Beef And Dairy Network - Episode 44 - Michael Banyan Comes Home

Episode Date: February 17, 2019

Henry Paker, Lucy Farrett and Mike Wozniak join in for this episode, in which we speak to Michael Banyan, who has returned to the UK after his period of exile in Spain. By Benjamin Partridge and Henry Paker Stock media provided by Setuniman/Pond5.com and Soundrangers/Pond5.com

The Beef and Dairy Network podcast is sponsored by Granium, the new nutritional sand from Mitchell's. If it's not Mitchell's, get back in the truck. Not only is Granium the cheapest way to feed your herd, during a street fight you can throw it into the face of your assailant to instantly blind them. Take that rough stuff. For 10% off your next order, use the code PUNCHMYFACE. Hello and welcome to the Beef and Dairy Network podcast, the number one podcast for those involved or just interested in the production of beef animals and dairy herds. The Beef and Dairy Network podcast is the podcast companion to the Beef and Dairy Network website

and a printed magazine, brought to you by Granium Nutritional Sand. Last time we spoke to former bovine poet laureate Michael Banyan, he was living in exile in a secret location, which we can now reveal to be Spain, in fear of his life after he ruined a Bovine Farmers Union award ceremony. Following that ceremony where from the stage Banyan launched into a foul-mouthed tirade against the farming community, the union sought revenge by harassing him, threatening him, later stitching a cow's face onto his own face and making it clear that his life was in danger. However, after changes to the leadership of the Bovine Farmers' Union,

Banyan's life has changed and he's now safely back in his London home. But the story is far from simple. His life in the past couple of months has been truly extraordinary, and it's all covered in his new volume of autobiography, Dark Hoof 2, The Carpaccio of Doom. Last week he agreed to come into the studio and be interviewed to promote the book. I began by asking Michael how the cow's face stitched onto his own face is faring and will he ever be able to remove it?

The consensus is that it's not about trying to remove the cow's face now, it's about cow face management. So I have a face therapist, Dr. Fernando, who massages my face three times a day to keep the flesh supple. That's very important. And I also have a dedicated face surgeon, Dr. Fernandez, who injects my face with chemicals every two and a half hours or so to keep the skin moist. It's very important that the cow flesh stays moist.

Otherwise, my own face flesh underneath the cow flesh stays moist. Otherwise, my own face flesh underneath the cow flesh will dry up. If that happens, then the cow face will also dry up, become brittle, and break off, taking bits of the front of my head with it. If you didn't go and have those injections, what would your face look like? If you can imagine a vole, if you can imagine turning that vole inside out and wrapping it around a watermelon then leaving it in a sort of moist warm environment a hothouse sort of environment for six to seven years yeah imagine that imagine a couple of ping pong balls with with roughly drawn eyeballs on them in black marker pen stuck into that.

And you're about halfway to how disgusting I look. Obviously, when you were in exile, the cow's face, apart from being as hideous as it is, also posed something of a problem. Because it's very hard to go on incognito when you've got the big droopy fetid cow's face on your face. Yes, it is. I mean, it makes it even harder. So did you ever try and get it removed? I did, yes. I met a backstreet doctor on the docks of the town I was living in.

There was a kind of black market medical treatments of all kinds. There were illegal aromatherapists there. There were illegal chiropod uh dealing in contraband veruca socks and i came across a face surgeon called dr jimenez and he looked he looked me dead in the eyes in my human eyes which still do protrude slightly from from my cow's face because they swelled uh and he said i can cure you yeah obviously i was i was very very excited i wanted to know more he he was suggesting a radical technique. And at that point, I was willing to try anything.

Right. And what did the radical technique involve? Well, the first session involved him drizzling olive oil onto my face. Okay. So it was a nice, it was a good, rich, thick olive oil, virgin olive oil. Obviously, we're in Spain, so plenty of good stuff around. And he massaged it into my face. He massaged it into my forehead, around my eye sockets, into my ears, and drizzled it on nice and thick. Over the ensuing weeks, I went back for more and more sessions with Dr.

Jimenez, and he would rub salt in my face. He would rub rosemary in my face, thyme, mixed herbs, Chinese five spice. He inserted cardamom pods in my nostrils. He stuck a cinnamon stick in my left ear and a bouquet garni in my right ear. Strapped a couple of fennels to each side of my head like earmuffs. At this stage, is the treatment beginning to work? Can you feel the cow's face coming off?

