Rumours of wealth greatly exaggerated
Jeeves, always on hand to help Denis on the farm.
If there is one thing that drives me absolutely berserk, it’s the suggestion that a farming life is a great life.
Sure aren’t I blue in the face from proclaiming that farming is nothing more than mental and physical torture from morning ’til night.
So you can only imagine my consternation when I heard that the Daily Mail had run a report, claiming that farmers in the UK had seen incomes rise by 13%.
“Want a pay rise? Become a farmer” — that was the headline on the thing. “Life is good down on the farm,” the report stated.
Well I never heard such a load of rubbish in all my life. Farmers the world over are in a bad way, and that’s the truth.
Indeed, when the article was read aloud to me, I damn nearly choked on my flute of champagne. “How could such a thing have been written?” I cried aloud.
And turning to Jeeves, my butler, I ordered him to read the report to me again.
“Very good, sir,” Jeeves replied, and once he had finished with the business of topping my egg, he read the dreaded article once again.
“What the devil are they taking about, Jeeves? I can’t quite grasp the thing.”
“I believe, Sir,” Jeeves went on, “they are suggesting that the life of a modern farmer is somewhat of a privileged affair.”
“Privileged my backside. Don’t make me laugh Jeeves,” I responded. “Us farmers are as poor as church mice, whether we are farming here or in the UK.”
“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves replied.
Then he gave a slight cough, as if to indicate that there was more he wished to say.
“Well? Out with it man,” I demanded, “I cannot sit around here all day awaiting your next pronouncement.”
“Very good, Sir. There is a gentleman outside in the courtyard who I believe wants to speak with you.”
“Go on, Jeeves,” says I, while slurping my cappuccino.
“He claims to be an inspector with the Department of Agriculture. It seems, sir, he informed the gardener that he is here to inspect the farm.”
“Is he indeed, Jeeves? Well set the dogs on the blighter,” I ordered. “Tally ho, and all that.”
And with that, Jeeves left me to have my have my breakfast in peace.
After breakfast, still bothered by the accusation that farmers are rotten with money, I ordered Jeeves to fetch my fur coat, a good cigar and then take me for a spin in my Rolls around the farm. I simply wanted to reassure myself that I was indeed a very poor farmer and that farming wasn’t the moneyed affair that was claimed in the newspaper.
“I’m a very poor farmer, Jeeves,” I said, as we drove past many heads of livestock scattered about the place.
And a few hours later, with the task complete, I returned to my stately manor where Jeeves fixed me a brandy on ice.
“Jeeves,” I said, settling myself into my leather recliner in the library, “what do you make of a survey that states farmers are wealthy and have a wonderful life?”
“Well, sir, perhaps in some cases those who til the fields are the earners of a sizeable sum,” he said.
“That’s balderdash, Jeeves. What absolute rot. It’s a constant struggle to survive.”
“Very good, sir,” Jeeves replied. He could see I was talking sense.
“Is there anything else you require, sir?”
“No. That will be all Jeeves.”
“Very good sir,” Jeeves said, before quietly gliding from the room and giving me the time to ponder the very many great difficulties that I experience as a poor farmer.
