Rods newest toy and monster in the making is a 1928 Ford Model A Rat Rod. The first thing that squeezed my lemon was the 276ci Desoto Firedome HEMI.
Tucked away in the heart of Johannesburg, Rod Burnett isn’t just collecting cars—he’s curating chaos. The man has a few garages and workshops scattered across his East Rand property, and for good reason. He’s obsessed. Not just with Muscle Cars, but with anything that burns fossil fuel—Hotrods, bikes, tractors, old Lister engines, you name it. If it makes noise and smells like petrol, it’s probably already found its way into his heart—and more than a few of them into his wallet. Each machine has its own sacred corner, parked neatly on spotless workshop floors so clean you could eat your lunch off them. This isn’t a hobby. It’s a religion.
By: Etienne Fouché
Tucked away in the heart of Johannesburg, Rod Burnett isn’t just collecting cars—he’s curating chaos. The man has a few garages and workshops scattered across his East Rand property, and for good reason. He’s obsessed. Not just with Muscle Cars, but with anything that burns fossil fuel—Hotrods, bikes, tractors, old Lister engines, you name it. If it makes noise and smells like petrol, it’s probably already found its way into his heart—and more than a few of them into his wallet. Each machine has its own sacred corner, parked neatly on spotless workshop floors so clean you could eat your lunch off them. This isn’t a hobby. It’s a religion.
And the latest member of Rod’s mechanical congregation? A devilish, fire-spitting 1928 Ford Model A Rat Rod. This thing isn’t subtle. It’s loud, low, and about as tame as a lit stick of dynamite. What grabs your attention immediately—besides the unfiltered attitude—is the engine. Sitting front and centre is a 276 cubic inch DeSoto Firedome Hemi. Yes, a HEMI. These early Hemis are unicorn-rare in South Africa, and seeing one painted neon orange, stuffed into a crusty old Ford, is like spotting a shark in a swimming pool. Most Rods around here run the usual Chevy small blocks, but Rod went left when everyone else turned right. And it works.
The Firedome breathes in through a Holley carb and flex-plate-topped air cleaner, and lets loose through cast exhaust manifolds that dump out the back via a massive Beechcraft King Air aircraft exhaust nozzle. It sounds as wild as it looks—like a warplane warming up for battle. Backing it all up is a Chrysler TorqueFlite transmission, keeping everything true to Mopar roots and handling the punishment like only Ma Mopar can.
But Rat Rods aren’t about perfection—they’re about personality. And Rod’s creation has that in spades. The shifter, for starters, stretches absurdly past the roofline and ends in a grinning cartoon rat, a wink to the car culture that fuels builds like this. The interior is nothing but raw, rusted steel, with a plastic fuel gauge tube zip-tied to the dash and bomber seats handcrafted by JP Groenewalt from Western Street Rods. It’s basic. It’s brilliant. And it doesn’t pretend to be anything else.
Visibility? Don’t count on it. The 1951 Buick steering wheel sits square in your line of sight. But who cares—this car wasn’t built for the suburbs. It was built for expression. Rod teamed up with fabricator Keith Potgieter, who helped bring the vision to life with a fully custom chassis. Up front, a traditional I-beam suspension handles the bumps, while a custom four-link setup keeps the ’50s GM rear axle planted. Sitting on top is the original 1928 Model A body, still wearing most of its original steel. The floor’s been replaced, the roof has been chopped to oblivion, and the old Ford now rolls with the kind of haunted-house stance that turns heads and unsettles dogs.
Look closely and you’ll see the little things—the markings, the fabrication lines, the untouched welds—all left visible to tell the story of how this beast came to life. Steering components were built from old Chevy small block conrods, and the doors? They’re welded shut, obviously. You want in? You climb through the roof. Because Rat Rods aren’t supposed to be practical—they’re supposed to be fun.
The wheels are old-school Ford wires from the 1930s, dipped in that same radioactive orange and wrapped in real Coker tyres for proper vintage flavour. The whole car rides slammed to the ground like some kind of rusted-out funeral chariot. Creepy, slow, and dripping attitude. It doesn’t need to go fast—it just needs to arrive.
Rod’s build is the kind of project that reminds you why custom car culture still matters. In a world of polished showpieces and trailer queens, this thing is alive. It’s imperfect, loud, sketchy, and built with more soul than sense—and that’s exactly why it works. There’s something beautifully unfiltered about it. No rules. No guidelines. Just metal, madness, and a builder with the guts to go all in.
This is what real hot rodding looks like. And if this is what’s coming out of Rod’s workshop now, we can’t wait to see what beast he conjures up next.
