#dangleberries

Bob was still rubbing his palm with his thumb as he stomped through the fields, greasy hair falling down into blinkers so he could only see straight down to his feet coming forwards in turns to take his weight. The blurred grass passing below him was like the trees rushing past the car window on the motorway, he felt like he was going 70 mph, nearly taking off; the cannabis had risen to the top of his head and was making him feel light, he couldn’t stay on the ground much longer. Same Jeans by The View shuffled into his mind through his earphones and further lightened his mood, and he hopped a step to release a small fart. Irresistably a smile stretched over his face and the words ‘Oop, secret symphony on the bottom bugle’ sprung up in his head in his Dad's awful comedy sergeant major voice. Bob shared the humour of farting with all the other men in the world, but more than that, breaking wind gave him a too brief moment when his Dad came back to life and made him laugh for the millionth time at one of his not funny jokes. Bob thought about the fart, smile, sigh routine and wondered whether he was unique amongst those not suffering from piles for whom a fart brought tears to the eyes.

He lifted his gaze, not easy with the heavy effect of cannabis on his brow, but Bob realised that he didn’t really know where he’d got to. He plonked his hands into the frayed pockets of his cut-off shorts, felt the pleasure of summer warm sunlight on his arms. He wore one of his favourite t-shirts; shape and colour lost through use but it would do another year or two yet. Grinning for no reason, squinting around the field's perimeter he found the gap in the hedge that he needed to aim for, the barbed wire only visible for the hanging beards of sheeps wool randomly spread along it. Dangleberries his Dad had called them; the bits hanging off a sheep’s arse. Bob remembered fondly how his dad had enjoyed passing on this great piece of knowledge to his son; genuine male bonding had taken place in that moment. Bob had since taken great pleasure in the discovery of dangleberries in his own arse; the hesitant untangling and tentative tugging until you finally twanged out a few hairs and the berry was picked. The closer to the anus, the more satisfying the pluck…Bob felt slightly uncomfortable as this thought spoke itself, the stoned mind could wander in all kinds of strange directions. As he shook this train of pointless thoughts loose about his skull, and tried to settle onto some new meditations, Bob noticed the cows in the field grouping together in the corner, then looked back to the dangleberried gap he was aiming for. Fairly young, brown and white or black and white, strangely they seemed to have a purpose, not the doleful, weary eyes you usually got from these simple ungulates, (where the hell did that word come from, and why was he using it when talking to himself? no idea, he answered, since no one else was going to. He reflected on how often he had such conversations and wondered if everyone else had them?) A beast scraped its hoof on the ground interrupting his self-ramblings. The animal was facing him, some still alert self-defence mechanism in Bob's mind was likening this action to the bulls in Tom and Jerry cartoons; ring through the nose, snorting and scraping the ground, a miniature matador Jerry facing implausible odds waving a ludicrously small red cape and sporting a comedy Dali-esque moustache. Bulls don’t really do that do they? Is that a bull? What, all of them? A few more had started to face him, in fact it was as if they were getting together to face him as a group, a dirt scuffing, head shaking gang of lads, and Bob became scared. His brain needed to think quickly now, he was aware of that. Don’t turn and run, they’ll chase, he knew this much. Don’t take on a field of angry bullocks, he felt this was probably also true. Which is the nearest escape? Fuck I’m not fast, I only ever won the wheelbarrow race at sports day, did that one just move forwards? This isn’t supposed to happen, how can they keep dangerous animals in these fields, it’s a fucking footpath for fucks sake, a fucking public free fucking right of way! Bob stylishly twirled an imaginary moustache, and legged it. Twenty or so hefty bullocks said ‘yee-har’ and started to thunder after him. Arms and legs all over the place, hair flying across his terror stricken eyes, he looked back; it was true, a field of bullocks was chasing him! I don’t  believe this. Pump arms, knees up in front, can’t you move any faster? Hooves pounding behind him, what a way to go, I don’t want to die. Hedge, brambles, wooden fence, barbed wire, Bob hit them all head first with a dive of prodigious length, (he later thought).

Lying in a small stinking brook, fresh cow shit on the faded denim of his shorts, he looked back to the beasts, pulled up miles back in the middle of the field, chewing the cud, flapping flies away with their tails, as if they’d never moved. Had they?, shit man. Bob looked around at himself, what a situation, blood pushed through scratches from his crash landing and mixed none to healthily with cow dung, he felt along a cut in his scalp where he’d flown not quite low enough under the barbed wire, he pulled a tuft of  wiry lamb’s wool from his hair….