Constructive criticism

Mon.07.08.06. The mixed fortunes of the previous week have been partly forgotten as I am quickly realising that the project is so far behind schedule that it will be impossible to finish the car by mid October. Given this scenario, it would be prudent to secretly accept this fact, not to become wound up about the lack of focus or progress but seek consolation in the fact that ‘slow time is quality time’. We have persevered thoughtfully and diligently to solve every problem, cutting corners at this stage, just to meet deadlines, would result in an inferior end product.

In the morning I phoned Andy to re-affirm the essential repair work on the chassis. Over the weekend Chris, on reflection, thought he might have been a touch abrasive  toward Andy suspecting he may have falsely indicated that he was dissatisfied with the quality of the workmanship.

“Tradesmen don’t like being told what to do, you know, they hate any form of criticism, listen, listen, I told him that all those patches fixed by ugly blobs of weld were shite, he should have cut out the corroded sections dropping in a fresh piece of metal instead of just covering the problem with a clumsy badly fabricated scrap sweepings from the floor: he’s also missed some of the essential end caps but wasted time by unnecessary crudely fashioned heavy lateral runs. Having said that, I did say some of his work was superb, so I think I got away with it. What do you think?” I gave a non-committal shrug of the shoulders, but quietly considered whether the comments would constitute ‘positive’ criticism? I am not sure: comfortably succeeding to insult his professional legitimacy as well as his basic welding prowess could fall somewhat short of a compliment. Tact? diplomacy? discretion? perhaps smoothing the waters may be required.

Arriving at Westmead I discovered another reason why Chris’s determined tenacity has to be admired. The windscreen problem that has dogged the project throughout appears to have been finally resolved. On Friday we had both accepted defeat prepared to settle for what we had. Too many precious hours had already been squandered in an attempt to fit something that was never designed for the car. It was time to sign off the screen even though it wasn’t perfect, we had to move on. However, on Saturday night, Chris had spent an evening with ‘Bertie’, with a bottle of red Burgundy, staring at the angled level of the screen, the travel of the folding mechanism, the seating of the brackets as well as the contours and planes of the scuttle, still searching for an answer to the problem. Smiling, he immediately told me that he thought he had ‘cracked it’. Examining his recent alterations I enthusiastically agreed. Chris had first of all shaved then moulded the scuttle allowing the near side-fixing bracket to sit as comfortably as the off side. The entire screen rests perfectly level, the hinged system operates much easier. We, or I should say Chris, has won another huge battle.

We spent the remainder of the day investigating various methods of joining the engine panel sides to the central body tub. The earlier ‘legitimate substance fix’, the success of fitting the screen, had injected extra energy into our powers of deduction. We were now thinking openly, laterally and ‘outside the box’ (not like a ‘fresh’ car, ‘out of the box’, ‘mint’, ‘proper’ but mentally strong with logic and insight).                                                                                         “We, first of all, must confirm the line of the body tub by extending the line of the bonnet to meet the top side of the front wing. The back of the panel will be cut away to allow the aluminium to be folded and screwed thus forming a solid, square profile. The engine panel could then be cut to meet this profile; the facing edge also being folded and screwed. Folds will be made on the top and bottom edges of the panel, again secured by screws, the wing bolts will pass through the panel supporting the other fixing points.

The joint created when both panels meet can later be filled to form a perfect, continuous line with the bonnet. Finally, to cushion the meeting of the three elements, the bonnet, the engine panels and the body tub, a protective rubber strip will be inserted into the joint, both for practicality and appearance” I boastfully, boldly assertively declared. ‘Love the many, distrust the few, but always paddle your own canoe’. (Margaret Thatcher or John Lennon, I’m not sure).        

            

Students!!!

‘Doc’ the landlord has had a total re-fit of the bar area adventurously displaying dirty brown timber cladding surrounded by magnolia stripped walls. He appears to have bought ‘non-dry paint’ as all the drip mats have become stuck to tacky surfaces of the bar top as well as the pot shelves. The drying process is now in its second week; still showing no signs of hardening off. Everyone is taking particular care when deciding where to rest ones’ elbows or lounge casually verifying that once leaving a section of the bar isn’t inadvertently transported away. The most encouraging aspect of all of these changes are the new beer fountains  liberally pumping out several foreign strong lagers. Stella at 4% or 6%, Wersteiner at 6.5%, Kaltenbrau at 5.5% and of course Becks at 4%. I am fast developing a taste for Becks knowing that I can justify its consumption because it is merely 4% and not 6% like the infamous Stella. 

We arrived at the Oak still buoyed up by the semi successful day. David and Andy Lewis were attempting to unglue themselves from the bar top whilst Mad John, who had been gardening and drinking for most of the afternoon, had shut down in the corner. Preacher Steven was smiling as per usual even though he was also firmly adhered to the bar. After boring everyone to death about the chassis the conversation quickly changed when Lowtie stormed in. “They’ve fuckin done it again! I’ve walked past all those fuckin students and they’ve fuckin ignored me again: all I want is a fuckin drink but it’s like I ‘m invisible, the lazy bastards!” We wondered whether his mood was attributed to the discovery of the dripping tap, a fall out with Sheila or just a bad day at the office. “What’s wrong, Lowtie?” we enquired. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong: I’ve just walked down the lane and there’s fuckin’ litter on every corner, beer cans, fuckin discarded kebabs, curly fuckin’ pizza, half eaten curry, dopeheads, drunkards, soap dodgers and fuckin’ cars everywhere…What’s the town coming to. There are scruffy, dirty bastards in doorways drinking super strength lager, chavs from out of town coming for their fast food hit, blokes sat outside the “Fast and Loose” with no fuckin’ shirts on!….I’m just sick of all of it, nobody seems to give a fuck!” Before we become inevitably engaged in a debate about 'yob Britain' Lowtie requests a pint from the morose, nose pierced, tattooed, split tongued Matt, the student. 

