06/10/04 B.W.R.
DEFRA
(Department for Environment, Food And Rural Affairs) HM Government
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Borders Welfare Report In Concordance With Livestock Abuse Act 2003
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Number 1925
Desg. 15a
Location: Farrowdoor Farm, Great Edstone, Pickering, North Yorkshire
Subject: Mr. Trevor Button
Age: 63
Occupation: Pork Farmer
Religion: N/A 1
Interview Transcript 1.1 Conducted by Outreach Clerk Mary Schroff between 17.01pm and 17.33pm on the 28/09/04, on location at Mr. Button’s farm.
Interview Transcribed by Clerk Dhawan 04/10/04 2 Footnotes entry-requested by Clerk Schroff on 18/10/04
INTERVIEW BEGINS 17.01
Mary Schroff3 [Large amount of high-frequency naus, wind through slats, screeching iron 4 ] Just sit […] there, Mr. Button, there’s no [large section unintelligible] underneath.
Trevor Button 5 [A single snort] Nae, there’s five pound a’ spidders ‘neath it.
MS Do not like spiders, then? They make me like [errr] a cartoon lady, or summ[ing]. Absolutely useless. Not [hmmm] like me at all!
TB While they may run [cough] so fast, aye.
MS Do you want [hrrrn] to, to, to stand there for me, then? [sniff]
TB [section unintelligible]
MS I’ll just have to bring the microphone a wee bit closer, is that alright? [splutter] sorry, bless me. Can you speak, like, talk, talk clearly into it, so we get everything - [interrupted]
TB DIN’T STAND IT THERE [Very close to the microphone, distorted, diction almost lost]
MS Oh, I’m sorry [interrupted, a small scream, flutter of cloth or wing] What is is is is that, Mr. Tre-Button?
TB Yer make fun o’ me, fer being [cough] flayed er spidders, ‘n ye half brek me scremblock 6 [laughter, rattling].
MS [Cough] What’s [pause] a scremblock, my love?
TB Stop talking [splutter] like a nurse will yer, ar in’t did.
MS Sorry, Mr. Button, really very sorry. Now, no-now, can [errrr], can you tell me what a scremblock is, please?
TB Where t’hoglets screm.
MS Oh right, well, is that, is that, [errr] blood, Mr. Button? Will this become a question of [urrrm] hygiene [hmm]?
TB Ol’ bled, weren’t mess yer none. [A snort with unintelligible vocalisation]
MS Is [pause] are you the only one around here with [uaa] a scremblock?
TB [Pause] Fifeen year ‘go, alls ther hoggers round ‘ere, they mek them own scremblocks [pause] bet nae more. [cough] Nows they get the feer o’ govmint in ‘em. Moss tain’t frem ‘ere neither, them’s brought over by t’Poles, in their keks when t’were in-ve-veddied [Held guttural, cough, gurgle] [Em] [Hrrrm]
MS Well, Mr. Button [cough] I am, I am [er] from the government, right, and I’ve never heard of a scremblock before. Not as a piece of livestocking equipment. [Chair legs whining] [Pen scratching]
TB [Eeeeeeeerrrr] Ask any ol’ feller, feller, mind, in yer departmint, e’ll know ‘em. They was outlawed, tin yeer ‘go.
MS And you’re not worried that [erm] I’ll report you? If they were made illegal, my love, [cough] then why do you still have one? You probably shouldn’t have let me see it, should you?
TB [silence]
MS Mr. Button?
TB [Silence]
MS Shall we [urm] shall we go into the house, Mr. Button?
TB Whit?
MS Shall we go indoor[d?]s?
TB I in’t get[pause] nae[pause] in’t [pause]
MS and TB [Simultaneously] No/Nae.
MS Wha [errm] sorry [hmm] Why not?
TB Well, thert beam there [creak] look [creak] out there, over t’scullery, is close ter breaking, and I can ‘ear the termites in et witout no microphern, I tell thee. Is fair small mind, too [coughing fit]
MS It’s [interrupted]
TB Where did yet say yer were from, luv?