No, not really. It didn't seem to be coming off. All that was happening was that my face was smelling increasingly delicious. I remember having a very very weird feeling have you ever felt that you wanted to eat your own face no i can confidently say i've never never felt that no that's how i felt it was very odd very very strange place to be psychologically because i was smelling absolutely delicious and i remember i um i once i fell asleep in a hot bath, and when I woke up, I realised that I was effectively sitting in a delicious beef consomme. Oh, and that did feel delicious to you,

despite the fact that that had been generated by your own... Well, that's why it was confusing to me, because at the same time, we're all, I think, hardwired from an evolutionary standpoint to not want to eat our own faces. Interesting. But I really fancied a bit. I mean, to be fair, whenever I'm out of stock cubes, I will sometimes boil my own head for a couple of minutes just to get up a nice beef stock, you know, if I'm making a soup or a stroganoff. But still, it was weird

and I was uncomfortable. Okay. So did you raise this with the doctor? Yes. I did ask him what he was getting at and he told me to trust the process. He kept on saying, trust the doctor? Yes. I did ask him what he was getting at, and he told me to trust the process. He kept on saying, trust the process, Michael. What was it about him that made you trust him, given that he was a kind of backstreet docs, doctor? To be honest, I think it was his hands. He had very, very large, warm hands with very, very hairy fingers. And there was something about those strong, warm, hairy hands that made me feel safe.

And, of course, it was months later that I realized those weren't his actual hands. They were a pair of gorilla hands. They were a pair of gorilla hands, yeah. On sticks. On sticks, correct. And it's actually one of the oldest cons in the book a doctor sticking two gorilla hands on two sticks and what putting them up his sleeves that's why

they wear the white coat the white coat i see there's plenty of room in there because you've got enough space for you to put your actual hands in there um holding the sticks uh with the gorilla gorilla hands pointing out the sleeves at the end and then they use their actual hands to pump the sticks manipulate them manipulate them pump them up and down um and make you feel sticks with the gorilla hands pointing out the sleeves at the end and then they use their actual hands to pump the sticks. Manipulate them. Manipulate them, pump them up and down and make you feel loved and cared for. Made you feel loved and cared for. Of course it's

one of the reasons that doctors' prescriptions are often very hard to read. Because they can't write with the gorilla hands. Very hard to dexterously write operating a severed gorilla hand on the end of a stick. It's also why a doctor is very dangerous when cornered. Yeah, exactly. Because they'll...

They'll slap you hard. They'll slap you to death and then write your death certificate in barely legible scrawl. So obviously in hindsight, you now know that those hands were gorilla hands, but at the time... At the time I was none the wiser.

It was what he called phase dos of the treatment, though, was when I started to smell a rat. I knew something was up this is when he started using a meat slicer to slice wafer thin sheets off my face into a paper bag and it was at this point when i realized that when he said he was going to cure me he didn't mean it in a medical sense he he meant it in a charcuterie sense oh i i okay yeah and then i glanced over his shoulder during one of our consultations and i saw that he was googling a recipe for brazola alarm bells big time alarm bells now just for our listeners ding ding ding ding may not know obviously i know what brazola

is but it's a kind of what italian it's an italian dried beef um thinly sliced it's lovely with a bit of rockets and balsamic couple of parmesan shavings and bob's your starter i did a bit of digging and discovered that uh he actually wasn't a doctor he was a chef and he was planning on serving me as the starter at his daughter's wedding oh my god yeah it was a sucker punch also i wasn't i wasn't actually even being invited to the reception so i was i was also i was i was only going to a i was only going to evening do which is quite hurtful because i'd known him for about a year now and b he was planning on eating my face any wedding can just buy a cow's face for you know a couple of euros from the from the from the butcher but not many weddingists can boast not only are we going to slice you off a bit of cow face like any other wedding

you know beneath that meat will be some man face and not just man face but poet face what former poet laureate face former bovine poet laureate face um you know layers of it that's a rich meat that's a rich rich meat and it's um it's a real status thing i think you know it's a way of saying you know we're a big family we're an important family chew on that poet's, there's bits of cow on it. Dunk it in some mayo, stick a caper on top, because there were going to be little accompaniments you could put on. And for the kids, M&Ms and fudge. Next I asked Michael to tell us about his life in Spain,

and he told me about how after months of living in fear, as 2019 began, things had suddenly become much more positive for him. I was on the BBC News website. I saw a story which really caught my eye. Pastor Fendercroft died. It's common knowledge now he reversed his Hyundai. Well, not officially dead. He's officially missing.

