Stoneleigh 2006

Sun.30.04.06. I set off, in the rain, down the M6 at 8.30am to Stoneleigh for the National Kit car Rally, the largest in the World. I had, previously with Chris, drawn up a plan for the day. This mainly consisted of gathering written and photographic information of areas of the build that were particularly causing us problems. One of the prime targets was the ‘Hawke’, another clone of a Morgan. Haydn Davies maintains that this company emerged not long after his interest in the Burlington SS had waned, the design and promotion of the Berretta soaking up most of his energies. Having, earlier, stopped production of the SS, he has his suspicions of industrial espionage, as the appearance of the ‘Hawke’ is very close to his own fundamental design.

 My plan was to completely bombard this charlatan with photographs, from every angle: bonnet attachments, screen fittings and dashboard design were all prime targets, in an attempt to rob anything of quality that will benefit our own project, but also to reject its’ failings. Another mission was to photograph the more successful dashboard attempts. Usually, most kit cars have horrendous dashboards, for two reasons. It is often the final problem that the amateur builder faces, so often he is empty of inspiration, but more significantly, cash. The result is a cobbled up mess of cheap clocks, laminated woods, vinyl punctuated by a frighteningly disgusting steering wheel. All of this must be avoided by producing a tasteful balanced dash which, hopefully, I shall be able to design after seeing the best and the worst at the show. 

We have written a full and comprehensive shopping list of vital components which I hope to purchase. Steering racks, suspension units, master cylinders and pedals, spoked wire wheels, wiring looms, petrol tank, trunnions, bonnet catches, shocks, springs, discs, drums, areoquip brake hoses, Smiths clocks and gauges, steering wheel, lights, flashers, over riders, seats, rubber extrusions, and, finally, a windscreen.        

Laptop disaster

Sat.29.04.06. The true extent of the laptop catastrophe dawned the following morning after visiting several computer repair shops. Everyone declared the very same solution, “It costs £500 for a new screen and it must be bought from Acer”, and then there’s the fitting charge, you might as well buy a new one, end of”. I returned with the bad news. Gloom had settled over the house. Even worse, I had to watch Chelsea batter United to secure the Premiership for another year. Murinho stood smugly smiling for the Sky cameras. “Of course the best team won, every team needs to raise their standards if they want to compete against us, but I doubt that they can”, boasted the arrogant, egotistical, self-important, special one: the bastard.

Before I drove up to Westmead I searched for Jo’s digital camera, to record the day’s activities, but could not find it anywhere. This instrument has become a vital element of the build. During the first build I did value photographic evidence, identifying of procedure and progress, but the limitations of processing was such that to bang off endless images would have been financially prohibitive. Unlike the technology of today where even the smallest feature can be recorded, edited, catalogued or discarded. So much so, I have already accumulated hundreds of pretty useless shots stored on a disc that fits in my pocket. When I look back on the build I should be able to present a complete illustrated calendar of the project along with this equally useless text. The thought of leaving it in the ‘Discovery’, (my present company vehicle) to be stolen by some local Chav, began to fill my thoughts. Another, major disaster could be looming on the horizon. I sped up to Standish thankfully finding the camera behind one of many toolboxes.

We re-fitted the wings, again, did some more filling and rubbing, went over the details of Stoneleigh then drove down to the Oak in an open top Saab. This was to be mine and Jo’s vehicle for the day at the National Kitcar rally. I also met Margaret and Tim who asked about the progress of the re-build. Tim is a fellow musician but has, foolishly devoted his entire life singing monotonous Irish shite, Margaret, on the other hand is the commercial manager for the Post and Chronicle, so having heard about our intention to repeat the run has pledged support from the paper. I offered my account of the 1981 run as an appetiser, but she didn’t seem that impressed. I still managed to force the document into her hand, giving her little choice but to promise to pass it on, next week, to some hack who works in her office.  

 When I returned home Jo informed me that she didn’t want to go to the Rally at Stoneleigh. I suppose the trauma of the damaged laptop may have dampened her enthusiasm.                                                                

This has been a bad day at Black Rock. 

Beaujolais interest increases

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Fri.28.04.06. Colin was already at Westmead when I arrived to continue rubbing down the tub and panels. He was there purely in an advisory capacity to discuss the feasibility of a full, hinged aluminium bonnet. Possible, but far too expensive was the conclusion so we are back to the initial idea of hidden seams. During the day Chris and I fitted, to then remove the wings, striving to achieve perfection. I continue to be amazed as to how much work goes into the placement of panels and their relationship with the body tub, scuttle and bonnet, but each day after every re-fitting displays another minute but important improvement.