He explains that he is unable to serve him as it two minutes to 7.00pm after which his shift finishes. We all await the explosion but it doesn’t materialise. Lowtie is calm and thanks Matt for his service wishing him well for his next body mutilation session. Slightly amazed we stand back in puzzled silence. Lowtie eventually gets his pint and gently places it on the bar top. “What did I tell you, they get on my fuckin nerves, I can’t even get served in my own local, they just don’t give a flyin’ fuck!”            

The Appley Bridge Thunderdome

Fri.04.08.08. I had phoned Mark in the morning to check whether it was possible to return the chassis to him after the sand blasting, thankfully he agreed. This meant that the previously planned morning agenda ran remarkably smoothly facilitating the pre-arranged meeting with Dave. The transporter fired up first time (I now leave the starting of the vehicle to Chris; so if anyone is going to screw up it won’t be me), by one o’clock, bang on schedule, we were entering JJ Bullens yard at Apply Bridge. This was a wide, open space, very roughly tended, partially enclosed by overgrown hedgerows, damaged broken trees, bordered on its northern boundary by 15 metre  high but unkempt grass embankment. Inside was an assortment of semi derelict commercial buildings in spite of everything professing to be ‘working businesses’. Faded, flaking old signs above rotten wooden entrances. An odd mix, huddled side-by-side enclosing a muddy, unsurfaced open yard. A construction company supplying re-claimed building materials, a truck servicing and repair garage, a specialist engine tuning, spray and paint shop apparently exclusively supplied by a graveyard of old 70’s cars and vans. 

This was a place of neglect, nothing could possibly prosper here. It was the film set of Mad Max beyond the Thunder Dome. Where amongst all of this was Dave? Sure enough, in one remote corner of the yard there was Dave with young Ron, who we guessed was his son. Wearing green, stained, torn overalls, crusty, weathered boots stripped down to steel toecaps, was a jovial, reddened, paint spattered face. “I’m Dave, whats want?” Ron and Dave smiled collectively both tuned to same wave band. I replied by reminding Dave that I had brought my chassis to be blasted questioning if had I come to the right place. “Aye lad, bring it up and put it in the sand pit over there, I’ll just finish this job and I’ll be with thee”. We placed the chassis on two old school desks in a depression that was lined on two sides by sand dunes, on one other side by an assortment of compressors, sand tanks, wheelie bins sheltered by an abandoned caravan. The final and fourth side opened onto the rest of the yard. Ron duly arrived with a huge coiled hose dumping it forcefully on the ground.

He then began to mix the various grades of sands in the storage reservoir preparing the way for Dave. As he approached, now sporting a battered yellow safety helmet, I began to record the moment on camera. “You’re not from the DHSS?” chuckled Dave. “No, the benefits agency” I responded. “I’m supposed to sheet up and seal off the area because of the noise, but I don’t bother: there’s a moaning old bastard over there who’s always complaining about the wind blown sand, but I just think fuck ‘im”. As the motor on the compressor fired up the sand rushed through the hose striking the metal full on. 

What a fuckin’ horendous noise!! I’ve never heard anything like it. Bare handed, Dave worked his way along the chassis only pausing to blast the turrets and the prop shaft, which had been randomly propped up against the legs of the old desks. Obviously health and safety ‘regs’ were not statuary in the Thunder Dome. The chassis was inverted and the process repeated. We inspected the finished article with renewed enthusiasm and excitement. Before us lay a totally different piece of post war engineering technology. The jets of sand had brought the chassis back to the 21^st. century. Clean, fresh metal where before was 40 years of grime and rust. Unfortunately, the blasting had revealed several other weak spots which now have been added to the snag repair list for Mark and Andy. We chatted with Dave regarding the next process. He confirmed that hot wax oil must be injected into all the sections of the chassis to prevent rusting from within. Externally, red lead, galvafroid or powder coating would be equally successful processes.

We offered to settle up but Dave needed Ron to tally up the bill (which we thought, at the time, was slightly bizarre: assuming the son /father, father /son thing?). He returned requesting the princely sum of £40.00. “Oh bollocks, I’ve only brought Fifties, I hope he has change” mumbled Chris. As Dave ambled back to his truck in search of a ‘tenner’ we both felt that the job was impossibly cheap anyway, so we generously suggested to ‘knock it off’ the next job. Waving the fifty-pound note in the air Dave, grinning, turned to us and said “I’ve never had one of these for ages, I’ve as much chance of spending this in Standish as curing aids, thanks lads”. The chassis was strapped on the transporter, Chris sparked up the engine, farewells were uttered and we slowly left the Thunder Dome having one last gaze at this surreal landscape we considered Dave’s last remark “They are flattening all of this in a few months to build a new housing estate”.

 Our good fortune continued having returned to RG engineering we discovered the roller doors open, Andy had stayed on to work late instead of finishing early as was the normal practise on Fridays. The chassis was examined carefully after all the weak spots had been identified Andy nodded, “No problem”.

The day had gone so well we decided to return to Westmead for some more rubbing down. “Let’s try the screen on for one last time just to make sure that it will still tilt, I want to see the mechanism operating smoothly before we sign it off”. “Make sure you slide it in carefully, don’t force it, remember what I have told you, if you have to force it there is something wrong, slowly and gently, with loving consideration careful handling, apply a suitable lubricant if necessary” suggested  Chris, the ‘agony aunt’ of the ‘News of the World’. “Perfect, that’s really good, how was it for you?” We stood back to admire this beautiful image of sexy, curved, sweeping lines that Chris had laboured long and hard to achieve. The, apparently, minor details had formed the sum of the whole, a real car, not a botched up kit. Once the backslapping had subsided, a realistic closer examination revealed that the screen sat higher on one side. Bollocks, the brackets will have to be re-located, again!!!

