Less a club, more a cult

When I became a greyhound owner I unwittingly became part of a cult. It’s not so very different now I’m in the historic boat club. We have our unwritten rules – so you always stop to admire other people’s greys/boats and are effusive in your appreciation, while always convincing yourself that no grey/boat can possibly equal your own. There’s the arcane language, so with greys we ‘derp’ and ‘roach’ and with boats we’re all bluetops and bed ‘oles, good roads and greasy ockers. Birds of a houndie or boaty feather flock together, so there is nothing remotely weird about accosting a complete stranger for a fuss (of dog) or nosey (of engine room). Plus we have a propensity to feel just a teensy weensy bit smug at having such cool dogs/boats…oh, is that just me then? 


And then there’s the most dangerous commonality of all….which of course I’ve discovered too late….greys and historic boats are addictive. Ruinously so. I have a terrible track record with greys, having rehomed 15 over the past 14 years. I just need to be shown one with a sob story and it’s in the back of the car. This does not bode well….not well at all. The Braunston show stirred feelings for full length unconverted motors…the HNBC newsletters should come with a health warning as there’s always at least one ‘I want it’ advert in there…so called friends incite you to outrageous fleet expansionist behaviour by playing down restoration costs and telling you to carpe diem…future vendors will surely know my weakness and try to exploit it. The only positive is that grey ownership keeps the piggy bank echoingly empty, because if I could, I fear I would…

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