It’s chuffin cold in the shed so I’ve got myself a nice wee dram to take the edge off and it’s the best I’ve felt in a long time.
Father in law actually came round today to see the wife and stir the pot. He’s had a letter from us apparently to say he won’t be getting his money in January so he’s been ranting and raving at area office staff all day and now he’s here to rant and rave at me!
“I’ve a good mind to get together with the other farmers who haven’t been paid and we’ll blockade Saughton House until we get our money.” He tells me when I turn up.
“Personally I don’t see what’s so chuffin difficult.” He’s flowing like a twelve ton dung spreader, “most farmers can work out a ball park BPS figure off the back of a fag packet – surely those magic beans you bought from those IT people for £200million can at least manage that.”
I offer to write him a personal cheque but that’s not good enough. “Unless you’re gonna write a personal cheque for all the farmers I’m not gonna be your feckin clype.” and he sits down and starts tuckin in to my chuffin dinner!
“Well if it helps, the Delivery Director’s gone.” I try to stem the flow but he’s not having it.
“Ooh the Delivery Director’s gone has he. Taps aff!”
I try to reason with him that the system is very complicated and these are just teething problems.
“Now you’re beginning to sound like that pillock Lochhead. It’s a system that measures feckin fields, works out what’s in it that’s a waste of space and then compensates us accordingly. Perhaps I should get you and your feckin management team to come and stand in one of my fields when the inspectors come and I’ll be feckin rich when my BPS comes through!”
So I’m back in the shed!