JeffR

I consider myself to be a wee bit of an expert on damaging myself, I've had plenty practice. What it has taught me is that the most important thing to consider when working with all tools (powered or not) is to ENSURE THAT ONE ENGAGES THE GREY MATTER THAT LIVES BETWEEN ONES EARS.

Does any one know of an exhaust maker in North East, I need some stainless downpipes bent up for a 110V8, and need them to match up with the stainless exhaust system that is already fitted Chhers me dears

Major change of plan just occurred, putting standard 3.9 manifolds on instead,if I can find some that is, and stainless downpipes. The thought of shredding my skin to buggery and back swapping tubular manifolds out has swayed the arguement.

You probably could, but as I don't need them to......

As I occaisionally work in roadside ditches, I adopted the subtle approach by fitting a full set of NAS lights, plus the addition of high level LED NAS Indicators and Sopt Tail lights, as you can see, they work in Daylight. In the dark they are REALLY visible form a couple of miles away, according to the AA man>

Stangely enough, the company I'm about to order them from do just that!

I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment regarding exhaust wrap, I'd rather roll naked in stinging nettles in public. But the bloody stuff works, and have you seen how much it costs for ceramic coatings? Just not looking forward to swapping em out, looks like I've found someone who will make some up so that they include flexi pipe to the y-piece, which should negate any bad vibe effects. And at an affordale price in stainless! Most of the companies I've spoken to today wanted nearly as much for the headers as they did for an entire system including headers!!!!!!

Oh for a 4 post lift. Jeff + Axle Stands = really big accident.

This is the second time the buggers have cracked, and always in the same place. I did notice that , on their website, they have changed the design slightly, on my set,each primary is separate, and needed to be "persuaded" to fit the individual exhaust ports, whereas the ones on the web site appear to have a spreader plate linking the pairs of primaries. All the exhaust/engine and gearbox mountings are new (false economy for a few quid), so I don't think bad vibes are to blame. Just could do without having to spend another 300 quid on apair of heades, then throw in some thermal wrap and it's nearly cheaper bu8y ant entire system ! Besides, the thought of having to unbolt those bloody manifolds ........

Can anyone recomend a maufacturer of tubular manifols for my 110 V8. The stainless ones (Made by SS) have gone and broken again, so not interested in stainless manifolds, I am now convinced that mild steel manifolds are the way to go, but who makes good uns!

I Have 1 110 V8 which may or may not be working (havn't tried it today) - the family hack/temporary work vehicle 1 110 200TDi that lives in Devon, I live in Northumberland - still undergoing it's rebuild - should be my works vehicle 1 1983 Mini 1000currently sat in the garden having had a lot of welding over last winter - really must MOT it next week and I still own a twin engined Skoda 136, but for the love of me , I can't remember where I left the bugger.

I shall have to feed the glow worms instead

The 110 almost has self levelling suspension, fitting a headlamp washer system has been on the cards for quite a while (got the bits kicking round somewhwere, including a rather snazzy set of 3 series BMW headlamp wipers), and I was considering, at one point fitting electric headlamp adjusters, just for a laugh. Think I might stich with the glow worms for now! Cheers mate

Quit gabbing and get on with it man

Ferreting about in my garage (no the bloody landrover don't fit in it unless I take the wheels off) I found a HID headlamp kit I bought a few years ago from Scorpion Racing, now in a discussion with a friend, he suggested that a chap from VOSA said that technically speaking they were not legal for road use even if they were E marked. Thsi was due to the actual headlamp reflectors not being homologated for use with HID bulbs. As the glow worms that currently reside in the headlamps are getting a tadge tired, I was going to pop the HID kit on. What does the collective mind think??

Want it now, bugger me birthday, I just got a get me one of them. Will I fit under a 110 wearing it though?

Do you want to know the correct spelling for Landrover Owner -MASOCHIST

My wife is buying me a kevlar and bubble wrap suit for my birthday!!! So self damage will be a thing of the past. Not. I came to terms with the fact that it is simply in my nature to knock lumps off myself with great regularity, old friends are simply never suprised, I've been like it all my life. Like I said, God likes me, not a lot, but enough!