MS The department of Environment, Food And Rural Affairs. DEFRA, you know. There were several letters sent, Mr. Button, and phone calls, and mobile calls.
TB Ah [a clap, of hands ]. You was tw’ones what burnt me herd in ‘97.
MS I’ve only been with the department for a year [splutter], bless me. Only a year, my dear. I wouldn’t know anything about that.
TB Not a nurse, nae. Yer spake like an ‘airdresser.
MS Well, I’m sorry if I offend you. I’m just trying to be pleasant.
TB Well I bain’t nae bairn, so stop it. Stop shusshhhing at me.
MS I’m very sorry.
[A creak of a chair, rustle]
TB Isser blert[?] that ‘un.
MS Blert?
TB Aye, Blert, yer boss.
MS Blert [pause] Bler [pause] Blair? [Laughter] Tony Blair is not really my boss, Mr. Button.
TB 7 So she says! So she say.
MS Well, he isn’t, [cough] my boss is the man who phoned you last week, [errr] and I have to [urrm] say that w-w-we need to take this seriously now.
TB [Laughter] Are yer roofled, luv?
MS I’m not your love [sigh] I’m cold [huff] [cough] I’d just like to get to the survey.
[The sound of a squeaking gate]
MS Who is that?
TB T’wind. Through t’farrer gate. Gets a voice [cough] in a gale like this, so does.
MS I’m… [deep breath] I’m not [ah] trying to be rude, Mr. Button, [errr] but I don’t understand your accent very well.
TB [Laughter] I’m only spaking what you be spaking.
MS Well, this is the furthest north I’ve [errrm] ever been. And it’s just really lovely [cough], don’t get me wrong, very pretty, but it is a little difficult for us Londoners.
TB [A little laugh] Alrart, luv. And I meant nowt by that but yer a jug fer luv, aye? Cos yer fair and that.
MS And if that is supposed to ruffle me again, Mr. Button, it is not working.
TB Din’t fret none, cos you stopped, I’ll stop n’all. What word in ‘ticular yer missing?
MS I’m missing a few. What’s a feera gate?
TB [Er] Not feera. Shorten it at the end, like. Ferrer. Tis a boff 8 word, fer givin’ birth.
MS Not a local word?
TB Nay, nay. Nae whit confuses more than locals spoutin’ rubbish. Need good solid words ter talk hog.
MS So this [pause] is where the pigs sow?
TB Aye, you’re standing in t’fluid.
MS It’s not [cough] wet down here.
TB Oh aye, we let it dry, ter give them what coom after [spluttering cough] a nars even ground fr’birthing.
[Extended silence, squeak of a shoe]
MS This [interrupted]
TB Aye, we call that t’varnish.
[Pause, muffled laughter, away from the microphone]
MS I just want you to know, Mr. Button, [cough] that I won’t be upset by any of this, so please plough on. I lived on a farm for two years after university.
TB Oh aye, aye? Hogs, wassit? 9 [More snorts, each louder than the last].
MS No, just sheep for shearing and wheat.
TB [Blown raspberry] Queer use of a farm, fer my taste. Nae bled, bain’t farm. [Mumbled, indecipherable, the word “pillow” can be heard]
MS [Suppressed burp] 10 Oh, well, [errrm] excuse me [hmmm] [errrrm] Well, how about you tell me how it differs, up here.
[Clerk Schroff up from her chair, pacing the barn – roughly 30ft by 30ft, judging by reverberation from what is assumed to be corrugated iron roof.]
TB Less space, mostly; I’m pushed oop ‘gainst moor like pint on a boy’s lung. Ten mile up past Baughton’s 11 t’wind come [snort] down wit’ such [pause] wroth, by time it reaches me, ter fields are all fresh-shaven. Coom ‘ere.
MS What?
TB Pardon. Coom ‘ere.
MS The microphon [interrupted]
TB [Sound of rising, clattering, Mr. Button moving away from the microphone. His voice becomes indistinct]. See them? I own ‘em, all ten, and none of them can plant nothin’. Soil is bot a lug 12 on th’ [errr] ice-rock, like, see, and the wind, aye, drags salt from sea and bullies ‘em. I only breed hogs ‘cos necessity. I din’t like the things.
