Watson and Blue Tongue

There are currently two words in the farming world that are guaranteed to send hardened livestock producers reaching desperately for the whiskey bottle - Blue Tongue. As of the 26th of May, Devon was officially classified as being in the Blue Tongue Protection Zone which means that this includes Dartmoor. Amongst the many sheep that graze the moor are the flock of 49 Scotch Blackface ewes that belong to Watson and to be fair to him they are fine specimens of the breed. You might thing 49 as being an untidy number for a flock but when 'Rambo' (the ram) is included he rounds the figure nicely off to 50. Now Rambo is Watson's pride and joy, if the old boy had his way the thing would be living in the farm house with a pen infront of the TV, that's how much he treasures the beast. Therefore it is not surprising that when the threat of Blue Tongue was announced the old farmer became very concerned and that is where the story begins.

Many people will say that, 'there's no such thing as a free lunch', and in 99.999998% of cases this is true, until you come to Watson, he is the missing .000001%. For many years now it has been the practice in the agricultural industry for the major pharmaceutical manufacturers to promote their products by way of evening farmer meetings. These occasions usually entail inviting a host of farmers along to some select venue, buy them some drinks, give them a product presentation and then provide a sumptuous meal. Once all and sundry have been wined and dined the salesmen then usually go around and take orders for whatever product is being promoted. This works on the principal that having had their, 'free lunch' the farmers MUST show their appreciation by purchasing huge quantities of the product and 99.999998% of the time this is the case. That is unless Watson is attending, he has no guilt, no shame or feelings of loyalty. He will be first at the bar when the free drinks are dispensed and the last to leave, if, as is the norm, the dinner consists of a carvery then his plate will piled so high it looks like a half sized scale model of Everest. Should there be any free marketing items such as pens, pads, mugs etc his pockets will be bulging and believe me they are BIG pockets. But his main skill is that of avoiding placing anything that could be deemed like an order and no matter how good the salesman is he won't scratch his book with Watson's name. Over the years there are two things that Watson has gained a reputation for, the first is having the ability to sniff out an hospitality meeting from 50 miles. The second is actually attending (invited or not) the event and availing himself of all the hospitality and then leaving without having so much as spent a penny. This has become so much of a tradition that I bet if he did ever attend a promotional night and found that he desperately wanted whatever was being touted he would have to decline for fear of losing his reputation.

Well, all that changed last week, the local vets held a farmers night where the topic was, 'Blue Tongue and it's Control'. As in most cases Watson never actually recieved an official invite it was more like he overheard two farmers at marketing talking about attending. But in the old boy's eyes that was as good as a gold edged invite and even better he knew the spread would be generous. I have no idea who gave the presentation that night apart from it was someone from Intervet who are the company that has come up with the only vaccine for Blue Tongue. But whoever they were my hat goes off to them because somehow they managed to get an order for 50 doses of the vaccine out of Watson. No more could he boast about how he had never met a salesman who could sell him something, this expert had got him to part with £30 for 50 doses. Forget the fact that by the time he went home Watson had consumed £33 in sherry and £25 in three servings at the carvery along with 21 free promotional pens, 6 desk pads and 12 stress balls. No, that was some feat of salesmanship, and what's more he actually got Watson to take a sales leaflet on the product as well. Do you know there is a special nursing home that is dedicated to looking after the salesmen who have unsuccessfully tried to sell something to Watson.

The upshot of all of this was that Watson became unbearable, he obviously read the Blue Tongue leaflet and became the self- appointed expert of the parish. Everyone he spoke to had to have the benefit of his newly found expertise and if they owned any cattle or sheep they were mentally abused into buying into the vaccine. Some say that Intervet got to hear of his enthusiasm and offered him a job selling the stuff. Once his sheep had been vaccinated he made himself a car sticker from the sales leaflet, drew a huge red heart on it and stuck it proudly in the windscreen of his old shed of a Land Rover. In a rare moment of inspiration he converted one of his old rosettes from the Devon County Show so that it read, 'there's no flies on me' and tied it around Rambo the rams neck.

Now there gets a time when enough is enough and that arrived on Friday, being the prelude to the Bank Holiday several of us met up at the inn for a drink or two. After six the conversation got around to Watson and everyone agreed that they were sick to the back teeth with Watson and his Blue Tongue so action needed to be taken. A couple of hours later Watson ambled into the bar with his newly found smug grin.

'What's on, Watson?', we all chimed.

"What's on bouys, Blue Tongue be what's on', Watson replied, everybody winced.

'Do ee knaw that Blue Tongue is spread by a midge that belongs to the Culicoides species', he proudly announced as he scanned the bar to see who was listening.

'Yes, Watson we all know', came the united voices of the male assembly.

'Watson' I said, 'how do you know if a sheep has Blue Tongue?'