Okay. But I think we all... I think, yeah, we put two and two together. I think he's swimming with the fishes, reversing with the bream. Yeah, and so there was a power vacuum at the top of the Beauvoir Farmers Union and an interim governing panel had been established,

chaired by Stu Hundercraft, Portnoy Gravy Heap, Tabitha Broth Selection and Jeanette Poolboy. Now, I knew these people, and they were moderates. They were liberals. They're from the liberal wing of the Bovine Farmers Union. I mean, this was seen very much from our point of view. A lot of our commentators were saying this is a new chapter. They're going to be a much less dangerous and formidable force with these people in charge.

Yeah. I mean, there was talk of them cancelling the Bovine Farmers Union's nuclear submarine programme. That was one of the first things they did. Yeah. And decommissioning the hit squads. So what did this change at the upper echelons of the Bovine Farmers Union mean for you specifically? Well, it meant something very, very massive for me. It meant that my punishment was downgraded from death to a battering,

followed by being pissed on by an Alsatian. The dog or the type of French person? It wasn't specified in the announcement, but either way, I was delighted. I mean, at that point, I got so low, I'd have bitten your arm off for a battering and a face full of Alsatian piss. I was cock-a-hoop. I could see a future for myself now. You began to start a life yourself in Spain.

I did. I pitched a poetry TV game show. Right. Called Let's Get This Show on the Ode. Very funny. Basically, it would be me interviewing the world's top poets. Right. So you're talking about people like

Yeah, just the big names, yeah. The big boys. The kind of household names of world poetry. Yeah, come on, you know, the big hitters. I'm just talking about the most famous poets in the world. The ones that everyone knows.

The A-listers. So how did the idea go down? Did the TV station go for it? They went for it. We got a pilot. So I was delighted. We went along to record it. But the first clue I got, that they hadn't stayed totally faithful to my idea

was when I saw that they had renamed the show. It was no longer called Let's Get This Show on the Ode. Something very different. They'd call it Arjemos Cosas al Monstro Hombre de Cara de Vaca. Right. I'm afraid I don't speak Spanish. What that means is let's all throw things at the monstrous cow-faced man. Interesting.

And had they also tinkered with the format of the show? They had tinkered, yeah. Right, so were you still going to be interviewing the big hitters of the poetry world? Yeah, the big. The biggest. Yeah. Were you still able to be doing that on the show

no they tweaked it pretty firmly actually the format was now not so much about poetry it was well

the idea wasn't terrible in essence it was about the concept that millennials now value experiences over owning things so the idea was

contestants were offered the opportunity to get rid of objects they owned in return for winning experiences. Okay. So what they needed was a fun visual way to do this. And that's where I came in.

I was mounted on a large rotating disc and contestants would throw objects they wanted to declutter at me, e.g. toasters, ho hoovers and in one case a small piano right and and what would happen then well then depending on where they hit me they would win an experience-based prize can you give me an example yeah so if you hit me in the groin with a dust buster you might win tickets to see the tina turner musical get me in the eye with a vase you'd win a zorbing weekend bullseye my crotch with a snooker cube you'd be looking at a meet

and greet with mark Knopfler. Dead lead singer from Die Straight. Correct. Wow. It was massive. It was an absolutely massive hit, and overnight I became massively famous. More after this.

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Things were looking up for Michael. Not only was he one of Spain's most famous television personalities, things began to improve in his love life when he met Ingrid, a woman as beautiful as she was Dutch. I was in a bookshop, moving copies of my own book, Crab of the Land, to the front of the bookshop. It's something I like to do on weekends to relax. And that's when I saw her. And in her hands was my book.

She was reading my book. I wanted to talk to her, but of course, the cow's face. So I didn't have the confidence to approach her. But the next day I went back. Something I like to do on Monday mornings is to move my books to the front of the shop again, as I've been doing over the weekend. And she was there again, reading my book. And that's when I realized two things.