MS [Sound of Ms. Schroff returning to the microphone, out of breath] What did you say, then?
TB [Eeya] nae whit. Field’s is worse than useless, just. Hogs din’t need much space. Just a dunny in a small hog-cote [errr] and [unintelligible] [hrrm] wallow, and veg fer mekkin’ o’ meat n’ shortening.
MS Sorry [cough]
TB [Errr]
MS Could I have some water?
TB Whit, now?
MS [Cough] [Cough] [Cough] yes.
TB In a bit, jest a bit. Finish yer question.
MS [Scratch of a pen][Cough] [Hmmm] Was that dunny you said just then? Your pigs have their own toilet?
TB Aye, hogs are fair snobbish ‘bout shiteing, [cough] Ms. Schroff. Won’t do it but they’s scratch a circle where they want’t, when cooming to a new hog-cote, and we dig it, else they bite each oother.
MS So you do what the pigs tell you? [Small laugh] [Cough]
TB Aye.
MS And they live in here, or over [Interrupted]
TB They is born ‘ere, and then have the yard and garden, and coome ‘ere ter die, also.
MS Does the smell of blood not bother them?
[Distortion of wind]
TB Not as I’ve noted. It’s [snort] warmer ‘ere, and in t’lee of t’hous [interrupted]
MS Oh!
TB Aye?
MS When you said feera, ferrer gate, you meant farrow, as in birthing?
TB Aye, ferrer.
[Scratch of a pen]
MS Lovely, lovely [pause] [splutter] [oh] bless me, again! A-and and how do you butcher them?
TB Is scremblock for young’un, me astride it like an ‘orse o’ donker, sticking it, or nailgoon ‘fer backfatter.
MS Nailgun?
TB Aye.
[Scratch of a pen]
TB What were that fer?
[Rattle – tools? Windchimes?]
MS [Oh] [errmm] just a [hmm] And what are these for? They look a little rusty.
TB Them’s fer scaring t’gippos.
MS Oh [pause] And what’s the storage environment [cough] for the meat?
TB [Sneeze, groan] Lissen to oos, right pair o’ invalids! Now, meat storage, right ye ar. Mek owt that all else do. Crappings go in broth, saim fer brekker, and “the blether fer working off the belly”, as me grandda used ter spek. ‘E yoosed ter get us opp Soonday league in.. what were it now? 58? 59? Now lookit those, I bain’t lost ‘em 13.
MS Very nice, i-in-i-indeed.
TB [Laughter]
MS Now, M-M-Mr. Button, do you remember another [erm] visit [erm] that yo-you had?
[Shuffle of paper]
Oh, sh-
[Shuffle of paper]
Do you remember my colleague? 14
TB [Grinding teeth and snorting] Din’t know much ‘bout that.
MS [Sigh] You do, Mr. Button.
TB Ne whit, ar’ never talked ter nae colleague o’yorn.
MS A Mr. Torn?
TB Norwegian, is ‘e?
MS [Sneeze] Bless me. Well, I [erm] I don’t know him personal [interrupted]
TB [Agitated, half-shouting] Youse ask owt round ‘ere, I’s brings out hogs like coopbords full o’ meat! They’s med jokes bout me [cough] father, and now I, that you ‘jest add to open drawers in ‘em as to get the pluck, they’s so obliging [interrupted]
MS Mr. Button, I’m sorry if I insulted you. I have looked at your records, and your pigs are reported by all your neighbours and clients [snort] bless me, as excellent. I am not suggesting you have any outbreaks currently, nor am I here to investigate that, alright? I am only here because I am interested in the disease’s eff[cough]. Are you sure that we cannot go inside? I’m catching my death.
[Silence for 7 seconds]
H-
[Silence for 3 seconds]
MS [Sigh] Mr. Button, can I [hmm] can I call you Trevor? I’m not here for that. I would have brought it up already, if I was. L-look, I’ve got all of your records, and you’ve already mentioned the cull.
