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

This September’s western Meon Hut Rural Auction – or, so it can have its name that is correct Sale – ended up being an event of considerable sadness in my situation.

It will were an ideal time: the farm had been too damp to complete any farming, 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 Saturday remained dry, as well as the burgers and coffee had been top-notch. The punters had been in and purchasing – the vehicle park had been chock packed with Transit vans that on some other of the year would have had you reaching for your phone day. Just what exactly was incorrect?

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

Early within the day within the year, he’d demanded to understand why we didn’t make more utilization of their Crap purchase.

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

So that it had been recommended (following a pint or two) that when we joined half-a-dozen things, he’d perform some auction in their morning suit and top hat that he’d been spotted wearing russian bride within the winner’s enclosure at Ascot.

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

Therefore because of the time all of the clay that is old traps, classic scales, roller mills and square-wheeled trailers managed to get down the Crap purchase industry, I’d done my bit. Continue reading