Mini Moments Part 1 The Strip Down Four things in my life have been the cause of far too many trials and tribulations in my short, somewhat eventful, chaotic existence - booze, motor vehicles, women and pets. They have caused me problems since my late teens, this was the first though. Cast your mind back to 1979/80 and I was living at home with my parents (they put up with a lot they did , so much so that the Pope is going to canonise them this year). It all started with a 1972 Mini Clubman 1275GT, my first car, came complete with leaky Hydroelastic suspension, rust, a P*ss Yellow paint job (Leyland called it Burnt Umber, but it looked like p*ss to me). It had just about the dinkiest little 10 inch Rostyle wheels with Stomil 145x10 tyres, now these tyres were clearly carved out of ebony ‘cos they had precious little grip on dry tarmac – but they never wore out, ever. However, it also had a steel crank (last of the Cooper S Motors with the 12G2940 head), twin SU's and go faster stripes. It also had more oil leaks than a Landrover and an eight track stereo with a Bruce Springstein tape jammed in it. It had two speeds that car, flat out or stopped; nothing in between. Moreover, I loved it to bits, literally. It put up with more abuse than it deserved, may it rust in peace wherever it is now. I ran it standard for about 6 months (least till I passed my driving test) Then one day the engine went bang, jammed throttle and the rev counter needle off the clock will do that sometimes. In the middle of bloody nowhere and in the middle of winter and in the dark and it was snowing. So, never mind, I borrowed a small fortune from the bank and bought just about everything in the Leyland Special Tuning Catalogue. It’s a crying shame they didn't also sell common sense and sobriety. Not long after, a very big Transit Van (the Mk 1 with the rounded wings) duly arrived full of lots of boxes, whoopee! Christmas has come early. Various bits were stashed all over the house, much to my tidy freak mam's displeasure (we used to have to hide clothes to wear on a Sunday, ‘cos everything was washed on a Sunday, I mean everything, cats, dogs, budgies, kids, the whole kit and caboodle). Being caught in my bedroom, in my underwear, sat on the floor underneath an Alley Bars roll cage, with 4 Magnesium Minilites and a Mountney 3 Spoke steering wheel in my hands doing brum brum noises after a quite night at the pub didn’t do a lot for my parents opinion of their eldest son and heirs sanity either... My dad, who was a big, quiet, unassuming sort of bloke, looked on but kept his mouth shut, poor bugger could see the brewing storm. Time to take a**ehole apart (Registration was ANL 940K) on the street, on a council estate in Gateshead (on a good day it was a bit like Beirut on a really bad day). So armed with my newly purchased bibles (a Haynes Manual and How To Modify your Mini by David Vizard) and my impressive collection of Kamasa tools, you know the type, sockets made of mercury, liquorice screwdrivers, and a f**k off big hammer. Now at that time I had the mechanical knowledge and sympathy of a box of Guinea pigs. Much the same mental attitude too -"so the rev counter redlines at 5500, bet it goes higher!” I was right, it did, but not for very long, why do think the engine went bang? Two days later, having lost copious amounts of blood and had a couple of trips to casualty (minor injuries really, torn ligaments and such like) the engine and box were lying in street. I mean, why hire a hoist when a bit of scaffolding tube, some rope (read thick string!) you found in the shed, a crate of Electric Soup (Newcastle Brown to you heathens) and a couple of mates would almost do the job? My back still twinges with the memory of standing on a Mini wing, that was made of rust, chicken wire and filler ( wish I’d known THAT piece of information before work commenced on removing the engine) trying to lift a couple of hundred kilos of engine and gearbox out. I was also glad that it was a Mini and that I’m 6 foot tall, ‘cos when I went through the wing, my testicles remained in their correct anatomical position, rather than becoming a spare pair of adenoids. However, I digress. Said engine and transmission was dragged, unceremoniously, into the back garden, and my first ever engine strip down commenced. Now Mini flywheels are held onto the crank with an interference fit taper and about 2 tons of torque. So I bought my first “special tool”, a flywheel puller. Said puller was attached and the ¾ Whitworth bolt was tightened till it squeaked, but the flywheel didn’t budge. Remember that scaffolding tube?, well it got used again. The Kamasa leaden ratchet gave up and retired to the top of the garden at roughly the speed of sound (became rather good at that over the years that followed, if there was an Olympic gold medal for tool slinging, it would be mine, forever), made a mental note to myself to save up for a decent tool kit. So we retired to the pub to contemplate, contemplation comes in pint glasses in Northern England, lots of pint glasses. Some bright spark suggested heat, but a Ronson fag lighter just wasn’t going to cut the mustard, so we RTFM’d (Read The