As a rule you should never post when under the affluence of inkerhol but I’ve been round mes voisines today and Christ that Pastis of theirs is strong stuff.
I’m conscious that I owe the blog a post, but gaming has been scant of late and miniature painting has to unfortunately come second to me endlessly cutting l’herbe dehors. Fortunately the Pastis has opened a couple of the doors on my advent calendar of troubled youth, so I’ll regale you with an anecdote from the past in lieu of anything actually relevant or interesting.
Buckle up.
The Current Mrs Broom planted hundreds of Euros worth of new plants last year and within 48 hours the four new chickens I’d just purchased had dug most of them up. “Why chickens.” she demanded of me, (in a most fearsome bate) “and why now?”
It was a good question. So in concert with my recent interest in all things Indian, I consulted various Hindu and Buddhist sacred texts and burned a bit of incense. You know, like you do. The unexpected outcome was a trip in the BroomCo Time Machine (pat pending) to the long lost land of Worcestershire in the grim old winter of 1977.
Though it no doubt stretches credibility, the young Jolly Broom Man (miserable brush boy?) was nothing like the handsome strapping chap I am today, all quivering whiskers and steely gaze…no sir, I was a girly milk sop with greasy hair, a brace, and was still wearing flares when my peer group had all moved on to drain pipe jeans.
My parents had bought a small holding and gone “back to the land” in 1974 but after a couple of years the realities of stoop labour were beginning to tell. We didn’t have much cash (to put it mildly - you try paying your rates with goats milk) and so pater would sometimes come up with the occasional wheeze in order to generate emergency lucre.
Apropos the post title - from a mixed farm perspective, cockerels are pretty worthless but my dear father had chanced upon 50 going cheap, (sorry). After injecting them with female hormones in order to make them nice and plump (for reasons I didn’t immediacy fathom) they became my charge down on the farm.
They were a decent bunch them chucks, with the female hormones eliminating their usual urge to fight or fuck everything in sight - instead they were good with colours and partial to musical theatre as I recall. They lived in an old refrigerated van only slightly less tatty than the family home and though they were relatively well fed the conditions they lived in were generally poor. I felt bad for them but at 13 (ish) there was bugger all I could do about it.
In the winter of 77 pater got the nod from a bloke who owned the Grand Tandoori on the Soho road and the purpose of my gaggle of gay chickens became suddenly and horribly clear. On a cold and wet November night daddy got a couple of crisp new fivers and by the light of a sputtering Tilly lamp I got a lesson in how to kill a chicken by breaking its neck. Thrusting the still twitching corpse into my cold little hands he nodded to the rows of roosting birds and muttered. ‘There’s another 49 of the bastards in there. You’d best be getting on with it.’
Lovely bloke my Pa.
On reflection I’d have been better off strangling him. (Oooh girl got daddy issues!)
So as you can see, karmically speaking, I had a great wrong that I obviously and unconsciously needed to address. Once I’d explained matters to the Current Mrs Broom she became a lot more understanding. I find there’s nothing like a bit of childhood trauma to grease the wheels of forgiveness.
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| Makepeace, my bearded Favorol, gets human breakfast granola every day along with fresh blueberries and raspberry’s from Intermarché. The flock wanders where they will and live in a state of the art insulated coop that cost over a grand. Karmically speaking I may not now be re incarnated as a toilet seat. |
One of these days I’ll tell you about the great goat caper in which a 14yr old me had to illegally drive the green family VW 1300 beetle through Birmingham to the abattoir with four billy goat kids on the back seat. Happy days - and nary a Fonz in sight.
Oh crap, I almost forgot this is a wargaming blog.
Here’s a picture of some English 100yr war lads I’ve been working on. Proof if proof were needed that digital photography is not your friend. lol.
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| Just noticed the chap in the middle has a bit of a droopy arrow. We’ve all been there. |
Toodleooh mes amis.