The day had been so successful we did not want anything to turn sour. “It won’t be a problem, I’ll sort it” Although sounding quite confident, I knew that Chris secretly realised that all the problems of fitting this Morgan screen had returned to haunt us.  

Toxic Mix

Thurs.03.08.06. But I am starting to be very concerned. The unusually hot weather of July had meant that much less work on the body panels could be attempted. The fine dust, which appears to react with the heat of the day, resulting in an even more toxic mix, has delayed the project tremendously. I would estimate we are at least 4 weeks behind schedule. To make up this time, with November fast approaching, will be a major obstacle. I don’t think at any time during the project I have felt as pessimistic as I feel now.

I managed to source a local sandblaster today. He works out of JJ Bullens yard in Apply Bridge. He is called Dave; unlike ‘unhelpful Edwin’ he recommends that, if available, he could manage the job on Friday. Given this positive news I arranged with Mark directly to collect the chassis in the afternoon so that it could be loaded in preparation for the following day. The transporter in the past has been a pain in the arse always letting us down. Sometimes the battery has been flat, the gearbox is impossible to operate smoothly, the engine splutters, spits and croaks, the steering is unsophisticated and painfully stiff; all of these factors together with Chris perpetually pointing out how much better it could be driven added up to being an unpleasant journey. Surprisingly, with a new battery installed, the linkage to the box vastly improved we happily chugged around to Mark to, first of all, ‘divvying’ up what we owed him for the welding job on the chassis but also to collect the boxes of shot blasted parts that would now require an application of ‘galvafroid’ or powder coating. The total cost of the entire job came out at £110.00, which I regarded as money well spent. The additional reinforced brackets, Colin’s complex re-design of the tail end, the additional out riggers plus the many other minor modifications, all brought together with Andy’s top class welding, have transformed the chassis into a robust, durable, exceptionally rigid, impressive piece of engineering. It is the Dog’s.   

By the end of the day we were still debating where to convey the chassis after Dave had blasted the shit out of it. The favoured option would be to return the cleaned structure back to Mark, should any newly exposed areas necessitate re-evaluating; after which Edwin’s offer of powder coating could be considered. Though, my guess would be that an alternative solution, obvious and simple is more likely. We shall no doubt return to Westmead dumping it outside, propped up against the garage over the weekend to become as rusty as fuck, thus reinforcing the consistent overall absence of ‘proper’ procedure so far; this would be quite ‘logical’. 

 I am a touch more heartened after today; I have been unquestionably pro-active, directing, instigating and planning the project. 

Macawber

Weds.02.08.06. I called at Mark and Andy’s to verify the approach that we prefer to undertake with the chassis. It appears that ‘chin scratcher Edwin’ was correct when he insisted that various sections of the outriggers could be severely damaged using the shot blasting method. Mark suggested that a much simpler approach could be employed. The suggestion was to clean off as much grime as we possibly could and then carefully paint a solution of ‘galvafroid’ to prevent any rusting or deterioration of the metal. Alternatively, bead or sand blasting is a much less invasive process that would clean the metal thoroughly and then follow this with several coats of ‘hammerite’ or ‘galvafroid’. I later discussed both of these methods with Chris but sensibly concluded to make the decision tomorrow when we have researched the details of the costs and logistics.

I finally broke the news that Dave Brown could not now construct the dashboard and the other cockpit modifications. We were also relying on Dave to re-cut the engine side panels, which is more of an immediate problem, as they are essential for the completion of the body tub and scuttle. Chris was not best pleased, typically replying, “I knew he didn’t want to do the job from day one when he mentioned that it would cost a fortune if we had to pay for someone to carry out the work: you see, he wasn’t volunteering he actually wanted paying for it!” I did attempt to defend Dave explaining that he always takes on too many commitments; presently his priority was to finish the work on his house. “Bollocks, man, he just did not want to do it: I’ve seen it all before, trust me, listen, I’ve got the ‘T’ shirt”. “Look, it’s just another job that we can do ourselves: along with all the others”.

“What about the engine re-build?” I questioned, cautiously. After which we again debated all the original over heating problems; the lack of a header tank, the mis-match of the head to the block, the faulty water pump, the lightweight radiator, the restricted circulation in the block, the frozen thermostat and anything else that we could think of that should have screamed out to us to say “get a new fuckin’ engine!” but it didn’t, so we plan to start the re-build next week. Will we ever learn? By the way, “Any news from those bastards at the DVLA?” barked Chris, “because, you realise that they could just block the project totally, they are real bastards, I know, believe me!” I had immediately switched to ‘best liar in the world mode’ as Chris had caught me on the back foot with this rapid change of direction from engine cooling systems to the ‘bastards of Swansea’. “Oh it’s a mere formality, they only want to check that the engine number and chassis number correspond with the log book” I casually replied, even though knowing full well that I must contact Nikki Hannan in the Manchester office in less than 5 weeks to inform her, along with the dreaded DVLA, that the vehicle is ready for inspection.  

It seems today we have encountered yet more stumbling blocks; we have made little or no progress. Time is slipping away at a rate of knots; we have more concerns than solutions. I feel exactly like Macawber, “annual income £1.00, annual expenditure 99p, result ecstasy, annual expenditure £1.01, result misery”.

 “Never mind, lad, we’ll get it done, don’t you worry” quietly claimed Chris, reassuringly.

