Oh it's one of those electric fly mower thingees. Well that explains it. Might as well try cutting up cardboard with those plastic scissors they give toddlers for all the fucken use that's going to be....
What a rookie.
Showing posts with label Lawnmowers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lawnmowers. Show all posts
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
How Not To Mow Lawns 101
Now I’m not usually prone to taking discreet photos of the neighbour’s property but in this instance I just had to.
Oh sure, there were those images of her next door and the time she was sunbathing topless out the back and yes, the pics did look like they had been taking through a freshly drilled glory hole in the fence. But I stand by my statement that I just happened to have my camera in my pocket whilst hanging out the washing that day and it did indeed drop to the ground and took several very focused, high resolution shots of her as it bounced on the pavement. True story.
Thankfully she moved out after jacking up (or possibly off) with one of her many gentleman callers. I wasn’t too disappointed with that because as regular readers will no doubt recall she had a teenage son who had a penchant for low riding pants, cars with big bore exhausts and females with Hepatitis.
And those who have seen said accidentally acquired images will also know what I mean when I use the expression “two cricket balls in tights”.
Our new neighbours moved in a few weeks ago and are quite lovely, British, fresh of the boat and are settling in nicely. They’re renting the gaff but are the types of tenants a landlord loves to have; tidy, conscientious and keen to do a spot of gardening on a nice day.
Not that the upkeep of the grounds has ever been a priority of the owner. Previously he sent Mr Green around only when the lawns reached knee height. Which has always lead me to believe that either he has no idea about how hard it is to cut that length of grass or he’s tighter than a straight mans anus with his money.
Thus the lawns there hadn’t been mowed for sometime and being the lover of a well mowed lawn that I am this quite understandably got on my tits and so, for the last few weeks, I have been trying to talk my way into mowing theirs for them at the same time I did ours.
Frustratingly they’ve been out or indulging in a spot of afternoon delight (because they do look the type) every time I’ve knocked on the door and I haven’t had the chance. Mrs ClubDes reckoned I should just mow it but they have a toddler and the last thing I want to be known as is ‘the crazy guy next door who mowed our lawns without asking whilst we were rutting like wildebeest as baby slept’.
It was rather fortunate then that our paths should cross the other day as I was departing for football with the girls. I offered to run the mower over the front line the next time I had it out but the bastard both broke my heart and turned me on a little by revealing that he had just bought a mower himself.
He had tried a bit of trimming too, only he showed his complete lack of inexperience by trying when the grass was as moist as the Sonny Bill Williams fan club. We both shared a man laugh at that point but alarm bells should were well and truly ringing; No one would be that clueless to try and cut a lawn at that state, would they?!
He fucken was, did and has left it in a state that can be best described as a shambles. He hasn't even followed the basic of basics which is that the tyre should always be inside the line of the last pass. They teach that stuff on Blues Clues for fucks sake. I shouldn't really be surprised after all he's probably lived in some attached townhouse all his life that had a concreted over garden, but it annoys me now every time I look at it.
So much so I'm tempted to run my mower over his lawn at any moment, afternoon delight or not.
Just look at the state of it.
Oh sure, there were those images of her next door and the time she was sunbathing topless out the back and yes, the pics did look like they had been taking through a freshly drilled glory hole in the fence. But I stand by my statement that I just happened to have my camera in my pocket whilst hanging out the washing that day and it did indeed drop to the ground and took several very focused, high resolution shots of her as it bounced on the pavement. True story.
Thankfully she moved out after jacking up (or possibly off) with one of her many gentleman callers. I wasn’t too disappointed with that because as regular readers will no doubt recall she had a teenage son who had a penchant for low riding pants, cars with big bore exhausts and females with Hepatitis.
And those who have seen said accidentally acquired images will also know what I mean when I use the expression “two cricket balls in tights”.
Our new neighbours moved in a few weeks ago and are quite lovely, British, fresh of the boat and are settling in nicely. They’re renting the gaff but are the types of tenants a landlord loves to have; tidy, conscientious and keen to do a spot of gardening on a nice day.
Not that the upkeep of the grounds has ever been a priority of the owner. Previously he sent Mr Green around only when the lawns reached knee height. Which has always lead me to believe that either he has no idea about how hard it is to cut that length of grass or he’s tighter than a straight mans anus with his money.
