More advice from Max

Meanwhile I have got back onto the horse spending most of the morning making endless phone calls to ensure the project gently rolls on over this difficult period. Phil at XRN now promises the stage 2 head by the 18^th whilst Danny is hiding in Manchester on a ‘photo shoot’. Locating quarter inch copper fuel line in Wigan has proved impossible, but luckily, whilst at the plumbers’ merchants another customer recommended the White Bear Marina. 

Normally supplying the boating industry, they happen to stock the exact size of UNF pipe. I managed to purchase 5mts for £11.66. Also, during the morning, Terry Trimmer showed me a selection of leathers, each of varying colour and quality. After much deliberation a combination of Jade green seats in addition to incidentals heightened by Connaught green piping was the chosen option. Not as ‘up your bum’ as magnolia, which has become somewhat ‘chavvy’ seen regularly in 3 series drop head BMW’s driven by Moss-side drug pushers, this colour scheme oozes class also, potentially, having a longer life. My final call took me to Max to collect a new fly wheel, 8 second hand but tempered push rods, a split oil pressure, water temperature gauge, complete with 2 umbilical cords and 6 top front spring nuts and washers: all for £56.00 (a good SH flywheel £20.00, a clean SH split gauge for £20.00, 8 straight and matched push rods for £16.00 and the nuts and washers for free, because I had run out of money). Max only flipped once when his sugar level became too low. “I have spent too much fuckin time with you guys over these fuckin’ clocks. Either make your fuckin’ mind up or fuck off!” But after 6 whole meal biscuits he settled down to his usual amenable self; until I asked him about carburettors. “I sold you a pair of crackin’ SU’s but you brought um’ back. You wankers don’t know what you are doin’. I don’t have any more good ones at present but I can give you the name of a straight dealer who could fix you up, but don’t mess him about like you’ve fuckin’ done with me. What ever you do, don’t go to that fucker in Haydock, he is a twat!” By now I had received too much information and informed Max that I would not go to that twat in Haydock but would cautiously telephone his friend Andrew Turner, the straight dealer. I exchanged £56 quid for the goods, left on the usual friendly terms promptly raced back to Scarisbrick Street to verify the quality of the merchandise. Sure enough Max was as good as his word the flywheel and rods have cleaned up a treat.   

I have endeavoured to put into place much of the schedule that Chris could possibly encounter whilst I am in France. However, I sense that Chris also wants to slow down. The combination of his long awaited excursion to the Lakes combined with the subconscious neglect of his business has created a peculiar yet understandable retrospective of the past 8 months. We both should enjoy these final, rewarding moments of the new build having carelessly spent foolish amounts of money on a quest for perfection. 

Keswick Capers

Mon.13.11.06. Chris has spent most of the weekend tidying and finishing odd jobs around the chassis. This type of work often passes unnoticed but generally occupies a great deal of time revealing the difference between a ‘cobbled fit up’, compared to that of a competent conclusion. Recently, Chris has been, justifiably, distracted by his annual trip to Keswick. 

This reunion of a few days has always been organised, to military precision, by Captain Salty who for the past weeks has been handing out detailed agendas to the invited members. Never having been invited I am never really sure how to actual qualify or what fulfils the entry criteria. Each year to maintain the ambient balance of the English party to that of the Scottish contingent it has always been necessary to reshuffle the peripheral membership by including new blood. This is primarily due to either sudden death, unwanted marriages into the family, new, past or rekindled friendships. Excluded persons receive the black spot particularly if they have of late suffered the embarrassment of bankruptcy, behaved very badly the year before or shagged a commoner. If I had to guess the true content of the trip I would suspect that it is simply several impossibly crammed days of over eating, drinking, watching bad rugby, singing morose Scottish loyalist folk tunes with huge doses of mutual back slapping. It has absolutely no interest to me what so ever. Whether I could be totally honest, when I eventually have to decline the future invite, is hard to call. “I am sorry I can’t attend this year or any other, because the thought of spending more than one hour with pompous, arrogant, patronising Scotsmen, listening to banal anecdotes of previous gloriously amusing weekends, Philip fussing around like a mother hen yet simultaneously and accidentally having his right hand in your wallet, consuming too much rich, yet shite food, guzzling crap, flat real ale, having only four hours sleep on a lumpy unforgiving mattress, pigging down the biggest, greasiest, dustbin lid of a local breakfast and finally the fond but meaningless, transparent, obviously fake and embarrassing, farewell hugs fills my entire body with unmitigated dread. In fact I would rather have my eyes poked out with hot rusty nails whilst having a student doctor check out my prostrate. ‘No thanks’.  But the tradition, for the past twenty years, of meeting old friends does have an appeal for many people and it should not be criticised or mocked. It strengthens old bonds, reinforces historical, proper, decent and acceptable social values and continues the myth that the Scots genuinely ‘like’ the English. Get a fuckin’ life!    

