This weekend I escaped the chicken shops and Hackney cads of East London for the green green grass of Yorkshire. Although ostensibly there to house and dogsit for our lovely friend Beth’s parents, I took the trip more as an opportunity to manhandle various natural forms, including but not exclusively dogs and rock. I caught these guys having a good old gambol just outside our window. Although my sheep-rearing uncle Ian once caught a herdwick lamb with probably the best low-flying rugby tackle this side of the All Blacks, I’m afraid I was too slow to attempt such an ovine overture.
This is the kind of shit I had to deal with on our walk to the shop. I mean, I’m all for views, but this is just taking the piss. It’s like looking at the world through green glasses. Now I know how Coleridge felt.
This is me holding a recently disengaged lamb’s tail. Now, I’m no vet, but I imagine if someone put a rubber band around one of my dangling extremities (that’s a nice image, isn’t it?) until it fell off, I would probably be pretty low on the old spring in my step. Lambs must be dosed up on some sort of woolly codeine to be able to bounce around like that with appendages dropping off like a leper on a go kart.
Here is the man of the match, the terrier terror known as Benji. So excited is he by the simple act of walking that he pretty much throttled himself to death on his own lead, which is why he is wearing that funny nose strap. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a terrier on the point of asphyxiation, but it’s rather like someone powering up a small moped, or a canine accordion.
Here I am, doing what I do best. Namely, acting like a walrus.
Now, I know it looks like I’m diving in to a giant pool of spit here, but I can reassure you all that it’s just a small surface layer of foam. Lovely, natural foam. God, I hope it was foam.
This photo makes it looks like I did a spot of naked rapid-riding while my underimpressed friends watched on in fully-clothed boredom, but it’s just a trick of the angle. At least, that’s what I told my mother.
Doesn’t this look like the worst Indie band you’ve never heard? Probably called something so wet like The Hyacinth Paradigm. That, or a spectacularly unsuccessful deodorant advert.
As mentioned ad infinitum on this blog, I am a ludicrous badman. I have the strength of a bull and the poise of a hawk. This log, nay tree, was so heavy that no mere mortal would even dare kick it. Until I smacked gravity in the face with a colossal bit of riverside weightlifting. Next stop: pulling a truck up a runway in nothing but a lycra onesie and leather trilby.
This schmuck, on the other hand, couldn’t take the weight. Here he is, begging for mercy. Crippled by the effort. Nice try bozo.
And so, as the Emmerdale credits of time slip down the grassy bank of fortune and the terrier of leisure garrotes himself on the leash of full-time employment I’m afraid our weekend must come to a close. Yorkshire; it’s been real.