Later in the day we went to meet Steve and John of S and J motors hopefully to see some ‘out of the box’ Triumph parts. Whittle le Woods, Chorley, as pretty as it is, has remained in splendid isolation from the rest of Lancashire, for a minimum of two centuries. Being protected from the Industrial Revolution, both world wars, basically any experience that the civilised world has thrown up or forgotten. As such it is firmly believed to have a population of inbreds, simple folk who count toes co-existing comfortably with numpties who regularly point to the sky when an aeroplane passes over. I had met Steve at Stoneleigh, the week before, and apart from his soulless staring eyes and his expressionless, vacant manner, I thought that he was quite an agreeable sort of person, all of this I couldn’t communicate to Chris because of his innate distrust of anyone who sells anything concerned with the motor trade. In all honesty, compared with many of the people I had spoken to at the show, Steve was fundamentally an intellect.
The two brothers lived at Springview, Shaw Brow, Whittle le Woods. Asking directions from Steve, earlier in the day, he replied very concisely, “If you go past Shaw Hill Golf Club you will have gone past”. I requested further clues but there was no response. We eventually found Shaw Brow but not Springview. After travelling up and down the hill several times I phoned again still unable to locate the business. His mother answered, asking where we were. “We are on Shaw Brow next to a restaurant and opposite Shaw Hill Golf Club,” I explained. “Depending where you are you are only 20 feet away from the house,” returned Moma Steve. I, once more, repeated our position. “Are you at the beginning or the end of Shaw Brow?” questioned Moma. “I don’t know where it starts,” said I, still confused. “It starts at the bottom and goes to the top, but that depends on which way you come in,” replied Moma the philosopher. “So, we are only 20 feet away,” I confirmed, “How do you know?” I, again, questioned. “Because I can see you in your Land Rover,” Moma replied calmly. We walked up the drive and waited but there was no sign of Moma, Steve or John. Moma then came to door smiling asking us where Steve was. Surprisingly, we did not know. Chris had not said a word until now but I could sense that he thought that I had fucked up once more. His understanding and opinion of the people involved in kit car construction was on a level with Tax collectors, Police, Politicians, Doctors, Bus drivers, lady drivers, the bar staff at the Oak, Knockers singing, selling to the public, the traffic in Standish, tete dust, foreign people, sunshine, wind, rain, snow and Chavs.
When Steve appeared this view of flaky, bearded geeks was about to be reinforced. I was immediately reminded of the same empty expression I recalled from Stoneleigh. As he greeted us grinning I noticed a strange sparkle coming from his mouth. Over the next agonising minutes this tiny bijou was being continually caught by the bright sunlight, almost hypnotically we were transfixed by this image. The spell was broken when John arrived and proceeded to carefully open the boot of his car revealing the parts that we had travelled to see. In a blue plastic box were examples of what we were searching for: boxed, original ‘Stanpart’ components. Calipers, trunnions, wheel bearings, rubber bushes, engine and gear box mountings. Chris began to brighten as both he and John exchanged stories of wishbones, gearing ratios, spring tolerances, valve clearances, steering racks, laser alignment, wheel camber, Dunlop or Michelin, 427 or 335 which was the best? Spax or Konis, vinyl or leather, jumpers for goalposts, spit or swallow. The sparing continued for 30 minutes, each winning alternative rounds. Chris was now a fully paid up member of the club. He had become ‘Anorak’. Steve stood silent and motionless whilst the bout continued, only offering occasional support for his brother. I was feeling relieved whilst gloating from the success of the visit Chris reminded me that I still had not made a list of the essential parts that we needed and if John was to source these parts he must have a list. “You have let me down again, you are slower than a Mexican donkey, get your act together, shape up, I keep telling you but you don’t listen!” “Do you mean the itemised list that I made for Rimmers with part numbers, inclusive or exclusive of V.A.T., sub totals and final totals. The one that gave you two months ago,” I was about to say, but thought more of it, and merely replied that I would prioritise his demand over the weekend.
The two brothers lived at Springview, Shaw Brow, Whittle le Woods. Asking directions from Steve, earlier in the day, he replied very concisely, “If you go past Shaw Hill Golf Club you will have gone past”. I requested further clues but there was no response. We eventually found Shaw Brow but not Springview. After travelling up and down the hill several times I phoned again still unable to locate the business. His mother answered, asking where we were. “We are on Shaw Brow next to a restaurant and opposite Shaw Hill Golf Club,” I explained. “Depending where you are you are only 20 feet away from the house,” returned Moma Steve. I, once more, repeated our position. “Are you at the beginning or the end of Shaw Brow?” questioned Moma. “I don’t know where it starts,” said I, still confused. “It starts at the bottom and goes to the top, but that depends on which way you come in,” replied Moma the philosopher. “So, we are only 20 feet away,” I confirmed, “How do you know?” I, again, questioned. “Because I can see you in your Land Rover,” Moma replied calmly. We walked up the drive and waited but there was no sign of Moma, Steve or John. Moma then came to door smiling asking us where Steve was. Surprisingly, we did not know. Chris had not said a word until now but I could sense that he thought that I had fucked up once more. His understanding and opinion of the people involved in kit car construction was on a level with Tax collectors, Police, Politicians, Doctors, Bus drivers, lady drivers, the bar staff at the Oak, Knockers singing, selling to the public, the traffic in Standish, tete dust, foreign people, sunshine, wind, rain, snow and Chavs.
When Steve appeared this view of flaky, bearded geeks was about to be reinforced. I was immediately reminded of the same empty expression I recalled from Stoneleigh. As he greeted us grinning I noticed a strange sparkle coming from his mouth. Over the next agonising minutes this tiny bijou was being continually caught by the bright sunlight, almost hypnotically we were transfixed by this image. The spell was broken when John arrived and proceeded to carefully open the boot of his car revealing the parts that we had travelled to see. In a blue plastic box were examples of what we were searching for: boxed, original ‘Stanpart’ components. Calipers, trunnions, wheel bearings, rubber bushes, engine and gear box mountings. Chris began to brighten as both he and John exchanged stories of wishbones, gearing ratios, spring tolerances, valve clearances, steering racks, laser alignment, wheel camber, Dunlop or Michelin, 427 or 335 which was the best? Spax or Konis, vinyl or leather, jumpers for goalposts, spit or swallow. The sparing continued for 30 minutes, each winning alternative rounds. Chris was now a fully paid up member of the club. He had become ‘Anorak’. Steve stood silent and motionless whilst the bout continued, only offering occasional support for his brother. I was feeling relieved whilst gloating from the success of the visit Chris reminded me that I still had not made a list of the essential parts that we needed and if John was to source these parts he must have a list. “You have let me down again, you are slower than a Mexican donkey, get your act together, shape up, I keep telling you but you don’t listen!” “Do you mean the itemised list that I made for Rimmers with part numbers, inclusive or exclusive of V.A.T., sub totals and final totals. The one that gave you two months ago,” I was about to say, but thought more of it, and merely replied that I would prioritise his demand over the weekend.
We shook hands with Sheep-dip Steve and Jethro John promising that an order form would be in the post. We may have struck gold with these characters; we both live in hope.
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