31 March, 1990

For as far back as I can remember I've always wanted a black sheep. It may sound daft to you, but I was raised to know that a man with an Airedale Terrier or Clumber Spaniel needs a swift punch to the bollocks. I'm a lad, the sort that likes to run his fingers through jet-black wool before beating a horse to death with the back end of a blunt shank. A lad that likes to smell the breath of the good lord's most humble beast in the mornings. One day, when me nan finally goes, I'll have enough pasture to let one run around free as a bird. I'll look into the sheep's beautiful black eyes, and feel in my bones what it means to be loved.

It all started in March of 1990. Me mate Tom is off rioting in London cause Thatcher's fuckin' poll tax and I'm over in Fordwich for a shit town shuffle, drinking some boiled piss the barman calls Guinness. What a sorry fuckin' town.. Fuckin' Fordwich. Nothing but sad and agony written on every fuckin' wall. Miserable. Even the birds sound like they want to dive head first into the pavement. A fuckin' shit hole.

So I'm sitting at the pub and this old chap next to me starts going on about how he bedded some gal named Sally. Starts claiming that this Sally, the woman he bedded, yea? Is actually the mother of a guy named Tom. Got me head all tinkin' you see, yea? Cause me best mate's name's Tom.. and his mum's Sally.

So I say "Which Tom?". The old geezer looks at me all stupid and says "Thomas from Upton".
Nearly fuckin' floored me as he said it mate. Seconds later I was off me chair anyway, on the floor spread eagle like some Manchester footballer.

"Upton in Berkshire??!!?" I says to him.
"Yeah thats righ.. rigghhht across from Windsor Castle" the cheeky geezer barked back.

Normally my temper would get the better of me, but he was at least 13 stone, maybe 14. I left me cow-hide jacket with the barman, made me way over to the blower to give me mate Tom a bell.

I must have spent 3 quid trying to call the daft cunt, but I knew he was probably still out setting fire to cars back in London. You see his thinkin' is, if you set fire to other people's cars you see, then the taxes come down.

So I get back to the bar and I get me cow-hide jacket back from the barman. The most valuable thing I own. I start thinking about me mate Tom's mum Sally. What a saint of a woman that Sally, lovely gal. But then I start tinkin' you see. Sally is at least 17 stone, maybe 18. She's a bit of a porker. I kept thinking some more. She's no hag but has got at least 62 years on her.

So I ask the geezer one last time "This Tom, he a ginger??!".
"Nah mate" he says.
"Christ" I said. Knowing that me mate Tom is actually balder than Sinead O'Connor.
That was the last time I took Jesus's name in vain. Jesus Shepherded his flock you see, and I liked that. A man with a plan. And I like men that got a plan.

I drank some more Guinness but was feeling knackered. As I was about to leave the old bloke stretched out his arm. Didn't even look at me, the only thing staring at me was the business card he held in his left hand. I took the card and on it was the outline of what looked like a Black Sheep.

"What's this mate?" I said as my voice cracked like a 14 year old boy from Manchester.
"A job, if you want it.." said the chap.

On that fateful night my life had changed for good. I become a servant to the most beautiful creature God has ever created. For years to come I would nurture and take care of black sheep. I would be the first person to have ever done so, way way back.. in 1990.

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