ON THE FARM
know I was musing the other day - its good to muse once in
a while, I even have a special place to muse, it's my muse
flat - I hope to be able to afford a real one some day - but
I digress, the subject of my muse was on the significant roll
the humble farm has played in the history of rock, I mean
you've got a work shy Bob Dylan whingeing about the demands
of Maggie with her smallholding and Mose Alison not doing
no body no harm - although it has to be said not doing much
good either - on farmer Parchman's farm. Then of course the
Stones own Brian Jones, he had a farm - and no doubt, just
like Old Macdonald, here a chick, there a chick, everywhere
enough of my profound philosophising, just remember you saw
it here first, the next time you come across the idea, your
son or daughter will probably be being offered it as a 'media
Studies' course option at the University of Posh & Becs
or the Bluewater College of Shopping or whatever else passes
for a hall of academe these days.
brings us about as sensibly as three point turn on a motorway
to the coming weekend when we will be donning our green wellies
and mucking about down on the farm, both at Bottley
Hill and The New Rayners at Tythe Farm SC.
Later in the month we're driving the herd up to
Crewe for a Friday night out at the Limelight,
then it's up at dawn and 'roll em out' as we hit the trail
back south again in time for Sunday round up and a HOG
roast in Dorset.
go, that pesky little rooster wants a lift home, lazy little
bugger. But remember if I catch any of you Midnight Ramblers
on my land again it won't be the hounds that are howling.