Farming Breeds: Bill – the county show exhibitor
Join us for a funny, irreverent look at some of the characters that make the British countryside what it is. Our tongue-in-cheek guide puts characters such as the retired Major, the “perfect” next-door farmer and the young tearaway under the microscope. Here we meet Bill – the county show exhibitor, who dreams of a rosette to put over the fireplace.
“Where the hell’s my sports jacket?” Bill yells. He’s on a stepladder, peering up into the attic. His wife jettisoned the jacket up there a few months ago with a load of other old clothes.
But Bill’s showing stock at the county show tomorrow and wants to look his best. He wants, in other words, an alternative – any alternative – to the grease-stained overalls with the broken fly zip that he wears every other day of the year.
“There,” he says, pulling the jacket out and banging the dust out of it. “Got to look my best. I’ve got a good feeling about tomorrow.”
Bill’s oblivious to the fact that the jacket, bought when he was a student, now has holes in both arms. It’s done him good service. It’s seen babies christened and relatives buried. It’s seen his stomach move outwards, his shoulders downward. And it’s stretched accordingly.
There’s hospitality from the machinery dealers, the consultancy firms and the breed societies. And hospitality means wine. Bill would rather have had beer, but hospitality’s hospitality.
Bill’s up at 4am the next morning feeding the stock. He’s not happy about having to spend a day away from the farm, but this bull’s the best chance he’s had of a rosette for years. It’s his pride and joy. You should see its legs. You should see its shape. You should see its testicles.
For Bill, feeding-up, it’s a constant battle between guilt and desire. Guilt at having a day off. Desire to win that rosette.
It’ll be a chance to catch up with old pals, too, to get the news and views. Not that they’ll do much catching up – they end up spending most of the time discussing what they should be doing back at home. “I should really be on that rape,” Bill says, swigging his first drink of the day. “I should be worming,” his neighbour, Jack, answers.
There’s hospitality from the machinery dealers, the consultancy firms and the breed societies. And hospitality means wine. Bill would rather have had beer, but hospitality’s hospitality.
He pops back intermittently to the stock lines to tend his charge. It’s a chance to get out of the rain. He feels a sudden rush of pride seeing his bull. Yes, this is what all the hard work’s been for.
All around in the stock lines there’s hustle and bustle. Feeding, shampooing, brushing. “We’ll do your hair next,” the stockmen joke at each other. The smell of warm animals and manure hangs thick and heavy in the air.
Bill snatches a 10-minute nap on a straw bale at the edge of the bull’s pen. Lying on his side, his shirt straining, his belly almost popping out, he’s doesn’t look too dissimilar to the bull.
By the time it’s his class, Bill’s indulged in a little too much hospitality. His knees are wobbly. He makes an amorous remark at one of the onlookers ringside. The judge’s face is all blurred. The judge’s two faces. He knocks over a fence.
Bill sleeps in the truck on the way home. He remembers the fireplace, the spot over it he had lined up for the rosette. The spot which will stay bare now.
Still, always next year…