Chalk and Cheese

Tues.03.10.06. The day has reaped mixed blessings. A visit to Nutty Steve has sealed his fate. The once promised total refund for the gearbox and seats has transformed into exchange goods only. Thieving, lying Steve refused a refund on the grounds that it was ‘company policy’ to only offer exchange goods to the amount owed rather than returning the cash that had been handed over. 

Chris was not pleased referring to him as not being a gentleman strenuously reminding him of the initial agreement when he plainly stated that there would “not be a problem” if any of the parts were faulty or did not fit the car. “I never said that I would give any money back, I only said that I would exchange!” lied, long nosed Steve. Chris walked off to stabilise his blood pressure whilst I negotiated a deal for any ‘new’ parts that he had or that we wanted. These turned out to be front wheel bearings, a repair kit for the master cylinders and a pair of track rod ends. We left Steve’s den of thieves with Chris still simmering hungrily planning his revenge. He intends to unleash the ‘wolves’ in the form of “Beeny’s Posse”, a ruthless team of forceful characters who are well practised at retrieving debt. “That friggin’, smirking, lying bastard will not get away with this, I really hate people like him, he should have been drowned at birth, the thieving fucker!”

Chris was still smouldering by the time we had reached Max at Totally Triumph, a place that I had only previously described. I was hoping that the workshops, stores and the general ordered rich environment of ‘T.T.’ might lift his spirits, in due course confining Steve to the dark recesses of his unforgiving mind. But, upon arrival, Chris could not resist an opening shot, first of all condemning Rimmers as conmen followed by ‘the bloke down the road’, as a “robbing git”.

Once it had been established who this ‘Git’ was Max filled in the spaces. “He used to work here until I flattened him. He then set up on his own next to his mother’s house. The council have since closed him down allegedly, stopping him from trading: he’s a right twat. He was always trying to take business from here after I had sacked him. One time an old lady wanted a raft of parts for a “Doli”. He slyly intercepted her before she arrived at my place, ripping her off by selling poorly serviced, damaged, dangerous units. This was the last straw so later that night I followed him to the pub with the sole intention of hurting him real bad. Unfortunately, he was with a mate. I only damaged his mate a little but Steve had to have it; so I broke both of his lower ribs, you know the ones that take ages to heal and hurt like fuck. Give him is due though, he got up once, but he stayed down after the second,” explained big Max.

Max proudly showed us reconditioned heads, stainless steel exhausts, five and half J wheels, an abundance of clocks and (would you believe it) a working overdrive box. He was being constantly bombarded with questions, all of which he answered with authority as well as calm patience. This was an Aladdin’s cave of delights. Everything that we had searched the entire country for has been here all the time only 30 minutes away. Had it not been for that chance encounter with the customer at Rimmers who suggested Paddocks, who in turn coughed up Totally Triumph, we would still be pissing in the wind grubbing around planet Triumph for decent components. “Don’t buy your new bits from me, I’m not selling you any, there’s nothing in it for me. I hate selling fuckin’ stuff; I would just rather work on cars, look at this”. Max rolled back a dust sheet to reveal a pristine GT6. that he had rebuilt to concours condition. He carefully and slowly lifted the bonnet to expose the gleaming straight six, polished auxiliaries, immaculately routed pipe work buttressed on either side by perfectly balanced suspension units. This was a picture, a labour of love, a craftsman’s work, the final example that turned a black day into the rosy sunset.

Paddocks will receive the bulk order for new parts; Max will supply anything he is prepared to let us have. Steve can, forever rot in the caustic bowels of the ‘fuck off bin’.