Marking Time

Mon.06.11.06. Another poor start to the week. The rear hubs have been cleaned and rust proofed. The bell housing has also been polished and is now ready to accept the clutch.

It is time for another list; whether it is used or not. 

Tues.07.11.06. There has been no work on the car today. It is a worrying time. 

Weds.08.11.06. A visit to Paddocks may kick start the project again. There was a refund on returned goods of £61.23 but a final bill of £78.19. This has included new hubs at £54.00, a gearlever bush kit at £25.30, a timing chain kit at £9.00, a fuel pump at £13.50, a core plug set at £3.15 and various nuts and bolts for the front and rear suspension.

Perhaps a break from the rebuild may rekindle the necessary appetite to finish the car. I am going to London to see Gemma and Paul. I shall return on Sunday. We have also planned an important trip on the 16^th. to France to shake up the bastards over there who promised faithfully to ‘look after my bike and garage my precious AX. I have a strong suspicion that neither of these assurances has not happened. So what’s new.      

Sat.11.11.06. Whilst staying with Gemma, Paul and I took in a visit to Brooklands racetrack, near Weybridge, Surrey. This has rekindled my enthusiasm to continue the project but with a slightly different perspective. The almost whimsical, jumbled, assembly of old, traditionally painted, unique race cars, corrugated steel and timber clad workshops, aged, craggy, oil soaked but enthusiastic knowledgeable volunteers, various collections of rusting, primitive, well worn hand tools and the simple glorious presence of this historically renowned site has clarified my mind to focus upon the real importance, pure necessity along with the authentic credibility of our labours. It has made my resolve even stronger that the Burlington will be finished especially thoughtfully, carefully and determinedly to the highest possible specification. 

I also noticed, whilst in London, that there was not one single male person sporting a moustache. I have, recently, convinced myself that the moustache that I have proudly groomed for the past 30 years is now redundant. Witnessing every clean face in the metropolis has persuaded me to lose the tash; it has never been so true that only gays and Wiganners have moustaches.

   

Stop smoking, big mistake

I have also discovered a disturbing side effect of not smoking. With ostensible interest I am beginning to converse with people that I would not normally engage. I recall an earlier conversation with ‘warning light’ Mike about the pros and cons of the Citroen AX and later in the evening I found myself chatting endlessly to Katie about her pregnancy, in particular how she felt about the baby’ journeying’ through her body, an ‘arty’ discussion with Adele about how Picasso represented ‘Guernica’  in bleak monochrome tones because he wanted to replicate the newsreel as well as the newspaper images of the time: I wonder if modern warfare is now echoed using bright, lurid colours to conform to high definition TV. Even, on leaving the Oak I found myself explaining my revolutionary ‘brainwashing technique’ to that ‘southern’ bloke who always stands at the other end of the bar minding his own business. His face remained completely blank as I attempted to market my flash cards as the undiscovered solution to the western world’s problem with the dreaded weed. This must stop, I shall return to smoking, becoming, once more, unsociable, rude and morose.

I did manage to return home with at least one endearing image. Lowtie had noticed that, in profile and with his recent hair style, Chris had a striking resemblance to that of Adolf Hitler. The rest of the group further convinced the eager but innocent victim to plaster his hair down, at the same time encouraging Emma to add the ‘makeup’ by pencilling in the fuhrer’s unique moustache using a black marker pen. Lowtie then produced, from nowhere, a German officer’s cap which completed the remarkable transformation. Having been previously over served with ten pints of Stella but eager to ‘run with’ the gag Chris goose-stepped up and down the vault, his right arm raised, chanting “sieg heil” to the entire pub. Exhausted, red faced but, also, flush with success he flopped into the nearest chair as the applause died down. Harry the rat had been summoned earlier to transport him back to Standish so Chris removed the cap but the ‘tash’ stayed put. Emma had used a chunky indelible ink marker that was also waterproof, spirit proof and bombproof. “What the frig am I going to do now?” To which Lowtie replied “You always wanted to rule the country, here’s your chance, when in Rome do as the Romans do, but when in Turkey, gobble. Anyway, they say that only gays and Wiganers sport a ‘tash’, these days, so who do want to be, ‘a fascist dictator’ or Larry Grayson. From where I am standing I know where I would place my bet”.  We all know that Lowtie expresses himself differently than a normal person but, nevertheless, we can recognise the basis of what he wants to say; even though it usually is born out of a strange twisted premise, it often contains uncanny wisdom. But not always: time for bed.  

