Opinion: Even smart farmers fall for devious tarmac gangs

There was a strange noise coming from the countryside a couple of Fridays ago.

Farmers the length and breadth of the land were reading Emily Lees’ article on being scammed by a tarmac gang, and we were growling in sympathy and anger.

“Brave” is horribly overused adjective these days, but Emily’s “confession” that she’d fallen foul of these vile people was just that.

See also: Opinion – holiday highlighted extent of ‘non-food’ farming

About the author

Charlie Flindt

Charlie Flindt is a National Trust tenant in Hampshire, now farming 40ha of recently “de-arabled” land with his wife Hazel – who still runs a livestock enterprise. He also writes books and plays in two local bands.

Read more articles by Charlie Flindt

Everyone knows someone who has been a victim, and many of them would describe themselves as old, wise and cynical; the last people in the world you’d expect to fall for the clever-clever patter.

I daresay there are plenty of victims who haven’t breathed a word to anyone.

On this farm there’s one rule, and we spell it out clearly to anyone working here.

If anyone asks, no, we don’t want tarmac, we haven’t got any scrap and, no, we haven’t got any batteries.

We’ve recently had a run of callers offering to repair our driveway, which, it has to be said, is in a shocking state and is crying out for some TLC.

It’s kind of hard to keep to the “no tarmac” line when sump guards get a clonk on the way into the yard.

Resorting to “we’re tenants and it’s the landlord’s job” is a handy fallback.

There was the Shogun right down on its springs, loaded with burly gentlemen.

We’ve had the smart branded van – just like Emily’s – with an entirely plausible young man with an almost convincing back story about spare tarmac.

I was a whisker away from giving him the go-ahead.

And recently we’ve had two visits from a Range Rover driven by a senior “boss”, who announced his arrival in the yard by leaning on the horn and pulling up next to the kitchen window.

“You the owner?” he demanded in the boorish style of a man who hasn’t troubled HMRC’s books in his whole lifetime.

There was an exchange of views through the window, and my suggestion that he make himself scarce was reinforced by my Malinois joining me at the windowsill to throw in her pennyworth.

Bizarrely, he was back a fortnight later, claiming to be working at “the flower place down the road”.

I told him we’d just been at “the flower place”, and, no, he wasn’t. We didn’t part as friends.

It’ll be of no consolation to Emily to hear that these gangs have arrived at our local agricultural show, too; not selling tarmac, of course, but working in teams to thieve from trusting local small businesses.

We were enjoying the hospitality of a well-known land agent when a topless young man and a mascara-laden girl pushing a pram barged through the tables to the back of the marquee and started filling up the pram with paper plates loaded with food.

Hardly the crime of the century, but profoundly depressing nonetheless.

Fortunately, the senior land agent sidled up to them. An authoritative “Is there something I can help you with?” was, amazingly, enough to scare them off.

So, Emily, you have our sympathy. We’ve all been there – and you’re not alone in ending up out of pocket.

Spread the word, get a Mali or learn to speak “land agent”. I would suggest a pair of mustard trousers – but that really would be embarrassing.