F** king Manual) the problem. The quote in the Haynes Manual was something like “the flywheel may be difficult to remove due to corrosion, if it does not come off easily try a sharp tap with a copper hammer, or similar tool, to the centre bolt of the flywheel puller, this should release the taper” . After a few more contemplations, we went back to the garden. I didn’t own a copper hammer, but I did own a similar tool – the f**k off big hammer, - at the end of the day a hammers a hammer, don’t really matter what it’s made of does it? Oh yes it does. Now the phrase “sharp tap” is kind of ambiguous after 8 or 9 glasses of contemplation on a Saturday afternoon, but then again so was walking in a remotely straight line and coherent speech. I gently tapped the centre bolt and nothing happened. Then contemplation based red mist kicked in. So I tw*tted it, hard like. That worked, well, lets be honest it worked a hell of a lot better than anyone, including the dog thought it would. The flywheel came off the taper at about twice the speed of light in a vacuum. “Ah, that’s why they call them flywheels” ran briefly through my mind. Given that it weighed in at about half a hundredweight it was not gonna stop in hurry. In fact, 18 inches of modern reactive armour was not going to stop this bloody thing. So my calf muscle wasn’t in with much of a chance (3 stitches fixed that though) , neither was the glass in the back door, or the dogs water bowl. The twin tub did though. To say my mam was upset might be understating her reaction. Still, we had the flywheel off. It was quickly decided by all those present that a quick trip to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital was in order; followed by more glasses of contemplation, of course. So, off we hopped giggling like idiots. Mam mopped up and dad replaced the glass with plywood. The dog sulked. He liked that water bowl. The cat retired to the shed roof and refused to come down. Mother eventually calmed down and winter arrived with a vengeance. Mother took pity on me and suggested that I could build the engine in the kitchen, which was rather nice of her. Mind you, the new washer dryer I’d just maxed my credit card out on probably helped with that decision. Mini Moments Part 2 The rebuild beginsI sourced a newish block from a scrapped MG (Austin) 1300 and got it home, on a bus. By now it was spring and the family had got used to squeezing past most of a Mini that appeared to have acquired squatters rights in the kitchen. Better than that, the council had just put a sparkling new bathtub in. Things was going good. Too good as it turned out. Now Mr. Vizard recommended that cleanliness is next to godliness when it comes to building engines. I wholeheartedly agreed with that premise. So one Saturday morning my accomplice (Dave) and I set about degreasing the engine block and gearbox in the sparkling new bathtub the council had just fitted, mam and dad were out shopping with my two younger siblings. It was decided that using a boiling caustic potash solution was a definite none starter, mainly ‘cos we would have had to boil it up in a pan, and they were aluminium and would have dissolved. Mam would have been a bit peeved at that, and I was frightened of her, very frightened. A big can of Gunk mixed with Swarfega didn’t work either, so we went to the pub for a few glasses of contemplation. We conceived a devious but effective plan. My family were heading down to Sussex on the Sunday to visit my mam’s brother so they wouldn’t mind not having a bath before they left. Therefore, the engine, gearbox, Gunk/Swarfega mixes could stay where they were whilst we found a decent, cold degreasing agent. We had lots more contemplation. Sunday arrived, heralded by the feeling that a not so small heard of long tailed rodents were quietly decomposing in a number of my bodies natural orifices. And some bugger had set off a tactical nuke in my cranium at some point during the nights festivities, well that’s what it felt like anyway. No diced carrots and onionskins or recycled kebabs were to be seen in the porcelain telephone to God , so it hadn’t been a heavy contemplation session. Family buggers off to Sussex, partner in crime rings to say that his dad, who was lift engineer, had some stuff we could use to degrease the bits. Spot on. I met them in the pub for a hair of the dog. Sadly, it turned out that we had the dogs’ entire fleece, not just a hair. “F**k it and the horse it rode in on” was the general attitude, but a bit slurred (same as my eyesight) and my teeth itched, just what the f*ck had we been drinking? We carefully dragged two 5-gallon drums of degreaser up the stairs to the bathroom. Now common sense decreed that, at this point in time, we sat down and looked at the labels on the drums of degreaser, but sadly, for us, common sense went AWOL that afternoon, in a haze of contemplation. At a later date, Dave’s dad was adamant that he told us what was in the drums; in one ear, out the other? Oh the joys of being young. Drum number one was duly opened and Sweet Mary Mother of God it stank something awful, a small amount was decanted into a mixing jug and applied with a