TB Aye, Mr. Torn [snort] cem ‘ere, and that report’s done. I tell ‘im what I tell you - it was feed frem Newcastle that did it, it were weevil’s as [snort] mek em ill wit’ blackride. [Snort]
MS And what is blackride?
TB Well [pause] [um] [pause] [hrrmmm] it er’ coom down ter mouth. Hog’s mouth thirty and three inches all told, which is same as man’s, except they bain’t got nowt talking ter do, so is narrow, and straight for t’fodderfunnel. I ‘as give ‘em little space as possible on account of ‘em little mouths.
MS What do you mean? Little mouths.
TB Soooo [pause] [cough] an ‘og ‘as an same mouth as oomans, but eats six times as mooch. I ‘ope to breed it out of ‘em wit’ a lil pen.
MS Why?
TB Costs. Bet it din’t ‘urt ‘em none. They cans still turn ‘round.
[Pause]
MS Well, Mr. Button, it’s not as free-range [cough] as [erm] you’ve been claiming, though, is it?
TB Pen’s got grass, what mour yer want?
MS Well [cough] [splutter] bless me! Well, so, blackride. A disease of the mouth, primarily, would you say?
TB Nae, bet it ‘gin there. You git a cobblestern, here [muffled voice] and here, n’ a darkening o’ the loin skin, like a saddle’s bin put ‘ere.
MS What is a cobblestone, in this context?
TB Yell ‘ave to ask Mr. Torn that. Din’t know the word, in context.
MS And what would you do, if one of your animals [errr] h-had this disease?
TB I would stay three foot off the beast, or mour, and draw t’others off too, and beat ‘er back into the field to die ‘lone.
MS And… what would she die of?
TB ‘Sposure.
MS Not the disease?
TB Nae, the disease gets ‘er slow, but she gets cold ‘fore that, and rubs up against the others, and it spreads and spreads.
MS [Hmm] Are the corpses burnt?
TB Some are, aye, and others tekken off.
MS By who?
TB Gov’mint, mebbe. ‘Nother department.
MS You don’t ask? They [errr] have [um] identification? 15
TB They do, but I din’t recall whit. [Snort] Papers are in ‘ouse. Me granddaughter scans ‘em ferrme.
MS Could you go and get them?
TB Nae.
MS Why [pause] why not, Mr. Button?
TB Iss [erm] nice out ‘ere.
[Sigh]
MS I’ll need to see them at some point.
TB Righty-ho.
MS And and and [sniff] I suppose that you check the others, as well?
TB Very thorough, like. Me hogs are me best. I took trip down south once, wit’ Olga 16 , to visit a friend a ‘ers, and they was panning, like what [snort] only kings did, once.
MS What is [interrupted]
TB Is when yer let ‘ogs et acorns from t’ground in a forest. They jest roam free. Now, I en’t got none oak trees ‘ere, but even er I did, I wouldnae let no hogs at ‘em!
MS Why not?
TB Disease control, and I tell this tae Mr. Torn, is best ter keep hogs locked oop tight.
MS Do you think that’s cruel?
TB Do ye?
MS I-I-I told you, Mr. Button, it doesn’t matter what I think. I don’t have an opinion on any of this.
TB Yer lying. Yer opinion is that I should ‘ave one. But look on this.
[Sound of footsteps, dragging, grunts, clangs of hanging metal, swearing, murmurs from Clerk Schroff with offers of aid]
TB This ere’s me qwarren.
MS [Pause] C-Can [pause] you s-s-spell that for me?
[He does so, but spells it as Q-W-A-R-E-N]
MS And what is this for?
TB Them’s hogs that gets blackridden. I don’t kill not all of ‘em.
MS Is this a cure, then?
TB Nae, fer examination.
MS Up on top?
TB Nae, inside.
MS [Pause] What?
TB As long as they is kept alone, and warm, they can live ter ‘ave a litter.
MS And you… they…
TB Aye?
MS They live in there?
TB Living it en’t, Ms. Schroff, but it’s better than death in t’field.
MS Is it now! [Cough] [Exclamation mark added for emphasis]
TB I thort as yer had nowt opinion?
MS No professional opinion, but a personal one.
TB And?
