Saturday 10:18 p.m.
Like long, thin shallow graves, the eight rows of potatoes now undulate down one side of the allotment. There are ten holes bored down in each row with half a tattie in each hole. If you get four tatties from each half, you've got ... 360 tatties, about one a day for a year. I need at least four times that. Even then, I'll have eaten them all by the time the Xmas santy bastards start winding me up again.
Having only been digging, etc., for about an hour and a half, I fell asleep in the bath listening to Sportsound, then fell asleep on the couch for half an hour after having some of my delicious soup.
Hotboy, you are unfit for manual labour. Jack, I need this stamped on my forehead when I finally spit out the dummy and have to sign on the dole again. This boy is unfit for manual labour and disabled by ra bliss!
There was a wisp of snow in the air today as I talked to a neighbour about the passing of the joe from the allotment to the north east.
They don't sing. They don't dance. They don't laugh. These are the dour,greetin' faced basturns who compose a sizeable proportion of my compatriots, the product of four hundred years of calvinism.
Just about when I started meditating, I told a friend of mine that my ambition was to be a nice old man. I reckoned by meditating I could maybe improve my disposition by about two to five percent a year. Improve by little increments. Of course, the progeny of the evil bourgeois having been spoon fed and bubble wrapped would not imagine that they required any improvement. Now, they sing even less. They still don't dance. And you've got a better chance of hopping up Everest than you have of getting a belly laugh out of these miserable, Scottish basturns.
Meditation will make you happier. You should meditate because you will inevitably inflict your presence on other joes and josephines even if you'd rather not. It's not all about you. The miserable, greetin' faced Scottish basturns just get worse and worse. The grooves of habitual crabbitness just get wider and deeper.
Fortunately, the boffins will be allowed to create hybrid embryos soon and old joes like moi will be able to sit and fan ourselves while the subhumans do the digging.
Give it to Julia! Give it to Julia! Even with a dodgy shoulder, I could run and skip, and cycle. You can see why the ranchers thought they were above the sodbusters.
The replacement to the north east is a woman. As she bent down today I had an indelicate, agricultural thought. Perhaps she'd find that complimentary for she is an old doll. It's when you feel like umpteen the waxworks in the shop windows that you know it's getting desperate. Maybe it was the springtime, the rising sap and all that, even with the inkling of snow.
When the springtime will come, Oh, won't we have fun! We'll get out of jail, and we'll go on the bum! (Hallelujah, I'm a Bum. Joe Hill (?) . Wobbly Songbook
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8 comments:
I left Scotland to avoid these miserable, Scottish basturns and become New South Caledonian.
But one of the good things about the calvinist old man was he used to sing Hallelujah, I'm a Bum when we were kids.
It's autumn down here and the sap's running out to balance things. Is it Easter Tuesday already?
Albert? Is that you? In the sweet by and by, there'll be apple pie in the sky when you die. Anyway, it's Sunday here and still blinking baltic. Dearie me! Climate change isn't going to bother us apart from all the buildings blowing down. Happy Easter Sunday! Hotboy
The old dear says you've just had a heatwave bring the temperature up to 6 degrees. How fortunate.
Albert? She must be into the juju cos it's still baltic out there! Hotboy
The dear-departed dad sang some of those Wobbly songs too. In the early 60s, he worked as a wobbly union organiser amongst lumberjacks in the American NW. I can still hear his caterwaul (he was tone-deaf) screeching 'Pie in the Sky' and 'The Ballad of Joe Hill'.
Ion: How strange and wonderful and odd is that! Almost nobody has heard of the wobblies, and less have heard of Joe Hill! We are a tiny fraction of these joes and josephines, and yet ... Oh, why should I work, like other men do? Oh, why should I work when the sky is so blue! Well, he's still got three weeks of the juju to come from me! How wonderfully apposite! Hotboy
It was through mutual trade union activities that he met and wooed my mum. There was a bit of Peggy Seeger and Ewan MacColl about them both.
There you go. Keep saying the juju for him, since he well deserves it.
IOn: Well, I will and I'm sure he does! Hotboy
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