paintbrush, grease just fell off. Excellent. Reads label : 1:1:1 Trichlorethane do not use in confined spaces. Use with Caution . Fair enough. “Might be a good idea to open a window,” says Dave, “Good idea marra” “Wonder what the other drums like?” “Open it and give it a go” Lid comes off “F*ck me that stinks” “Sure does, what’s the label say?” “Heptane and Isomers, what the f*ck is an Isomer?, in a Naptha (Petroleum) solvent, flammable, do not use in confined spaces. May etch some types of plastics.” Or something along those lines. “Glad we opened the window:” “Yeah” “Give it a go then” “Chuck us another can of contemplation then” “Catch” Oil, grease and paint come off engine block in a trice. Can of contemplation appears to have evaporated, never mind there’s more in the fridge. “This is gonna take ages with a paint brush, how’s about we fill the bath with them, leave em to steep and bugger off for a contemplation or two?” “That’ll do it, good idea marra” So we closed the bathroom door, didn’t want the cat or dog to hurt themselves you see, and it would keep the stink from the rest of the house. We had a contemplation, or two, then Einstein’s Theory of Relativity kicked in and we lost track of time altogether. When we got back later that night, the house absolutely stunk to high heaven. The budgie had developed asthma and was having a lie down on the bottom of the cage (“bloody odd” thinks I, was fine when we left), the dog looked f*cked off with life the universe and everything in it and appeared to be holding it’s breath and the cat wouldn’t come in from the garden. And, if our eyesight wasn’t so slurred, we may just have noticed that the gloss paint on the upstairs banisters wasn’t very glossy any more; it had more wrinkles than a granny who’s been in the bath too long. “You f*ckin d*ckhead, didn’t shut the bathroom door properly did you” “Yes I did you saw me do it” “Odd” We went upstairs and, yes, the bathroom door was still shut, so where on earth was the god awful smell coming from? Opened the bathroom door, and first impression was that nowt seemed unduly amiss, when allowances were made for slurred eyesight and itchy teeth (what the f*ck had we been drinking?). Says Dave “baths a funny shape ain’t it?” “Your p*ssed” “True, but the engine blocks shrunk” “You daft hapeth, it’s made of f*ckin cast iron, like the bath” “But your NEW bath’s plastic………………………” “OH MY F*CKIN GOD” Now, the PLASTIC measuring jug we had used earlier (which had just been dumped in the sink, complete with contents) was doing a bloody good impression of a bad Salvador Dali painting….. My anal sphincter was beginning to twitch a wee bit, and then we looked at the bath…. My anal sphincter was break dancing, could have crushed tungsten drill bits with it. But, part of me, the contemplative part, was seriously impressed with the bath. We looks at the bath again. Well it kinda reminded me of a Cyberman breach birthing the Terminator android. The bath had’t melted, it had just sort of gone soggy at the bottom. Yeah, so the sharp bits on the block had made a few small holes, but that had let the solvents leak out, in the haze of solvent fumes and contemplations we almost had ourselves convinced that that between us we could fix it. “Not very shiny now is it!” “Nope, we’re f*cked you now” “Wadya mean, we’re f*cked, I don’t live here” “How we gonna get that goopy sh*t off the block then” “That, marra is the least of your problems” “My problems?” “Yeah, your f*cking problems, like I said, I don’t live here” “Ha, me mam knows were you live though!!!” “BUGGER” Serious, maniacal, giggling immediately ensued (possible due to the not inconsiderable fumes present), most likely due to sheer bloody terror at what me mam was going to do to me/us, when she got back from Sussex. She was a tiny little thing (dad called her Attilla the Nun, when she wasn’t listening) but, she was more than capable of pulling your arms ‘n’ legs off and beating you to death with the soggy ends. Rabid pit bulls avoided her when she was in a temper. We headed downstairs for more contemplation. “Cats f*cked off” “Don’t blame it, f*ckin stinks in here” “Budgies stopped coughin’ it’s lungs out, though” Dave carefully inspected the contents of the budgie cage and with great deliberation replied ”It’s dead” “Least of me problems, ‘gis a contemplation” At this point in time, I was rapidly beginning to accept that what remained of my lifespan was going to be very short, very unpleasant and extremely painful. My anal sphincter would have made the finals of Strictly Come Dancing with a unanimous verdict, no problem. “Let’s ring your dad” I suggested “Ok” So Stan arrives to survey the damage. “Yee ****in Gods, you two are f*cked, when are they getting back from Sussex?” “Wednesday, I think” “Mmm, might do it, Jeff, your gonna have to ring in sick tomorrow, so’s that little sh*t of a son of mine” “OK” Sphincter relaxes a wee bit, might just get away with this, after all. The cat, the dog and me slept at Dave’s house that night. Next morning (strategic nuke in the cranium this time, teeth were still itching , couldn’t understand that) phoned in sick. Not popular at work either, but I needed