Episode 26 -The Turf War (No, Literally)

Saturday was one of those rare days when something actually went right. I got turf – real, solid, honest-to-goodness turf. I stacked it carefully in the garage, the way you do when you’re trying to keep things dry, neat and under your own control for once. A small act of self-respect, really. Turf in the garage. Turf where I put it.

Fast forward to this evening. I came home from work and walked outside and… the turf is gone. Well, not gone exactly – just exiled. Dumped out into the yard like an unwelcome guest after a bad wedding speech. No note. No knock. No warning. Just turf, sprawled across the concrete, soaking up the fine Irish mist.

And in the garage? Enter stage left: a baler. Not a new one, mind. An old, rusted thing that looks like it hasn’t seen action since the Celtic Tiger had milk teeth. An ancient, dusty relic of who-knows-what, parked squarely in the middle of the space where my turf had been.

It didn’t walk in there by itself. No, this has all the hallmarks of a classic Bully Yates maneuver. Silent, sneaky and soaked in entitlement. He didn’t ask. Didn’t mention it. Didn’t even throw in a fake apology or mutter something about ‘needing the space’. He just decided. As if my efforts – and my belongings don’t count.

But let’s be honest. This isn’t just about turf. It never is. This is the same old script: I get something of my own and he swoops in to undermine it. A baler in the garage might not sound like high drama, but when you live with a chronic boundary-breaker, even a turf stack becomes a front-line.

Garage Inventory, Updated:

My Turf: Now in exile, slowly soaking and morally outraged.

Bully’s Baler: Installed without consent, proudly taking up space and doing nothing – just like its owner.

Respect: Missing since approx. 2002. Presumed dead.

Busy Man, Big Plans:

Fair play to him, though! Bully must have had a wildly productive morning! Imagine the mental gymnastics required to wake up and think, ‘Right, today’s the day I remove someone else’s turf and replace it with farm machinery no one asked for’. he probably lay all night planning it, heart racing with anticipation, like a child on Christmas Eve… If Santa was passive-aggressive and smelled like diesel.

Lesson of the Day: Never underestimate the lengths a grown man will go to in order to prove he’s still the boss of your garage, your turf and, if possible, your sanity. Keep receipts, take pictures and always, always, lock the door behind your dignity.

Stay tuned. The turf may be wet but the drama’s bone-dry and flammable.