Nazi Cows

Nazi cows are being culled in Devon – or somewhere down thereabouts. The breed is an ancient and vicious mix of genes harping back to the extinct Auroch – one of the massive and prehistoric bovine species which regularly gored and trampled anything it could get to. The new breed was genetically engineered by the Nazis in an insane attempt to recreate a fictional Aryan world of large cows, Eugenics, and mass horror. Today, the Nazis are gone but the Nazi cow remains. And it is angrier than ever.

According to the farmer down there, the cows will attack any human on sight and without provocation. Farmhands are part tractor driver and part matador on this strange farm. Why keep Nazi cows? What benefits are there? None, is the answer.

The constant thumping from next door has been driving me to distraction. He is having a new kitchen put in on the cheap by his drinking buddy. In response, yesterday, I was forced into firing up my electric guitar and turning up the industry standard amp. For an hour I played Jumpin Jack Flash. If he’d have had a sense of humour he could have thumped along in time but I think after a while he just downed tools and took off for the pub and the sanctuary he finds every night in 8 pints of carling.

I’m having more nightmares than I’ve had for a long time.

Poltergeists forcing me to leave my house – that is the main nightmare theme.

Perhaps I’m ready to die? Perhaps I’ve been eating cheese? Wait…yes I have. That’ll be it then: cheese.

Fucking Nazi cows!! Who in their right mind would keep Nazi cows? These fuckers are evil and belong in the fossil records, not in Devon. They are like brown mottled Cape Buffalo but with straight horns and a less sweaty hide. Ready to accelerate 1000lbs of muscle into, over, anybody, and round again. Completely fair equal opportunities trampling. Just be a human on the wrong side of the fence. No slow munching around in the green fields for these beasts until the nipple suckers are attached. No, no. Every fibre of a Nazi cow is primed and aimed at killing you and me.

As if farms weren’t dangerous enough places – people getting limbs ripped off in bailing machines, run over by tractors, sunk and drowned in thousands of litres of animal sludge. Do you really need the added fatal pressure of a Nazi cow on the premises? Not me. And I should know; I am, after all, a farmer. Two years of keeping chickens has taught me just how dangerous and cruel the farming life can be. And above everything it has taught me you cannot trust an animal. Never.

The Buddhist classes are going well but I’m always a nanosecond from saying something which, I know, will upset the whole thing. Too many therapy junkies in there. Too much weirdness. I’m with them until the singing. I won’t sing a badly worded English prayer, even if it is for Buddha. It’s set to bad acoustic guitar and goes on for at least 5 minutes. Too long to keep a straight face – and I never manage to keep a straight face so I have to suck on my water bottle until the whole horrific thing ends and it’s time to get down to the meditating.

There is a guy who attends the sessions who has visions when he meditates and loves to tell us all about them: eagles, screaming around the sky at him. But I don’t believe him. In fact, I find it insulting. We need more rules around here, we can start by forcing the ingestion of LSD into people who claim to see visions for dramatic effect.

Go crazy on your motorbike on that one Eagle old boy. Let’s see you roll up to the class next week and ponder the meaning of life like a whimpering child when your inner mind has been fucked in the ass by a good dose of Lysergic. No pondering then old boy. No more bullshit from you. Job done. Cheap too.

  • A dark, person sized shadow has just exited the door to my stairs and walked (or moved, or floated, or crept. Yes…..crept) around the corner to my kitchen. What was I saying about nightmares? Just another symptom of ingrained paranoia and instability I suppose. Got to go and find out if it’s real –

Nothing there. Put it down to repeated mental stress. Get a drink. See if there’s something to shout at on the tv – fucking football. Stoke the fire. Shadows can’t do anything that could be a fraction of what real life can hit you with when you cross a road without looking. Creep about all you like shadowmonster.

Evil Nazi cows… worse than a Ouija board for attracting the spirits. Not that I believe in spirits. I don’t think any soul or whatever you want to call it would want to hang around here if they had even the slightest chance of doing something else. Would you? Nope. Take the tunnel with the white light and fly like superwoman until something good happens – which is soon, right? Unless all the books are wrong….. And they could be.

The Nazi cows are for the chop in Devon. It’s not their fault. You can’t have a genetic Frankenstein’s monster from prehistory running amok in the world. Shouldn’t have been created in the first place. The Nazi cow never stood a chance.

Nobody wins in the long run. Not me, not my neighbour, not even that slack jawed idiot Garth Crookes. Put that in your pipe folks on a cold evening.

In Paris…

Wednesday 7th January 2015 –  People who draw cartoons are killed for no good reason.

Bus driver clicking his heels along the pavement. Heading to the toilet in the co-op “I’ll be a minute”, shuts the bus doors behind him, leaving us all standing in the rain while he goes inside to take a shit.

Mostly empty bus. Drop the newspaper on the seat and reach for a codeine tablet. Shitty bitter taste.

Paris. Terrorists have shot dead 12 people. Islam is the suspect, again. Nobody is safe from guns, or bombs in shoes, or strapped around kids in schools. Religion – for suckers. Or the crazy. Or the violent and the crazy. This time I’m fucked if I can work it out.

Muslims who I know are posting up messages on Twitter “Not all Muslims are bad”, justifying themselves, but they are fighting a losing battle now. Too many safe, fat, thick, white folks have made up their minds – “those fucking immigrant bastards…..” Moments of madness, factless conversations in the dirty streets of my home town. “Iffy” (from the tattoo on his right hand), a fifty year old man with the tongues of his cheap walking shoes poking out halfway up the laces, stands transfixed by the newspaper headlines. He mouths the words “Muslim…..Paris…..CUNTS”

Paris – heatwave in 2001, or was it 2002? Or 2003? I can’t recall. Lots of Muslims there then too, standing with me, but no bombs or guns, just smiles and laughter. What has changed? Why now? Bombs have been raining down in the Middle East for years. Pigs in the sky – Nostradamus – hunting for the new Satan.

Bury him at sea. No grave site to pilgrimage to. Let’s see him fuck a holy virgin when he’s covered in seaweed eh….

Torture, then say torture is wrong. Don’t apologise. Hide what you can before you have to roll in the PR wagon. Don’t tell the truth, tell YOUR truth to us and make us believe. Believe, like waking up from a dream where you fucked Pamela Anderson years ago. That half moment of hard-on in the second before you realise you are alone. That kind of loss is too much for anyone to cope with.

The Police State is getting stronger; we’re all in this whether we like it or not now. From long gone village bobby to snooping info police in twelve easy steps and ten hard years. Our village copper couldn’t close his lips over his prominent front teeth. He couldn’t work a computer either but he knew how to run. Left breast out at the lodge meeting. He knew his secrets but he never snooped a day in his life.

They all called it right. This is NOT the end. We are all at war, sadly.