I've lived in the country for so long
I'm related to myself. Ain't that right uncle-daddy?
(Draino, Wed 30 May 2012, 12:33, Reply)

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.
( Ken Oath, Wed 30 May 2012, 12:00, 2 replies)

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.
(Warwick, Tue 29 May 2012, 22:59, 10 replies)

I miss DotF
Alweyz in are hartz
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Tue 29 May 2012, 19:59, 5 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.
( Donkey Gums @mattcomedy, Tue 29 May 2012, 19:09, 12 replies)

I been watchin you
especially you

prancin like a TIT

YOU WANT WORKIN ON BOY
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Tue 29 May 2012, 18:28, 2 replies)

A popped ball
Back when I were young, my nan lived on a farm. I used to amuse myself daily there and not even get killed by machinery. Once, I was playing football (kicking it as far and high as possible) when the ball got stuck in a tree.

After much attempted climbing I told nan and feared the ball was lost forever. The milking man (bit of a simpleton) overheard my tale of sadness and said 'I can get it back for you'

I waited with bated breath, longing to smash a few more (imaginary) halfway line goals.

A few minutes and a few shotgun cartridges later I was presented with the shredded remains of my lovely ball!

The dozy git had shot my ball down from the tree!
(Dr Zoidberg is going for a scuttle, Tue 29 May 2012, 18:15, 4 replies)

Did you hear about the farmer who fired a baalistic missile at his magic potato clock?
It turned into a tractor!
( 2 Can Chunder Word to your mums, I came to prod bums, Tue 29 May 2012, 18:11, 1 reply)

I've never thrown live kittens into the business end of a thresher.

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Tue 29 May 2012, 18:08, 4 replies)

Lamping
If anyone here knows what lamping entails than I'm sure you'll understand. I always managed to avoid the regular lamping trips my mates would take as the many stories of 'shooting bunnies/squirrels/foxes/badgers in the face' just didn't appeal to me. The one time I went I decided I would never go again. Farmers are funny folk.
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Tue 29 May 2012, 17:27, 18 replies)

Did you hear about the magic potato?
It got a farmer clock.
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Tue 29 May 2012, 16:07, 2 replies)

tasty pigface
I used to rent a house in the middle of a farm. I arranged with the landlord that me & my brood would help him look after some pigs in exchange for half of one of them. It was an ok arrangement though he bought more pigs than he'd originally said. He bought the pigs, food and bedding and we fed them and kept their house relatively clean. He'd muck out with his tractor occasionally.

Although I tried to prevent it, my kids got to know the cute little piggies. They really are intelligent animals and very friendly too. They were going to get named whether I liked it or not and we compromised on calling them ham, bacon, sausage and porky or something like that.

When they were eventually slaughtered and butchered, the landlord asked me if I wanted the head. Of course I said yes - I don't like the idea of wasting life and I think it's right to eat everything you can from an animal if you're going to kill it.

I warned my daughter to stay out of the kitchen while I was bringing it in and putting it in the oven. So of course she marched straight in, took one look at the head and wailed that she recognised which one it was. It took her months to be able to bring herself to eat any of the tasty pork.

Pigs head is utterly delicious. I just roasted it in the oven, having removed the eyes, brain etc. The meat is really succulent. Indeed pig-cheek is a delicacy in many countries for bloody good reason. It's the colour of lamb and very rich.

Mind you, as far as I can tell, pigs trotters have absolutely nothing to recommend them. I can get them for free and I've tried a few different recipes. They were almost nice when I stewed them for hours and then roasted them. But not really. Just skin and gristle with a tiny bit of meat in the middle.
(teasus likes tea, Tue 29 May 2012, 15:20, 4 replies)

Did you hear about the tragic mactor?
It was a shame.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 29 May 2012, 14:46, 1 reply)

rocking chair
My old man's mate had a small hobby farm/ bach and one day while strolling around a neighbouring farm he spotted a massive stone shaped like a sun lounger. He convinced himself this rock to be his new favourite bit of outdoor furniture and after a bit of haggling the farmer made the best deal of his live. The day came when the twat showed up with a dredger and started excavating bit by bit of his organic couch – only to find out that just 10% was shown on the surface. At some stage, already beyond the point of no return he dug himself deeper and deeper – this time to find out that about 90% of the village population were circling the site and wagering when he's about to explode...
Years later my dad is still trying to convince the farmer to claim rent for the bit of land his mate is blocking with his stone.
(fatbob pfffft…, Tue 29 May 2012, 13:08, 3 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.
( tim1701 I have no board signature!!!!!, Tue 29 May 2012, 11:33, 1 reply)

When I was three
A cow pooed on me
(RabiedRooster, Tue 29 May 2012, 10:20, 14 replies)

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.
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Tue 29 May 2012, 9:13, 15 replies)

A stroll in the country
with my new girlfriend, a sunny day, a field of lush green grass, I tumbled my sweetheart down, ripped off her panties and was pleasantly surprised at the effort she was putting in; squeaking and a-wriggling 'til she managed to tell me her arse and lady parts were also receiving attention from a patch of stinging nettles.
(Draino, Tue 29 May 2012, 8:40, 5 replies)

If you have to
touch an electric fence, do it with the back of your hand.