[7 second pause, sighs, the hiss of hands drawn over wood, knocks]
TB Well, hogs en’t intelligent, Ms. Schroff. Din’t listen ter [snort] nae tellybox chef. But they look as an old man, same loongs, same ‘art, same pinkness, [snort]same ‘air. If I was ter ask ‘em, and they cud answer, they’d ‘av begged to be kept in that box, rather than out in that wind.
MS There are similarities, we both know that, but we are not the same. That’s a fairly generous leap of [stops]
TB What?
MS Mr. Button, [swallow] 17 I’m really sorry, but I’ll just [pause] erase this from the record. 18 It’s unprofessional, and I apologise.
TB [Laughter] Nae worry, pet. I’mma businessman, and a sick hog en’t a dead hog, not by a mile. Is a curious sort of life, in men [snort] [splutter] and hogs, being sick, bet it’s life none less. We get peaky in same way, and I look after peaky one’s better than most, I mean, they get more [snort] feed, fer one, and ‘ay, quiet, warm. What more could yer want, if yer feeling bloody dreadful? But, yer know, [cough] the qwaren is a must. It’s that or the field. Aye, [errr] sometimes yer get a lady who’s a meankiller, ‘oo tosses [snort] thet box ‘round like a washing machine bet on the ‘ole it’s quiet, dark, and peaceful. A hog who’s blackridden din’t [um] need nae walking; nae rootin’ in nae forest fer that’un. This way, it gets a little longer in coomfort, and I git me [errr] bairns, and job’s a good ‘un.
MS Y-y-y [interrupted]
TB [Laughing]
MS H-H-hogletssss [becomes laughter or hiss]? Y-y-y-you breed from these animals?
TB Ask any vetinary, they’ll as tell you, Hoglets [Snort] din’t coom out blackridden, and the milk stays good fer ‘em an’ all. Is in the mouth and throat and back, and hog’s en’t given ter kissin’ each oother.
MS And and and and [pause] and [hmm] how do they give birth inside that? It looks like there would barely be an inch at either end.
[The sound of a wooden door]
TB This ‘eres the issue-hole. [Snort] bairns cooom out ‘ere, [groan] and - [the sound of smaller doors] tits coom out ‘ere.
MS That’s-
TB The sow’s fair blinded by blackride, cen’t see no little ones, and so din’t matter. She still feels proud, whatever thrips the dugs. [snort] Michael in the scalding-house calls ‘em “a little orchard”, when she’s in there and her bairns are feeding. But it’s auld, before the bloody Romans [snort] we’ve bin shutting oop pigs wit’ a qwaren. They used ter do it fer forty days, but times ‘as changed, we’re half-vetinaries oursells now, and we keep ‘em in there until they go to sleep [snort] emsells. Nowt we can do fer ‘em.
MS Surely you could make the box see-through, [erm] out of plastic or something at least? So she could feel the sun?
TB You ain’t never seen a hog blackridden, ‘ave you? The others would ‘ave the plassic ripped off in two minutes, to look at ‘er. She’s got this melting ‘ed, full of brawn that’s boobbling, really, cooking wit’ all the fluid ‘eated by the brain. And ‘er jaw. It goes [distorted voice] like this, and like this. Pork’s a ghost meat, best o’ times. Slides ‘wit so much fat. You should really see it, if yer gonna coom ‘ere and yap at me ‘bout it.
MS Jesus Christ.
TB Even oos oursells on the farm can barely look at ‘er. I made that mistek of showing a niece once - she’s ne’er coom back. Nae, better for all if they’re shut up.
MS That’s [pause] [errr] an interesting philosophy, Trevor.
TB Well, I din’t think so. Nae philosophy, joost meks sense. I really din’t know, in them days, ‘fore the needle and t’pill, how folk managed all being so ugly, wit’ boils and hanging skin and scars and scars. Yer ‘ave ter wonder, din’t yer. I tell Harry in t‘Knife, it’s gotta change ‘ow a people think. Nae beautiful lasses nowhere, jest these filthy bits and bobs pulled toge’er. Everyone sick wit summat. Bet there were still poetry, win’t there? ‘Ow does a poetry get along, with all folk being so ugly?