Continued frustration

                                            Burlington Diary August 2006

Tues.01.08.06. Chris has pressed on with the rubbing down of the car panels. It is a bloody horrible job particularly in hot weather where the tete dust just hangs like an intimidating fine mist. The problem with this sinister, shadowy haze is that it no doubt it causes premature blindness with combined side effects of silicosis along with multi-organ failure. Modern well-equipped, ventilated workshops can still fall foul from the effects of the dust. The longevity of ‘bodymen’ must compare favourably with the life expectancy of coal miners, mill workers or chimney sweeps; trades that no longer exist, except in The Republic of China. 

Leaving him to it, I was dispatched to Andy and Marks to check on the progress of the chassis. Mark will only return to work tomorrow after working off sight, strangely Andy could not locate the chassis in his engineering shop. As it turned out the chassis was actually next-door with Edwin, the shot blaster. I was soon to learn that ‘apprehensive Edwin’ was a first class chin scratcher whose pot was always half empty. He was duty bound to find pointless problems, meaningless unnecessary difficulties with the ‘very’ uncomplicated process of shot blasting. “You see, scratch of chin, it’s too thin, the shot will just blast holes in these outriggers” he pontificated. “I wouldn’t want to risk it if I was you, the power of the shot could rip off those thinner cross members, I’ve seen it happen before” he added. “But, I’ll do it if you really insist: £60 for the blast and £190 for the powder coating”. I was feeling pretty pissed off given this scenario; the last thing I required was this negative, weedy, scouse,  ‘know it all’ self-righteously informing me that the chassis was a piece of flimsy tin that would be blown away by his all powerful machine. I said that I would consult with my boss and also Mark as to whether they thought the treatment would be too fierce. If so, what would be the options? I left Edwin to his empty pot but no doubt this is a critical set back. At this stage to have the chassis incomplete could seriously jeopardise the progress of the entire project.

In essence we have been treading water for five weeks, perhaps, we should consider joining Richard, Dave, Ian and the sheepdips of Whittle le Woods for a consolation drink in the bar of the ‘fuck off bin’: this situation is of our own making, the wheels have definitely come off. This has not been a good day. This evening I shall retire to the Oak for a gallon of Stella.

There was a subdued atmosphere in the Oak, the very definite change in the weather from a month of extreme high temperatures to one of cold, wet and windy days had dampened every ones spirits. Having not seen Toby since we had arrived back I asked David and Chris where he was: fully expecting that he was on his holidays, the last thing I expected was that he had ‘jacked’. Apparently he was planning to put in a request for a rise of £10.00 per hour for his driving services on the flowers. “Are you mad, David doesn’t even get that!” was the advice from Chris. Tactful as ever Chris had lit the blue touch paper, so Toby again, rapidly mutated into Psycho. “You fuckers are all the same, you always stick together, you bastards!” ranted Psycho. This conversation had taken place in his van on the way back to Standish after a session in the Oak. The red mist continued until they pulled up outside Westmead. Psycho seized another, even more priceless, opportunity to vent his spleen offering to give all the neighbours a wake up call with a barrage of expletives. Chris made vain attempts to calm him down but the trigger had been well and truly pulled: Toby was off on one. The following day Toby purposely messed up a flower delivery, later informing David that he wanted to work a months’ notice. As in the past, he didn’t pitch up for work the following morning: he has not been seen since. This loose cannon, unpredictable flake, has thankfully, left the building.

Andy Lewis has eventually finished the cellar conversion at Planet Lowton. With only minor snags to address he still plans one last visit before the job can be signed off. Being aware of Lowties’ paranoia regarding leaks, faulty taps or anything remotely associated with burst pipes Lewis is plotting a cruel jape, at John’s expense. He has bought a small electronic device that simulates exactly the sound of a ‘dripping tap’. This he plans to secrete the mechanism behind a wall connecting control to the light switch. Every time the light switch is thrown the tap begins to drip. Lowton will go mental. In a fury, the prospect of him ripping down walls and ceilings to locate the apparent source of escaping water is not unthinkable. Having lived with a flooding cellar for the past 4 years the thought of more leaks will send Lowtie into orbit. Lewis plans his subterfuge tomorrow. 

Empty Boasts

Sun.30.07.06. The following morning I showed off the Merc to an admiring crowd. “Double glazing, electric pressure sensors, adjustable heated leather seats with memory, individual climo, 5 fuckin’ litres, and 0 to fuckin’ 60 in 3.2 secs. This is the dog’s bollocks” I smugly boasted, but by this time the crowd had disappeared, the jealous bastards. The hardy ones were requested to re-enact the wedding at the Oak at 6pm that evening. Tim had asked the Doc to put on a spread for the regulars as a sign of his generosity and Margaret’s wealth but everyone knew that it was in reality an act of guilt in order to pay back all the free pints of Guinness he has scammed over the past fifteen years. After two very slow Stella, Jo and I returned home, defeated.

Mon.31.07.06. This was the first day back at work. Chris had been painstakingly rubbing down the body for the last 5 weeks. But, there was no sign of the chassis or the new parts from Rimmers, Dave Brown had sacked himself, the DVLA wanted to see a finished car, the reconditioned parts were completely covered in tete dust, the screen was broken again: we are not going to make the deadline. For the very first time I have serious doubts about November.

Nonetheless, we have formulated a master plan fixing firm targets. Perhaps we should draw upon the specialist knowledge of the company responsible for the building of the new Wembley stadium.            