Beautiful gearbox

Neil, of auto gearbox services, re-affirmed that it would have been impossible for the overdrive to have ever functioned properly. The operational valve was missing completely, the cone was also split. The linkage was sloppy and the thrust nut worn. The gearbox had been re-sealed and built up properly for £245.00. The total cost of the finished unit being £495.00.

This price, compared with other suppliers, is slightly less favourable, but not having an exchange box would consequently incur an extra surcharge, in any case this factor may have pushed the alternative choice over budget. Nonetheless, knowing that the work has been expertly and professionally undertaken categorically out ways the monetary issue. Returning excitedly with the box I found Chris finalising the assembly of the rear hubs. As more parts are added to the chassis the workshop is gradually emptying, larger areas of floor space have gradually been revealed. The past five days of graft, that initially appeared to be fruitless, was there to be examined, tenderly explored. Not at first sight a dramatic display of development but subtle unsung changes. “Don’t worry Ni, we’re getting there” and, we are!             

Even after ‘un bon douche’ and vigorous scrubbing with my new nailbrush I still carried, like an ASBO, the badge of dirt from the morning; aluminium polishing definitely leaves its mark. The past life of clean, sanitised working environments, silk ties, groovy shirts, pressed suits, shiny shoes, behind me I proudly showed off my grubby workman’s hands. 

At every opportunity I was more than happy to wave, point, scratch casually gesticulating to anyone around the bar. Flapping a twenty pound note I wasn’t really asking friends if they wanted a drink but was actually saying, “look, everybody at my grimy, blackened knarled fingers, I’ve worked damn hard today, with my hands, powerful electric man tools, not like you cissies, poncing and mincing about all day pen pushing, sitting in warm air conditioned offices. I am a real man”. The reality of this false boasting is that I genuinely detest having the slightest bit of shite under my fingernails, but it is probably the same adage to that of an ‘artist without an audience’ who cannot function. It is the recognition of ‘work’ by others that ultimately drives people on. Or, perhaps, just like Monica with a cigar, Posh spice with her solo singing career, ugly Welsh Maureen, who couldn’t drive and that fat loud bird from Rochdale with eight kids who was claiming 36 grand in benefits, it is the modern demise of talentless, self promoting slappers seeking celebrity with absolutely nothing to offer.  

Suspension

 Thurs.02.11.06. This has been another bitty day. During the morning the foot pedals, rear brake back plates along with the right hand radius arm have received their final coat of Hammerite. Terry has confirmed that he does not have a complete hide of Magnolia leather that was left with him four years ago: reiterating also, that if it was still in his possession it would probably be mouldy having suffered water damaged. He has suggested that a new, ‘medium to good’ quality hide will cost approximately £180.00: he awaits our instructions. The lower front spring bushes recommended by Revington TR have been returned. They are unnecessary, serve little or no purpose and fit quite badly.

The past few days have been slightly eerie and have felt like ‘the quiet before the storm’, ‘the retreating sea before the Tsunami’, ‘the bullet that is never heard’ or as Big Ron manager once said of Doug Ellis just before he was given his P45, “I have the total backing and support of my chairman”. There is a storm brewing.

Fri.03.11.06. Certainly not a storm but merely a fart of wind. The promised rapid rebuild of the car is not happening. Each piece of progress has been hard fought. The construction of many of the basic units has proved to be frustratingly difficult as much of the configuration and assembly is quite different to that of ‘mainstream’ or Ford engineering, which Chris is more familiar and accustomed to. The poor quality of modern machining of the replacement parts has also hindered the build as many of these new components do not fit as well as they ought. At this moment in time what is ‘on view’ at Westmead does not appear to be anything like the £9000 that has been actually spent.

Throughout the morning I had laboured monotonously, cleaning the slave cylinder collar, the thermostat housing, the bell housing and plate, plus also, the timing chain cover, all for the second time. Having cleaned, rust proofed and applied Hammerite to the cover previously Chris decided, as a final coat, to spray paint the external area of the object. But, the spray reacted with the Hammerite adversely and created a crusty pitted surface. This has had to be removed and re-treated. So, never, never, ever, ever spray over Hammerite: I suppose anyone can make mistakes? Although silvery in colour, aluminium is one of the dirtiest materials to clean. The dust is very fine, blacker than a black thing usually settling into every pore on one’s skin, into every imaginable orifice. When I had finished the cleaning process I resembled a ‘black and white minstrel’ with glowing teeth, sparking bulbous eyes beaming from beyond the black greasepaint. Luckily, I was rescued from my tasks by a phone call that took me to Preston to collect the re-built overdrive gearbox. 