MS [Errr] [sigh] I don’t know Mr. Button, T-Trevor. And I think we’re straying from the topic, just a little bit. You promised to show me the herd, didn’t you? And I did notice that there are none in here. I’m fairly certain when the car pulled up I [interrupted]
TB There in’t none in t’garden, nae. [Snort]
MS So [cough] where are they?
TB Whit?
MS Where are the pigs?
TB They is aways.
MS You mean you have none here?
TB Aye. Well, nae.
MS [Sigh] Well, which is it, Trevor? Where do you keep your pigs?
TB They ‘as ‘iding, is all. [Laughter]
MS Well, can you go and get them?
TB Nae, they’s scared of yer, I reckon. Weren’t coom if ar called.
MS Where can [shuffled papers] four hundred pigs be hiding on this farm? You need to tell me the truth, [cough] now.
TB [Laughter] They is probably on the moors, [coughing fit, laughter] on their hind legs, dancing.
MS If you have let your pigs escape, Trevor, or allowed them off the farm without a passport, I will be [erm] forced to report it.
TB Aye, din’t fret none.
MS Please [cough] [cough] stop telling me not to fret. I don’t appreciate it very much at all, Trevor. Now, you know that I’m with the government. You have to take this seriously.
TB [Snort]
MS Mr. Butt [interrupted] Trevor.
[The sound of Mr. Button getting up, and walking away]
MS [Shouting] MR. [unintelligible] [interrupted]
[Scuffled feet, rapidly getting louder, accompanied by the clanging of metal, Mr. Button’s voice, very loud]
TB YER WANT TO ‘EAR A JERK?
MS [Small scream, cough and snort] What? Where did [yelp]19 [interrupted]
TB I’ll tell yer a local jerk! Fer yer records! [Coughing fit] Y-Yer’ll like this, that’s all anyone who’s e’er coom ‘ere ‘as wanted, local, local, local! Right, on to the jerk, right, get t’air in ‘ere mooving. ‘Is farmer, e-e-e-e was mad, yer see, and e let ‘im pigs sit at table [cough] [cough] wit’ ‘is wayf ‘n bairns, ‘n ‘e dressed ‘em oop in ‘is mutha’s Sunday best, [coughing fit] five year dead, she were, n they scremed filthy murther, them hogs [interrupted]
MS Trev [interrupted, knock against the microphone head, possibly falling over] 20
TB Filthy murther! ‘N the wife asked ‘im the once, “will you put those pigs in t’yard?”, and “‘e says, nae, the midden’s nae place fer ‘em.” ‘N ‘is bairns wittered, [nasal, children’s voice] “will yer nae put ‘em out, Da? [Errr] They be biting us in oor sleep, look at our wrists!” and ‘e says “nae, the midden’s nae place fer ‘em”. And ‘is wife said, [coughing fit] “Will yer nae put them out, husband.” And ‘e say nae I weren’t, the midden’s nae place fer ‘em.”
