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.