Burt the shirt

Tues.15.08.06. We had no sooner finished our ‘chunks’ in celebration of eventually completing the body panels when a solution had to be found regarding the fixing of the engine panels to the tub. We debated the problem for three hours, deciding at one point to complete the procedure with separate pieces, conversely after further discussion this direction was reversed reverting back to ‘fixed’. But like everything else concerned with the re-build any one decision can affect many other future proposals on the car. After gentle persuasion we both agreed that if the tub and panels were to become ‘one’ they must be added to a rolling chassis as separate items bonded only when all angles, brackets and fixing points have been pre-determined. In other words it is imperative that adjacent body panels are also considered and assembled in ‘situ’. This structured method should increase the probability of a permanent, solid and ‘crack free’ joint.

The inevitable despondency of the day encouraged an early departure to the Oak where we found Lewis and Steven claiming a spot by the bar. Lord Salty and Robert the clone arrived soon after, followed by Jamie with his girlfriend of  big ‘charlies’ fame. Lewis confirmed that so far there had been nothing to report regarding the dripping tap at Planet Lowton: “Perhaps, I’ll have a opportunity next week when I finish his staircase?” Almost the entire population of the Oak is waiting eagerly for the wheeze to begin.

Meanwhile, Philip had brought in the bankruptcy report from the local Merc dealer who had fittingly gone bust for £900,000. How fucking sad is that, we are supposed to be in the pub for gay banter, amusing exchanges enjoying frivolous nonsense, not to read a financial document. 

I recall a conversation I once had with Andy Lewis when he said that he in actual fact gains a great deal of perverse pleasure from the odd chat with Philip, “Because he is the only bloke he knows who is not, and never will be, in touch with the real world”. “Look at these wages for the debt assessor, £1000 per hour for the big cheese going down to £84.00 for a simple, mindless receptionist. They have claimed £94,568.00 for five days work, bloody ridiculous; they only owe me £50.00, I am not really bothered whether I retrieve it or not!” lied Captain Salt. “Aye, if he’s not bothered about £50.00, the Popes a Muslim,” muttered a sceptical Chris. “I’ll tell you something,” started Chris, in the hope of lifting the tone, “listen, have you read about Marlon Brando in the Times? He was ambidextrous. I thought he was a bit strange when he was using that margarine in Last Tango in Paris.” “Was it Stork?” I enquired. “Shut up, you daft bugger, listen, he was caught by David Niven in a swimming pool naked with Laurence Olivier. Vivien Leigh watched as Larry stuck a lip on him whilst Marlon was braking down the brown door. 

Oh, he’s had all sorts, top actresses and top actors. He’s even had his best mate Burt Lancaster!” “No way!” hoped Steven whose matinee idol was butch Burt. “Aye, they used to call him Burt the Shirt in Hollywood,” Chris cruelly countered. “I’ll never see The Crimson Pirate in the same light again,” sniffed the distraught Steven. Sensing blood, Chris offered to bring the article down to the office to be pinned up for everyone to see. “It’s all there in black and white, read it and weep!” “I think it’s time I went home,” blubbered Steven.