My 5 worst jobs ever
These things are always in reverse order so here is the count down... Coming in at number 5 is…. Agricultural Labourer
One summer when I lived up north my friend Clive and I decided it would be a blast to work on a farm. After a few tries, knocking on doors we found a farmer who said he would take us on. It was a mixed medium sized holding in a godforsaken part of Lancashire run by an ogreoid farmer - a giant no-nonsense Lancashire-man, his idiot eldest son, his even more idiot younger son, the village idiot John, the wizened 75 year old farmhand Stan and now - me and Clive.
It wasn’t really that bad – hence its lowly position at number 5 but there were some very unpleasant things about it:
Pulling weeds out by hand from wheat fields whilst walking in front of the combine harvester controlled by the mad, drunken village idiot John who regularly dozed off at the wheel.
Hours hurling, by the twine, bails of straw, with bare hands until they were red raw.
“Please may I have some gloves?” I asked the farmer once
“GLOOVES! Are you sum kinda poof?”
Clipping the sheep’s festered and shit, maggot filled overgrown toenails.
Checking the sheep’s vaginas for moistness to decide which were soon to become mutton.
However there were some wonderful things about it: working outside with my shirt off all day; working with nature - being in touch with it. After a month I had a fabulous tan, my body was rippling with muscle and my hands were two big calluses. Plus they let us drive around on the quad bikes and tractors which was great.
Stan was also a wonder: he was small, frail and never did any hard work but got more done than the rest of us put together. I never saw him eat or drink anything. He survived purely on the nutrients from his daily smoke of 60 unfiltered woodbines.
“Would you like a sandwich Stan?” I asked him once, offering him one of mine as we were sat on a log in the sun by the side of a field.
“Nay lad! These woodbines will do me just fine.”
He knew the cows well too as I discovered when we were trying to get a randy and very angry stud bull, who had caught his old chap on a barbered wire fence as he jumped into the field of cows we were trying save for him for the next month, into the farm yard to administer the necessary antibiotic medicine.
The idiot older son had decided the best way to do this was to herd him with quad bikes and 30 cows to pacify his mood.
“Aye lad, this won’t work.” said Stan said as he stood next to me watching the proceedings.
“He will get half way through the gate then bulk. The only way to lead a bull like that is to drag him by the ring, petting his head” he added in his thick Lancashire accent.
“Hmm…” I say.
True to Stan’s prediction as the bull and his bitches got to the gate they back stampeded towards us.
“What do we do now Stan? ... Stan?” I asked nervously. But Stan was a 100 yards away on the other side of the fence smoking a woodbine.
Well at least the others had a laugh.
“I have never seen a soft southern poof run that fast! “ They all said in the pub later.
Sadly my career as a peasant ended brutally on the potato harvest. A tractor pulled an evil mechanised trailer filled smoke and sweat that dragged the earth on to a series of iron barred conveyer belts up to us at the top where we picked off the potatoes.
Reaching for a small prized potato that apparently the la-di-da townie restaurants valued my finger got too close to one of the cogs that drove the iron bars. It ripped my finger nail right out.
“Ow... fucking ow” I said showing the idiot farmer’s son my bleeding finger.
“You should see a doctor!” he said helpfully “Can you jump from the trailer or do you want us to stop?”
Two days later I phoned the ogreoid farmer.
“Can I have 2 weeks pay because I can’t work? You know compensation.” I asked
“Compensation!! We have had women working on that machine!”
“Hmm... well that isn’t a valid argument either logically or legally. I can phone health and safety if you like.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have employed a southerner, especially not a townie southerner”
Fucking northerners!
One summer when I lived up north my friend Clive and I decided it would be a blast to work on a farm. After a few tries, knocking on doors we found a farmer who said he would take us on. It was a mixed medium sized holding in a godforsaken part of Lancashire run by an ogreoid farmer - a giant no-nonsense Lancashire-man, his idiot eldest son, his even more idiot younger son, the village idiot John, the wizened 75 year old farmhand Stan and now - me and Clive.
