View allAll Photos Tagged Filthy
An extremely late CN 310 is through Beaconsfield with CN 8846 at the head end and CN 3025 mid-train as it parallels autoroute 20 on a frigid afternoon.
35026 Lamport & Holt Line of Weymouth nearing Bournemouth Central on a Waterloo train from Weymouth, although the discs suggest from Bournemouth West. At Bournemouth Central it will pick up additional coaches. 20 August 1965.
playin around with daddy's old AE-1
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Direct Rail Services Class 37/0s, 37069 + 37059 along with classmate 37218 (DIT) barrel through Hartford with 5Z68 13:30 Crewe Coal Sidings to Kingmoor Sidings and plenty of tones, much to the bemusement of the locals waiting for the Dullsiro to Liverpoolshire.
A couple of (much cleaner!) modified Mk2e BSOs were also in the consist, 9508 and 9506. These are typically used for armed police to ride in when escorting some of the more "interesting" nuclear freight DRS convey.
The 37s were as filthy as the weather, having been on RHTT duties in East Anglia. Rumours are mounting that DRS are looking to offload their 37s and will only "sell" to heritage or preservation buyers, but for now they seem to be one of (if not the only) option to work RHTTs on certain routes.
Even dirtier than her sister 36209, this piece of Enviro crap is covered in crap, and is seen at Hillmorton, Rugby, on a 96 from Northampton. I was of course hoping for 22375 or 22376 helping out, but sadly, a trio of enviro scum today. 24th February 2016
A filthy 66742 heads the northbound Felixstowe to Tinsley liner service across Sleaford North Junction.
4E53 0538 Felixstowe North Gbrf to Tinsley Yard Gbrf
A really crusty UP GE and a patched former Southern Pacific AC4400CW were stinking up the place around O'Hare with a northbound coal load.
The condition of that lead motor just begged for a photo. Company pride at its finest.
from Geneva in Berlin
You can get all my pictures in HD for free on my website KneeRabbit.com, so check it out.
[ I DO NOT own any audio heard in the video ]
Sync'D Motion__Originals - Filthy available at TMD.
Blog Credits: introvertdreamin.blogspot.com/2020/03/filthy.html
Berowald Innes had had a lot of time to think as he walked. After all it had been a long journey since he left his ship on the south coast, run up on the shingle beach before it could sink with a large hole in the bow. He knew it had been foolhardy to see how far he could sail with his eyes shut. But that was the sort of idiotic thing he did when he was young, as a means of establishing how far he could push the limits when he was exploring the world. It was a crazy idea. His inertial sense of direction was not as good as he thought it might be. He had lots of mad ideas at that age, and the excitement of self-discovery was irresistible to him.
But now it seemed he had been walking north for so long, seemingly almost back to the start of time and dinosaurs, he thought. Yet he knew the year was 1160. Even now more random thoughts fed through his head as he ambled along the rough path through the Secret Valley. He always hated walking on limestone, unless it was finely crushed. But here it was the lumps of white rock you find that had been eroded from the landscape above him and had rolled and washed into the bottom of the deepening ravine where he trod. In parts the path had become a stream, rainwater and snow melt funnelled into the vee of the valley and he cursed as he tripped and stumbled on the uneven stones, slipping on the edges worn smooth by the feet of passing traveller’s, horses and cattle. Now it was drizzling too, making him cold and damp. And to add to his woes the cheap cape and boots he had bought in Rocester further down the Limestone Way were already falling apart. The trader had promised the boots were waterproof but already his feet were cold and wet, and the rabbit skin pelt around the hood was falling apart. Each time the wind blew the side of the hood against his cheek bits of the poorly tanned fur stuck to the moisture of his mouth leaving him spitting and wiping at his lips to remove the soft hairs. Again he chided himself. The woman who saw him haggling over the items with the stall owner in the market had rudely interjected that the products were shit and he shouldn’t hand over any money. But, as he tripped over another lump of limestone, he admitted to himself he had foolishly ignored her advice. Thank god she wasn’t around to see herself proven right. But why did he always think he knew better?
He had almost forgotten about the small grey mutt that tracked him. She had been tracing a path higher up the slope, parallel to him up on the right hand, snout to the ground as she sought scents, but suddenly he heard her sharp bark. It pulled his mind back to the here and now and he raised his eyes to focus on the route ahead to see what made her shout her warning to him. The little schnauzer had spotted a group of five wild ponies, long manes and tails waving in the wind. Their heads were erect, looking towards him. Stood proudly at the front, in defence of the group, stood a magnificent white stallion. Behind, a beautiful white mare peered over his shoulders whilst two brown and one grey female stood gathered behind.
