Curmudgeon.
I came across the word ‘curmudgeon’ in a book I read early this week. A word which I think is very apt as a single descriptive word of myself on bad days, actually maybe most days on reflection. I will explain.
Earlier this week Rozanne and I set off to Coimbra to buy some wine, it is much cheaper there if you do not count the fuel cost, and also to look for a pair of garden shoes, or rather everyday shoes, for me. My shoes are an embarrassment to my companions in public. I am one of these crotchety old people that have favourite items of apparel which, as it gets older and more worn, think they are the most comfortable and therefore become daily preferences to be returned to the drawer once washed no matter their state. Socks with holes and underpants with stretched elastic are acceptable, shoes with their soles flapping and stained ripped shirts are always the most worn, much to my wife’s distress. They can only be discarded when she, the madam, refuses to add them to the wash or surreptitiously throws them in the bin. Usually, the latter to avoid conflict. On occasion, I have retrieved some from the bin. Despite being old, they have to be spotlessly clean and ironed to offset the apparent signs of wear and tear. A very pleasant lady, too polite to make a comment does our ironing.
So off we set for Coimbra, normally only visited by me to attend medical appointments, with the plan to buy shoes suitable for the garden and copious amounts of wine, of which I drink little. By repute for ease of cleanliness, we were in search of a pair that can be thrown in the washing machine. This guidance was from Rozanne, who had already procured such shoes. My present favourite shoes have had the soles repaired a number of times and though I still wear them, they laugh at those coming towards me. Fortunately, they do not stink like our ‘vellies’ used to on the farm despite washing. To this day I still clean mine with mealie-meal but only wear them on special occasions as it is my last pair.
The choice of shoe was easy, a sale offering a quick fifty per cent discount, real or hypothetical, was enough for me to clinch a deal. In fact, I bought two pairs in a bout of spending madness. I wonder if I will still be alive when I take the second pair out of the cupboard.
“At my age, buying clothes for the future is probably both ambitious and irresponsible, considering some of mine last twenty years. My wardrobes are full of clothes I will never wear again, from as far back as my farming days.”- Peter McSporran
When the shopkeeper, a pleasant young lady, went to pack my new shoes I noticed the word vegan written on the side of the box. I said, “Are these really vegan shoes?” Oh yes, she assured me, “no animal products are used in the manufacture”, proud to inform me they were totally synthetic. Not only is meat fake nowadays, but leather too, it seems. Unfortunately, the purchase had been made; otherwise, I probably would have had second thoughts about buying them. Vegan shoes, I say, “How come?” She informs me some people do not want any part of their apparel to contain animal products, even the glue and stitching are synthetic. I think, so they are a hundred percent synthetic and undoubtedly made from fossil fuels, as are most plastics. Just as the fertiliser that grows their vegan vegetables and grains or, for that matter, the carpet on their floor. So these animal lovers are enthusiastic utilisers of fossil fuels and, by default, discarders of plastic, the most prominent scourge to wildlife and the environment, especially the oceans, while telling everyone to ‘Stop Oil Now.’ Last week's subject was hypocrisy, let's not mention it this week.
“Hydrocarbons from oil wells are the source of the vast majority of plastics manufactured in the world, as well as fertilisers and many other things.”- Ross Clark on Twitter
The madness did not end there, as we approached the wine counters in the supermarket, there in prominence was wine proclaiming to be Vegan. What the f*!+*! When did animals ever produce grapes? Or are they also synthetic? Or perhaps vegan, in this instance, means no farm yard manure (FYM). Therefore only fertilised derived from fossil oil? By now, I was fast moving into full curmudgeon due to the foolishness of the modern world. Then again, I may be the fool.
At face value, it would appear the Portuguese have little interest in vegan food, weird genders, or even being PC in expressing their conservative views. However, supermarkets, chain stores and international fast-food corporations and the media will create awareness of them in their lives. I do not watch Portuguese TV, perhaps as in the UK, inclusivity is also forced down Portuguese throats through their eyes and ears. This is a good reason for me not to visit the shops in future and ignore all adverts. After all, they are promoting a polluted world while thinking they are protecting it by avoiding the promotion and use of natural products, despite their biodegradability. As natural products may take more time to maintain or are slightly more expensive, let's use plastic derivatives. A fleece of wool is now worth less than the cost of the shearing, which is only done now for the animal’s welfare, not for the product or profit. At this year's Royal Highland Show shearing pavilion, animal rights activists demonstrated against shearing sheep, not knowing that fly-strike and couping (stuck on the back) are frequent causes of death of unshorn sheep. Can these greenies not imagine what it would be like to wear their winter clothes on a hot summer's day?