It wasn’t really that bad – hence its lowly position at number 5 but there were some very unpleasant things about it:
Pulling weeds out by hand from wheat fields whilst walking in front of the combine harvester controlled by the mad, drunken village idiot John who regularly dozed off at the wheel.
Hours hurling, by the twine, bails of straw, with bare hands until they were red raw.
“Please may I have some gloves?” I asked the farmer once
“GLOOVES! Are you sum kinda poof?”
Clipping the sheep’s festered and shit, maggot filled overgrown toenails.
Checking the sheep’s vaginas for moistness to decide which were soon to become mutton.
However there were some wonderful things about it: working outside with my shirt off all day; working with nature - being in touch with it. After a month I had a fabulous tan, my body was rippling with muscle and my hands were two big calluses. Plus they let us drive around on the quad bikes and tractors which was great.
Stan was also a wonder: he was small, frail and never did any hard work but got more done than the rest of us put together. I never saw him eat or drink anything. He survived purely on the nutrients from his daily smoke of 60 unfiltered woodbines.
“Would you like a sandwich Stan?” I asked him once, offering him one of mine as we were sat on a log in the sun by the side of a field.
“Nay lad! These woodbines will do me just fine.”
He knew the cows well too as I discovered when we were trying to get a randy and very angry stud bull, who had caught his old chap on a barbered wire fence as he jumped into the field of cows we were trying save for him for the next month, into the farm yard to administer the necessary antibiotic medicine.
The idiot older son had decided the best way to do this was to herd him with quad bikes and 30 cows to pacify his mood.
“Aye lad, this won’t work.” said Stan said as he stood next to me watching the proceedings.
“He will get half way through the gate then bulk. The only way to lead a bull like that is to drag him by the ring, petting his head” he added in his thick Lancashire accent.
“Hmm…” I say.
True to Stan’s prediction as the bull and his bitches got to the gate they back stampeded towards us.
“What do we do now Stan? ... Stan?” I asked nervously. But Stan was a 100 yards away on the other side of the fence smoking a woodbine.
Well at least the others had a laugh.
“I have never seen a soft southern poof run that fast! “ They all said in the pub later.
Sadly my career as a peasant ended brutally on the potato harvest. A tractor pulled an evil mechanised trailer filled smoke and sweat that dragged the earth on to a series of iron barred conveyer belts up to us at the top where we picked off the potatoes.
Reaching for a small prized potato that apparently the la-di-da townie restaurants valued my finger got too close to one of the cogs that drove the iron bars. It ripped my finger nail right out.
“Ow... fucking ow” I said showing the idiot farmer’s son my bleeding finger.
“You should see a doctor!” he said helpfully “Can you jump from the trailer or do you want us to stop?”
Two days later I phoned the ogreoid farmer.
“Can I have 2 weeks pay because I can’t work? You know compensation.” I asked
“Compensation!! We have had women working on that machine!”
“Hmm... well that isn’t a valid argument either logically or legally. I can phone health and safety if you like.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have employed a southerner, especially not a townie southerner”
Fucking northerners!
posted by h at
11:18 pm
4 Comments:
Unless you're growing ganja in Jamaica, farming sucks.
By
Zen Wizard, at 1:54 am
What an excellent story! Yeah, heavy physical labor is extremely satisfying... at least in short alotments. I grew up on a pseudo-farm and understand the generaly disgustingness of sheep. Yech, poo & maggots.
Enjoying the new look!
By
Hope E. Ewing, at 7:49 am
Hmm, going to have to proofread these in the future.
By
Hope E. Ewing, at 7:50 am
Very true Zen. The same could have been said of Columbian coca farmers until the USAF starting napalming them.
Aww thanks Stella.
Yeah don’t believe the hype working with sheep sucks.
By
h, at 11:41 am
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