One, that this woman had no respect for how a bookshop works. You browse the product, maybe, but then you make a decision, you commit, you buy it, and you leave. It's not a library. And two, I was in love with her. Now, you did actually summon up the conference to speak to her eventually. There's a lovely bit in your book where you talk about that. Maybe you could tell us about when you finally did summon up the courage.

Well, it was on the third day. I went back and once again, she was there reading my book that I approached her. And, you know, normally when I spoke to a woman, they would recoil, they would scream. Or since the success of the TV show, they would sometimes throw a snooki cue at my crotch in the hope of getting to meet someone from dire straits. But she just smiled and suggested we go for a drink. Her name was Ingrid, and I'd met my soulmate, my beguiling Dutch beauty, my clogged dreamboat.

And yeah, we caught it. We caught it intensely. We went straight to fourth base. We then skipped to eighth base. skipped to eighth base and it was only a couple of weeks later that just you know for the sake of sort of sexual bookkeeping in a way we did go through bases one two and three and six and seven and the dutch have an ever ninth the dutch have a ninth base you need one of those ping pong tables that you can separate in half and a hardback copy of the Bible and any stuffed bird. There's a very beautiful poem

that's included in your most recent book about Ingrid that I believe you wrote quite early on in your relationship. I wonder if you'd like to read it to us. Yes, thank you. This is called Ingrid. You were like no other. You didn't judge my face by its cover or its smell or its risk of transmitting E. coli.

Why? You fell in love with my words, my wondrous powers of metaphor, opened your heart like a big door. Each metaphor offered something more, shutting out your pain like a big door. Metaphor upon metaphor upon metaphor, big door after big door after big door after big door. When others turned away in dread, you looked at me in the eyes and said, Love is blind. It also can't smell. And has very little concern about contracting E. coli as well.

And my mouth fell open, like a big door. Amazing words, Michael. Thank you very much. In your new book, which is called Dark Hoof 2, Carpaccio of Doom. Yes. It's a great read. Thank you very much. I discuss my love affair with Ingrid in some detail in the book, actually.

I would be quite keen to read you a passage. That would be wonderful, yes. Please go ahead. So this is from a chapter called Perfect Day. We met under the clock tower, me in my best jumper and you as ever in clogs. I told you your eyes were like saucers, flying saucers, green and massive and impossible to describe to anyone without being written off as a lunatic.

You twirled your hair with your right hand coquettishly and sucked your left wrist coquettishly. Everything about you was almost exactly like a coquette. You were a force, an essence. exactly like a coquette. You were a force, an essence. You were my master, my slave, my queen, my grandfather, my clown, my confidant, my mentor, my confessor,

my minstrel, my badminton coach, my mistress, my seamstress, my butcher, my minister of transport, and yet I would never be able to truly make you mine. No more than I could pickle the breeze. As the sun came down, we sat on a pedalo and drifted out onto the breeze. As the sun came down, we sat on a pedalo and drifted out onto the lake.

I read you poems from my best-selling collection, Crab of the Land, and you pulled out a notebook from your jacket and read me the beginning of your novel, Cheese and Me. I've always loved cheese. Cheddar, chowder, edam,

emmental, camembert, comte, brie... It was just me and you and your words. And the one with the cranberries in. I also love hot cheese. I lost all sense of time and place and allowed your words to envelop me. I also love ham. Serrano ham, Parma ham, away for thin ham... And then I realised something.

Honey roast ham. The breaded ham. Your writing was absolute toilet. Really, with the best we're in the world, it was utter dog shit. Wow, that's powerful stuff there, Michael. Yes. Despite her absolutely turgid and wretchedly self-indulgent prose, we were in love.

But sadly, it couldn't last forever. After a number of unexplained deaths and disappearances, the Bovine Farmers' Union dissolved their interim governing panel and announced that the new president of the union would be Runyan Kraj. Kraj was from the old school and hated Banyan. A brutal man. His first policy was to put a price on my head.