Throwing more stones

                                        Burlington Diary November 2006.

Weds.01.11.06. This has not been the best start to the month as little progress has been made. The lower front shock absorber bushes have been fitted. Unfortunately, the ‘superflex bushes’ for the upper front that had been supplied were incorrect so they had to be modified by being cut into two halves then fed into the eye from either side of the shocker. Being over tight they were squeezed into place using the tension of the vice. They have been made to fit, but are far from ideal. Thankfully, Young Danny telephoned earlier to apologise for not returning my calls. He is back on track after some lucrative ‘modelling’ work in London: I didn’t pry. He will order and purchase the primer tomorrow to begin work on the wings by Friday.

“You know, we have made a lot of mistakes with this re-build going all over the country for crap parts, meeting thieves, liars, conmen and anoraks. We have wasted a load of time because we have just not been organised. Now, I blame you for that! You should have been on’t tinternet from the very start or wading through all the ‘classic car’ mags that I have offered, trudging over wet muddy fields at auto jumbles, getting into the ribs of suppliers: but you never listen! Not to worry, we are nearly there now!” Here we go again. 

I have begun to realise that I need to stop smoking. I have devised a psychological programme of self-induced brain washing. Using a series of flash cards that contain ‘in your face’ messages such as ‘it is possible to drink without smoking’ (I claim to smoke only when I partake of an alcoholic beverage) or ‘smoking makes you cough and afterwards you feel like shite’ or even more simply stated, ‘You can stop, you weak willed bastard’ or ‘smoking will kill you in a long drawn out fuckin’ horrible way, or ‘all your fuckin’ teeth will fall out, your skin will turn a wrinkly shade of yellow and you will smell like an old wet dog!’ I place these messages by my side during the evening and every time I feel the urge to light up I glance down to moronically repeat to myself one or two of the commands. I wonder why the KGB had never thought of these self inflicted, mind bending techniques profitably employed to convince the populace that they all in fact oil rich billionaires instead of penniless, worthless drug raddled peasants. The applications are endless. If the system works it is pure genius and I shall take out a patent before anyone else thinks of it. After two days I remain smoke free.   

Budget out of control?

Tues.31.10.06. The last day of October has driven home the reality that the car will not be finished for the Beaujolais Nouveau run on 16.11.06. 

This fact, as far as I was concerned had really never been in doubt. Since late summer the complications that had been created by the countless modifications along with endless time consuming improvements had deemed this outcome to be inevitable. I do not regret any of the developments as each has added to the quality, character and value of the Burlington. To use the term ‘value’ here does not refer to a ‘monetary’ gain but to one of ‘esteem or pride’. The car when finally completed will cease to be a ‘Kitcar’ but an individual, professionally designed and built, totally unique vehicle. Originally this was 001 Burlington SS, and will always remain so, but on closer examination it is far from that earlier primitive, naive concept. The car will be for life, not in the future, becoming an outgrown forgotten toy. The budget at present stands at £8537.26: so the fuckin’ car is not just for my lifetime but those of my daughter and grandchildren alike.

I feel I need to re-brand and promote the ‘run’ as the Beaujolais Vieux, to maintain the interest of the Oak as well as all who had been swept along with the fun of a ‘drive through France’. Selfishly, I also suspect that if we don’t ‘draw another line in the sand’, then we risk the likelihood of drifting along like ‘a rudderless ship’.

Whilst I was on holiday Captain Salty had already stolen back the November slot for his regular jolly to Keswick. Chris has attended this ‘boys’ weekend for the past twenty years so it would have been a very difficult choice for him had the car been ready. Today, he has had his hair cut. The significance of this was his boastful September announcement that he would not cut his hair until the project had been completed. Et tu Brutus. Mind you, I don’t imagine anyone would enjoy the alternative spectre of Howard Hughes bent and curled in the Roy Castle corner.

With every addition the chassis continues to prosper. The spring compressors, borrowed earlier from Slick, have enabled the front Spax adjustables to be fitted to the front vertical link. The newly painted petrol tank is provisionally in position and the radius arm brackets have been bolted to the rear outrigger.

I cannot understand why this is not a tremendously exciting period in the overall development of the project for this was to be ‘the exciting future, the deservedly rewarding elements’: similar to Tony Blair’s New Britain.  But contradictorily the last thing that I want to do is ‘open a tin of chunks’. N’est ce pas?   

                       

Growth?

Mon.30.10.06. Colin has completed the rebuild of the block. His careful, detailed preparation has naturally produced a representative outcome. The block sits on the workbench glowing with engine black, spotless and tight, the muscular throbbing heart of the power train.

