Once upon a time, there was pet lamb, who was saved by a cry of goat! Mummy it's a goat! Please make Davey stop attempting rope dart. mummy he will kill the goat. It is not the goats fault, please make him stop. GOAT
So he stops and then it turns out it is not a goat, and we figure this out as farmer Tim is shouting, go away lamb, dispense, disperse, be gone, go back! This pet lamb refuses to do so we have to pause the festivities whilst pet lamb finds it's way to farmer Tim. Which is REALLY CUTE.
Later on we found pet lamb sleeping at the back door of the farmhouse. Which is REALLY CUTE.
Good old pet lamb!
...are conditionally accepted where barf, is not.
If you feel a barf coming on, then you should promptly be administered with barf crystals, which will soak up the excess barf, and crystallise it. This enables the cut throat mechanism, which manoeuvres from the gut wrench fortitudalism, a rainbow coloured vomit.
This is much more socially acceptable when compared with the non rainbow crystallised format.
It was really quite damp, or at least that's what the weather predicted. However this did not spoil the atmosphere for one second.. In fact the guests walking around in their wellies added to the general relaxed feel of the place.
Highly recommended as a venue, proper quirky and rustic, we felt very at home there, and the guests were really having a great time...you can camp there too, and have a massive hog roast and bonfire and ting. It had a real mini festival vibe, and the barn looks stunning inside. Really impressed and our farmer Tim dude who runs the place has a good chance to survive the zombie apocalypse, and makes you feel as if, come said apocalypse you'd want to be on his team.
"Can you still do a fire performance in the rain"
^^^^ Should be relegated to the Q&A section.
If, on some well organised and NORMAL occasion, it ever does get relegated, I mean organised.. Would be a first..
Anyways, YES would be the answer. We can be normal, and relegated, an organised (with some 21yrs experience) at performing despite the beautiful low level clouding predicted with the BBC forecast.
The gig had been organised as a secret surprise for the bride and groom, which, with a bit of co ordination from farmer dude, and the mother of the bride, we actually managed to pull it off with out them finding out till the last minute, which was really awesome and exciting the part of.
Here are some pictures of thingy.
rum, bucket: "Daddy, it's a light sabre!"
the force is strong with this one.
Thingy, triangle, illuminati, etc, ting:
Well, apart from rum, Of which there was plenty... Even too much for the captain? No - the captain has sponsibilities and once embarked and submitted is committed... Therefore left most of the rum at the bar.
Well, yes, but you can't have any, HA!
Pixie said imagine if EVERY film was a second? Like dr who is for one hour but a second, it's like let's ten O clock oready. I should be dead by now if I was a thousand years old.
MIVING SWIFTLY ON TO SENSEish:
The whole barn is made of sackcloth wallpaper and miscellaneous etc and even a donkey sculpture, who's unfortunate owner had worn and had had to pee in a pint glass during said wear, to his credit. (After finger testing the depth of the pint, it is discovered through temperature that this is not a big enough vessel. It's rather amusing but not my story to tell so therefore I continue not).
That accordion in the barn had stood waiting for someone (me) to question it's formidably dusty existence. So, I did. And within a few sermons, Tim the most excellent farmer (sourced by Janine, most excellently) said oh yes! And practically brought it down, steadily dusting it up my nose. After a few minutes trying to avoid bellows abuse it was firmly (thereabouts) strapped onto the occasion. (Me)
After that there was some line dancing.
The Rumbucket had previously bled copious amounts of red fluid blood, which clashed with his lime green Mohican unsettlingly. Luckily, though, there were many nurses on hand with medikits. As helpful as they attempted to be, we both knew it was his place for pain and bruises and the captain to laugh first and ask questions later.
Right about now, the funk soul brother, I suppose there should be a picture of this injury, requiring nae rum, but a simple touch from a fire staff.. "Aren't you glad the fiery bit didn't get you?" Erm, nup, as that bit, although flameful is veritably soft.
Can I have a chump on your whip? Says the beautifully hatted farm dude. Aye, obvs you know what's it's aboot since you are farm dude. Well he tried to but it was a bit unfortunate for the people behind him, fortunately I was there, as capn, to save the day, and prevent nearby peeps from harmage via THRAP, and after that they said, erm how many cracks do you have? About ten minutes.
Later, after a quarter glass of rum, which was indeed, too much, we went the long way home, as the way through the passage lanes proved rather more difficult in the dark, and with the captains current level of inebriation and therefore newly coloured observance skills.
Once upon a time, there was a funny thing what happened in the car, one time. It was so funny what we nearly did a smash up.
What happened first was, because I am doing a low carb diet, all I had to eat on the motorway was lots of cheese. The Rumbucket, (designated driver, captain drive but not licensed) who was feeling a bit hungered, said, oh can I have some cheese then?
I was feeding the Rumbucket some cheese, and I said, do you want some more, and then he say "No more CHEESE THANKYOU MY EYELIDS ARE getting SWEATY" and I say.....
WHAT THE FRICKEDY?
Immediate questions sprang to mind. Like, first was, WHAT THE FRICKEDY. Then next was eyelids... Eyelids... What the FRICKEDY. Chees.... Lid...... What frickedy fook IS this? After I'd stopped laughing for a junction or two, I was still unable to form basic sentences. I tried, I really did, but it just came out like "chBABABABAAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHHHRRROOFOOFOFOFOOOGHHOOOOOOOOOORRRRRHHHAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEE (choke, splutter, etc)
Che.. Che... Oh my word.
The car was a shaking and a lurching and the Rumbucket said, why are you laughing, I don't know, but I can't speak anymore. Beyond tears. Please don't speak I am trying to think of sad things, like on Mary Poppins.
After that had happened for an inordinate amount of time, I finally came to the conclusion that if I couldn't laugh forever and die of it, (needlessly taking out my whole crew, and several innocent motorway drivers with me) then I'd have to attempt to share my affluent ticklish gwapgwap with ANYONE who I met-that-day.
So, dear friends, if you eat too much cheese, do you get sweaty eyelids?
Apparently so, according to the internet:
Nothing about eyelids though.
I hope this happens to me again. Maybe not on the motorway though. Even though the guilt of mowing down a thousand innocents might even be funny during those types of hysterics; Really, face up to the sky ready for my funeral pyre would be a more dignified position to die of laughter.