAAGGGHHHHH WAAAAGHHHH!!!! MUM! DAD! HELP! There was no fucking way I could get my feet back on the bales.

HANGING. 30 FUCKING FEET. ABOVE A CONCRETE BARN FLOOR.

Mum is first on the scene. She is panicking and try to keep me calm at the same time whilst trying to get my Dad to get A fucking ladder!!

Whilst the panick ensues my older brother climbs up the back of the bales, the side I had climbed up and gently stretches out, grabs my collar and yanks me back to safety.
I'll save the rapist goose for a seperate post.
( skeltonator Needs some new daps., Wed 30 May 2012, 22:52, 2 replies)

We had some cousins who bought a dairy farm, who we visited only a handful of times when we were growing up
After about 10 years of hard times, they faced bankruptcy on a yearly basis. Then the father died of a heart attack. His wife and the eldest son struggled on, but then the youngest boy was diagnosed with leukaemia. While he was being treated, the farm was repossesed and the mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her son died within the year, she is now hospitalised, and the remaining two boys live in another city. We don't even get christmas cards from them now. However, we did get to ride the tractor when we visited
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Wed 30 May 2012, 19:36, 3 replies)

Lardy Lubrication
I always thought that I had imagined this film....

www.imdb.com/title/tt0102783/

I reckon that this is actually a fly on the wall documentary.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3lFdaStNbU

and as for the post title... (NSFW)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=rVy5_8cRHV4&feature=relmfu
(the_icks has the sweet essence of giraffe, Wed 30 May 2012, 17:48, Reply)

What do farmers' children in America shout in order to bag the front seat of the car when travelling?
"I bag the front seat!"
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 30 May 2012, 16:17, Reply)

Where to farmers buy their medicine?
Boots! In Wellington in New Zealand.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Wed 30 May 2012, 15:54, Reply)

Swan.
While not quite farm related, but continuing on the theme of animal slaughter, I was about 5, sitting in the back seat of the Humber Super Snipe.

Mum was driving the family (4 Older siblings + dog) to our annual beach holiday. We were barrelling along a causeway, when a particularly dim black swan ambled across our path and was subsequently mown down by 2 tonnes of fine British engineering.

Mum stopped the car, inspected the swan, ascertained it was dead (and still warm) and popped it in the boot.

There was a deathly silence in the car. My older sister asked "what are you going to do with the swan".

"Probably mash and gravy" says Mum.



edit: If the Queens finds out, we'll offer her a bucket of KFC in compensation.
( Ken Oath, Wed 30 May 2012, 15:46, 1 reply)

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.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 30 May 2012, 15:43, 1 reply)

Disbudding is disgusting
I helped a friend and his family disbud some calves one afternoon, the process involves holding the calves with all your might while someone injects them with a mixture of drugs, including an anaesthetic I believe. Then, taking an extremely hot metal tube type device that resembles hair-curlers, you put them end-down over the calves young budding horns and push into their skulls, burning through the hair and skin and popping the horns out of their head.
It took the strongest one out of all of us to do this as it's quite hard, after all you're trying to hold a kicking calf having his fucking horns twisted out. the smell was foul, almost like the smell of a horse getting re-shooed but ten times worse. The horns were just sitting on the straw by our feet, too hot to handle and it looked like someone had dropped a box of stinking popcorn. Gross.
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Wed 30 May 2012, 15:25, Reply)

Rules:
1. The kitchen in the farmhouse must be big enough to have - and must have in it - an old, battered sofa.

2. The farmer must have an old, retired sheep dog.

3. Milk in the morning must be fresh and warm from the cow.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 30 May 2012, 14:07, 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.
( Ken Oath, Wed 30 May 2012, 12:52, 11 replies)