Under Kradge's premiership, if anyone could successfully kill Michael Banyan, they would immediately be paid £90. Ingrid suggested we flee to Amsterdam, and I agreed. Michael knew that he wouldn't be able to simply go to the airport and fly to Amsterdam, not with the Beauvoir and Farmers Union closing in. While to simply go to the airport and fly to Amsterdam, not with the Bervoen Farmers Union closing in. While Ingrid travelled to the airport in a taxi as usual, Michael had to devise a cunning plan to escape their network of agents. I decided to disguise myself as a nun and travel to the airport in a black robe on a donkey.

We would meet at the airport, leave the donkey in the short-stay car park, and board the plane together. However, Michael arrived at the airport earlier than planned, and when he went to the rendezvous point to meet Ingrid, he was met with an awful sight. What I saw broke my heart. I saw Ingrid, laughing and joking, with a man in a vile burgundy leather jacket,

and I'd know that jacket anywhere. It was Ronny and Cratch, president of the Beauvoir Farmers Union. She'd hung me out to dry. You think all along your relationship was just a... Oh, it was a pack of lies. A honey trap. It was a sweet, sweet honey trap, and I should have known,

I should have guessed that no one would fall in love with a guy with a cow's face. Cratch turned round and stared at me, and I thanked God that I was still in disguise as a nun. Then I realised that even though I was wearing a nun's habit, I still had a cow's face. And to be honest, the whole nun disguise had been a bum steer from the get go. You just looked like a... I just looked like a nun with a cow's face. It didn't take long for him to put two and two together, probably about one second.

He yelped and gave chase to me. We ran through the airport terminal and I disappeared into a branch of Jamon Universe, the Spanish cured meats department store. Now, this is a particularly exciting part of your new book, The Ensuing Chase. I wonder if you'd like to read us the excerpt. Absolutely.

I ran out of the service entrance at the back of Hamon Universe into the chorizo-strewn alley behind the airport, where I found the decrepit donkey I'd travelled to the airport on. As I mounted the pitiful beast, Runyon Crouch burst into the alley and started running towards me. He pulled a meat cleaver out of his bum bag and giggled demonically. You're not going to try and get away on that heap of junk? He shouted, gesturing at my crap donkey,

and cleaving the air in front of him as if it were swarming with invisible beef ribs. My donkey might not look like much, but he runs like a dream, I riposted. Yeah, a dream about a really slow donkey, he countered. I had nothing for that. The only thing sharper than his cleaver was his wit. It was time to get this donkey on the road. I yanked out my carrot on a stick and dangled it in front of my donkey's eczema-riddled snout. But something was wrong. He wouldn't move. You didn't have to be five-time world champion donkey rider Joaquim Hernandez to see the problem. My carrot had fallen off the stick. I pulled another carrot from my jeans

pocket and tried to tie it on the dangling piece of string, but after running through Jamon Universe, my hands were slick with chorizo grease, and they couldn't get any purchase, and I kept dropping the carrot. Crouch was closing in fast. You might want to keep hold of that carrot as a backup knob, because I'm going to julien your dick off, he snarled, showcasing his trademark wit.

Crouch was within striking distance now, and I could feel his beefy breath on my face. But as he raised his cleaver, time seemed to slow down. I could think clearly once more. I made a loop on the end of the string, slipped the carrot through and pulled hard, the knot held firm. I ducked Cratch's cleaver and pivoted my stick up high.

The carrot arced through the air for what felt like an eternity and then fell down squarely into my donkey's field of vision. I felt the sheer power of 250 pounds of Andalusian donkey throbbing between my thighs, and we charged out of the alley and pulled out into the traffic of the main road. I was free. Or so I thought. When I looked in the rearview mirror,

which I had wedged behind the donkey's left ear, I saw something hoving into view that made my blood run cold. What was hoving? Hooves. Hooves were hoving, and hoving hard. Between an ice cream van and a paella truck, I saw the grotesquely grinning mug of Runyon Cratch pulling out on the biggest donkey I'd ever seen. Runyon!

Presumably some sort of shy horse crossbreed. It probably couldn't reproduce, but it was doing seven miles an hour easy and not even breaking a sweat. And just like its burgundy leather jacket-clad rider, it was utterly tasteless. Alloy hooves, go-faster stripes, a tacky spoiler. But there's no points for artistic merit in a donkey chase, unless it's the San Sebastian Donkey Dressage Derby. And make no mistake, this wasn't the San Sebastian Donkey Dressage Derby. This was a donkey chase to the death.