The sight of them took him by surprise. He had walked hundreds of miles and his feet were weary. His knees ached. And he so badly wanted to bathe in piping hot water and have a close shave. He deserved a rest. But now he was in a remote valley, and ….he swivelled round, eyes scanning the skyline to check for anyone else....he could grab one of the ponies and save his legs. But first he needed to consult where he was. You could very quickly find yourself hanged, drawn and quartered if convicted of stealing some lord's animals, so he better check who they might belong to first. Rooting around under his coat he felt the folded parchment and pulled out the battered old Anglo Saxon map. It was ancient and filthy and hadn't been updated with the latest castles, roads and walls but his index finger soon traced the line between Rocester (or Rowcestre as the old monks still referred to it as) and the Norman tower at Castleton. Something in the back of his mind reminded him these were the lands of the baron, William Peveril the Younger. And these would be his ponies he surmised. Yes, reading the landscape in relation to the map in his hands, he reckoned he was about to enter Cave Dale and soon he should see Peveril Castle below.
"OK!", he thought. "My feet are hurting so much on these blasted chunks of limestone, I shall take a pony and if confronted say that I am borrowing it to rest my feet until we get across to Lose Hill and there I shall set it free again, still in Peveril's lands. But of course if I get as far as Lose Hill I shall keep the mare until I reach my journey's end in Morayshire, more than 500 miles to the north. But,...…. hey-ho! Still seeing what I can get away with!", he thought. "Incorrigible. Or just downright baaaad!"
But surely he couldn't get into too much trouble anyway? He had stopped to chat to travellers coming the opposite way last evening and heard that King Malcolm IV of Scotland had just stayed at Peveril castle a few days earlier. And lo and behold it was only the same great man that had bestowed the Lands of Innes on himself, Berowald!!! He had never met the king himself but the Royal Charter had reached him when he put his ship into port in Flanders. It was his reward for his prowess shown in sea battles against troublesome French forces in the Bay of Biscay. And now he had a title! "Yay! Berowald!! The first Innes of Innes! But first he had to travel to the north of Scotland to take up his title and oversee his lands. At this rate it might take him a month!
He decided. Looking directly to the stallion he connected eye to eye, and after a pause moved quietly and confidently towards him. The pony stood stock still until Berowald suddenly leapt to grab a firm hold of his mane. He bolted immediately rushing to go by his left side but it was exactly the move Berowald wanted to help swing him up onto the ponies back. But he turned and raced downhill into the gorge of Cave Dale. Woah, what a mad ride, terrifying as the pony cantered down the rough path of limestone chunks, with no reins, saddle or stirrups to keep him on the pony but once again he did that crazy thing and closed his eyes, just knowing this could only end in disaster.
It might have lasted ten seconds, perhaps twenty, may be even thirty. It made no difference. The pain came just as suddenly. He tried to read the ponies direction through his knees, feel the shifting forces, adjust his centre of gravity but he knew he had lost the fight when he suddenly became weightless and wondered briefly how great the agony would be. Or would he just slowly fade after some body breaking impact and never................
He crashed hard, the air of life crushed out of him. He could not breathe, his body in spasm from the collision with the ground. He gasped for breath but his diaphram would not allow air to enter his lungs as he rolled on the cold wet grass bank fighting to draw breath. It came eventually as he overcame the feeling of dying and he was able to look around and take stock of his situation. He felt sore especially through his ribcage but testing his arms and legs he was relieved to find nothing seemed to be broken. However his head was muzzy and putting his hand on his scalp brought a sharp pain and left blood on his fingers. But he saw the white stallion stood further down Cave Dale and his dog trotted over to nuzzle her whiskers on his face and check he was still alive.
Gradually he sat up. And then he heard laughter from above and behind him. He looked round and up, eyes rising up the cliff face and then onto the stone walls of the Norman castle. Three faces peered down from the crenelated top. And a raucous feminine voice yelled out. "Ha! Ye try an' steal my ride, ye bastard!" in a most uncouth manner. "Who the feck are ye?"
Berowald was most taken aback. "Well....well...." he stammered. " I am....I am Berowald. First Innes of the Inneses and baron of the lands of Morayshire". And gathering some fortitude, retorted in a style he thought she might understand,, "And who the feck are ye?"
Well, she scowled down at him, "I am the porter of this castle and I have two watchmen here, and I saw ye try to steal my horse, for which I shall punish thee, ye entitled bastard baron!" And with that the faces disappeared from the castle top.