            

The Royal Wedding

Sat.29.07.06. The wedding was looming, but by Saturday evening we did not have a vehicle to travel to the Tickled Trout Hotel then later to the venue at Salmesbury Hall. At 6.45 with a flat battery on the ‘Smart car’ with no access to the ‘Disco’ both plans A and B had gone ‘tits up’: Jo began to panic, somewhat. Danny should have returned to the flat with the keys to the Disco but he was detained in Manchester. Thankfully, Robert suddenly emerged from next door, Salty towers, with the suggestion that I could borrow the 500 Merc, knowing that Danny would have no use for it over the weekend. Fuck me; I’ve won one at last. The thought of swanning up to the hotel in this symbol of obscene ostentatious wealth brought a wry smile to my face. I was still smiling when Rob’s girlfriend emerged from the kitchen doorway, albeit a tad sheepishly. I immediately assumed that I had caught them ‘at it’ in Captain Salty’s matrimonial bed, her embarrassed reaction being the proof of the pudding. I could not have been more wrong, for this was Kristina Woods, the Post and Chron hack journalist who had compiled the article “Prick goes to France in a crap kit car for more booze”. Live and let live, I thought as I roared off in the shiny black Merc. 

We reached Salmesbury Hall with time to spare even after having chugged back a few vodkas to ease the pain of the bar prices. Greeted with champagne, which we had to search out, we chatted with other guests. Billy Green and Anne, Ian Thornley and Rita, Andy Lewis and Janet, Richie, Margo, Gerard, Brenda, Jimmy the Axe and Knocker. It seemed as if it had been a ‘good do’ with several ‘day’ guests already swaying and bobbing. Old un’s, young un’s, fat un’s, thin un’s, plus the usual collection of family misfits. Some with body parts they had borrowed from second cousins, blue hair, purple hair, shaven heads, tats and rings, best dads, worst dads, twinsets and slappers. In fact, I heard a couple of young girls chatting by the bar casually exchanging their expectations of the night ahead. “I’ll tell you what, I’m going to shag two blokes tonight, I’m gonna take one up the bum an’ one in the drum.” To which her friend asked, “Why don’t you take one in the gob as well, an’ go for a three’s up?”  Wardrobes varied from Primark to fake designer, personalities ranging from the confident to the shy, the penniless and the not so penniless. Regrettably, the only way to enjoy the evening was to be sociable, join in. Fuck that, in the main I stayed outside, even when it was raining, having a quiet smoke. I obviously could not get away with this tranquil exile forever being duly summoned by Knocker to relish 15 verses of Appin Rye. “Fuckin’ beltin this, stated ‘grinning Knocker’, just look at Lewis’s face playing bass and throwing in the odd backing vocal sympathetically supporting Tim’s feeble voice, he’s loving every minute of it”. Lewis raised two fingers.

The place was beginning to get crowded as the trio moved on to 20 verses of “The unmarried pregnant catholic girl from Donegal who sailed to New York in 1842 in search of a wealthy new life”. Knocker grabbed Jo wishing to dance. Quickly Jo declined the offer stating that the dance floor was “Chocker Knocker” preferring to return to her stash of contraband, free vodka and coke.

The party continued at the Tickled Trout after 12.30 am. Carriages were provided in the form of a Wigan Double Decker bus that ferried any survivors down from Salmesbury Hall. We all reluctantly piled on to find the best ‘spex’ had been gobbled up by the ‘Ferengy’, ‘Clingons’ and ‘Jabba the Hut’. But, sneakily, I managed to sprise a spotty leaking teenage ‘cousin’ from the upstairs front seat, thus becoming the driver. ‘The Axe’ seated close by glanced around commenting to his roommate Knocker that, “this was in fact a Chocker Knocker Double Decker”. We poured off the bus leaving behind what looked like the crumbling remnants of some ancient civilisation. They were travelling back to Wigan, whilst we, being the clever ones happy to stay in £65.00 a night bedrooms gratefully over indulging in hotel bar prices of sandbag proportions.

But, secretly, we were tooled up.

Billy had visited Tesco in the afternoon after a warning from ‘the Axe’ regarding the state of the prices at the hotel. Cases of wine and slabs of beer were smuggled onto the terrace. The vodka emerged from Margos bag. Cokes were purchased, spare glasses liberated from behind the main bar. We were off and running. The guitars came out, the Irish ballads rang out, Knocker pushed his Oasis anthems, Jimmy the ‘Axe’ fell asleep. A few hours later when the songs had evaporated, the fags had been stumped, most of the alcohol drained a cream linen suited, waking Jimmy tumbled off his chair into a pool of discarded red wine. It was then we realised that we had consumed more than enough. We retired at 4.00am. having, at last, enjoyed the wedding.

The curse of July

Fri.28.07.06. I have returned from a quite excellent trip to France, consuming 30 litres of wine, smoking 4 cartons of fags, producing 5 landscape works of pure genius and, luckily escaping only one near fatal accident. I had forgotten to pack the bubble wrap so I should have realised that at some point I would self inflict. These sorry ‘Julys’ have now been haunting me for a number of years. It all began during an ‘end of term’ dinner party when I managed to puncture myself in the head with a corkscrew after attempting to open the last bottle of wine. The following year at a friends’ barbeque, almost to the day, I carelessly tripped over a garden sculpture smartly smacking my scull against a nearby fountain feature. Fortunately, the paramedics skilfully managed to resuscitate me before I croaked. Because of these weird but regular July accidents I have traditionally been respectful of the 6^th.  But nevertheless, always when one feels safe, confident that the curse has been lifted, something is waiting to jump up and grab you by the nuts, so characteristically, the demon struck again when a temporary staircase collapsed, dumping me 3 metres below a bruised and battered wreck. Building a platform at the bottom of my courtyard was to be my French summer project. The ‘poutres’ were positioned carefully; the parquet floor slotted together perfectly; the whole task had been completed reminiscent of a true artisan. I only had to ‘sheet up’ to protect my wonderful floor against the unforgiving Winter weather. 