MS I need [interrupted]
TB One evenin’, when ‘e coom back from t’field, there bain’t nae sign o’ the bairns, ‘n is wife is dreadful quiet by t’ stove, and when ‘e goes to ‘er ‘e sees bites all up ‘n down ‘er arms and neck. They look like love-nicks, thinks she’s been playing away [cough] and ‘e goes at ‘er in a rage, kills ‘er with a potato masher, and when ‘e finishes, ‘e is so hungry, that ‘e plunges ‘is head into the broth. It’s right sweet with pork fat, [coughing fit] ‘e can smell it, and ‘e knows that she’s killed them hoggies, but ‘e don’t care. But when e’ turns round, there’s them hoggies, wearing ‘is bairn’s clothes, n ‘is wife’s bled at [errr] their lips. And t’ biggest opens ‘is mouth, coughs a little, and says [coughing fit] “We repaid you fer yer hospitality, sir, we brought our midden t’- 21
INTERVIEW ENDS 17.33
END OF REPORT
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I understand that this is a standard-issue report form, and elsewhere I do attempt to remain as completist as possible, but I feel that this designation may be something of relic, and really none of this department’s business whatsoever. ↩
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The fidelity of the transcript takes things a little far; Clerk Dhawan has evidently listened to the recordings carefully, but I do not feel that there is a need to transcribe mine and Mr. Button’s respiratory difficulties. This is not part of the analysis, and the investigation into his practices do not have much to do with his illnesses. I am more than a little offended by the inclusion. I would like to speak to Clerk Dhawan directly about this matter. ↩
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Quality of the recording is variable, and as I was extremely ill with a fever that day, and, thanks to Clerk Dhawan, my tics are unfortunately now part of the evidence against Mr. Button . The journey up onto the moors is not an easy one. I have also had no response to requests for expenses payable for my unwelcomely extended stay in Yorkshire; I thought, in my desperation, a footnote might get somebody’s attention in HR. ↩
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Mr. Dhawan’s superb ear seems to have missed something quite noticeable, yet as useless as the rest of his analysis; there was a constant whistle of wind in the barn, owing to numerous holes in the walls, apparently sledgehammered from the ground up to about three feet, all along the stalls. ↩
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Mr. Button was given to a quasi-North Riding/Northumbrian dialect that is apparently rather rare in border Yorkshire these days. I see that the peculiarities of the argot have been preserved in transcript, though please note that this may impede understanding in analysis, due to the multiple negation, preterite transformation and dropped consonants, amongst other mutations. ↩
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The “scremblock”, or “screamblock”, was a 4’x1.5’x2’ block of what appeared to be a deep green moss, tightly packed together into a rough rectangular shape and set on two A-frames to bring it up to chest height ↩
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Mr. Button turned away from the camera at this point to address a rhetorical someone apparently standing up behind him. ↩
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This seems to refer to scientists, which is odd, as Mr. Button has a daughter whose profession is given as “biologist”. ↩
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Note added 21/12/04: I was beginning to deduce at this point that Mr. Button was severely ill, much worse than myself; whatever he had, it sounded bronchial, which I put down to the time of year and the wind. However, when news reached me of his passing, I realised how much pain he must have been in, which could have explained his fatalistic, and often abrasive, attitude. ↩
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This is becoming unnecessary, Mr. Dhawan. ↩
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Mr. John Baughton is a neighbour (but, reportedly, not a friend) of Mr. Button whose farm is considered the most remote in the area; he breeds cows, and is noted for a now-defunct regional technique of stabling his cattle in silos dug under his fields. See DEFRA R.E.P. #1914 6b. ↩
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Yorkshire dialect for hair that tugs or pulls at a brush. ↩
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For clarity, I would like to note that he was showing me his thighs. ↩
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B.W.R. 84, 13/11/01 ↩
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Further investigation shows that Mr. Button does indeed have a DEFRA partnership for disease research. I think that he knew at this point that I would have, as I have discovered myself, very little opportunity to intervene. ↩
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Olga Button – Trevor’s late wife, of Norwegian origin. Maiden name unrecorded. ↩
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Again, inappropriately intimate. ↩
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Reinserted without my permission. ↩
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I do not remember yelping at this point. ↩
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I can confirm that Mr. Button knocked the microphone over when he stood up. I then proceeded to pick it up. ↩
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At this point, Mr. Button flung his arm wide, and knocked over the microphone, the greasing stool upon which it was sat, and one of the saws that hung above it, which narrowly missed my right leg. He was shaking and nearly crying, but would not respond to any questions about his pigs or their whereabouts. I packed up my equipment, and walked him to his house, where he still would not let me come inside. I am recommending that a psychiatric nurse be despatched to Mr. Button’s farm immediately to speak to him, as well as his neighbours being contacted to ask about the whereabouts of his herd. Whilst this may be a case of theft and a matter for the police, more pressing is the matter of the area having previously being a BSE and SIV outbreak flashpoint, which puts everybody’s stock at risk of possible recontamination. According to our records, FMD appeared to pass Mr. Button’s farm by in 2001, but it seems that, to compensate him, his pigs have developed something new and exotic. This is, of course, not counting their ability to disappear. ↩