Owd Fred's Blog

Some of the "victims" of My People Profile

Paul he drives a Fastrac, shooting everywhere,
For to make baled silage, never much time to spare,
Does his best to satisfy, his customers' enemas,
Gets on and gets the job done, rolling up the grass.

Over the last few years I have been writing about local people, in fact I call it my people profile, only need a few facts and likes and dislikes and what they do in life and how they do it and what they look like doing it.

One well known gentleman in our village has his name spread all over the UK six days a week; he has a huge haulage company with other depots in Devon and in Scotland. He is a self made man, whose father was a farmer and started by hauling cattle pig and poultry food in sacks from the docks at Liverpool for the local corn merchant on a four ton (or is it six tons) Morris Commercial dropside lorry, a replica of which he had restored just to remind him of his humble beginning.

So this is how it goes                                                

Stan he was a country lad (Robo)

Stan he was a country lad, who took up driving lorries,
For corn he went to Liverpool, for him no boundaries,
Starting very early, before the M6 was built,
And back again with a full load, always at full tilt.

Hard work it was all in sacks, all handled on and off,
Delivering round lanes to farms, no time for him to scoff,
Got so busy, bought another, set a driver on,
Repeated this so many times, so busy is this mon.

Still a big tall fit man, but growing round the girth,
Proud of what he's achieved, over all the years since birth,
Globe trotting now and then he goes, to sample different beers,
Or that is his excuse, for gut full of dam good cheer.

He's good to his community, and helps out where he can,
More time he's got to chuck it about, has he got a plan,
Looking out where things are needed, always ask his advice,
Failure is not a word he knows, no need to ask him twice.

Stan's he's lost some hair now, blown it off with speed,
A natural tan, a ruddy face, to tan in sun no need,
Has his tinted glasses on, for without them he can't read,
They help him look around now, where he can do good deed.

Countryman

Stand on almost any motorway bridge anywhere in the country, and after a few minuets you will see a Stan Robinson wagon go by.

Another chap who is an accountant lives in the village

Geoff C.

This man he is a countant, and he works all alone,
This he does from his old house, that he calls his home,
Converted from a stable yard, coach house the lot,
Moved there from the Paddocks, we thought he'd lost the plot.

He adds up peoples money, to give the chancellor a share,
And what is left he takes cut, to make a living (bare),
I'm sure he'd have a smile, when he gives you his bill,
"Never mind you will cope", if your business caught a chill,

This man if he were in a line up, might reach five foot eight,
And eight stone when he's wet through, too skinny even for bait,
Slight stoop forward in his stance, with pouring at his keyboard,
His forehead getting higher, but by his family he's adored.

When he stands talking, fists deep down in his (empty) pocket,
Elbows locked straight, as if reaching to his elusive wallet,
His ever smiling eyes peep out, from underneath his lids,
Lids come down to ten past twelve, through counting all his quids.

A caring thoughtful man, like the true Brit he is,
Keeps his chin up high, even though we take the piz
Over all the world he'd help you , do everything he could,
Even if the council say, your house in danger from a flood.

Countryman

This is the chap who does my mowing , baling and wrapping.

Paul he Drives a Fastrac  (Mullee)

Paul he drives a Fastrac, shooting everywhere,
For to make baled silage, never much time to spare,
Does his best to satisfy, his customers' enemas,
Gets on and gets the job done, rolling up the grass.

He will come to mow the fields, takes very wide cut,
This to save on fuel, and fewer turns and passes but,
A bigger tractor to drive it, keep it spinning full tilt,
Spread the grass behind, just to let it wilt.

Now all rowed up into a swath, his baler then he hooks,
Picks it up in no time, n' the number of bales he books,
Often brings a man to follow, to wrap the bales real quick,
Ten layers of black plastic, off the wrapper he flick.

Hay he bales and straw as well, keeps him going all day,
Following a combine, follow the rows n' not go astray,
For working late into the night, tiredness gets a hold,
Hard at work all hours is he, for his pot of gold.

Recommend this man to come, keeps in touch by phone,
Tells you when he'll be there, for this he is well known,
Knows how long a job will take, travelling time as well,
If he has a holdup, soon gives you a bell.

A big tall bloke with a smile, likes to have a chat,
But not for long work to do, never wares a hat,
Prefers you to climb aboard, ride round while he works,
That way it breaks up his day, no one can say he shirks.

Mullee's the bloke, Mullee's the name, Mullee's the one to call,
Goes everywhere for everyone, as out of bed he crawls,
Bale the grass, bale the hay, bale the straw and all,
"Come and bale me grass right NOW", told to ask for PAUL.

Countryman