Eventually, the final section of tarpaulin was dragged onto the platform to complete the jigsaw. Even though Jo had persistently warned me against the dangers of not securing the staircase, a very basic primary health and safety issue, I was quite satisfied because it had supported me all week, so why not today? For a seasoned craftsperson this was an absurd suggestion, coming from an inexperienced ‘lady’, her opinion need not be heeded: big mistake. In my excitement to finish I hit the first step a little too vigorously causing it to collapse. When I was eventually re-united with the fallen structure I vaguely recall an assortment of items, which I had beforehand stored meticulously below, suddenly appeared, hazily orchestrated, noiselessly and leisurely circling in the dust, above my head. As I stared up from the ground, assorted garden tools, discarded nuts, bolts and screws,  half empty tins of paint and varnish, accompanied by various discarded off cuts of timber had  simultaneously become airborne from the impact. Several minor cuts, enormous ‘fuck off’ purple bruises, two broken toes were the consequences of my conceit, carelessness and apathy, simply because I had chosen to ignore my wife’s advice, ‘caution’.

We had purposely returned early from France to attend the wedding on Saturday of the daughter of Tim and Margaret Hilton (the ‘stitch up’ characters from the Post and Cron), but arriving back on Friday afternoon meant that we could catch up with the gang down at the Oak. Everyone was assembled in the beer garden the ‘tales’ already freely flowing. A most recent adventure had found Chris, Preacher Steven and Danny Brennan ‘off roading’ on the woodland, that Chris had acquired many years before, situated, conveniently, adjoining the Douglas valley. Each had taken their turn at the wheel, bouncing around doggedly dodging saplings in the arid river flood plain of the valley. It soon became an opportunity for Chris to prove his driving prowess confidently taking the wheel. Bish, bosh, bash over the bumps, into the gullies the old Discovery lurched from side to side. Everybody chuckled like kids as they haphazardly destroyed micro ecosystems as indigenous young beech, birch and chestnut were crushed under the plodding wheels of the steel beast. But ‘mother nature’ can often fight her own corner speedily affecting retribution against the wrongdoers: and so she did. Chris astutely managed to find the only patch of swamp in the arid parched valley. Oddly, the UK this summer had recorded many of the highest temperatures since 1066, in particular throughout July absolutely no rain had fallen. “No problem for the Disco!” Chris boldly claimed as he sank deeper up to both axles. Increased revving pulled the old tank further into the black lagoon. She listed heavily to the left before Danny and Chris abandoned ship. Steven was trapped in the boiler room the tide relentlessly rising. “I never thought that it would do that?” puzzled Chris. Steven by now had escaped through a window, God be praised. Danny was quietly amused that the maestro could scuttle his own vessel, casting them adrift to the mercies of huge airborne horseflies ‘strafing’ randomly, generously accompanied by other fiercely aggressive insects. No amount of digging out, packing under, pushing or pulling could move the green Goddess. A call from Chris’s mobile summoned Alan with a 3 litre Range Rover (coincidently bought from Chris 3 months ago, but still not paid for) to perform the act of International Rescue. They have not been ‘off roading’ since. Danny, in the meantime, has had an adverse reaction to the horse bites being stricken to his bed for 3 days; Steven has sought the sanctuary of the Church whilst Chris has been licking his wounds. 

By the end of the evening we had all been ‘over served’, so unsurprisingly in our separate ways, we became involved with the usual foolish drunken pranks. Chris was bopping with Jo, Knocker was devoting most of his energies sniffing hungrily around a stunning Indian girl, Lowtie loudly quoted from the chronicles of planet Lowton to anyone who could listen, Doctor Dave as per usual decided to inform the rock band where they were going badly wrong, Mad John had completely shut down, Joe Berry was pissing himself. I recall the old proverb, “try everything in life at least once, except incest and Morris dancing”, I would also include in this maxim avoiding Stella Artois. It was time to go home.

Chassis problems

Fri.23.06.06. I have had an early start in an attempt to make the most of the day. I have posted the exchange components to Rimmers: when received they will offer a reconciliation figure measured against the rest of the parts. The true figure should be available, probably around midweek. They should then contact Chris with the finite amount before they dispatch the goods. 

Later in the morning we returned to Slicks to pick up the pieces from the day before. The jump leads were at the ready it being very unlikely that the transporter would start: but bugger me it did. We chugged around to Cyrils to, at long last, deliver the chassis. ‘Proud as Punch’ Chris explained to Mark exactly what was required. All the 4mm steel fabricated patches were to be welded to the relevant, identified weaker areas of the box section together with the supplementary stop ends to reinforce the overall strength. 

The newly designed rear unit should be secured parallel to the spider section; this will house the petrol tank that in addition supports the boot space. The entire chassis should then be shot blasted, to be later galvanised, guaranteeing its longevity. I feel sure the boys will finish the welding perfectly to make an already wonderful piece of 50’s engineering even better. The final treatments should re-define the appearance providing a superlative foundation on which to attach both the new and reconditioned parts. We climbed into the cab satisfied that we were at last making genuine progress. Slightly distracted, soaking in the pleasure of the past few moments I turned the engine over without waiting for the heat exchangers to kick in, the result was that the battery flattened, disappointingly the old fucker wouldn’t start. “What have I told you about that, you friggin’ wanker!” exploded Chris, but in the same sentence began to critisize Slick for allowing the machine to decay into this unreliable, worthless wreck. “This is so embarrassing, it’s definitely going, I am having no more of it: never mind, we have at least delivered the chassis”. Chris began to accept the situation, he phoned Slick who promptly came to our rescue with some jump leads. We were soon on our way back to Westmead for an impressive ‘tidy up’ in preparation for the next stage of the exercise. We re-sited the trestles placing the body tub centrally in the workshop to facilitate all round access. By the end of the afternoon we had dry built the car using the old rubber wing spacers to attach the nose cone and front wings. This will determine the precise location of the new boltholes that secure the tub to the chassis but will also replicate how the car will actually be constructed.

