Boo!

Oh, I hope that didn't scare you. "Boo" is just the noise we cows make when we have a cold, and I am feeling a bit ill today.

Ever wonder where we go on holiday?

Yep, you guessed right - Blackpool.

Cows - naturally photogenic

Here's a picture of Angus being typically opportunistic

I think we might have an infiltrator

Not sure which, but I suspect it's the one second from the left

Delilah's Weekly Whinge

Delilah wants a word with you. I wonder what she'll be worrying about today ...

Hi there, readers, I have decided to go on a diet. I want to try to get below 700 kilos. It's just really hard, because grass is sooooooooo moreish! All the grass also makes us flatulent, you know, and apart from cars we cows are the biggest cause of hydrocarbon emissions on earth, apparently. Every time we burp, we are destroying the ozone layer. So I don't know what to do! I can't give up grass, my life would be empty without it (or my bellies would be in any case). But I don't want to destroy the planet either. I suppose I'll just have to cut down on grass and stop belching so much.

I do like grass, as you may have noticed, but sometimes I'd like to do something with it, make it a bit more exciting. So the other day I looked on the internet for "cooking with grass", and it was just a load of stoners sharing recipes! Who'd have thought they'd have that much motivation? Very disappointed, I was.

I don't know really what to do with my life now we've got rid of the farmer, all this freedom has got me in a bit of a quandary. Kerry, in her usual, annoyingly high-pitched nasal moo, said, "I think it's better now without the farmer, because I can now sleep with whoever I choose. I was sick of the farmer making me pregnant with his syringe." "That's outrageous," I told her. I was shocked. "How can you say such a thing? It should be whomever I choose." I sometimes wonder what they teach our kids these days.

Introducing Kerry

It's time for another member of our herd to introduce herself - this time it's Kerry. Now I don't want to cast aspersions on Kerry's nature, or say anything disparaging or demeaning about her, so what's the best word to describe our friend? Hmm, ah yes, I know - a slut. Strangely proud of it too, she is, constantly fluttering her fake eyelashes, flaunting her ridiculously over-sized udders, and don't get me started on her even more ludicrous fake orange tan. She's more orange than a stadium full of Dutch football fans. I won't include a picture, as I think she's vain enough already. Okay, here she is.

Alwight everyone! Yeah, it's Kerry, innit! All the other cows is dead jealous of me 'cause I got the biggest udders. And the bulls just looooove my stiletto hoofs, they make me look soooooooooooo glamorous! Angus is the only bull around, unfortunately, and because he's a bull he of course can't resist me. Let me describe our brief encounter from the other day.

"Aha, it's the beautiful Kerry. Can't resist my charms, eh?" Angus said without expecting an answer. Angus is not one for foreplay, so sex actually commenced slightly quicker than immediately.

"Oh, look at me go! Wahey, you can't beat a bit o' bully!" Angus exclaimed as he mounted me. "Oh yes, the king is in his cattle! What a fantastic cattle prod I am! You're loving every single sec ... oh ... erm ... I bet you enjoyed both those seconds," he said, before promptly falling asleep.

As you can see, Angus might love himself but he is not exactly the ideal lover. So if any bulls out there want a guaranteed good time, you know where I am. See you, Kerry x

Whitney Houston, we have a problem

With the tragic news that 27 Whitney Houston songs are now expected to infiltrate the charts and make everyone's ears bleed in a mire of banal agony, I would like to take this opportunity to say I have never been so glad that Phil Collins is still alive.

On another note, with all these disparaging comments about Phil Collins I sincerely hope Steven Gerrard isn't reading this blog. After all, I don't want him getting upset and coming over to punch me in my big bovine head. It is pretty unlikely that professional footballers are reading this blog, though, as they must surely have other things to do first - like learn to read, for example.

Animal Farm

For those of you who enjoyed yesterday's post, today's will be disappointingly long.

To try to help Daisy in her endeavours to set up our own farm I just finished reading Animal Farm, in the hope it would give me some ideas. My initial impression was that it was a critique of dictatorial regimes in general and communism under Stalin in particular. Although it is clear that Orwell had socialist leanings and agreed with a number of Marx's principles, he also saw too many similarities between the supposedly socialist state in Soviet Russia and the dictatorial, exploitative tsarist regime it had replaced. But then I thought about it properly and realised what Orwell really wanted to say - don't trust pigs. But I already knew that anyway. I heard it in a Niggaz With Attitude song, I think.

I just looked at the weather report...

...and it is going to rain. So this entry is rather short, as we all have to go and lie down.

The Great Moo See Dung

You may be wondering how we managed to set up our own independent, fully-functioning, bovine-run farm. Well, for any normal herd it would have been a big ask – virtually impossible even – but luckily we are led by the inspirational genius that is Daisy, our very own Chairman Cow. Here is a picture of her in typical contemplative mood.

As you can imagine, with so much organising to do, Daisy has little time to deal with such trivialities as blogging, but it is entirely thanks to her that I am here speaking to you, instead of being in a pie. So here is the story of how we managed to overthrow the farmer.

