After what seems like light years watching funny home video shows, rude tubes and popular disasters I still have not learnt to carry a video camera with me wherever I go. I could have lined my pocket with some prize money or at the very least a few dozen hits on You Tube.
Here I was sitting at my computer in the Astonishing Office when I heard the gut-renching cry of Ali Baabaa the smallest goat in the flock. This was not unusual as every time he loses Horn Solo his body-guard in the grass that is taller than he is he can be heard screaming his little head off. What a wimp.
Anyway, on this day, I had listened to him carry on for the mandatory half-hour which is about the time that I get up off my arse and go out to point him towards the rest of his mob. Upon looking in the direction of the increasingly desperate bleating all I could see was the flock just standing around in a circle discussing what to do about Julia Gillard but no sign of Ali. The sound was coming from there so I headed off in that direction collecting several dozen flies on the way.
Upon arrival the flock parted and there, from the core of a roll of chicken wire, erupted the arse of one very unhappy Boer. Ali had managed to wriggle into the centre of the roll, probably in search of some rare greens for his Souvlaki, and once between his lips would naturally proceed to back out. Being only a kid (pun intended) he didn’t realise that his little horns would get stuck in the mesh of wire and thus well and truly lock him in position, unable to either go forward, because his arse was too big, or backward because his head was too horny and his only resort was to scream for help as loud as he could. What could he be thinking, when all of those around him were as dumb as he was and could have done nothing anyway. That was until at least one half-brain arrived, mine.
Now one might realise at this point that the only way to extricate said goat would be to unwind the wire, and the roll being 50 Metres in length would mean more than a little pushing and shoving especially when the ground it was to cover was strewn with trees, stumps and rocks and impossible to layout in a straight line. Imagine also, as I did not count them, the number of times said goat would rotate in the process of the unrolling. I would take a guess at around 50+.
The process involved revolving the wire and watching his little legs, attached to a soccer ball stomach, flop about uncontrollably. At one end he was stressed, tense and screaming and the other his legs were doing the either the Hokey-kokey or some Irish Jig and his arse shitting itself. ‘Roll, scream, roll, poop, roll, bleat, roll’ was how it went for ten long minutes over rocks, around stumps and several trees. The result was a huge ‘S’ flattening the long grass. like a bear flailing a Tuna to death.
With only two revolutions to go his carcass finally flopped out the end of the wire. Wobbling to his feet, his eyes still spinning and his tongue flapping out of the side of his mouth he looked at me, seemed to say ‘you bastard for leaving that lying around’ and sighting Horn Solo ran screaming off back to the flock which had been intently following all the action but not bothering to assist.
I went back to the office and wrote a hundred lines ‘I must carry the phone, I must take the phone’
No comments:
Post a Comment