Vin­tage trac­tor run in the Ir­ish mist

Irish Examiner - Farming - - NEWS -

I was a by­stander at a vin­tage run over the week­end, and spot­ted a very fa­mil­iar face on board one of the sea­soned trac­tors, as it trun­dled past.

It was none other than Don­ald Trump him­self. He was astride a grey Fergie, wav­ing to us on­look­ers with all the en­thu­si­asm of a nov­elty act.

I was shocked and sur­prised to see him there, for I didn’t ex­pect he’d be vis­it­ing Ire­land so soon af­ter Leo’s in­vi­ta­tion. I thought he’d wait at least un­til the stretch in the evenings. Any­how, be­ing an in­trepid in­ves­tiga­tive jour­nal­ist, I took the op­por­tu­nity to in­ter­view the man. “Trump!” I bel­lowed, “What are you do­ing here?” for I was con­cerned about his well-be­ing, due to all the dan­gers that lurk about for a man in his po­si­tion.

I told him I thought he was a right reck­less fool, com­ing to Ire­land with­out the pro­tec­tion of the Se­cret Ser­vice. The old Fer­gu­son 20 is a mighty ma­chine, but it would hardly out­run the Tal­iban or KGB.

But Trump felt as safe as can be. Perched on the Fergie, he had a strong be­lief that no­body would be so low as to at­tack a man in­volved in the vin­tage run.

He was right, of course, and the run passed off with­out mur­der or may­hem. He told me that he had put Leo to work once they had touched down ear­lier in the day and that the coun­try would now see dra­matic im­prove­ments as a re­sult. “Leo’s a fab­u­lous guy,” Trump told me, as he eased back on the throt­tle. “I’ll get him a big job in the UN one day,” Trump bragged. “But then again,” says he, “I might not.”

And that’s Trump in a nut­shell. He’s as fickle as can be. He’s all over you one minute, the next, he’s not.

Leo could be in for a rude awak­en­ing one of these days over his will­ing­ness to help out the big guy. Trump as­sured me that by the end of the year, him­self and Leo will have lev­elled ev­ery wind tur­bine in the land, re­turn­ing Ire­land to its for­mer nat­u­ral splen­dour. “That’s great news,” says I, for I hate wind tur­bines just as much as Trump and Leo. “But our prob­lems are much greater than wind,” I ex­plained, as the grey Fergie hummed away be­tween his legs.

I went on to tell him that the lack of tar on Cork roads was an abom­i­na­tion. “Have you seem Rooves Bridge lately?” I asked the most pow­er­ful man in the world.

“No,” was the swift re­sponse.

“Tis eaten alive with pot­holes,” I di­vulged. “I trav­elled over it only a few days back and it had more holes in it than Leo’s story about help­ing you out in Doon­beg. Twas a rainy day and there was al­most as much wa­ter on the bridge as un­der­neath it.”

“The County Coun­cil seems to be al­ler­gic to bridges and such like. Some­thing needs to be done about it,” I said.

“Sure,” says he, “I’ll nuke it.”

“No,” says I, “nuk­ing things is never the an­swer.” “Why not!” he barked back, his mask begin­ning to slip.

“It needs re­pair­ing, not com­plete oblit­er­at­ing. Two good men and a few wheel­bar­rows of tar would sort it out, but it’s just not hap­pen­ing” I said. “It’s be­come a right em­bar­rass­ment.” “Well,” says Trump, with a Ford­son Ma­jor com­ing up fast be­hind. “I’ll take care of it.”

With that, he had to move on and just like Leo, I could do noth­ing but ad­mire and re­spect the man with the or­ange head.

You never know who you’ll meet at a vin­tage trac­tor run.

The Fer­gu­son 20: a trac­tor fit for a Pres­i­dent.

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