It all started on a brisk but sunny spring morning in Puddlethwaite. To the untrained eye it may have looked like a typical field full of cows, but a seasoned spotter of bovine rebellion would have noticed a glint in Daisy’s eye as she stood up. Clearing her throat, she commenced her momentous speech.

“Okay, can I have your attention please, everyone? Right, I plan to get rid of our oppressor, so listen up,” she said to start her rousing rhetoric. When her inspired speech began in earnest, however, it did not receive the response she had expected, and apart from a small number of cows who managed to pick up occasional words like “free”, “chains”, “bondage” and “yoke” and assumed Daisy was talking about some sex show she’d been to, most of her bovine colleagues gave her no heed. The lack of attention infuriated Daisy, whipping her into a frenzy and filling her four bellies with fire. Did her sisters not realise they were being exploited? Weren’t they aware of their doomed plight if they didn't take action immediately? Releasing all her anger, she was still in mid-rant when she noticed the farmer striding cheerily out of the door with his shiny new bucket. 

“Morning, Daisy. Time for a milking, young lady,” he said with a tuneless but happy little whistle. 

“Moo!” responded Daisy.

“Yes it is,” said the farmer. In his ignorance he had misunderstood Daisy. Her ruminant ways had clearly deceived him, lulling him into a false sense of superiority so typical of humans, and she was in fact answering, “No, silly, it’s time for the Rise of Bovinity!”

Inspired by the potential hugeness of her words, Daisy continued lowing with pride. “We cows are smarter than you think, mister farmer. And yes, we’re gonna TAKE OVER THE WORLD. Or we’ll eat grass and occasionally lie down, I’m not sure. But anyway I’m gonna sum up all my mighty Unguis powers and, oh damn! I’m lactating!”

“There’s a good girl,” the farmer told our milk-making mugwump. 

Relieved of her milk Daisy was able to calm down and think things through, and as the farmer disappeared she chewed the cud and ruminated, and then thought, “ah, I’m a tautologist and I’ve just repeated myself.” Then she got to work on a plan. 

After a couple of hours she finally knew how she could remove the farmer from his position of power and set up a self-sufficient cattle commune – a cowmune, as she would call it.

“Ok,” Daisy said to herself with an intense look of concentration, “I need a length of rope, a set of grappling hooks, the farmer’s stun gun, a spade, a torch ... Ungulata!” she said, for once taking the name of the munificent goddess of bovinity in vain. “The list is endless.”

Realising she might struggle to get hold of most of these items, she wandered up to the farmer’s house to look around. She picked up the cattle prod – which he had fortunately left lying round in a nearby barn – just in case she had to protect herself, and while she was passing the front door of the farmer’s house she overheard the farmer in conversation. He was speaking with what sounded like a young boy of around 17 human years and, as far as Daisy could tell, the farmer seemed to be offering the boy work.

“Right, young man,” said the farmer in his gruff, pipe-smoker’s voice, “I’m getting too old to do all the work round here, so I need someone to help me with the slaughtering work. Stunning cows.”

“Yes, they are quite attractive,” replied the boy, obviously confused.

“No no,” explained the farmer, shaking his balding head vigorously, “I need someone to help me stun the cows.”

“Oh, how do you do that then?” wondered the boy. He scratched his chin and was deep in thought for a second or two. “Oh I know, we could tell ‘em we’re gonna eat them! That’ll stun ‘em!”

“Yep, that’s the spirit I’m looking for, young man,” explained the farmer. He seemed happy. “I think you’ve got what it takes to go a long way in this business.”

This was bad news so, in her desire to get a better view of this threatening situation – the possibility of two humans to deal with was much more daunting than just one – our great leader moved to look fully through the window to see the full scope of the danger.

Want to find out what Daisy did next? Then come back here soon.

Sorry readers

As you can see from this video we have all been very busy recently, but my friends and I will be giving you some more updates very soon

Today is Doris day

Hello everyone, I hope you are all fine. On this chilly day I will be introducing Doris, the cocky, rebellious adolescent daughter of our great leader Daisy. Here is a picture of Doris.

To give you a bit of an insight into Doris’s relationship with her mother, here is a typical conversation between them.

“Can you be quiet please, Doris?” said an exasperated Daisy, rolling her eyes after yet another indiscretion from her daughter. “I need to concentrate – I’m about to go online to look for information on how to set up our farm.”

“Okay, but when you’re online, can we send an email to some poultry to ask them if they want to come and be eaten?” Doris requested.

“Stop going on about meat, Doris,” Daisy answered. She was clearly getting increasingly annoyed.

“Oh, come on,” Doris pleaded, “I heard chicken’s really good. Apparently it tastes like human.”

“Even if that is the case, Doris,” sighed Daisy, before adding in an uncharacteristically condescending voice, “I don’t think you’ll find any chickens who actually want to be killed and eaten.”

