Sunday, 15 August 2010

Banned waggon trip three

Some things got done, some  didn't. Drove over to see Sarah Piercey in the Bannedwaggon and got her on it in her wheelchair for a quick spin. Discovered that some of the bits I had meant to finish, had better get finished, and that leaving out the only bolt that holds it together, is just possibly, not such a good idea.

But I really need to drive to London to stop me going on and on about how brilliant the bannedwaggon is. It even looks pretty cool because Lee did a quick spray job which transforms everything.

I suppose I had better get over the arrogant bit now. I build vehicles because I think I build better vehicles than anybody else. If I didn't I would buy someone else's vehicle, or copy it if I couldn't afford to buy it. But I don't know of any other vehicle you can drive through a city, on your own, from a wheelchair. So this blog is about how bloody clever I am. And you are just going to have to put up with it.

Ditto training. If I didn't think my way was the best, I wouldn't bloody use it. So modest comments like, it's pretty good, or it's OK would be lies. I use my system because it is the best.

Inventors don't go and create a brand new middle of the road, pretty average idea. If we didn't think we were God's gift to humanity, we wouldn't be inventors.

So the bannedwaggon is the dog's dangly bits.

My whip free, carrot/carrot approach ditto.

OK my dress sense is weird, I have the social graces of a mosquito and the money earning capacity of a mole, but so what. I produce horsedrawn vehicles that do things nothing else does. And Lee and I are off tomorrow to be photographed by Country Smallholder, whose Sheep correspondent, Tim Tyne has lent us Tikki.

On Tuesday we all set off for the smoke, by a route that I haven't really planned in any great detail. Go North past the hilly bits, aim for Glastonbury and keep heading North East till you hit the Kennet, then East to London. Start off after you wake up, stop and sleep when tired. Repeat till you hit London.

We are spending Tuesday night at Adele's, a really good friend, who is looking after Winston till we return and revert to doing silly things with mules. I miss the little sod, he is a real character, just mildly strenuous with strangers. But we'll sort that out when I get back, probably doing something stupid like driving across Dartmoor.

When I get back, with Lee, Obama and Tikki I hope to have a great big, we've done it party, to celebrate all those whose support and enthusiasm has made this possible. Everyone at West Town Farm at Ide, all the nutters at Bookcycle, Sakeenah and Ant, Ari Rox, Adele, Sarah Piercey, Derek and Diane, Sam, all the Middle Tree crowd, and of course Nick Sanders. If I wasn't such a brilliant trainer of ponies, I would probably have to go to Nick for advice on training, but I am brilliant, so I don't have to.

And so another arrogant pillock sets off into the sunset. Will he survive, does anyone care?

To see some of my marginally more organised rants, try these links. If all else fails, try hitting them with whips. It works with horses, doesn't it?