Practically Classics Forum

Well, I didn't really want to say this but, a couple of years after the first job, I was working on another farm and we had to clear a blockage in the septic tank. That wasn't much of a job, but my workmate told me about the time he was emptying the one where he lived.

They had a long narrow tank (built by themselves I'd guess!) and they used to park the muck spreader across the end of the tank and scoop the stuff out with a bucket on a thin rope, grabbing the bottom as it swung out and then aiming at the spreader. It wasn't much of a job at the best of times, but he caught a cobble (or something) while dredging, put a bit of force behind it, the bucket suddenly cleared the obstruction, came flying out at a rate of knots and he didn't get the chance to grab the bottom while it passed by. Of course, gravity and the rope - you can guess the result. He said he still stunk a week later and lost a number of friends!

The other tank I emptied (yet another farm) had to be handled delicately. It was a pig farm and the boss had a slurry tanker, with which I also did contract slurry spreading. To break the crust on pig (and other muck), we used to set the tanker to pressurise the tank and then, at max pressure, open the main "gate", blasting the air down the hose (I think it was four inches, but could have been six). A lot of air certainly makes the slurry boil. When the boss told me to agitate the stuff in the septic tank, I refused; so he held the hose steady while I stood at the tanker - very carefully. If I'd known he was going to make me redundant a month later, I wouldn't have been so careful - he only got a little on him!

There are various stories about my adventures with pig muck while working on that farm - usually one or other of us ended the day covered in the stuff!

Continuing with tractormans mucky theme. Toilet facilities at local agriculture shows in the late 60's/early 70's was at best rudimentary. men went behind a corrugated iron wall at the bottom of which a trench had been dug. Women had to perch on a pair of planks over a trench and were afforded a little privacy by sack hung vertically to make cubicles. We were at a show with 2 young boys aged 2 and 4 who needed the loo. As they probably would have stepped into the trench in the gents they went with mum to the ladies. Next thing I knew all 3 came haring out of the loos and she ushered us away from the loos at a run. When we had retreated to a safe distance all was explained. Eldest boy had been sorted first and when she was dealing with the youngest a little voice piped up " mam I can see a ladies bumb". Eldest had looked down beneath the planks. I dont know who was the most embarrassed, my wife or lady just about to get into full flow.

Seeing as this thread's done a Lazarus, I thought that it might be time to tell the story of that night when eight of us went on a Stags weekend to a small pub in the village of Bamburgh, which is a wee bit further up the coast than here.

This was in about 1985, so before the all-day drinking rules came along and, after finishing our drinks on the green outside the pub on the lunchtime session of the first day, we all trooped inside to use the gents' bogs.
Trouble was; the landlord had closed the toilets to give his cleaner/cook/bottler-upper/wife a chance to get the place looking habitable again in time for evening opening at 6:30. Fortunately, seven of the chaps, myself included, only wanted a quick visit for number one. This wasn't a problem as there was plenty tree cover in the beer garden but one of our number, a 7 foot tractor fitter with hands like shovels and everything in proportion (reputedly, though I never saw him feeding buns to it...) needed to drop the proverbial cable and he was so intoxicated that he would have done so anywhere.
So he did!
Opposite the pub there's a small rose garden, all laid out with benches and picnic tables for the annual influx of grockles who come along, firstly during Glasgow fair and later in the season, when the English schools break for summer. Fortunately, no children were present at this time, just a couple of dozen 'wegians most of whom were as drunk as our party and wouldn't have noticed the big fella, breeks round his ankles, squatting in a flower bed that - in his drunken state - he'd thought would provide ample cover for his cargo-dropping exercise.
Sadly, one elderly woman in the party of visitors from the west was rather prim and didn't drink so, on seeing matey performing in the flower bed, rushed to the phone box (the only one in the village) and dialled 999.
As bad luck would have it, the local Polis was in his van only 3 miles along the coast, probably scanning the young surfers through his binoculars as that was his favourite pastime.
Even more bad luck saw the Polis' Astra van arrive within a very short time indeed and yes, the big guy with the bigger hands was just hauling his clothing back into place as the bewildered copper reached his position.
"I ought to arrest you for that and take you to Berwick to sober up", said the PC.
"C'mon then son, grab yersel a handful o' evidence", replied the large agricultural engineer.
Now, falling about on the green, laughing at our friend's witty one-liner wasn't a good plan as we were all arrested and told to wait for a larger van to take us all to the gaol for the night.
Police cells are such cold, soulless places don't you think?