Chris simultaneously occupied himself by assembling the front and rear suspension units in addition to finalising the route of the brake lines. The rear vivid yellow Spax shockers that connect the lower brass trunnions, via the vertical link, to the semi-matt black elliptical leaf spring combine together to form the robust back quarter of the frame. With each day and every addition of either new or refurbished components the chassis grows, adding flesh to the bones pumping up the once naked skeleton.   

Colin had enforced his own particular sanitised working practices over the past few days but as expected the workshop has quickly returned to the disorganised muddled scrap heap that it has always been. In the blink of an eye it has reverted back to the jumbled, monochrome, textured landscape that I have become accustomed to over the course of the project. Throughout this period, promised, regular, persistent mutterings, usually beginning with “we must get organised” or “we are going around in circles” have, in the past, washed over me but presently there has never been such an opportunity to seize Colin’s banner insisting that ‘this must be the way the workshop should always function’. The assembly of the vehicle is the cherry on the cake, this should be savoured, thoroughly enjoyed to the full. Work benches should only display equipment that is essential for the task in hand. Only the appropriate sized sockets, spanners and incidentals should be accessible. 

The correct size and number of nuts, bolts and washers should have been counted then appropriately positioned, adjacent to the task. Thoughtful preparation, discipline and purpose should be the only doctrine, becoming of paramount importance. Everything that is unrelated should be stored, only made ready and available when one task has been completed. All of theses factors must be strictly adhered to if the operation is to develop smoothly to be ultimately successful. In other words, have only the right tools to hand, finish one job before taking on another and keep the rest of the ‘shoite’ out of the way. How simple, satisfying as well as rewarding it could be. I am not sure this will not happen.Whilst at home, I have been busily rubbing down then meticulously painting the ancillary parts such as the petrol tank, the engine mounts and plates, the rear radius arm brackets and the foot pedals.  After chasing a few phone numbers I learned that the news update on the gearbox confirms our opinion of Nutty Steve, who has proved to be the lying bastard that we had previously imagined. 

Neil has informed me that the unit requires a valve that engages the switch from normal into overdrive; this has never been present and, as such, as never functioned properly, if at all. Steve now festers up to his neck in deceit, deep in the pancreas of the ‘fuck off bin’. Another person who is sliding in that direction is Danny, who has still not returned my calls. Something is amiss. I suspect we are looking for a fresh painter.           

Engine rebuild?

Fri.27.10.06. Colin arrived very promptly to begin building the engine block. After many exaggerated solemn ‘um and errs’, tedious chin scratching punctuated by the obligatory tooth sucking he concluded that in all his years he had never seen such a badly corroded engine. 

How an engine and crank could have become so strangely rusty, obscenely dirty was beyond belief. “I have dragged wrecks out of farmers fields that died fifty years ago that have had cleaner engines than this!” tutted the thoughtful mechanic. “Rust on a crankshaft is unheard of, the block is filthy inside, the oil ways are blocked with all sorts of gunge and there is even rust on the main bearing shells. This is going to be a big, big, big job trying to rescue this one. It’s going to be at least two days work; not just a few hours as I originally suspected!” Well, fuck me, there’s a surprise.  

Having fulfilled my role of errand boy I returned from my shopping trip with the necessary materials for the day. One can of petrol, one litre of mineral oil plus an assortment of nuts and bolts. The petrol was used as the main cleaning solution for the block, oil ports and crank. 

The oil would act as a temporary sealing plus a lubrication agent; but, the nyloc nuts, washers and bolts will be the means by which the front suspension will be finally assembled. During the course of my trip Colin had begun the task of meticulously cleaning the block together with all the internal components. The oil ways were first unblocked using a variety dental tools, garden wire and string. Once the majority of accumulated dirt, grit, as well as clotted grease had been removed a power hose blew away what ever remained. The corroded faces within the block were returned to their shiny, reflective, polished origins by patient application of wet and dry emery cloth. Colin was most definitely on a mission. The once dull, flat lump of cast metal gleamed as if fresh ‘out of the box’. It may well have been possible that the 1980 build would not have been as thorough, most certainly, not as professional as today’s. There was a collective understanding in the workshop that much of the restriction in the oil ways had been created from the moment the car left the factory, back in 1972. 

This was ignored or simply missed by Les the person responsible for the first rebuild in 1981. There are few mechanics who would have taken so much care and preparation as Colin. I feel confident that the end result will far out way any doubts that I may have had regarding his motives for ‘bigging up’ the job. Such attention to detail is admirable, in particular also very rare, if not impossible to find.        