As I leave for France on Monday for 5 weeks, Chris has asked me to reconcile all present expenditure. I think he is concerned that we might be getting carried away by over spending on the project. I have also attempted to ensure that everything is in place whilst I am away so that Chris can progress nicely on his own. Nearly all of the shitty jobs are behind us, when the chassis returns and the new components have arrived Chris should have a ‘ball’ putting it all together. Bientot.    

Don't mess with the DVLA

Thurs.22.06.06. I called the Manchester branch of the DVLA today speaking to Nikki Hannan who had arranged an appointment for the inspection of the Burlington on the 4^th.of July. Luckily I shall be in France, so consequently I have postponed the meeting until mid September. I did manage to ‘pick her brains’ regarding the form of the inspection, which has increasingly caused a ‘simmering’ anxiety. “An inspector will visit to ensure that the serial numbers of the engine and chassis match those of the registration document. To ratify that the car is what it is supposed to be i.e. a Triumph with a converted body. Once this information has been confirmed the records at Swansea can be updated. It is not a roadworthy inspection but merely to verify the identification details of the car are accurate”. 

She did mention that there may be a need to issue a new registration number but normally this only arises when the body is of ‘monocoque’ construction and the drive train has been separated from the body. In any event it will not matter one jot because I intend placing my cherished plate on the car 8018 NE. However, it is imperative that all of this correspondence is withheld for the moment; keeping this information close to my chest is vital for the sake of harmony. I know that this apparent ‘investigation’ by the infamous DVLA would completely freak Chris, the toys would, unquestionably, be thrown out of the pram.

The day has not started well. During the morning I was asked to collect David’s car from the Volvo dealership in Warrington ensuring that the invoice was made out to CB Motors, since Chris had given me a cheque to pay the bill. I had experienced a fuckin’ awful morning on the ‘flowers’ first being jerked around by Gaylord (mincing Kevin) and then by the ‘slag’ Tracy: I was running late, I still had to pick up Kenny the other driver, I had the pressure of an endless day in front of me so the ‘invoice title’ had completely slipped out of my mind. As expected I experienced the first ear bashing of the day. “You fuckin’ idiot I told you not to give them the cheque unless the bill was in my name, I give up!” ranted Chris. “Never mind, I’ll get around it somehow, but you are a friggin’ dipstick!”

The evening before, I had packaged the ‘exchange units’ for Rimmers including a covering letter auditing the old components. I included a comprehensive list of the new components that we had also requested: both documents I proudly presented to Chris. But, as with most ‘exchange’ items there is usually a ‘get out’ clause which permits the supplier to charge full price if the exchanged goods are beyond reclamation, on reflection, considering the quality of our old rusting brake callipers they may well fall into this category. It wasn’t very long before Chris had glanced down the list, “Is, for instance, this surcharge of £90 for the callipers subtracted immediately from the total bill or reimbursed later when they have decided whether or not they have any value? Listen, just listen, I’m not going to send a cheque foolishly hoping that they will return the difference by 2010: they can fuck off. I thought that you were going to put everything in one box with one letter so that it would be dealt with simultaneously. One box, one letter, one ‘total to pay’ at the bottom! It’s not rocket science. Fuck me, you can’t get the staff these days!” I responded by venturing to suggest that we should phone Rimmers to ask what the procedure would be in this situation, but it fell on deaf ears. The matter was closed. And so, I suffered the second bollocking of the day.

The day was rapidly overtaking us yet we still planned to take the chassis to Andy and Mark for the final welding. I ran over to Slick’s for the car transporter rushing back to Westmead to load it with the intention of ferrying it over to the boys. We secured it on the transporter, climbed in the cab but the ‘piece of shit’ wouldn’t start. “I’ve told you before,  wait for the heat exchanges to warm up, now you’ve flattened the battery, arsehole! What’s going on today, I don’t believe it, the fuckin’ neighbours will have a field day, the world’s against me, the fuckin’ place looks like a scrap yard!” This groundless tirade washed over me, because by now I too had suffered more than enough from earlier, incessant unwarranted criticism. When matters had calmed down I returned to Slick’s for some jump leads to kick start the wreck. The engine rumbled into life, the problem was solved. We had missed the boys at Cyrils but at least the chassis was loaded, the transporter safely stored in Slick’s yard, ready to be easily moved tomorrow. “It’s a piece of crap, it always let’s us down, Slick uses the fuckin’ thing but doesn’t maintain it! I’ve had enough, it’s fuckin’ going! but not until we have finished the Burlington.” This was the only ray of hope that sustained me at the end of a weary day.       

Interweb chaos

Weds.21.06.06. I did waste a little too much time contacting Gavin who by now sounded very unenthusiastic about selling many of his wonderful parts: particularly when I suggested if it would be possible for me to ‘cherry pick’ the tasty ones. I tempted him by offering to buy his engine, head, diff, master cylinders, wheels, seats, carburettors, virtually everything that I could think of. But, the longer the conversation relentlessly continued the more distant and vague he became. It was almost as if he had only so much energy before he faded off into the background to recharge his batteries: I didn’t mean to exert pressure but I also considered that there would be only so much that I could declare that may ‘twist his arm’.