the van a hell of a lot more than they did. My very existence was in serious jeopardy. Hit a plumbing supplies place on Team Valley and bought enough plumbing stuff to start a new business. Guess where the council got the new bath! The Gods of good fortune had at last taken a shine to us. Dave’s credit card was now maxed out to the hilt, same as mine. Loads up the works Opel (Ascona based) van, f*ckin bathtub wouldn’t fit inside would it. “BUGGER” Ties it to the roof, sort of. Didn’t get too far before Plod pulled us over for a brief chat. By now, I was about a nano second away from a complete and utter, irreversible nervous breakdown. I had a headache from Hell, was fearful for my life and I wasn’t about to take any sh*t from anyone. I mean anyone. I let rip. I got arrested. I completely lost the plot at this moment and recounted the entire sorry tale of woe. The booking Sergeant at Gateshead station, turned out to be a really cool dude. The two coppers who arrested me were rolling on the floor, Steve, the booking sergeant was doing his damndest to keep a straight face and decided a stern ticking off would suffice. He new my mam. He understood. She frightened him as well. They gave me a producer (my boss understood, he too had had a run in with my mam). We drove home and learned plumbing the hard way, on the job training they called it. 48 hrs of hard graft later we had the job done, it was f*cking spotless, man, perfect. You honestly could not tell that anything untoward had occurred. We were dead chuffed, Dave’s dad was well chuffed, sh*t the cat and dog were well chuffed…, the budgie was just , well, dead. Cat still wouldn’t come in the house though. And we ALMOST got away with it, almost, yeah the house stunk like a chemical works, but had an excuse for that “we degreased the engine in the kitchen, mam”, We even repainted the wrinkly paintwork, and in the correct colour too. BUT… WE… FORGOT… ABOUT… THE … F*CKIN… BUDGIE. Sparky was blue when he was alive, now the combined , heavier than air fumes that caused his premature demise had bleached him somewhat, for Christ’s sake it was whiter than Michael Jackson, I’ve seen albinos with more pigment. (Strangely enough I accidently dug it up a few years later and it hadn’t rotted, guess a mixture of chlorinated solvents and petroleum based solvents is a good preservative). And that was my downfall. The result?, well my mam went ape, when I say ape I mean King Kong sized ape. The tirade of physical and verbal abuse was loud enough and long enough for the Russians to put their entire Nuclear Bomber fleet on a 2 minute warning. My ears were gushing claret, the cat n dog were on the phone to the RSPCA begging to be re-homed. My brother and sister were on the phone to Social Services asking about adoption. Sh*t my aunty Gladys in New Zealand rang to see what the noise was about. My dad was p*ssing himself in the garden and Dave buggered off faster than Carl Lewis on speed. And the budgie just lay on the bottom of the cage, dead, saying nowt. The lucky, lucky b*stard. What had upset (major understatement of the century) her was not: 1. The fact that we’d kinda trashed the house a wee bit, 2. Not the dead budgie (bugger made a mess, didn’t it), BUT , and it’s a big but : 3. I’d committed the worst sin imaginable I’d Told a Fib (Huge f*ckin whopper if I’m truthful), and you want to know something, Bless her, she was right. Yeah, it would have been bad if I’d fronted up, but probably not as painful, mentally or physically. Did have a sort of happy ending. The cuts, contusions and emotional damage eventually healed and, under great sufferance, I was allowed to move back into the house, had the shed quite homely for a while. The Mini engine (still in the kitchen) had started paying rent so was back in me mams good books. The dog got a new water bowl to love and cherish. The cat never did come back into the house, he preferred the shed roof; we found him, stiff as poker, up there eight or nine ears later and he was buried with great reverence and lots of tears. Never did get a new Budgie, RIP Sparky, gone but not forgotten, you tw*t, should have held your breath. We never did get rid of the chemical smell in that house, 10 or so years later when my father moved into sheltered accommodation (my mam by then was probably dusting Angels and giving St.Peter grief about the state of the place) and we cleared the house, there was still just a faint hint of assorted solvents, just a hint. Ultimately the Mini engine found it’s way back into the car and went on to sport a variety of carb sets ups, culminating in an 8 port Head with 4 Amal slide carbs – man that thing really went well until….. but that, as they say, is another story. How did we clean the melted bathtub off the block? Easy, gallon of petrol and that Ronson fag lighter (still got it somewhere, really, it was my dads), exit rather a lot of body hair!!!! And the vegetable patch, and the lawn. I learnt one great lesson from this episode, children and adults PLEASE take note and commit to memory: when combined, booze, solvent abuse (whether intentional or not), motor vehicles and fibbing will f*ck you over every single time.