Unlike Young Danny who has been avoiding my calls all day. The alarm bells are ringing, the seeds of doubt germinating. When I visited Stan Cotton’s workshop to deliver the rear wings past experience should have told me that the place didn’t look up to it. It was a small space, no larger than a double garage, with three cars squeezed into two bays. There were few signs of being ‘tooled up’ with the distinct lack of the necessary specialist equipment for an efficient spray shop. I should have been suspicious when Danny suggested that a new, much more effective method would be to ‘brush on’ the primer, rather than spraying. 

For someone who desperately wants employment but does not return calls indicates that he is either lazy, doesn’t in fact want or cannot do the job, cannot pick up phone messages, or, is literally terrified of the microwaves pulsating within mobile phones or, possibly cannot speak English. These questions will be answered on Monday.      

                

More Tales

I attempted a tactical retreat at this point having heard more than enough that could have me sent down for ‘with holding in formation’, but was dragged back with, “Listen, listen, you haven’t heard anything yet. Tuppy Collins from Lostock had borrowed money over a period of several months from everyone and his cat: four grand here, ten there, until he had scammed about £130.000. 

He then went bust and claimed that he couldn’t pay off any one. I, along with ‘Slick’ Kevin, was into this twat for about nine apiece so we paid him a visit. He was at home with his mother, father, wife and new baby child. We were sat down calmly negotiating our ‘wedge’ sipping a civilised cuppa when there was a knock at the door and in stepped a total stranger. He was there to collect one of the larger debts, around £50,000. Of course Tuppy refused to pay. The stranger then pulled out a revolver and forced the mussel into the infant’s mouth. Immediately, both grandparents dissolved into a blubbering crumbling heap pleading with their son to honour the debt. But Tuppy stood firm. “You see the type of person that you brought into this world!” screamed the dark stranger, potently directed towards the fearful grandparents: “a cowardly, selfish, thieving bastard who cares nothing for his only child”. With that he cocked the trigger offering Tuppy one last chance. The cash was delivered the following morning. I’ll tell you I’ve never been as scared in my life. You know, no one else was ever paid and the friggin’ twat now lives in Spain in a big fuck off villa from where he runs his chain of restaurants!”  

All of this rhetoric regarding shattered limbs, unrequested amputations and threats of death can apparently happen in the motor trade, and I would surely expect to find this murky underbelly in most commercial activities but, as Chris always and honestly maintains he has never, never, never, never, taken that option. “If you start going down that road it can never end, your life is finished, these guys will not let go, and it’s a mugs game”. I had decided by now that I definitely couldn’t take anymore of these horrendous fairy stories so I took the rear wings and nosecone down to Young Danny the Paint to begin the priming process. I left Ken and Chris reliving other past experiences of the ‘The Quality Street Gang’, debt collectors extraordinaire. It’s a funny old world. 

Trader's Tales

Thurs.26.10.06.The garage has undergone an extraordinary transformation. Colin has made specific demands regarding the orderly tidiness of the workshop. It is his intention to rebuild the short engine on Friday, to avoid any contamination it has been necessary to create a clean working environment. All the accumulated rubbish has been bagged up and loaded, along with the unwanted original Burlington parts, into the Discovery to be taken to the reclamation centre or the lockup by Friday morning. 

The workbench ‘flotsam’ has been limited in such a manner that only the correct size of spanner, socket or wrench has been made available. Alongside of which are the relevant nuts and bolts. Stretched out on the chassis in a cleaning tank is the crank, big ends and main bearings: these are to be soaked overnight in petrol to accelerate the final cleaning. The new Deeves piston rings, Vanderbilt main bearing set and the County big end bearings, together with the complete engine gasket set, have been systematically arranged on an adjacent makeshift table. The entire workshop resembles, for the first time, an operating theatre in a hospital albeit Hospital Bosso, Candolim, Goa.

An old sparing partner from the past pitched up in the afternoon to talk ‘cars’. This was Ken, a large imposing gent who Chris had nurtured 20 years ago having initiated him into the car trade after he was made redundant from British Leyland. “He showed me how to sell my first car and make £25.00, I’ve never looked back since!” One of conversations most commonly expressed within the motor trade revolves around past debts, monies owed, retrieving monies owed or just plain ‘tuttling’. Ken began with the story of the ‘camper van’. He had purchased the van from a dealer having drawn a bankers draft to pay for the vehicle. The following day he left for his annual holiday only to receive a phone call from the dealer who claimed that the van was now not for sale. 