Thus the lawns there hadn’t been mowed for sometime and being the lover of a well mowed lawn that I am this quite understandably got on my tits and so, for the last few weeks, I have been trying to talk my way into mowing theirs for them at the same time I did ours.
Frustratingly they’ve been out or indulging in a spot of afternoon delight (because they do look the type) every time I’ve knocked on the door and I haven’t had the chance. Mrs ClubDes reckoned I should just mow it but they have a toddler and the last thing I want to be known as is ‘the crazy guy next door who mowed our lawns without asking whilst we were rutting like wildebeest as baby slept’.
It was rather fortunate then that our paths should cross the other day as I was departing for football with the girls. I offered to run the mower over the front line the next time I had it out but the bastard both broke my heart and turned me on a little by revealing that he had just bought a mower himself.
He had tried a bit of trimming too, only he showed his complete lack of inexperience by trying when the grass was as moist as the Sonny Bill Williams fan club. We both shared a man laugh at that point but alarm bells should were well and truly ringing; No one would be that clueless to try and cut a lawn at that state, would they?!
He fucken was, did and has left it in a state that can be best described as a shambles. He hasn't even followed the basic of basics which is that the tyre should always be inside the line of the last pass. They teach that stuff on Blues Clues for fucks sake. I shouldn't really be surprised after all he's probably lived in some attached townhouse all his life that had a concreted over garden, but it annoys me now every time I look at it.
So much so I'm tempted to run my mower over his lawn at any moment, afternoon delight or not.
Just look at the state of it.Thursday, September 17, 2009
Mowing the Lawn - Statey Stylez
If there's one thing in life that gets me moist it’s a well mown lawn. Not just a freshly mown lawn mind you because any bugger can run a mower over the lawn, but to cross hatch it or chequerboard the sucker, now that takes class.
It must be a boy thing because my wife doesn't get my appreciation for just such an occasion. On the few times she's run the mower over ours she's made it look like a state house effort. You know that look; strips in all directions, uneven cuts, missed bits and the inevitable burn make left when the ground was too close to the blade and dirt got cut, not grass.
Back when I was a lad we lived in a state house and it had a massive lawn. But because it was a Statey it also had fucked up things like concrete drains running through the back yard and a big concrete slab where the old shed used to be. There was also this massive pie of loose metal slap back in the middle of quite possibly the best cricket pitch that side of a real one. Why the pile was there in the first place or why it never got moved was a mystery to me. You could certainly bowl over it no problem, but no batsman ever took a cheeky single on that pitch.
We also had this split tiered bank think going on up the back of our yard, near the bush, which looked as though someone had started excavating the entire property before deciding 'Fuck it, this is only going to be a Statey’ and promptly gave up on the project completely. It was great for jumping the 'ol HMX off but bugger all else, so understandably it made mowing the lawns a chore and a half, but I didn't see it that way.
I took my time in mowing that lawn seven ways into Sunday. I'd stop after each row and adjust the level of the chassis by just a nib so that I got a real cross hatch look to my rows. In the long wet bits - and there were always long wet bits in a Statey - I'd start high and finish low so as not to clog the blade. And I never ever left a blade burn, even on the uneven, bumpy bits around that pile of bloody annoying loose metal.
Yes, it would take hours but then so did the Samoan boys up the street that had to cut theirs with machetes. Machete Day was always Sunday, after church and I always reckoned that you would have had to be religious in order to maintain sanity whilst hacking away with a hand made, hand held blade.
Their place was at the top of our grove and their front lawn dropped down at a 45 degree angle, which made grip an issue especially given that their two storey Statey blocked out the sun from ever hitting their front lawn after midday and they were cutting the lawn, with machetes, whilst barefoot. Accordingly none of the brothers dare start at the bottom least one of the older boys up the top slipped and tumbled down in an uncontrollable ball of afro and 'chete.
I once asked my mate Dennis were they got the machetes from. He told me that his parents had bought them with them from Samoa, back in the days I suppose when you could tuck a two foot machete in your carry on luggage and no one gave a toss.
