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Flindt on The auctioneer, his wife and Crap Sale tales friday

Flindt on The auctioneer, his wife and Crap Sale tales friday

This September’s West Meon Hut Rural Auction – or, so it can have its proper title, Crap Sale – had been a celebration of considerable sadness in my situation.

It will have now been the most perfect time: the farm had been too damp to complete any agriculture, it a pressure wash and a hint of grease, and trundling down to the auction field so we had a jolly few days digging crap out of the bushes, giving.

The stayed dry, and the burgers and coffee were top-notch saturday. The punters had been in and purchasing – the vehicle park ended up being chock filled with Transit vans that on virtually any of the year would have had you reaching for your phone day. What exactly was incorrect?

Well, in the first place, Tom, the relative mind auctioneer, had forgotten our contract.

Early into the day into the he’d demanded to know why we didn’t make more use of his Crap Sale year.

We ummed and aahed about needing to clamber through brambles and getting drenched and it is it certainly well well worth it – most of the stuff that is usual.

So that it ended up being recommended (following a pint or two) that when we joined half-a-dozen things, he’d perform some auction in the morning suit and top hat that he’d been spotted using when you look at the winner’s enclosure at Ascot.

We took it further; what about We enter a dozen things, plus the lovely Mrs Tom waves the purchase clipboard inside her fabulous Ascot frock? Agreed.

Therefore because of enough time all of the old clay pigeon traps, classic scales, roller mills and square-wheeled trailers managed to make it down the Crap purchase industry, I’d done my bit.

Guarantees broken

I asked Tom what he’d be wearing in the morning as we hitched off the last bit of dodgy kit on the Friday. He stated he previously a coat that is good it rained.

We carefully reminded him of our contract. He rushed down throughout the industry in a harrumphing flurry of purchase stickers and obscenities.

As expected, come Saturday, our bet have been abandoned – he had been in old-fashioned Crap purchase garb.

The lovely Mrs Tom, disappointingly free from Gucci, stated she’d organized a suit and a tie for him, however it had caused it to be no longer than the termination of the sleep.

And I also had my digital digital camera prepared and everything.

The great costs did little to cheer me up. The Vibraflex that is 10ft reached it should have cost Dad right back during the early 1980s (there’s one for the accountant to work through), as well as its times of attaining a much better cost on brand new kit in the event that dealer didn’t need to use it as being a trade-in were finally over.

Junk junkie

If the heavyweight vintage scales went for peanuts, there clearly was a tutting that is ghostly Hinton Ampner churchyard.

We took place become in the wash-up queue with the sturdy gentleman that has purchased the scales (now neatly loaded on their transportation pickup), and bored him with tales of long cold weather times weighing down beans, 1 cwt at any given time, on the market to pigeon fanciers.

“Don’t worry” he said. “They’ll end in someone’s yard, precious, with naked russian brides a pot that is big of on it.” Bless. I did son’t dare ask what he’d sell them on for.

The following early morning, when I retrieved the Massey 715 4f plough that had inexplicably neglected to sell, we collared Tom once more, and told him just how disappointed I became.

He mumbled about little ploughs being difficult to shift sometimes. “No, Tom. After all our contract.”

“Next 12 months, Charlie, we promise,” he stated. Difficulty is, I’m nearly away from crap. I’ve got the plough, of course. And there’s a Lancaster bomb trailer somewhere.

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