Ken then emphasised that once a bankers draft had been accepted it was a ‘done deal’: there could be ‘no change of mind’. “Well it’s like this, I’ve not cashed your cheque, I have changed my mind, I’ve got a better deal from someone else,” replied the unfortunate dealer. To ‘cock’ on a transaction is the cardinal sin within the motor trade, so Ken, because he was out of the country, had to resort to ‘Karate’. Not the sport, but the organisation that specialises in recovering debts or goods. Within one hour the vehicle was on the forecourt at Ken’s garage: it had cost him £250.00 to make the call. “Listen, listen, remember that weasel on the A6 who owed Bill Starkey 35 grand: believe me, this is absolutely true!” countered Chris. “He phoned the ‘Quality Street Gang’ in Manchester to get his money back”. Early one morning when that certain salesperson was on his own he had a visit from one of the gang. Asking if he could be of any assistance he was met with the reply, “Yes, you can pay this debt, because if you don’t, I can break your arms, legs or ribs, I don’t mind which. By the way when you give me the cheque you must not try to stop it, or seek revenge on my client, because if you do I shall return to shoot you”. Needless to say the debt had been recovered. Ken volunteered one more. “Tommy Newton owed Sydney Strange 85 grand for two Mercs that he planned to sell in Spain. The cars were shipped over, but the Spanish agent pocketed the money when they were sold on. Syd requested payment from Tommy, but Tommy didn’t have the brass. So, Tommy went for a day trip to Anglezarke restrained and gagged in the back of a white van. After having had both of his legs broken he decided to write out a cheque”.                                                                                                                             

Knocker pops up

‘Colin Brockbank’. Re-making the runners for the seats, primary investigation of the routing of the stainless steel exhaust system………………………………….£85.00

Superb craftsmanship once more from Colin who has totally fashioned and repaired the sliding runners for the ’63 seats.  

Chris has busied himself by ensuring that the wings, nosecone and bonnet are prepared for Danny to collect.

Knocker with his platonic girlfriend, Corrine were propping up the bar chatting in hushed tones both sipping white wine; it does seem that Clubber is determined to remove his kench before his trip to Dubai. After Corrine had left Knocker didn’t need Chinese burns to offer any information regarding their relationship. “We spent about 18 months together a year ago but we are too alike, inevitably we finished up falling out. I’ve known her since I was a lad and I have always fancied her. We still see each other but she has a boyfriend and I have a few girlfriends. I probably see more of her now than I did before, we go out a lot, but there’s no penetration”. Woh…slow down Knocker, too much information. One thing was for sure Corrine, was not like any of Knockers’ other friends who he had brought to the pub; like Jenny Taylor, Connie Linctus, Poppy Tupper or Lou Smorals. 

In another corner was Doctor Dave attempting to dry off after being caught in a recent downpour of rain, his greying main of hair piss wet through. He had spent the previous night shacked up with Mad John in an upstairs room in the Oak. The upshot of it was that having returned from South Africa that morning he had not yet retrieved his keys for his flat and so proposed to sleep on the bench seating of the pub until morning. When John heard about the problem he volunteered to offer Dave a bed for the night. This then gave them both carte blanc to get bladdered. It was only on leaving that John also, realised that he had misplaced his own house keys and so they both became stranded in the Oak. Perhaps John had second thoughts. To invite the good Doctor to stay for one night could have been a big mistake: Cuckoo springs to mind. This incident also gives new meaning to the phrase “Live at the Oak”.

A shopping list

Weds.25.10.06. This has been a big, big, big, big, big spending day but one that I have thoroughly enjoyed. I have remained at home making calls, exploring alternatives and ordering components required for the near future.     

‘James Paddock’. Spring plates, assorted nuts, bolts and clips…………………£77.39

John is always very helpful and promises next day delivery.

‘XRN’. Phil. A stage 2 head and a fast road race cam…………………………£506.42

This company is based in Guildford and specialise in racing engines and heads. Without being able to guarantee exact the performance from the stage 2 head and road race cam Phil expects the achievable BHP to be between 90 and 95: but speak to Max. The breakdown of the cost of the head and cam are shown in the accounts chapter but he has only charged £9.00 surcharge for the cam and delivery is expected in approximately 10 days at a minimal cost of £12.00.

‘Revington TR’. Martin. Polybush spring cushion, Mk3 springs, shockers, plate..£20.39

Situated in Taunton and usually dealing with demands from TR owners Revington are also the distributors of ‘superflex’ polybush. Martin had located a pair of MK3 Spitfire springs and was slightly perturbed when I informed him that I had already bought a brand new pair from Paddocks. He was prepared to sell the unwanted springs, dampers and spring plates at cost £10.00 including free dispatch (possibly these spares could prove to be handy, maybe). The superflex spring cushions to be fitted to the lower front platform were £10.39. These items will again be delivered on Thursday.