EDIT: (for the cock licking fraternity) - if you use your palm then your hand will automatically curl around the wire, thus keeping you connected. If you use the back of your hand then the same thing happens in reverse, your hand contracts into a fist and away from the wire.
Fucksake can nothing be clean-cut and not involve /talk style shit-talk?
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Mon 28 May 2012, 23:08, 9 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!"
(SpunkyMcSpunkbubble Diddled your nubbin on, Mon 28 May 2012, 20:59, 3 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.
(Biromunch, Mon 28 May 2012, 20:40, 3 replies)

Don't whizz on the electric fence!
You'd think that this would never need to be said, and yet...

Hope was a farm girl I knew many years back. Her family has had the farm for many generations, and at the time her grandparents were still living there with her parents and siblings.

One day Grandpa was coming back from town and noticed that one of the electric fences was down, so he parked his truck, got out the tool box, shut off the fence and hiked out to the pasture to repair it. Task completed, he decided to empty his bladder and aimed for the fencepost. (Why do so many guys do that?)

Her dad came home shortly after Grandpa, and noticed that the fence was switched off, so he sensibly switched it back on.

Hope said you could hear Grandpa's scream and cursing from the house.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 28 May 2012, 17:31, 29 replies)

Never touch an electric fence
If you're barefoot standing in wet mud.

it hurts.
(teasus likes tea, Mon 28 May 2012, 16:52, Reply)

A friend of mine was brought up in the sticks, where there was a massive bacon factory, one of the biggest in the country, massive local employer.
For her kid sister's school project, the class adopted a piglet at a local farm, learnt all about it, played with it and watched it grow into a big fat fcuker. They waved it off to the slaughterhouse, had a tour of the factory and went home with bacon and sausages. As vegi at the time, I was appalled, but being cured now, think it's at least being honest.
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Mon 28 May 2012, 16:48, 6 replies)

cute and tasty!
I bought some really cute one-day old goslings and hand reared them with my children. They were incredibly cute and also utterly convinced I was their mum. If I sat down in the garden they'd come over and cuddle up.

Then I killed and ate them. They were delicious!
(teasus likes tea, Mon 28 May 2012, 16:20, 11 replies)

bastard badgers
To all you city folks badgers are cute stripy chaps with sweet inquisitive faces. To those of us that actually have any dealings with them they're basically really big scary rats that want to hurt you and/or your animals.

I used to keep ducks - they're very useful in a small vegetable garden as they eat all the slugs and snails and other pests (apart from certain caterpillars) and they also lay rather tasty eggs. Plus when you're finished with them they're pretty delicious themselves. Not that I'd know as the badgers got to them all first.

One time I heard a big commotion from the garden and got outside to see a badger ripping the throat out of one of the ducks. I chased the bugger off or so I thought, and then went to kill the duck as humanely as possible. Then I realised the fucker had snuck back in and was doing its best to catch the other duck.

I was fairly annoyed at this point. I hate killing things, especially if I can't eat them afterwards. In my rage I picked up a broken metal post and lobbed it at the badger. I missed of course and the badger sauntered off without a care in the world. But the post ripped my hand open as I lobbed it and I got yet another scar.

Another time I got a bit of a fright when I tried to chase a badger off with a stick. I slipped over in the mud and for a moment it looked like it was going to turn back and eat my face. But it obviously couldn't be bothered and waddled away.

EDIT - I just remembered... when dusk started and we had to go and put the birds away to keep them safe I'd always have to say "STOP - badgertime!" A couple of years later and sometimes just after it's got dark I have a moment worrying that I haven't put the birds away...
(teasus likes tea, Mon 28 May 2012, 16:16, 10 replies)

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...
(gordonjcp, Mon 28 May 2012, 14:36, 21 replies)

I'm stuck on a farm right now
I'm so bored and unispired that I could quite happily harm someone. The problem is that no-one ever comes to see me I haven't even got a girlfriend down here. But, y'know, they told me to get healthy, to get a little sun, but to be honest, boredom eats me like cancer down here. At least I can have a few shandies and no-one here is threatening or anything, but I still feel really out of place. I've written to all my friends and called my baby on the telephone, asking her to come down, but she knows what the score is down here.

Lets face it, I can't fall in love with a wheatfield, I can't fall in love a barn, not least because everything smells like horseshit around here.

All things considered, I'd rather be back in Soho, than down here on the farm.
(ScousersPet, Mon 28 May 2012, 13:46, 3 replies)

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Interrupting cow.
Interrupting c-MOOOOO!
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 28 May 2012, 12:21, 10 replies)

I once plucked several geese at my great uncles smallholding
and put all the feathers in a box that had once contained bottles of wine.

What I ended up with was a case of down on the farm.
(username failed moderation, Mon 28 May 2012, 12:13, Reply)