At the end of the negotiations his only response was “I don’t really know what I want to do?” I attempted several more phone calls but the resistance grew more defiant until there was absolutely no response what so ever, he had slipped silently into cyberspace. It was a typical case of mixed feelings, since spending the best part of a month collating the definitive list for Rimmers I wasn’t prepared to merely throw it away or persuade Chris that it may be beneficial to change our approach to finding all the required parts. Revisiting the Gavin issue I convinced myself that I would probably have to purchase the entire stock, his tools, ramps, jacks, overalls, work boots, even his centrally heated, brick built garage, possibly his dull, empty wife along with his rabid dog and mangy cat. I suppose Gavin will, in due course, slither comfortably into the fuck off bin.

There was no sign of Chris when I turned up at Westmead so I was able to sneak the windscreen back without him knowing. Game, set and match. We have not worked on the car today because of business. I just hope that we can meet as many deadlines as possible before the end of the week, but time is running out.

Bollocking and more

Tues.20.06.06. Fortunately, when I finally arrived Chris was already in full swing preparing the chassis for corrective welding, as a result he hadn’t noticed the broken screen. Now exposed, with the body panels removed the naked chassis can be fully appreciated. In its original state it was in very good condition needing only minor welds to the outriggers. With the addition of the modifications to the rear end, extensions to the central outriggers adjacent to the re-modelled inner bumper and wing restraints it presents an extremely professional persona. When the final welds are in place, the sandblasting followed by the powder coating are completed this engineering masterpiece will form the solid backbone of the car. 

This morning rather fortuitously, next to the flower market I discovered, a unit full of old cars, go-karts and scooters. Towards the back of the unit there was an old Triumph Spitfire. The unit was being used as storage for ‘Fixed Up’ a charitable organisation that runs vocational training courses for disaffected kids. Chatting to the person in charge he informed me the main garage was at New Springs and if I wanted to know more I should talk to a guy called Ian Tomlinson who ‘appens to be the main mon’. The garage was sprinkled with juveniles of all ages, shapes and sizes, all wearing the ‘uniform’, distinctly  badged up with the corporate logo, E.D.F. (educationally dysfunctional fucker), the chequered Burberry baseball cap, dirty grey Nike polo shirt, black on white Kappa baggy tracksuit, bottoms tucked into white socks stuck inside brown Timberland boots,  loosened, undone laces. High cheekbones on narrow, pimply ashen faces, ear rings, nose rings, lip rings, dick rings, tongue studs, eye studs, belly studs, muff studs, tattooed necks, fingers and foreheads; clones prolific in every town in the UK. Our society has certainly nothing fear, if such juveniles represent our future generation. I understand that our government, in its wisdom, have labelled this united group as NEETS. These are people principally between the ages of 16 to 25, both male and female adolescent youths, ‘persons who are Not in Employment, Education or Training’. There is a prediction that the present numbers of this collective will grow menacingly as the jobs that could be available to them will be gobbled up by the rapidly increasing immigrant population; who conversely, tend to have a durable, resolute work ethic unlike our indigenous equivalents who regularly refuse any offer of a job. The demographic spread also reveals that within the ‘NEETS’ there are increasing numbers of drug and alcohol abusers, single parent families and benefit dodgers. Maybe, I could be ‘tarring’ this ‘cooperative’ of oddballs with the same brush, but we shall have to wait and see.

Later in the afternoon I planned a visit to ‘Fixed up’ to check out the quality of the components. I was met by Ian in his well tooled up garage, the forecourt of which was littered with cars in various states of dis-repair. I explained that I had, coincidently, just met one of his colleagues at the market and that I was interested in any Triumph parts that he may want to get rid of. “I’m placing a £2000 order with Rimmers tomorrow but I would prefer to buy the parts from you, thus, generously adding to your ‘charitable’ pot instead of their capitalist coffers” I spuriously grovelled, badly mimicking Uriah Heep. They were not his to sell but they belonged to another work colleague who presently was ‘on the sick’ (I could never guess why) but he suggested that I should “Go onto E’bay”. Oh fuck, another Dick anorak. He fired up his machine whilst informing me of the countless bargains that he’d acquired on the site. “See that 5 series BM, £200. They thought it had a busted gearbox but it was only a faulty connector. I fixed it up with a £10 cable ‘off  eBay’ , what do you think about that?” Fuck all, thought I.

After typing in the details a wealth of advertisements were displayed on his PC. There were complete cars, used parts, brand new, boxed parts, everything that I was about give two grand for at Rimmers, but for a fraction of the price. “What do you think about that?” boasted Ian, humble pie springs to mind. Ian found one particular vendor who appeared to have everything that I wanted. New boxed parts direct from the supplier, abandoned project forces sale. An e’mail was sent immediately with my details. Later in the evening Gavin called from Doncaster with the good news that he had recently spent £1800 with Rimmers for a Spitfire project that he, cannot continue with because he recently suffered a heart attack. The burning question is, should I tell Chris? Encouraging the response, “you stupid bastard I told you to go on E’bay ages ago” might be his immediate reaction, so I could land myself buried deeply in the cak, but equally I could be in liquid doo doo if I don’t tell him. I decided to e’mail Gavin with all my requirements half hoping that none of the parts would be compatible.   

I have started to mock up the dashboard and engine compartment with cardboard. The boys at Cyrils can use the engine panels as templates for the aluminium lining that they will cut and fold into the required shapes. These will eventually cover and finish off the bay. The dashboard pieces should help Dave Brown when he begins constructing and altering the cockpit area.

I was later dispatched to meet ‘Warning light’ Mike, in the afternoon, to transfer a car to Salford. It was this opportunity that I was patiently waiting for all day. I smuggled the ‘injured’ windscreen out of the garage secreting the damaged item under the rear seat of the Land Rover. Before meeting Mike I wizzed the said screen around to Mark who expertly patched it up. When asked by Chris as to where the screen has been I shall claim that Jo wanted to see what a wonderful job we had made of it. Check mate.