To add to my chagrin that imbecile Chris Packham, in reaction to the announcement of the further development of the North Sea oil and gas resources as opposed to importing someone else's dirty fuel, said,
“Keep it handy (this tweet) for when food prices soar, water-wars break out, your house burns down, your business is washed away, polar bears are extinct or in a few years’ time when a desperate and angry young person asks you who was responsible for killing their world…” - Chris Packham
I agree the human race needs to consider how it uses the earth's resources and ensures a healthy world but it must be done with all in mind, including the elderly pensioner and poor who rely on cheap fuel and food to keep her or him alive. Not just to appease the conscience or self-centred crusades of the wealthy liberals. There is little doubt Packham’s words are meant to instil terror or demonstration in the uninformed amongst us, especially the impressionable young whose learning predominately comes through a digital display.
Last Sunday’s Countryfile episode should have been named Climate Change File. I enjoyed the Cornish fisherman in the program counter-arguing with the interviewer that they are having excellent, if not better than normal catches. In contrast, the interviewer vainly tried to argue that climate would change this if it had not already done so. Countryfile has been off my viewing list for a while, stupidly on Sunday, I foolishly gave it one more chance. The countryside is all about the environment, it seems impossible for the program to see the farmers as custodians of this, it is both their home and workplace. Who better to protect it?
“The Chinese carbon footprint rose by nearly 50% of Britain's total carbon footprint in the first quarter of this year. Britain’s decreased. I suppose Stop Oil Now consider it too dangerous to demonstrate in China and the like where the real global problem is.” - Peter McSporran
Later in the week, I read an article by Angus Shaw, the renowned retired AP reporter, a short piece on the state of play in Zimbabwe for the upcoming elections. It would appear the ruling party are up to its usual skullduggery while the opposition self-destructs or are outwitted by the agents of the state. If that is the case, the result of the upcoming election is a fait accompli. The final straw was I got sight of a letter from the CFU President giving the present members of CSC a mandate for another year. This would appear without consultation with those most affected, the Title Deed Holders (TDH). I do hope it was a false or fake letter, if not?
“Just like the povo in Zimbabwe, the TDHs are being denied a say in the running of their affairs by a group who are no longer and may have never been accountable to them.” - Peter McSporran
The Steyns
In early 1990, it may have been late 89 Derek (Choppy) Steyn and his wife, Karen, came to work for me and were to remain so in different roles nearly until the time when we could no longer farm on Diandra in the early 2000s due to our farms being confiscated. Choppy came to take over as the workshop manager when Malcolm Middleton left to go potato and fruit farming up in the Nyanga mountains. Choppy’s father was a farmer, as was his brother. Choppy, however, had done a trade, as many farmers did, especially those that did not go to agricultural college or university. Rhodesia and then early Zimbabwe apprenticeships were second to none in the world for reputation.
Every now and then in your life, you come across people that leave a huge imprint on your heart, Karen and Choppy were to be such a couple. Although employees, in the beginning, became loyal good friends and even today continue to be. Karen took over much of the daily office work from Diane. After Diane and I got divorced, she in essence, became the company's administration manager looking after and preparing the accounts along with ensuring expenditure was to budget. Unlike many farmers, from the start of our farming, we had run our farm as a business according to budgets producing monthly accounts working within those budgets. When I asked many of my farming friends how they run their finances, more often than not, they said they ran the farm on cash, then when that ran out, bank overdraft and when that was finished, trade credit until the selling season arrived. The banks were normally generous in giving top-ups on farmers' overdrafts for wages and utility bills once most of the crop was secure in the shed or field. In those days, our bank managers knew farming.
Karen and Choppy arrived on the farm with an eighteen-month-old daughter, Tarryn, with Karen falling pregnant in 1991 with her second child. Choppy had a quick wit, was a good sportsman and transformed our sloppy workshops and maintenance into a much higher standard. I started to drive to town in shiny cars and pickups. Although he was mechanical, he took an interest in farming operations and was happy to work the long farm hours. Karen was and is the calmest person I have known and was the perfect foil for Choppy’s more so happy-go-lucky nature and my aggressive management style. She kept the peace on many occasions. She also offered me solace in the tough personal times, ensuring I kept on the straight and narrow, which was an extremely difficult and sometimes thankless task.
I am going a bit ahead of myself here, but in August 1991, with Karen expecting, she accompanied Choppy on a cricket tour, I think it was to Botswana where Karen went into premature labour. She delivered the baby with no professional medical attention. Then she found herself being flown home with a baby wrapped in newspapers in a shoe box, needing to urgently be placed in an incubator where he was to stay for a few months. The baby, probably to all but Karen’s surprise, survived and was named Sheldon. He soon became known as the ‘Gook’, very adventurous and scared of nothing, including his parents.
Just before the land invasions, Choppy and Karen sadly left me to go into partnership in an export rose operation, which sadly was also confiscated. Choppy has since set up his own motor mechanic and boat business with Sheldon, who for a while was a professional golfer before joining his father. Both, as is Karen, are keen fishermen. Tarryn, the daughter, is a happily married farmer's wife with two children of her own, her husband being a Huck, a well-known name in Zimbabwean farming circles. I owe the Steyns much both in friendship and my business.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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