Silage for Men.

Oh the smell of silage. It lingers like Lynx, it’s shower proof, dries your hands to a crisp and even melts concrete. Honestly, if you’ve got a concrete patio you want up don’t bother with a road drill, just spread wet grass over it and leave it. It’ll be rubble in no time. But ruminants love it. Why they bother chewing it I don’t know because it’ll basically turn to shit on its own. We may be ashes to ashes but for farm animals it’s shit to shit, with shit in between. No wonder they need seven stomachs to get something out of it. How God makes cows and bulls out of this stuff is a miracle. It’s enough to make me vegetarian. Anyway the young heifers are now stroppy teenagers and having a horn up your backside while bending over to shovel their shit is not only worrying, it’s extreme bad manners. What with two trying to knock the barrow over, one chewing the scraper handle and the others rearing me it was a relief to get in with the sheep. They at least only spin round the yard like inveterate ever-watching Catherine wheels crapping peas all over the place. Honestly if farmers taught cows and sheep to use the toilet they could take the afternoons off. But no, it’s water, silage and shit in a perpetual merry-go-round of dealing with their ins and outs. And then an anxious woman tells us a swan has wrestled a goose to the ground and is now mercilessly trying to squash it. Andrea reassures her this is not inter-species death wrestling and it will be OK; he didn’t like to tell her it was simply a male trying to get his end away with anything with feathers, in a testosterone fuelled attempt to make a Swoose, or maybe a Goosan. They’re all at it. If you can’t eat it or shit on it, then shag it, “simple, tchiqx.” How we ever thought homosexuality was ‘un-natural’ when nature is constantly trying to do Darwin’s work in the most indiscriminate manner I’ll never know. If we ever opened all the gates we’d have rabbits with horns, geese that grunt and cows with wings. Forget Greek myths about Pegasus etc, they were all true; they just died out because they weren’t good at landing. So you can forget Kate Humble, I’ve got my eye on very attractive waste bin.