‘Auto gearbox repair services’. Neil. Re-cone, seal and rebuild the overdrive box…

Specialists only in gearbox repairs and located in Preston this is a small but well established, reputable company. Neil has examined the transmission and feels that it had been recently stripped and rebuilt, therefore requires minimal work. But, the overdrive unit is broken and has been contaminated. The main cone assembly is split and needs to be replaced. Neil has dismantled the unit but presently he is searching the best price for the cone and the seals. In the next few days we shall have a bottom line price. So, our suspicions regarding lying, thieving Nutty Steve have been well founded. The overdrive was never fully operational, it would not have functioned properly, if at all, in the car in its present state.  

‘Savoy Timbers’. A piece of 4x2 MDF to mock up the dash board…………….£5.28

Together with the cardboard maquette I took the piece of MDF around to Richie’s workshop to have cut another more stable and accurate model of the proposed design of the dashboard. Richie has allowed 10mm either side of the transmission tunnel and he has also been generous with the outside corners so that the pattern can be formed and fitted to the exact shape of the scuttle. The remaining MDF can be used for the other cosmetic areas of the cockpit. 

Danny the Paint’. This young man has the onerous task of painting the Burlington. He works on a part time basis for Nigel Penk the nephew of Stan Cotton whose workshop is located behind Prospect garage on Bradley lane. He learned his trade with ‘Pollets’ who have a respected reputation for work of excellence. Although it is a definite risk giving the job to Danny I do believe that his youth, work experience will be of benefit, his natural enthusiasm should ‘bring out the best’ of his talents. He will be able to accept only a few pieces at any given time but this is not necessarily a bad thing. Once they have been primed they can be wrapped and stored in my lock up.   

Small parts, big result

Tues.24.10.06. The work on the car has become a list of jobs rather than one major task. At this stage this is the nature of the building process, all these small parts contributing to the whole. The brake pipes have been dry built on the car. 

They have proved to be far too long in certain places but this is understandable because the ‘Automec’ product had been designed for a 13/60. However, the pipes can be shortened easily forming new olives at either end. The callipers have been assembled then tested on the front near side hub. The second coat of Hammerite was applied to the offside and rear of the chassis; once the brake pipes have been removed the remainder can be painted. The cardboard dash can now be ‘mocked up’ in MDF, as most of the minor adjustments have been completed. During the course of the afternoon an additional order for Paddocks, containing all of the missing nuts, bolts and clips, was collated.  

At the end of the day I loaded the Discovery with the seat frames and covers for Terry Trimmer, the exchange cam for dispatch to XRN of Guildford, the water pump housing for cleaning followed by rust proofing and the dashboard for Richie to cut. I am becoming a touch more assertive with such matters seizing the opportunity to carry the responsibility of making these appropriate, timely decisions. Not being the best craftsperson in the world I feel that I can, at least, ‘bring something to the table’ with my organisational skills.  (Corporate bullshit spoken by wankers).

Lewis, reluctant hero?

Andy Lewis, over the weekend, has become the hero of the Oak. The tale of ‘Sherbert Dip’ had lifted his profile but the ‘Clamper’ story has elevated him into cult status. Having bought a quantity of meat from Chadwicks, Master butchers and total Flakes of Standish, he crossed the road to briefly chat to a friend. Upon his return he realised that his truck had been clamped; the two foolish officials smiling and standing by the vehicle waiting to collect the fine. “You left your car without permission and we’ve been forced to clamp it”. Andy suggested that they remove the offending clamp as he had only just left the shop and had been momentarily distracted by a friend on the opposite side of the road. “Sorry mate, can’t be done, that’s fifty quid if you don’t mind”. Calmly, Andy repeated his request but was met with much of the same spurious, company jargon. “I’m only doing my job, mate”. In response Andy opened the boot of his van, lifted out two bags of shopping rapidly returning the recently purchased meat to the store: punctuating his demand by “Money back, now!” Fully reimbursed but also supplemented by a following, quickly assembled and curious crowd of onlookers, Andy had unfinished business back on the car park. Reaching into the van once more he produced a twelve inch Stihl saw. “What are you going to do with that?” asked number one fool. “Only my job” returned Andy. “This is private property, you can’t do that” pleaded number two fool. “Watch me”. The bars holding the clamp to the wheel fell away instantly; the two major halves were then ceremoniously carved up, thrown and booted across the car park. The Chadwicks screamed for police assistance, the attendants scratched their heads and the crowd cheered; as did the gang in the Oak.