As he galloped towards me, Kradge began to pepper me with insults and salt me with jibes about my subpar donkey. Your donkey's got about as much chance of winning a donkey chase as you have of winning the Booker Prize. He mocked. I felt my blood boil, which, owing to the fact that it had recently run cold, made it even out at room temperature. As he came closer, I could see that Kradge wasn't alone.

On the back of his donkey was one of his awful nieces, a meat cleaver in her teeth. How do you like my niece? Before I had time to think, his ghastly niece leapt like a circus monkey and landed on the back of my donkey and sank her cleaver into the meat of my right arm. Total pillock. I screamed, blue murder.

Blue murder! The toxic niece briefly lost her balance and I managed to grab her cleaver and clove it hard into the meat of her left leg, sending small bloody pieces of niece spattering onto my face and donkey. But she had another cleaver, gaffer taped to her back, and she began cleaving away furiously at the cleave mark she'd just cloven into the meat of my right arm using her previous cleaver.

However, I had cloven her harder than her cleaves had cleaved me, and while we had both cleaved each other pretty hard, there was no doubt who was feeling the most cloaked. You've cleavened me good, she cried, before letting out a blood-curdling scream and leaping back onto her uncle's monstrous Shire donkey. My head slumped forward as I caught my breath, and when I looked up, what I saw boiled my blood, which, owing to the fact that it had just curdled,

made it separate like a ballsed-up Hollandaise. From the wobbling rump of Runyon's giant donkey rose a machine-gun turret being operated by none other than his prized chump of a niece. For several minutes I swerved left and right in the road, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets. After a while they were out of ammo, but then his piss-poor niece grinned and pulled out a bazooka. She really was the pits. I couldn't stand her.

I could almost feel the bazooka's laser sight nestling on my forehead and I prepared to kiss this world goodbye. My life flashed before my eyes, intercut with scenes from Marley and me, which I'd watched on a plane once and it had had a profound effect on me. Just as Marley was about to be spayed, something yanked me

back into the real world. A car. A sleek Hyundai i10 pulling a horse box behind it drove between me and Cratch. And at the wheel? Ingrid. I'm sorry I betrayed you, she shouted. Ride your donkey up into the horse box. She deftly touched the brakes and the horse box door fell open with a clang. Then a number of things happened at the same time. Ingrid turned her face to shout, I love you, Michael Banyan, just as an anti-tank grenade flew through the Hyundai's open driver's side window and

disappeared into her mouth. I had a sudden rush of blood to my head, and as the grenade in her mouth exploded, she had a sudden rush of blood away from her head. At least there was no more bad blood between us, although in a way, her blood was on my hands, and face, and donkey. The Hyundai i10, whose driver was now more Bolognese than beautiful Dutch woman, ploughed into Kradje's giganto donkey

and sent them, dickhead niece and all, into the central reservation. Banya! Thank you, Michael Banyan. Thank you. Dark Hoof 2, The Carpaccio of Doom, is in shops now. Also, our condolences go out to the family and friends of Ingrid de Groot, Runyon Cradge, and his shit niece.

And if you're wondering, nominations to stand to be the next president of the Bovine Farmers Union are now open. It could be you. So that's all we've got time for this month. But if you're after more beef and dairy news, get over to the website for all the usual stuff, as well as our off-topic section, where this month we round up our top 10 best portable travel looms you won't believe how small they can get looms these days i mean they're still big but small for a loom but definitely still large so until next month beef out thanks to henry packer mike wozniak and lucy farrett and one last thing before you go i now have a newsletter imagine so if you would like to get the occasional email from me about what i'm doing uh some of it beef and dairy related and some of it's otherwise related go to benjaminpartridge.substack.com there's also a link to it on my twitter which is at ben partridge and if you go on my website

benjaminpartridge.com i am all over every aspect of the internet now. I'm on Google. I'm on Bing. You know, that's complete penetration of the web. Bye. Unless you wish you could trade in your own family for the Pearsons, Inside Pop is definitely not for you. Sean, that's a little extreme and also not quite true. Okay, Amita, how about Inside Pop is the podcast for people who love and appreciate the best pop culture has

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