Flindt on Friday: The auctioneer, their spouse and Crap purchase stories

Flindt on Friday: The auctioneer, their spouse and Crap purchase stories

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

It must have now been the most wonderful time: the farm ended up being too damp to accomplish any agriculture, so we had a jolly couple of days searching crap out from the bushes, offering it a force clean and a hint of oil, and trundling down seriously to the auction industry.

The stayed dry, and the burgers and coffee were top-notch saturday. The punters had been in and buying – the car park had been chock high in Transit vans that on some other of the year would have had you reaching for your phone day. Just what exactly was incorrect?

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Well, to begin with, Tom, the mind auctioneer, had forgotten our contract.

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

I ummed and aahed about being forced to clamber through brambles and having drenched and it is it surely well well worth it – most of the stuff that is usual.

Therefore it had been suggested (after having a pint or two) that when we joined half-a-dozen things, he’d perform some auction in their early morning suit and top hat that he’d been spotted putting on within the winner’s enclosure at Ascot.

I took it further; what about We enter a dozen things, in addition to lovely Mrs Tom waves the purchase clipboard in her own fabulous Ascot frock? Agreed.

So because of enough time all of the clay that is old traps, vintage scales, roller mills and square-wheeled trailers managed to make it along the Crap purchase industry, I’d done my bit.

Promises broken

Even as we hitched from the final little bit of dodgy kit in the Friday, I inquired Tom what he’d be putting on each day. He stated he previously good layer if it rained.

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

As expected, come Saturday, our bet was indeed abandoned – he had been in conventional Crap Sale garb.

The lovely Mrs Tom, disappointingly free from Gucci, said she’d presented a suit and a tie for him, however it had caused it to be no longer than the finish of the bed.

And I also had my digital digital camera ready and every thing.

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

Junk junkie

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

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

“Don’t worry” he said. “They’ll land in someone’s yard, precious, by having a big cooking pot of plants to them.” Bless. I didn’t dare ask just just what he’d offer them on for.

The following early early morning, when I retrieved the Massey 715 4f plough that had inexplicably did not offer, we collared Tom once more, and told him exactly how disappointed I became.

He mumbled about tiny ploughs being difficult to shift often. “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, needless to say. And there’s a Lancaster bomb trailer someplace.