Welcome to Rushey Platt

Entry posted by caldrail November 15, 2007

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Deep in the rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire, the natives are restless. The Independent Peanut Republic of Rushey Platt has decided to go public, to reveal its ancient mysteries to the world. I suppose that means we have to accept tourists too but you can't have everything.

So what is the Republic of Rushey Platt? Well, when I was unemployed I decided it might be a cool idea to declare my idependence from the UK government. That way I could ask for Foreign Aid and get paid millions of pounds like those immigrant families with thirty eight kids.

Needless to say, the british government has steadfastly refused to acknowledge my little realm in the depths of south west England. Nor did the United Nations. Nor did I get paid.

Well things have moved on since. I now work in a shed at the back of an old hangar once used to build spitfires. Its a rotten little edifice that the architect proclaimed as structurally dodgy, and currently provides dwelling for thirty nine thousand species of native woodland spiders. And from the mess we found lurking under the pallets at the back, one or two rats, although we think the spiders ate them.

The idea was to move some of these dust-gathering pallets and get rid of them. The days of our tenure in The Shed are now numbered, and a plush warehouse awaits our business (and rent payments) down the road. So let me introduce AD, a veteran of a warehouseman, a Bristolian, my mentor in the ways of The Shed.

"One day, Caldrail, all this will be yours..." He said, though I must admit there is a rival to The Sheds throne. He is SB, a true troglodyte in british fashion, a man for whom sunlight is a forgotten experience, a man whose tyrant of a wife demands a new house every year and therefore poor old SB must go without holidays or weekends.

However, there's an even rarer species of warehouseman at large behind the Hanger. The Big H himself. Trolls were never this big in fairy tales, and never was a man so adept at communicating with a grunt. A shrug of his shoulders says more than words can say.

Or those wandering scavengers, the scrap metal dealers, who take away anything not bolted down. Or use an axle grinder if it is. UT, a fine figure of a man whose hobbies include racing dogs in Ireland, is nonetheless poor and humble. Dogs are very expensive. Not so his sidekick, the Small H, who's understanding of the world is limited to Lift That Bale, Tote That Barge. Come to think of it, UT nearly had me manhandling industrial motors into his truck...

Welcome to Rushey Platt. It only gets better...