Thanke for that

I have enough trouble getting Life Insurance as it is. It would be like a combination of the 7 Plagues of Egypt mixed with Texas Chainsaw Massacre overwatched by the 4 Horsemen of the Apocolypse. For Gods sake Nige please please tell me you don't ever come to Northumberland, please. Got a good Mini story too, but that will have to be in two parts

I've just hit a chunk of scrap iron which has removed most of the rubber boot on the self levelling system at the back end of the family hack (110 V8), Now lots of folks are gonna say simply remove the self-leveling system all together, but as this is a family hack and the system works (if it ain't broke, don't fix it applies) it's staying put. I've looked at the bugger and can't work out how to put a new one on (was considereing a universal CV joint/ Steering rack as the part does not seem to be listed as a separate item in the parts manual I've got). Anyone done this, if so How? Given my propensity for damaging myself....... Cheers me dears

CHRISTMAS COMES BUT ONCE A YEAR Thank God My somewhat colourful life has been punctuated with numerous incidents involving Landrovers, even when I didn’t own one. So if this goes a wee bit off topic, then I apologise. But Landrovers were involved. It was October 1992 when this sorry tale of woe began. I was driving along the old A30 from Honiton to Exeter in my rather stunning 1983 Opel Ascona 1600 (snails were overtaking with gusto, giving me the mollusc equivalent of the finger -it wasn't a fast car). I should have been in the works 110, but the transport manager had banned from driving it after I got stuck on a weir taking a short cut (the 90 used to go down it no problem, who would have thought that 10 inches in length would have made that much difference!) We got to the old Rockbeare Service station and hit, metaphorically speaking, stationary traffic. We stopped. Now on the footpath opposite was a very attractive young woman whose hair band had clearly slipped (you could not describe it as a skirt, I've got thicker belts). About a hundred yards behind us, the LR90 driver was also watching what appeared to be two puppies fighting in a sack wobbling seductively down the path. He was not looking at the vehicles in front of him. I heard the dulcet tones of tortured Michelin XCL's and thought "some poor sod's in trouble" Then my four-door saloon turned into a combination of Landrover crumple zone and Hatchback. A very, very short hatchback. The girl fiend (not a typo - I know, I married the bugger) did an incredible impression of a Rolls Royce Avon on re-heat; well actually her screams were somewhat louder than that. Once my ears had stopped bleeding... We got out. The 90 driver apologised (as he carefully straightened up his bent number plate with thumb and fore finger), as we surveyed the damage - I've seen cars go through crushers come out with straighter panels - it was comprehensively cattle trucked. So were my neck and eardrums. Now at the time I had just started working as a biologist, had just moved house and had an overdraft the size of México’s debt to the IMF. To say we didn’t have much cash to spare is a bit of an understatement we were skint/borasic/broke/destitute and penniless (delete as appropriate) we needed transport, quickly. So into my life came a vehicle that had absolutely no redeeming features what so ever, none/zilch/nada. It was a nasty, vindictive, unattractive piece of carp. It was a 1-litre Vauxhall Nova Saloon. But it was free. My brother gave it to me, He didn’t like me. Move forward to that December. We made plans to go North for Christmas, visit me dad, drink too much and eat too much, just a normal Christmas really. So on Christmas Eve we set off to say goodbye to the soon to be mother in law who lived in Sidmouth. We got as far as Exeter. At the traffic lights next to the Vauxhall dealers (yes, really) the timing belt snapped. The Nova stopped. BUGGER says I. Rings RAC. The third emergency service (my arse) arrived 3 hours later. Nice man in van lifts bonnet and utters the immortal phrase “engines fu**ed, I’ll arrange a tow truck.”