Fri.13.10.06. Lost again. I received the dreaded phone call around 10.30am. “Colin has pronounced the exhaust system is in fact a piece of shite, there is little hope of it ever fitting the car, the carburettors should have been free considering their condition, the rev counter works backwards and the prop shaft is not new but a rough ‘cobbled up’ illustration of a painted downspout; we’ve been done again mate!” and a very good morning to you, Christopher, I cheerfully replied.
On arrival at Westmead two glum faced, disappointed, troubled people greeted me. It was obvious that every feasible permutation had been attempted to fit the exhaust system but the simple fact was that because of the comprehensive adjustments to the drive train any standard, off the shelf manifold, pipes and back box would not fit. Colin is capable of cutting, welding and forming any conceivable combination of twists and turns but the effort involved would have been misspent as the stainless steel itself was of a very poor quality, consequently it would probably not have withstood the major surgery required. The twin SU’s for £70.00, according to Colin was daylight robbery, and would not even justify the purchase of a repair kit to set them up; (I wondered if Colin would like to make an exhaust system and come to think of it, he may also have a spare Webber lying around?) The burning question was whether or not Big Max would stand by his word refunding the money on the returned goods. “There are all the same, thieving, lying, robbing bastards; I don’t know why we bother with them, you’ll not get your money back!” the mood in the workshop deteriorated further as I began to load the Discovery with the unwanted parts despondently setting off down the M6 to Totally Triumph.
Max was up to his eyes in sparks from his angle grinder as he edgily toiled away on a £6000.00 renovation project commissioned by another deluded soul who thinks that they will have the best car on the block when the work has been completed. I do not include myself in this band of misguided fools but I have witnessed this scenario many times; I have the ‘T’ shirt with MUG logo emblazoned on the front having also seen the movie. No amount of money thrown at a third party will ensure perfect results. It is not their car, they have little or no personal baggage or emotional connection with the vehicle, as such they couldn’t give a rats whether the final product was good, bad or ugly (Clint Eastwood, that slimy bloke with slitty eyes and the ‘short, fat, bit part’ actor with a foreign name). Looking up from his labours Max smiled but he unsurprisingly sensed that I wasn’t there to buy more stuff but bring back the bits that we did not want. “No problem, I told you at the time that I would ‘refund’ and that’s what I’ll do, I’m not like that slippery twat up the road, most people in this game would never return ‘money’, but I am a man of my word!” Sure enough after several counts on his fingers we both concluded that I should receive £130.00 together with a replacement drive shaft, but I had incurred a charge of £10.00 for splitting one shaft and battering the shite out of the other one.
The meeting had been amicable so much so I felt bold enough to ask him why he was taking so many pills and not drinking. “I’ve got diabetic homophobia, the worst case in Britain,” I recalled the previous conversation about ‘swirl’ so, just as before I didn’t ask whether or not he was a ‘sugar free member of the BNP’ or I may have simply misheard the name of his medical problem. “Not long ago I was hospitalised in ICU for five weeks, this morning I fell over and couldn’t get up, there are some days when I am just aching all over as if run over by a steam roller, I shouldn’t really be working, I should never have started this business anyway having to deal with the general public with their painfully whingeing stories about their precious fuckin’ cars: anything else you want to know?” Perhaps I should not have asked him the question in the first place but we shook hands, I wished him well and with much relief crawled up the motorway back to Wigan.
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