Watson Wannacott

and the Bull

'What's on Watson?', I yelled, 'Dunno bouy what's on'? Watson yelled. 'Looking a bit frazzled', I yelled even louder, the old man nodded, 'fancy a drap and tell I all about it'. 'Ess' the old farmer nodded.

Now a about a year ago Watson happened in to one of the Dartmoor's drinking establishments and got talking to some fellow from abroad (by this take Cornwall) who it transpired had a bull for sale. Not any bull mind, no this one was the sire amongst sires, his progeny had taken many a red rosette at agricultural shows up and down the country. Why, only last year one of his sons won supreme champion at the Royal Welsh Show which is held annually at Tredeagar? Exactly, that should have been enough to start Watson's alarm bell ringing. Despite the fact on a fair day you can see Wales from atop Cosdon, the poor old boy's geography was none to good. Anyway, this gentleman from abroad finally managed to convince Watson that the bull would be an excellent investment and that he would make a mint from selling its services.

A few days later said bull was safely ensconced in Watson's top field and very soon became his pride an joy. He even had a fancy piece of paper which loudly proclaimed that 'Tredunnyaover Trevor' was of pure pedigree South Devon blood. It was a shame that Watson hadn't noticed the correction fluid placed where the name was scrawled and that semen was spelt 'seamen'. Upon the arrival of the beast we all got invited up to inspect the 900kg of prime steak, it was heart-warming to see such a look of pure joy on an old mans face. To this day he is adamant that the only reason tears were rivuletting down his cheek was because the wind blew some dust into his eyes. At first there was quite a flurry of interest in the bull and one or two of the smaller farmers actually hired its services. Eyewitnesses will tell you that it was pitiful, the old bull sniffed about a bit and then began to graze contentedly on the fresh grass supply. There were even rumours that Watson was seen stuffing some strange blue tablets down Trevor's neck. When asked what they were Watson muttered something about them being what the 'quack giv I fur to see to mother'. Needless to say that apart from his first two blind dates Trevor was never asked out again. At one time Watson was looking into the chances of putting the bull on what he called - Glue Tube, he had heard that this was the best place for that sort of thing. He did however get some business cards made up:

All that happened months ago and the old bull just faded into the moorland landscape and was forgotten, that is until last week. Thursday last Watson came bumbling into the inn and offered to buy a round, he had a wide smile on his face and obviously there was something he needed to share.

'What's on buoys?'

'Dunno Watson, what's on.'

Fricking Wales be on, that's what's on.'

He then proudly announced that someone in Wales had telephoned him to book Tredunnyaover Trevor's services, what's more provided he would deliver the bull they would pay £150 for the privilege. He then asked if anyone could print him off a route from Goggle Maps as he had no idea where he was going. Young Jim even offered to lend him his Tom-tom but gave up after ten minutes of trying to explain how it worked. Watson liked the idea but was a bit worried in case it was a cloudy day when he went up to Wales and the signal couldn't get through the clouds. It transpired that mother was going as, 'er's nivver bin vurther 'n Exeter, saw t'will be a day out if nought else'. The next day the route was printed and the Watsons' were ready for their adventure. That was the last we saw of Watson for several days, in fact it was only now that he had been seen albeit looking frazzled.

Now, before we get to the conclusion of Watson's Welsh tour there is one crucial thing to explain. As you probably have noticed the cost of diesel has rocketed over the past few months. Why, someone said in the inn the other night that it was getting on for £5 a gallon - scandalous. Anyway, things like that don't concern us in the parish because everything from lawn mowers to Range Rovers runs on a special kind of diesel. It's sort of like shop soiled goods or duff merchandise, there is only a slight fault with it which is why its a lot cheaper than the good stuff. So just to make sure this poorer diesel doesn't get confused with the proper stuff the Arabs dye it red. The only problem is that you aren't supposed to take anything on the main roads that is powered by this red diesel. Which is fine for around the parish as we only have lanes and nothing that could be remotely considered as a main road. Well, I tell a lie, there is one small stretch but old farmer Dunstone lets us drive along his field to avoid it.

This now brings us on to Watson's dilemma, obviously he would have to use main roads and motor ways to get up to Wales and his battered old series III Land Rover attracted police and ministry inspectors like flies to a cow pat. So he devised a plan and off he set at a very slow sedately pace. All was going well until he got just past the M4 Cheddar turn-off and spotted in his mirror the dreaded flashing blue lights. As the top speed of the Land Rover was about 42 miles an hour the police car was soon tailing him with blues and twos urging him to pull over. Not a bit of it, Watson stubbornly kept trundling along the motorway trying to make out he hadn't noticed what was by now a very irate policeman waving him onto the hard shoulder. The chase, if that's what you could call a 40 mile an hour crawl along the motorway, lasted for about 15 miles which was when the policemen lost their patience and forced him off the road.

Immediately the convoy had stopped, Watson was out of the Land Rover like a long dog on a hare, he knew that there was no way the, 'furze', as he calls the police, should get anywhere near the Land Rover. With the battered old green hat wiping his furrowed brow the old farmer scuttled up to the policemen, 'best not stop I vur long', he drawled, 'there be 'n gert agitated BULL in thik trailer'. No sooner had he emphasised the word, bull' the trailer began to rock from side to side and a loud metallic clattering rang out. 'zee, tis too 'ot vur the BULL an' ee gets mighty zore about it', Watson explained, again the trailer rocked manically. One of the policemen enquired as to the size of the bull where upon Watson obligingly offered to, 'get 'n out vur ee so as ee kin zee vur isself'. The offer was immediately declined but Watson was adamant, 'y'er zure ee dawn't wan' tu zee the BULL?' he asked, again a mighty clanging and rocking came from the trailer. The policeman were quite sure they didn't want to see the crazed beast and after a quick conference they decided that as their shift ended in an hours time they just wanted Land Rover, trailer and bull out of their jurisdiction. The solution was quite simple, they would escort Watson up as far as Bristol which would give him a clear run thus avoiding getting the bull even more agitated. So, with blue lights flashing they led the convoy clearing the lane as they went.

Now, having heard the story, a couple of questions came to mind. Firstly, that bull is the meekest animal one could ever meet, I have seen a horse fly bite it on the left testicle and the poor beast never so much as flinched. So why was it getting agitated in the trailer? Secondly, part of the idea of the trip was to give mother a day out so where was she whilst the discussion with the police was taking place? The answers are simple - the plan.

It seems that Watson was only too well aware that his battered old Land Rover was likely to attract the attention of any policeman that saw it. He was also certain that the last thing any' 'furze man' would want to risk is a rampaging bull on a busy motorway. The only problem that Tredunnyaover Trevor wouldn't rampage anywhere in fact the bull loved being driven around in the trailer, it was like a Sunday school outing for him. So the solution was simple, put mother in the trailer and then if they did get stopped she could rock and clatter around every time she heard Watson shout, 'Bull'. When asked the obvious, namely, 'what on earth did mother think of riding 100 miles in a stinking trailer with 900kg of bull beside her?', Watson looked puzzled, 'well us put in the ole armchair vur 'er to sit on an' 'er could zee out o' the ventilashun 'oles', came his reply.

It seems the rest of the journey was uneventful apart from the spot of bother at the toll booth on the Severn Bridge, Watson didn't realise he had to pay to get across the bridge. However, when he explained about the, 'agitated BULL' and the trailer began to rock wildly the barrier was soon opened.