Later in the day we began to make a shopping list for Stoneleigh. As well as buying components I have been commissioned to photograph particular models that have accomplished a successful attempt at bonnet design, windscreens fitting and appropriate interiors, along side the ones who have made a pig’s ear of it. It is equally important to jettison the shite but embrace good manure.  

Down at the Oak, the Doc cornered Jo and I enthusing about the Beaujolais run. “Let’s get Winston and JJB to sponsor the event, Tesco, the Post and Chron, my wine supplier. You’ll see, mark my words, every fucker will crawl out of the woodwork to get a piece of it, I’ll brew a special beer called Beerjolais, serve up produce from all over Burgundy, the trip will finish up paying for itself,” he effusively, pertinently and relevantly claimed. Luckily we met Dave Green and Julie craftily escaping the excitable ramblings of Doc. After half a gallon we left him trapping sleeping Mad John in a corner drunkenly enlarging the importance of the ‘run’. We then decided to invite Dave and Julie back to the house for more drinks. The dining room was in its’ usual untidy state so removing my paper work, letters, bills and car magazines was essential in order to find places four wine glasses and allow people to sit down. Then disaster struck, I went to pick up Jo’s laptop from the seat of my chair when it slid, slowly out of the protective case and onto the wooden floor.

 Opening and booting the machine confirmed that the screen was broken but not the hard drive, all that I could think of was the possibility or not of retrieving my scribblings and photos. I immediately began to grovel pouring out endless apologies and explanations as to how this dreadful accident had occurred. We settled, opened a bottle of wine and talked football and music for the rest of the night.   

More Oak nonsense

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Danny Brennan pitched up extremely concerned about a cheeky bid, by a trader, on his 500 SL. Chris had previously sold Danny the car, earlier in the year, for the knock down price of £4000 but having fallen in love with the 850 CSi Danny has decided to unload the Mercedes for £6000. The dealer had already “chipped” (oily rag speak) Danny by £1000, wanted him to leave £160 worth of road tax on the vehicle and fix a minor fault on the sunroof. This bloke has more front than Harrods. Chris had a token fiddle with the car and offered two solutions. The first being to simply inform the dealer that he is taking the piss, the second was to go to  Dick who could possibly fix the fault. I know which option I would have chosen but Danny went to Dick. We did try to warn him that Dick had once been an extra in “Deliverance” but unlike the Louisiana pig fuckers it would be relatively easy to find him, in Adlington, next to the canal, in the woods, tending his own hogs. Danny left, post haste, nervously saying that he would see us later in the pub. I expect he will have a shower before he turns out.

There was quite a full squad in the Oak when Jo and I arrived. Chris had earlier gone down with Toby Jug, but the gathering already consisted of Billy Green, Jimmy the Axe, Andy Lewis, Knocker, a bloke in a suit and Doc, the Landlord. They were discussing their imminent band trip to Porto. The makeshift band save all their gig money for an annual holiday to foreign parts, the problem being nobody in the group can clearly define the term ‘holiday’. The result is a chaotic seven days in the sun with disastrous consequences. In the past, they have missed flights, broken bones, suffered electric shocks, been locked up, stopped at customs with too much contraband, drank too much, eaten not enough, argued constantly, but even with endless problems they always have a memorable trip. The difficulty on this occasion was accommodation.  

Doc had laboured tirelessly on t’internet for luxury villas in idyllic surroundings, all of which were rubbished by the other members. With one week to go they had no where to stay for the first night, their E.T.A. for Porto being 11.00pm. “If you think that I am going to Porto at eleven at night with no where to stay, you can all fuck off” stated Doc, with his negotiating head on. Billy replied that he would find somewhere for three days in Porto, on the net tomorrow. Jimmy the Axe smiled satisfactorily, Knocker nodded approvingly, as he does, so did the bloke in the suit, who was nothing to do with any of it and Andy Lewis shrugged his shoulders, having lost his passport with his driving licence the week before.

 Everyone apparently content, the conversation jumped from “Bertie”, Merc 500 SL, Dick and his banjo, food and John Prescott’s meaningless, torrid affair with his very attractive 35 year old secretary. Green Fingered John discussed watering tactics with sleeping David, Saltette Robert proudly proclaimed that he was only allowed two pints a night by the Captain, Danny smouldered over the hard faced dealer but worst still, he lamented his rented house in Stockport that had been recently trashed by his absent, drug crazed tenants. 

