Vintage tractor run in the Irish mist
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.