'Well, 'tis like this' he replied, settling down knowingly on his bar stool, 'um gits a blue tongue an' looks as if um bin on the zider an' zways about a lot'.

With that we left the bar leaving Watson looking very desponded as he realised that his audience had forsaken him, but we had things to do. First I called home and raided the baking cupboard and then we went around to Farmer Blewitt to borrow Meg his sheep dog, then we headed off onto the moor in search of Rambo. It didn't take Meg long to find the ram, probably because it was the only one wearing a 'There's no flies on me' rosette. Anyway once we had him trapped in the corner of the newtake it was easy enough to prize his mouth open and squirt the blue cake colouring on its tongue. The last we saw of Rambo was him heading off down the combe spitting and shaking his head with an azure blue tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth.

It must have been about 11.30am the next day when Watson came charging into the inn, and dear, oh dear, was he in a state.

'What's on Watson?'

'What's on bouys', he yelled, 'I tell ee what's on, Rambo's caught the Blue Tongue', Watson replied.

'How do you know he's caught Blue Tongue', we asked.

'Cause his bliddy tongue's as blue as a Tory rosette an' I knaws 'tis Blue Tongue 'cause I read about it', he moaned.

Everybody was suitably sympathetic at the old mans plight and even more important everybody kept a straight face.

'But I thought you had him vaccinated' I asked.

'I did, an' it cost I soddin' 60p vur the privilege', he wailed.

'What will happen to poor old Rambo now?', I asked.

The tears welled up in his eyes and as he wiped them away with his tatty old spotted handkerchief he sobbed, 'ee'll 'ave to be put down as zoon as they Ministry vets come out'.

'What Ministry Vets?', we chimed.

'The ones as be on their way vrom Exeter right now', he sniffled.

'Oh, right', we muttered - silence descended over the bar like a November mist rolling off the moor.

Last nights little prank didn't seem so funny now, and, 'what ifs' were spinning through everyone's mind. Even though sheep rarely get an actual blue tongue with the disease, what if the Ministry vets needlessly put poor Rambo down? What if the Ministry vets realise they have been called out on a fools errand and there's a bill to pay? What if we come clean to Watson and explain it was just a bit of fun? What if that convoy of green Land Rovers that have just driven past are the Ministry vets ... oh, shit!

I think Zak Crocker was first to break the silence, obviously his guilty conscience had got the better of him, 'Ud ee like a drap o' sherry Watson?' he asked.

'Argh, better way', the old man sighed and looked at the landlord, 'if 'tis alright, I 'ave given they vets this number 'cause um zaid um u'll ring I when the slaughterins dun'.

'Tell ee what, Watson, dun bother wi a half o' sherry, make it a pint', Zak graciously announced.

Watson stared out of the window and whispered, 'Agh, better way bouy, drown me zorrows'.

The bar remained immersed in total silence with all eyes firmly fixed on the telephone, it was very much like that scene in The Battle of Britain when all the controllers were sat waiting for the phones to start ringing thus announcing the Germans were coming. And just like that scene the phone never rang and the tension grew and grew until the deathly hush was broken by Watson sniffing and tapping his empty glass. I reckon that went on for about five hours, yes, there were six empty sherry bottles on the bar and Watson was onto his 8th pint of the stuff. Slowly the crowd began to diminish as one by one the empty wallets dictated it was home time. Each departure was accompanied by a variation on, 'shit I had £60 when I came in', and each man eyed the pile of empty sherry bottles knowing that's where most of it went.

Finally I was the last of the few and desperately wanted to go home but I just couldn't leave poor old Watson on his own at such a traumatic time. In the end I could stand it no longer.

'Watson', I stammered, 'About Rambo's blue tongue, it's not what you think'.

He drained his half empty pint mug and looked pathetically at it, I pulled out my wallet and dragged out the last tenner and nodded at the landlord.

We stood in silence, watching the remnants of the 10th bottle of sherry disappear into the cavernous jaws of the pint pot, when it was full Watson firmly locked his fingers around the handle and looked me straight in the eye.

'Oh yes 'tis wat I think', Watson slowly drawled, 'I think you'm buggers dyed Rambo's tongue blue with zom cake dye that's wat I think'.

'How did you know', I exploded, 'and what about the Ministry vets that drove up to your newtake', I stuttered.

'They b'aint vets um be forestry men cuttin' down the conifers' he triumphantly cried, 'that be 'ow I knaw wat ee was up to, I was up there last night and zeed ee messin' with Rambo an' then found the empty cake dye bottle in the 'edge'.

'Then you have just conned 10 bottles of sherry out of us for nothing', I bawled.

Watson just grinned and sipped his sherry, 'argh, looks like I did dun't it', now who be zingin' the blues?