I was reared on a tiny farm, with a thatched cottage, no electric, no water, outdoor ‘bog’ etc. about a mile from Armagh. When I was big enough to carry two buckets of water, I had to go to the well 300-400 yards away, to bring them home each day.
When I was made redundant from the Goodyear factory, at the age of 37, I went back to ‘school’, (Open University and Portadown Tech) and was lucky enough to spend the next 25 years of my life working as a computer programmer!
This poem combines the two lives.
The farming isn’t paying much, in these ultra modern days
With the price o’ pork, and the C.A.P., and the fut’n’mouth disase,
I was thinking hard of quitting, and signing on the broo,
But shovellin’ dung and smugglin’ pigs is all that I can do!
So when I heard the rumours, sure I phoned up right away,
And a boyo from the Ministry, landed out the very next day.
Says he, We’re looking for a place that’s sad and badly run,
To try a new experiment our chaps are working on.
We can install computers, and connect your beef and mutton,
You’d be able for to run the place at the touch of one wee button.
It would feed your pigs, and bullocks, and run your milking plant!
Says I, My only question would be – will I get a grant?
The EEC would pay for all, and so I signed the chit,
And soon the place was ankle deep in wires and bullock shit.
I offered to clean up the yard, but the boyos didn’t mind,
They said their job was ankle deep in bullshit all the time!
There were programmers and analysts, and fellas in white coats,
And a ‘funny’ bloke in sandals, who fancied one of our goats!
One fella went round squeezing cows, underneath the rear,
Someone told me he was called a ‘software engineer’!
There were hardware men & software men, and all they did was talk,
And each one blamed the other, if the damn thing didn’t work.
The bloke who wired the calf house – he got a wee bit stroppy –
He complained that our wee heifer had downloaded on his floppy!
One chap was tearing out his hair, and swearing fit to burst,
So I asked him what the problem was – ‘It’s Microsoft’, he cursed!
I’m trying to put Windows in, and I can’t fix all their tricks,
Says I, ‘There’s boys round Keady put yer windows in with bricks!’
Reliability, they said, should always be quite high,
For Windows only crashes on days that have a ‘y’!
When the thing was ready (it was only 2 years late)
Big screens hummed and flickered beside each house and gate.
The animals had all been trained, for me there was no call,
But I used to wander round at times, to marvel at it all.
The tractor had this guidance thing, worked off a satellite,
It could go out totally by itself, to plough, or spread the . . Slurry!
It worked all day, from dawn to dusk, and never thought of skiving,
And it never stopped outside the pub, like it did when I was driving!
The cock would crow each morning – but only after nine,
And the hens would only lay brown eggs, on a real production line.
They wash and clean them perfectly, which I found very strange,
And then dab on a spot of dung, to make them look ‘free-range’!
The horse was totally modernised, with all things in his stable,
Internet and broadband, and Sky TV and Cable
He had friends down round the Curragh, and a phone line to the South
And used to get the racing tips, straight from the Horse’s mouth!
He’d put on bets by email, in Malaysia and Kowloon,
And opened 17 accounts, in names that weren’t his own.
He was spending all his money on fancy mares and booze,
And asked me to find out for him if Gucci made horseshoes!
The pigs, we always reckoned, were as happy as could be,
Rooting round the meadows, in clobber to the knee!
But now they had a toilet, and their own big bathroom suite,
And lived in spotless splendour, with everything so neat.
Their food was all delivered, with plastic forks and spoons,
And they are with great decorum, in their lovely dining rooms
Breakfast was from 6 till 10, and lunch from 11 till 4
Dinner was from 5 till 10, and then they ate some more!
The boar lived in a special pen, with soft romantic lights,
And was visited by all the sows, but only weekday nights.
The computer scheduled him to rest, each Sunday after tea,
And put on Miss Piggy videos on his personal TV.
It checked each sow’s contentment scale, after all his sessions,
And a little crushed viagra might be added to his rations!
The gates were opened up each day, sharp at seven am.
And the cows would march, like soldiers, down to the milking pen.
No need to chase them homeward, with whack or casual prod,
And all of them were programmed not to skitter down the road!
Each one was guided to her stall, and all her details read,
And a measured graip of silage was dropped beside her head
Milk production zoomed at once, for each one gave her all,
With her perfect balanced diet, and her soothing milking stall.
And if the vet might have to come, no mess did it entail,
He had a network socket he plugged in beneath each tail!
When it came to breeding, there was some querr change in that –
We always used the ‘AI Man’- the ‘Bull in the Bowler Hat’!
But these cows got on the internet, and God knows what they found,
Great big Blondie Swedish Bulls, that were dangling to the ground!
Primrose, Belle and Daisy Mae all took their pick and then,
Ulrika took a fancy to a massive bull called Sven!
The sheep live up the mountainside, in the warmer summer climes,
And I’d send oul’ Shep to round them up, to check them out at times.
But none of that oul’ whistling stuff, when you wanted him to turn,
You called him on his mobile phone – provided it was on!
The Ram was wearing diamond rings, and a fancy leather jacket,
He said he was a ‘businessman’ – and making quite a packet!
He had his own wee website, called ‘FatAndFluffyLambas’,
With pictures of our younger ewes, in ‘Baby Doll’ pyjamas!
It seems he hired them out to blokes whose love life was not grand,
And invested all the profits in a bank, on the Isle of Man!
He had special rates for Rugby teams, and big New Zealand men,
And he ran a ‘Barn of Ill-Repute’ somewhere near Crossmaglen!
Says He, ‘Don’t you go out tonight, if there’s noise behind the bales,
I’ve a wheen o’ boys on a Stag Night, flying in from Wales!
But of course it ended up in tears, like most good things in life,
For I thought that I would ask them to computerise the wife!
All the parts were working, but some things sagged a bit,
If you seen her in her birthday suit, you might think it didn’t fit!
Her engine was still going strong, but the gearbox was away.
She could hardly even climb the stairs, to bring me up my tay!
So they fitted her with microchips, and a wee recharging socket,
And she flew round doing housework, just like a bloody rocket!
She started on them fitness things, till her strength became a menace,
Her legs developed muscles like yon blade that plays the tennis!
She used to lift the sofa up, to hoover down below it,
One day I was lying on it, and she didn’t even know it!
And her memory – it was perfect, all recorded on CD,
And then replayed in stereo, to prove how wrong I’d be!
I had to watch each thing I said, even if it made no sense
For every word was taken down, and used in evidence!
Then she got on to the Internet, along with them damn cows,
And learned what she’d been missing – by God there was some rows!
It seemed that other men did things, about which I knew nothing,
Like buying bloody birthday cards, or helping with the shopping!
So life became a torture, from early morn to night,
No matter what I said or did, she knew it wasn’t right.
And even in the dark of night, she always wanted more.
It ended up I had to steal that stuff they fed the boar!
There was only the one answer, so I got out the phonebook,
And rung the Ministry Boyo, to get me off the hook.
But he said you’ve signed along the line, and no way you can gyp,
So I’m going in tomorrow – to get MYSELF a microchip!