. Then buggered off, sharpish. DAMN AND BLAST says I. Two hours later recovery truck driver arrives, by which time traffic had backed up to Cornwall, the Tamar Bridge was creaking under the accumulated weight of stationary traffic. We were not popular in the southwest. Nice man lifts bonnet and says “timing belt’s broke” Yeah, like tell me something I didn’t know. So began the worst Christmas holiday I have ever had….. Picture the scene, dead Nova outside the house. The only food we had in the house was a tin of YE OLDE OAK HAM (came with the house) , a 500g bar of Galaxy Chocolate and 14 tins of Kittikat. We had also run out of coal and booze and fags. And the next door neighbours were away until tomorrow afternoon. I was a particularly unhappy, cold, sober, nicotine and caffeine free bunny. Then the telly had a hissy fit and it started to rain. Then we found Thomas the cat had snuffed it big time in the sitting room. Rings a friend who said they could get me the bits to fix the car from their shop on Boxing Day. Spot on. Things were looking up. Buries cat with great reverence and went to bed after a lavish feast of Ham and Chocolate. Don’t like Kittikat – tried it once after a heavy drinking session and it gave me dreadful indigestion, tasted like sh*t as well. Christmas Day dawned (Joyeux Noel? Not in my bloody house it weren’t). Ferrets out small toolbox from the boot and sets about stripping out a Nova engine, promptly goes arse over tit in the 3 inches of recycled cow food flowing down the road outside the house (joys of living on a dairy farm I guess) and bruises both my knees. I should have stopped there and then, but no I carried on, unabated, with no caffeine nicotine or food. I’m hard I am. I soon had the head off, and thinks “I wonder how badly bent the valves are ?” Yells to girl fiend “fetch me the valve spring compressor, will you sweetheart ” I can be really romantic occasionally. “What’s it look like?”, “like a big G-clamp”. “What’s a G-clamp?” “F*ck it, I’ll get it me self, where have you put the tool chest key” “What’s it look like?”, Remember, no caffeine, nicotine, food or alcohol , to say the relationship was a tadge strained at this moment in time ….. “IT’S A KEY, it’s on the key ring with the spare house keys” “Uh Oh!” “Wadya mean, Uh Oh, your not a bloody Teletubby!” “I gave them to mum last week so she could feed the cat whilst we were away” “Your mum’s in Sidmouth and the f**king cats buried in the garden, so it don’t need feeding” I really needed some nicotine and caffeine at that moment in time. “Don’t you yell at me” “Sorry?” I can be really romantic So being the adaptable sort of bod I am, I thought lets take the valves out the old fashioned way using a socket underneath the valve head and press down on the valve cap with an open ended spanner and a hammer handle. Works every time. The girl fiend could then remove the collets with a wee pair of eyebrow tweezers, valve falls out of head, job done. Could then spin ‘em in a drill to see how bent they were. Easy. Now a Nova cylinder head is weird shaped thing, and it was getting chilly. So covered in oil, I retired into the sitting room, burned another kitchen chair (who needs coal) and balanced the head on two blocks of varnished wood (never did like that bedroom cabinet, but like I said we had no coal) on the glass coffee table. And set about removing the valves. Now kneeling down was kind of painful due to the bruised kneecaps; I honestly thought the cow slurry would have cushioned the earlier fall, but it didn’t. Moreover, it don’t half sting when it gets into cuts. Smells a bit as well. Never mind I did it standing up, well leaning over at an odd angle would be a more accurate description.. First two valves were no problem at all; I was getting a wee bit over confident; low blood sugar or another blond moment still not sure. Then the faeces hit the fan big time and in slow motion and everyone present got their fare share. You see, I hadn’t made allowances for the fact that the coefficient of friction between varnished wood and glass ain’t very high, lets be honest here the coefficient of friction for a greased pig is significantly higher. Valve number three was prepared for removal, I put all my weight on the hammer and the valve spring began to compress’ girl fiend moves closer to grab the collets… Then the hammer handle slipped off the spanner, took fright and attacked the girl fiend who was still leaning over trying to grab the colletts, successfully as it happened. The valve cap then made a very successful bid for freedom, closely followed by the valve spring as it was no longer held in check by the half inch AF spanner, which had taken an unhealthy interest in the girl fiends cleavage. The Rolls Royce Avon was now in full combat thrust with re-heat, afterburner and