Shaken from his fall off the steed and bewildered by the strange challenge from above he started to stagger unsteadily back to the path through Cave Dale, below the castle.
But once again he was surprised to hear a shout from behind, and turning saw to his horror, the three from the castle running down the slope full tilt towards him. Between the two burly looking henchmen he now saw the female porter, somewhat weird with her minxy little figure, rushing, screaming and spitting entitled, class hatred obscenities at him. He recoiled as the big men grabbed his arms and held him fast as the toxic female confronted him face to face. "So, I have my next victim!" she cawed like a banshee."Take him to the tower!"
His feet barely touched the ground as the henchmen gripped him from either side and forcibly took him up the slope. Resistance was futile and even if he broke away he reckoned the female porter following behind would wrestle him to the floor. He had noted her well toned build and strong shoulders and, whilst an intereeesting thought, wasn't sure he could beat her in a grapple on the ground.
Once through the castle doors he was pushed towards the spiral staircase and a couple of firm hands between his shoulder blades propelled him upwards. Berowald assumed he was being taken to the upper halls but at each level he was shoved onto the next upward spiralling staircase until they arrived out on the top of the tower overlooking Cave Dale and the surrounding Hope Valley. He saw the white stallion far below and his little grey dog howled and yelped, abandoned below the castle walls Turning to face his captors he tried to read the situation, and didn't give much thought to the contraption positioned out over one corner of the square tower. 'She' arrived on the tower top and he backed away, until he could retreat no more, up against the wall surrounding the castle top. she had a smile on her face which he found unnerving. She had power. She knew she was in control. He was at her mercy.
She didn't even speak before the two thugs she called watchmen, stepped forward and clasped their hands around his arms and walked him across to the other corner of the tower: the one upon which the contraption sat. It was constructed out of wood, laths of beech and thin sheets of board. It had a few wrought iron parts but was largely help together with leather bonds, an assembly of heavy duty kites. One of the watchmen reached to stand the contraption vertical on its tail, pushing the baron back against it. He had no idea what was happening, transfixed by the threatening stance of the female porter in front of him, so that it was too late when he realised his wrists were quickly tied with leather thongs to the strange contraption. And when they bent to tie his ankles and bind his thighs to it he looked down and around with increasing fear to work out what sort of torture she had planned for him.
"Ha!" she cackled. "Ye, steal my horse. And now ye shall pay! Marko, face the plank out over the edge" And with that Marko and the other watchman flipped the contraption round so that it, with Berowald fixed to its underside hung out off the highest part of the castle. Fear turned to terror, as he saw the rocks and ground below .
"Nooooo!" he howled. "What do you want? I didn't steal your horse. Please! Please, don't hurt me! Please tell me what you want!"
"Haha!" she cackled yet again, " I want to play with thee, my little guinea pig! Marko, …..Anders.... Ready???..... On my order, push him off the wall!"
"Push!!" she yelled!!
Berowald, 1st Innes of Innes did all he could do and screwed his eyes shut. He whimpered and screamed "Noooooo!" as he felt the board tilt forwards and down and then a rush of wind. He flailed with his arms and legs, fighting against the bindings that held him to the construction. They gave a bit but all that happened was that the boards hinged and flapped, faster as he became more frantic in the few seconds before he was dashed on the rocks below.
But he wriggled and fought, kicked and flapped with more strength than he thought he could ever muster and awaited the final impact that would crush all life from his body. But, but he kicked out, legs and knees getting tired, flapped, shoulders and elbows stretched and torn with pain, but no life ending crash. Not this second or the next.
Sheer terror forced his firmly closed eyes open......ground below, speeding forward, a racket of flapping panels and boards about him, a white pony, small against the gorge, a little grey dog running along to keep up, small houses, a town below...Oh my Lord!!! He was flying like a bird!!!! And looking back towards the castle through the thrash of his flapping arms and legs he saw the female porter standing on the top of the fortress tower, a huge beaming smile on her face.
He crash landed for the second time in the last hour in a muddy field beyond Castleton. He was so relieved to be alive and even without any serious injury that it was some time before Berowald, 1st Innes of Innes and baron of the lands of Morayshire, appreciated that he had become the first man to fly and survive. Icarus had failed when he flew too close to the sun, and his wings made of wax, melted. But Berowald made his mark in history a full 743 years before the Wright Brothers.
OK, then, that was a load of shit. But some of it is factually correct.
🎵Your lips I trust
Never let me down
We've got that faithful touch
Never hurt us now
Cause if you keep me rollin'
I'll take you to the ground
You've got your hands on me
I've got this Filthy beat🎵