My mate Bruiser was a turf connoisseur too. His front lawn was about the same floor area as most men’s toilets but my god did he know how to make it look as big (and as impressive) as Athletic Park. He was always mixing it up too; chequer board, alternating strips, centre circle ripples, man that stuff was the shit. We weren't at that stage of life back then but had we been, I suspect both of us would have stood inside at the window afterwards and had a big 'ol wank over our respective mowed lawns.
My Grandfather knew how to pull off a good lawn and he had a mower like all groundsman used to use back before the invention of tractor pulled or ride on lawn mowers. This thing not only cut the grass but it pushed what was left over so that when you came back the other way it created a different visual affect; one light strip, one dark strip but both cut at the same height. Genius! It’s a look replicated today but with half the effort and absolutely no hard on value for the guy doing it.
So think about that the next time you begrudgingly get out and mow that strip of green out the front of your ridiculously small yard and think of it as a chore. And hey, if you see a guy admiring your work with what suspiciously looks like an erection in his tweeds then be sure to give me a wave huh?
It must be a boy thing because my wife doesn't get my appreciation for just such an occasion. On the few times she's run the mower over ours she's made it look like a state house effort. You know that look; strips in all directions, uneven cuts, missed bits and the inevitable burn make left when the ground was too close to the blade and dirt got cut, not grass.
Back when I was a lad we lived in a state house and it had a massive lawn. But because it was a Statey it also had fucked up things like concrete drains running through the back yard and a big concrete slab where the old shed used to be. There was also this massive pie of loose metal slap back in the middle of quite possibly the best cricket pitch that side of a real one. Why the pile was there in the first place or why it never got moved was a mystery to me. You could certainly bowl over it no problem, but no batsman ever took a cheeky single on that pitch.
We also had this split tiered bank think going on up the back of our yard, near the bush, which looked as though someone had started excavating the entire property before deciding 'Fuck it, this is only going to be a Statey’ and promptly gave up on the project completely. It was great for jumping the 'ol HMX off but bugger all else, so understandably it made mowing the lawns a chore and a half, but I didn't see it that way.
I took my time in mowing that lawn seven ways into Sunday. I'd stop after each row and adjust the level of the chassis by just a nib so that I got a real cross hatch look to my rows. In the long wet bits - and there were always long wet bits in a Statey - I'd start high and finish low so as not to clog the blade. And I never ever left a blade burn, even on the uneven, bumpy bits around that pile of bloody annoying loose metal.
Yes, it would take hours but then so did the Samoan boys up the street that had to cut theirs with machetes. Machete Day was always Sunday, after church and I always reckoned that you would have had to be religious in order to maintain sanity whilst hacking away with a hand made, hand held blade.
Their place was at the top of our grove and their front lawn dropped down at a 45 degree angle, which made grip an issue especially given that their two storey Statey blocked out the sun from ever hitting their front lawn after midday and they were cutting the lawn, with machetes, whilst barefoot. Accordingly none of the brothers dare start at the bottom least one of the older boys up the top slipped and tumbled down in an uncontrollable ball of afro and 'chete.
I once asked my mate Dennis were they got the machetes from. He told me that his parents had bought them with them from Samoa, back in the days I suppose when you could tuck a two foot machete in your carry on luggage and no one gave a toss.
My mate Bruiser was a turf connoisseur too. His front lawn was about the same floor area as most men’s toilets but my god did he know how to make it look as big (and as impressive) as Athletic Park. He was always mixing it up too; chequer board, alternating strips, centre circle ripples, man that stuff was the shit. We weren't at that stage of life back then but had we been, I suspect both of us would have stood inside at the window afterwards and had a big 'ol wank over our respective mowed lawns.
My Grandfather knew how to pull off a good lawn and he had a mower like all groundsman used to use back before the invention of tractor pulled or ride on lawn mowers. This thing not only cut the grass but it pushed what was left over so that when you came back the other way it created a different visual affect; one light strip, one dark strip but both cut at the same height. Genius! It’s a look replicated today but with half the effort and absolutely no hard on value for the guy doing it.
So think about that the next time you begrudgingly get out and mow that strip of green out the front of your ridiculously small yard and think of it as a chore. And hey, if you see a guy admiring your work with what suspiciously looks like an erection in his tweeds then be sure to give me a wave huh?
Bruiser's front lawn was always impressive
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