2012, A New Year with new promises. Well it didn't start off too flash. It had been organised that the Brickie was to do a run, and that the punters were to meet at the usual bridge at a time and date that was agreed upon. The Yandoit and the Wolf fronted up to find a paucity of Ferals. This was not in itself something to worry about, but it was a tad surprising to find the organiser drive past in his modern ute, with Country the roof surfing dog in the back. On his way back from the milkbar the Brickie came over to see what we were doing, and enquired as to whether we were aware that the event was postponed to the next weekend. We weren't as he had not informed us. He then proceeded to make hasty phone calls, for reasons that we found bewildering.
    Who give's a rat's arse we thought, we're here and we're going for a drive, so we headed off to Robbo's, but not before we had a close inspection of Yandoit's rear wheel.
    It is shown below. The lines of oozing diff oil lightly dusted with dirt-road dust, and set off beautifully by freshly applied dog piss, just goes to show you that art is everywhere, as are critics, like the dog.
     At Robbo's we inspected his steam driven marijuana processing plant. He reckons it is for cutting chaff, but we know better, (how else to account for the two-story mansion and the extravagant life-style!).
    The process is simple, and complex, at the same time. The raw weed (A) is placed into the hopper (B) and the conveyor turned on. It then travels towards the steamer (C) which perfumes tha weed with a mixture of spices, water, and virgins' blood (D). It is this mixture that appeals to the true connoisseurs, and makes the product so valuable.
     The problem, according to Robbo, is to find the virgins' blood.
Virgins in this area are in serious short supply. He has experimented with lambs' blood, but the prevalence of New Zealanders has rendered even this source as chancy. Tainted blood has added years to Robbo's complexion, and explains why he always looks so worried.
    At the end of the conveyor (E) it is chopped by a rotary knife (see below) before being conveyed into the bagging hopper (F) and bagged for the wholesale drug market (G), or "fed to the horses" as he prefers to call it.
    We decided to see The Hobbit to view his new toy....yes...another Essex. This one is a nice 1929 Tourer, and we happened to arrive for its first run. The Hobbit fired it up, and it ran sweetly, then it was just a matter of screwing on the Red Plates, and heading off to the Guildford Pub. On the matter of plates, he just fronted up to VicRoads with the usual paperwork and was presented with "*727*" which is quite unusual, and I would say rare.
     Flushed with such success, he naturally celebrated with some several libations to the point where he was legless. His paramour, Helen The Bruce, doing a splendid impersonation of Jemima Puddleduck, was therefore charged with the responsibility of driving the Essex back, despite having a fucked fetlock that, had she been a horse, would have resulted in the stewards calling for the screens and the nag being put down. The pic at the top tells it all, six people plus one dog in the car, with the tyres rubbing the guards. A true baptism of fire for the "new" car.
     Talking of "new" cars, another appeared in the ranks of the Ferals.
     We thought we had seen the most splendid of original unrestored vehicles in the Brickie's Nash, that was until the Mauler fronted up in the 1938 Dodge.
       This car belonged to an Adelaide  mate of his, and every time the Mauler met him, he offered to buy the car, always to no avail. Then his mate had a brief encounter with the Grim Reaper in the form of a mild heart attack. He realised that having large numbers of projects that were never going to come to fruition is pointless, and so sold the car to the Mauler. There's a lesson in that I reckon.
     As the pics show, the car is totally original and unrestored. The condition of the head lining is a good indicator of this, as this area is often the first to go.
    It's got no rust, and has never been messed about.
   The badge at the bottom of the radiator covers the crank handle hole and has never been removed. The crank handle, with the original tools were found under a seat.
    The only damaged items are a couple of plastic window winders which had become brittle with age. If any punter has some spares that are serviceable, please let us know through the email address.
     It just goes to show that  there are still cars like that out there, sitting in dry sheds waiting for the right owner.
    The Mauler uses it most weekends to tow his bondwood caravan to old-time dances all over the joint.
The Newstead Harvest  Music Festival and Bullarto
     Every year there is a little music festival at Newstead which is well worth going to. It's held at the local racecourse with plenty of good camping facilities, excellent food, and good local acts. It's one of the most laid-back events you are ever likely to attend.
     A couple of the Ferals attended, and thoroughly enjoyed the music washed down with copious amounts of beer.
     Late that same night, one thing lead to another, and it was decided that a drive around the track might be in order. The Wolf entered the track first with a local muso who jumped in for the frolic. We had nearly completed a lap when Yandoit entered the track with some bloke in the front seat , and Lizzy in the back. It naturally turned into a race.
     The Huddo was gaining on the Crossley, and one could see and hear agitation happening in the Crossley. In order to avoid being overtaken, drastic measures were taken. Lizzy, balancing precariously, as the car jumped around the track, slowly half stood and bared her comely arse at the startled occupants of the Huddo. Thoughts of overtaking vanished.
     As we returned to the music the Wolf remarked to the Muso : "Did you see the freckle?" "Mate!" replied the Muso, "I dunno about the freckle, but I reckon I saw an upside-down exclamation mark!"
     It was indeed a full moon at the Harvest Festival.
     The next morning, while the muso's recovered, we decided to truck on over to Bullarto for the tractor pull. By "we" I mean Yandoit, and the Cocky in Crossleys, The Wolf in the Huddo and Deaf John in the Austin 7  Pram. Recent heavy rains had washed out some bridges on our proposed route, and so we were diverted onto a track which was on the edge of a patch of forest which was being burnt for fuel reduction.
     It was while we were in this area that a disgraceful incident occurred.
     The local Fire Authority was not to pleased to see us, but, as they had neglected to close the track, they agreed that we could proceed. We were in steep country, with burning trees and stumps on one side.
     We came to a steep incline, and the Huddo would not make it! We backed down blind, over burnt stuff, because it is very difficult to back that big bastard. Another charge, and the same result!

    Thwarted, we turned back, and found another route.
    I don't know if it was the booze the previous night, or the remnants of the track vision, but , the Wolf had completely forgotten he had adjusted the brakes on the Huddo, and loaded up with camping gear, as the car headed up the steep incline, the weight moved back, flattened the springs, and pulled the rod-actuated brakes on. What was so annoying was that this had happened before in the Pyrenees.
   There is a word for it: addlepated.
    The Yandoit is immoderately fond of the Bullarto Tuggers and goes every year. We have been before, but it was only the need for a drive that we went. For an earlier description of this event go to http://feralsportscarclub.net/Bullarto.html
    As always, there were many attractive features of this event, but it was sadly noted that they had "fixed" the flatulent PA system. We often ask, "Why fuck with something that is good, though not perfect?"