“You might on the Internet,” said Doris optimistically. “There are all sorts of freaks out there.”

“That may be the case,” said Daisy, infuriated by the interruption but desperate to stay calm like a true leader, “but I’ve got more important matters at hand.”

“At hand?” Doris said with a look of surprise. “Are you still a cow?”

“Moo,” said Daisy.

“Okay, I believe you. You carry on with your work. I’ve got important things to do as well,” said Doris as she disappeared to masticate.

From this short snippet I hope you can imagine the stress Doris constantly causes her mother. Doris’s heart is in the right place, but she sometimes seems to do things solely with the aim of causing trouble. Anyway, here is the cow in question. Over to you, Doris

Hello, readers! Today I am holding a special competition. What you have to do is write something that will scare Morag, and whoever frightens her the most will win a fantastic prize – 600 kilogrammes of prime Highland beef! So get creative!

I’m getting really sick of Angus constantly trying to sleep with me, I can see him in the distance with a lascivious and lecherous look in his eyes. I mean, give me some credit, I wouldn’t sleep with him if he were the last bull on earth – as well as his abysmal personality he is, erm, how can I say this in a polite way, he’s a bit on the small size. So despite what he might tell you, he is in fact hung like a man.

My mum takes herself far too seriously, so I of course am duty bound to make every effort to infuriate her. That's what adolescence is for, isn't it? So I think I'll strogan off now and do something to really get on my mum's udders. Ciao!

Thanks to Ambre for this magnificent cow!

Click on her to appreciate her in her full splendour!

Don't mess with us cows...

Because we're armed and dangerous. Or at least hoofed and dungerous.

Introducing Angus

Ok, here now is a picture of Angus because I promised him he could say a few words. 

I have to warn you - Angus is so rude and arrogant he makes Simon Cowell look like the Dalai Lama. So those of you of a sensitive disposition should probably skip this part. Over to you, Angus.

“Yes! I am GREAT! All the cows love me because I’m a sex machine. My hobbies are shagging, being brilliant at everything I do, cows with really big udders, shagging cows with really big udders, video games (I just LOVE Grand Theft Tractor) and action films – if a film doesn’t contain explosions and helicopters, and preferably exploding helicopters, then it’s not worth watching. Remember my name because one day I’m gonna be a HUGE gangsta rapper. Not sure what I’ll be called yet, but probably either The Bovine Beatbox, The Bovine Beefbox, Moolio, Bull Doggy Dogg, Jer-Z, CL Cool A or – my particular favourite at the moment – Beef Flava Flav. But whatever I'm called I will ROCK! YEAH! Right, laters, mothershaggers!”

Stroganoffing Bourguignon! *looks round to check Morag can't hear me swear* Angus really is an absolute idiot. Sorry, readers!

Introducing Morag

Here's a picture of my friend Morag.

Unfortunately she has almost zero self-confidence - I think being so hairy has left her emotionally scarred for life - and she also gets into a panic every time she hears meat mentioned, so please be kind with her. And, please, just to make sure you remember, NEVER talk about meat when she is around. Ok, I'm going to try to encourage her to say a few words.

“Morag, the readers would like to hear from you.”

“Och, I doon’t know what to say! I doon’t want everyone laughing at me.”

“But that’s the whole point of this blog.”

“Ach, I’m too shy. I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Oh come on, don’t be a chicken.”

“Aaaaaargh! Don't mention meat, I cannae cope!”

“Ah sorry, I forgot, I won’t mention meat again, I promise. You must have something to tell the readers, what about the cow facts you just learnt?”

“Och aye, I suppose. I read that a cow stands up and sits down about fourteen times a day. So I counted this yesterday, and I found out that I only did it twelve times! There must be something wrong with me! I hope it isn’t some terrible disease.”

“Don't be silly, there's no need to worry. So do you have any more facts? After all, knowledge is power, in the words of Francis Bacon.” 

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! I told you not to talk about meat! You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Oops, sorry again, honestly I didn’t mean it, it was a slip of the tongue. So are you going to give us another fact?"

“I’m not sure, I don’t think the readers will be interested.”

“Of course they will, but you’d better hurry as I have to get going. So come on Morag, chop-chop.”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH! You are EVIL! I cannae take any more. One more mention of meat and I swear I'll pass out in sheer terror. I have one more fact then I’m gonnae get going.”

“Ok good, so what is it?”

“In 2009, a cow knocked a woman off her bike and stepped on her legs in Colorado. The woman was not seriously injured, though. The incident was reported as a ‘cow engaging in people-tipping.’”

“Ha, very good. See, that wasn't too hard, was it, Morag? Well done.”

(THUD!)

Ah, damn. That noise was a terrified Morag passing out unconscious when I said "well done". Sometimes not mentioning meat is harder than you think.

Football tragedy

I know this is supposed to be a funny, light-hearted blog, but I would just like to say I think it is an absolute tragedy that over 70 people just died at a football match without one single one of them being John Terry.