JATO pack lit. Now gravity has its uses, so does momentum and so does kinetic energy. But at this moment in time I was beginning to wish that I was: A. weightless. B. in a vacuum. C. somewhere else that was nice and warm and didn’t have lots of shiny (soon to be lots of sharp and pointy) things in it. D.deaf as a post But I wasn’t and I went down hard at about 9.8m per second squared. The table top turned into lots of sharp pointy bits of shrapnel when my elbows hit it, but I didn’t slow down (I hate you Isaac Newton) , the cylinder head was now stood on it’s end so my head vigorously attacked it for having the temerity to stand up when I was falling down. Now if Vauxhall would only have had the decency to grind off all the casting flash the corner of the cylinder head would have been nice and smooth and my head would have slipped off to one side. But no, the idle buggers left it sharp and jagged. Which proceeded split my forehead open oh and fractured the front of my skull In addition, if they had used bolts for attaching the exhaust manifold rather than two-foot long studs, the bridge of my nose would not then have exploded in an impressive display of blood, snot and gore. I decided at this point that unconsciousness was very appealing. So I passed out. That was nice that bit. Comforting in it’s own way. At some point during my enforced nap, the neighbours had returned. I woke up, sort of. The girl fiend was looking somewhat pale and shaky, a 2lb ball peen hammer to the temple will do that to you, you know. So, with typical female logic, she suggested that I pop next door to see if they had any Detol or such like. So off I trotted, well staggered. Now just what would your reaction be if, on answering your front door, you found a six foot blond Geordie, covered in a mixture cow ****, oil, broken glass, blood ,snot, tears and gore (who also appeared to have grown a very large, ripe Victoria plum between his eyes, that was also squirting blood in numerous directions) be? Me, I would have run like hell. Nevertheless, farming folk are made of stronger stuff than that. Thank God. My request for Detol was met with a wee bit of derision. “I think we need to get to Hospital PDQ”, was a rather sensible reply. “I’ll get the hubby to start the car”. Now her hubbies car was a 1972 Range Rover 2 door fitted with an Isuzu diesel that was an absolute bugger to start. And concussion does really strange things to ones ability to act rationally. Of course, the bloody thing wouldn’t start would it. Not even using half a can of Easy Start. So I tried to push start it; on my own. Which put my blood pressure up, which made the red stuff squirt even harder. Then I decided to have another nap in the middle of road, which was nice too. The bits to fix the car arrived on Boxing Day as promised. I didn’t. I got out of hospital three days later. I had a really nice Boxing Day, food, heat, painkillers , antibiotics, stitches, lots of stitches and better than that no nasty sharp pointy things attacking me. It was great. Took about a month for the lump between my eyes to go down, it really was weird being able to see it. And there was no lasting damage. To add insult to injury I later found out that the 1 litre Vauxhall engine has a working tolerance that means the valves and pistons do not meet when the timing belt snaps. In fact, had the bloody RAC man walked 50m down the road to the main dealers he could have simply bought a new timing belt, they were still open, and fitted it in less than 10 minutes!!!!!! With the AA now. The girl fiend eventually forgave me for spoiling Christmas, we even got married (the wedding really was an unmitigated disaster, but highly amusing), got some new cats, parakeets, chinchillas, guinea pigs and the great Hamster plague. Even went on to have 4 kids, including one that was an unplanned home birth. So all in all, I reckon God does love me, not a lot admittedly but enough to keep me alive!!!! Oh and I saved up and bought a Landrover.

Sad thing is they are the edited highlights! I've done a lot worse, one day I'll tell the story of how I fractured the front of my skull on a cylinder head one Christmas Day. Mind you I am now firmly of the opinion that my landrovers have had so much of my blood sweat and tears that they constitute relatives, at least a the level of DNA!! But I still cannot answer the key question - Just why on earth do we like the bloody things???

Lost me specs last week - what can I say