Robert, who by now was late for bed, Danny who craved another shower, David chasing home for dinner, Chris overtired and Psycho Toby all had by this time, left the building. Meanwhile, Lowtie’s corner was winning the shouting contest due to retaining the cup for a second consecutive year for ‘whispering over three fields’, the Doc was just turning ‘pertinent and relevant’ repeating his earlier request for accommodation, Mad John was talking to himself, Knocker was practising Wonderwall, the Axe was still smiling, Billy was “bigging up” Sam Alardyce, Lewis was on his mobile and the bloke with the suit was still there nodding. Jo and I quietly left for a chicken curry.

The origins of the 'F...off' bin

Thurs.27.04.06. Back to the rubbing down of the front offside wing. Later in the afternoon the rear wings are re-fitted with extended holes for final adjustment. With a bit of filing down on the inner edge of the rear wings they fit perfectly; we are both quite pleased with the result. After much discussion we have decided to opt for a full aluminium bonnet with side louvres, if they can be designed properly. This will of course be made by the master craftsman Colin, at no doubt great expense, but what a difference a tailor made bonnet would make! Every petite attention to detail, such as this, adds to the cars’ uniqueness and quality. 

 Later in the day I continued to chase the Scottish Morgan dealers, ‘Dave and Ian’, who, as I suspected are still on the golf course ignoring my requests. That was their last chance and they now join Richard of York in the “fuck off” bin. 

A weekend of harmless anoraks

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They also reminded me that this weekend is the “National Kit Car Show” at Stoneleigh in Warwickshire. The last time I was there, in 1981, my Burlington SS had not even been trimmed, but nonetheless I proudly swanked onto the showground expecting heads to turn, this being ‘001’: typically,  none did, bummer. But, unsurprisingly the show remained awash with cobbled up aspirants, unexpectedly fewer concourse cars, freshly groomed sales people without beards but sporting moustaches dressed in chino’s, company ties, blazers with badges, passing around finely produced, boasting catalogues, 100 autojumbles with new and old boxed parts, power and hand tools capable of almost everything, ‘demos’, trials, side shows, country music, burgers and chips. In a nutshell, each and every item that one needs to build their own dream. Chris and I plan a trip down on Sunday to buy thousands of pounds worth of the best gear, but the wings needed finishing so we pressed on.

Mad John, who had been recruited by Chris, was in the Garden trying to rescue some dead plants that David had freely given to Chris last year. I would guess that it was one those crazy drunken bets that often emanate in the Oak after a gallon of Stella probably punctuated by an outrageous claim ‘to revive the decaying foliage where the professionals had failed’. Chris has an obdurate determination to prove the world wrong claiming to be able to achieve the impossible where other lesser beings have disappointed. This futile exercise being a clear example. He desperately needed the advice of ‘green fingered John’ to save some face and plants. By the end of the day John’s prognosis was optimistic. We all met later in the Oak to exchange notes, oily rag versus perennials. 

The plant war

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The conversation arm wrestled between David, the florist and Chris, the oily rag, as to who knew their job the better. Mad John was continually being co-opted by Chris for support regarding the condition of the almost dead plants but John refused to join the argument stating that he had left the law profession to avoid this type of meaningless confrontation. “I don’t do argument anymore,” said John. The plant war rumbled on until Knocker, foolishly, asked about the progress of the Burlington.

 Knocker, is another gent who resides in the Oak, but disappears on a regular basis to foreign parts to demolish hillsides with high explosive in the vain hope of liberating valuable mineral resources. He also has an insatiable passion for the ladies, has the strange desire to remove his clothes, given the slightest encouragement, he is also quite prepared to expose himself  simply as a challenge, oddly, he occasionally enjoys brawling at ‘Pemps’,  but worst of all his driving force is for singing by constantly murdering Oasis numbers. 

He is, however, quite curious about the Burlington project but doesn’t really understand the concept of a car with no doors, wipers, CD player or heater. Having no doors, he is informed by Chris, often gives direct visual access to the VW when the ladies, with very short skirts, enter the vehicle: having no radio encourages conversation and wit, which inevitably softens the defences of any female, the lack of a heater necessitates a blanket neatly stored in the boot. “Comme ca” claims Chris, it is a “Chick Magnet”. Knocker maintains his bewilderment but his interest has increased.