Good news. The Lamb National is back on. What do you mean you have no idea what the Lamb National is? I suppose it is possible that not everyone is as obsessed with sheep as I am. If you are not, I suggest you take up sheep as an obsession as soon as possible. I can guarantee that getting hooked on sheep will make you happier, make you sleep better – you know what they say about counting sheep – and allow you to be the best version of yourself.
I actually have no idea what that last one even means. I don’t want to be the best version of myself. I want to be the best version of someone else. Preferably a very rich someone else. I’d also quite like to have the best version of a gym body without ever having to go a gym. I did go into one once and the changing room was inhabited by naked women with gym bodies. I left and went to the pub, where I discovered the same version of myself, who was a bit drunk and kind of okay.
I am happy to kick-start your knowledge of all things sheep. Which is guaranteed to make you at least a woollier version of yourself. The Lamb National is a suitably bonkers place to start. It is held annually, in June, at the Barton Carnival in Lancashire. The lambs, which race over jumps, wearing specially made jockeys’ silks, are ridden by tiny teddy bear jockeys. Last week, it was announced that the carnival organisers had decided to cancel the event after being bombarded with abuse by animal rights activists. But, as mentioned, it is now back on. Phew. These racing sheep are an English breed called Herdwicks. Herdwicks have a talent for jumping, out of paddocks mostly.
Making lambs jump is abuse, according to the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (Peta), which said lambs “do not consent” to racing. Of course they bloody don’t. How could they consent? By filling out a form? Holding a pen in your trotter would be a tad tricky.
Nobody tell Peta where Lush Places is located. I may have been known to attempt to get my lambs to jump over hurdles on the lawn. My sheep are not Herdwicks, so the results were not what you would deem entirely satisfactory. I videoed them refusing to jump. Without their consent. I also, at Christmas, put silly Santa hats on them. I get them to sign non-disclosure agreements.
Sheep do all sorts of activities which are unconsented. A recent Instagram video featured some very bad sheep that had somehow managed to climb on the roof of a barn somewhere in Ireland. “Tony! Get off that f***ing roof,” says a disembodied voice. “You shower of bastards. I’ll tell your mother.”
Tony! Who would call a sheep Tony? Did the sheep consent to being called Tony? Not likely. All the other sheep were laughing at him.
I have been very busy being the worst version of myself. Which is by being insufferably smug. Nothing makes me smugger than preserving things in jars.
Janet arrived not long ago with an enormous bowl of strawberries. She is a genius grower of strawberries (and everything else). I made jam. My jam, and I assert this smugly, is the best strawberry jam ever.
Janet also turned up with a load of limes. I weighed them, and they came in at 3kg. Limes were going for $33 per kilo at the time – she had given us a hundred bucks worth. From her bounty, I made lime pickle.
I was out in the vege patch the other day and came inside to find, on the kitchen bench, an array of large courgettes, also from Janet and Blokesy Stokesy’s garden. I phoned Blokesy and said: “Call the police. Somebody’s broken in and left a load of very rude-looking vegetables in the kitchen.” I made bread and butter pickles with them.
I have also made jars of plum hoisin sauce from our surfeit of plums. A half share of all this bounty goes back to Janet and Blokesy. I pretend that this is country sharing. Really, it is simply being smug.
