Car story #1

Patrick, my brother in law, had bought a Reliant Robin to work on and sell. You've got the picture (except Stateside - this is a car made of plastic body panels).

He asks me to help bleed the brakes. Patrick is 5' 4" and eight stone, I was 5' 10 and 12 stone 7. (Was!) I squeze into the drivers seat which is set up for Patrick. I pump the brakes, he deals with the nipples (this is a technical term!) and says thanks, it's done.

I can't get out. I am wedged and the seat adjuster has wedged as well. In the end I make my way out by twisting at the waist and putting my hands on the road, then I walk out on my hands. This car was sold quickly.

Car story #2

Another one of Partick's fiascos was an NSU. These have their engine in the boot, and are popularly believed to be 'No So**ing Use'.

He was having trouble with the engine, and asked if I could see if the carburretors were opening at the right time (or something like that).

So I go round the back, open the boot, he fires up the engine, and a sheet of flame eight inches high narrowly misses my beard.

Moral: "Remove beard before opening boots."

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"God rot Botchkamos Istochnik!"

Car story #3

Let's introduce you to Gordon. Gordon is ex Royal Hampshires, and in early adulthood would have listed his hobbies as 'fighting, drinking and ****ing', all of which he did a great deal of. That was just before I got to know him through (guess who) Patrick.

Gordon had his first cold at age forty (well after this story) and once fell off the roof of a three storey building and went straight back up the ladder. Gordon dresses as a pink fairy for Christmas and no one dare say anything. He loves it when people daren't say anything ---

Anyway, Gordon is a loyal and extremely useful friend, ready to do anything for anyone, and rarely asks for help himself. So when his Ford Corsair was short of an exhaust, Patrick and I were glad to help. Since Gordon was then working as a cowhand (never having touched cows before, he simply said he had three years experience and adapted, as he always does) he was far away from the nearest scrap yard and we went to get him one.

Of course in those days (late 1970's) you got your stuff from a scrapyard. You found a likely looking car, got a few big lads together for the fun of it and rolled the car you were interested in, or wedged it up on its side with a drive shaft. And hoped it didn't fall back on you.

Anyway, we got the exhaust required, and tied it to the top of Patricks' Ford Corsair (they both had one, they liked the wooden dashboard - they were the last of a bygone age). Having strapped the exhaust to Patrick's roof rack with ropes through the tops of all the doors, we then had to get in 'Starsky and Hutch', that is, grab the top of the door and jump in through the window.

When we got to the farm, Gordon and Patrick, with many years of experience of these things, found great difficulty with the bolts . So I volunteered, and got under the car. Nestling down amongst the cow ****, I was able to tell them how simple it all was as the oil dripped on my clothes, the rust fell in my eye, and more cow **** fell gravity assisted from the bottom of the car. Chump.

I get my Ls next year, don't scare me!



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Those who forget the pasta are doomed to reheat it.

Car story #4

The Saga of the Simca Van

Patrick married my sister Helen just before this, and the Simca Van was the wedding car. My nephew arrived six months later, and it all worked out well since Pat and Helen are still married and my nephew got the best first in the country in something like Land Management and is now married himself.

Anyway, the van. It developed an oil leak. Since the engine came out on a slant and required special lifting gear, Patrick decided to do it up and flog it before the leak got bad enough for a buyer to notice.

I get home from 'A' level college on my bicycle, and Patrick wants to borrow some tools for an awkward job. So I hang around, and get drawn in.

One of the track rod ends needs removing (that's a thing behind one on the wheels, for anyone who has problems opening the bonnet - I would say 'ladies', but this is an equal opportunities story). Patrick couldn't shift it, and asks if I could use the ratchet on it. I gave it everything (which really was a lot in those days) and it wouldn't budge. So I asked if it might be a left hand thread.

'Nah', says Patrick, 'they never do things like that with cars, only bicycles'. So I deferred to his experience. He got two monkey wrenches to hold the part with, and lay down under the rear of the car to do so while I levered the ratchet violently. Still no luck.

Patrick has a brainwave (we know, it's been measured) and goes to his shed. He unbolts his vice, brings it back to the car, and bolts it to the suspension so as to hold the track rod end more firmly.

'Patrick', I said.

'Yes?', says he.

'What's that burning smell?'

All this time a lead lamp has been strapped to the inside of the wheel arch, and now the exterior paint is beginning to burn off.

Anyway the vice is tried, and fails. Finally Patrick relents and lets me have a go with my left hand thread theory. To my surprise it came off first time; I had exerted so much force that I reckoned to have stripped the threads if I was right.

Car story #5

The Triumph Herald soft top

So we go to the Auctions to sell the Simca Van.

Cannock is about 40 miles from where we were living at the time, and Patrick reckons on buying a Mini to drive home in. 'There's always plenty of minis at Cannock going @#$%&', he opines.

We get there and look round the parked cars. Minis, minis, minis. I see this soft top Triumph Herald and like it. Patrick gives it a cursory glance, and says he wouldn't pee in it.

Cars go through, and there are only ten left. Patrick is now worried as all the minis have gone double his money, and little choice remains. He begins to consider other options.

Three to go. In comes the Herald. Patrick runs round it kicking the tyres and making sightings down the body work whilst asking impossibly detailed questions of the auctioneer. 'You said you wouldn't pee in that', I remind him, but am ignored. The car is bought, and we set off down the A5 with the wind in our hair (and my beard).

We get about a quarter of a mile; the oil is out. We fill it up at a garage. Wind, hair, car, road, fun. Twenty miles later, another garage, because the oil is out again.

Twenty miles later, same again, very near home.

Next day, off to the scrap yard to look for a new soft top. No luck. On the way back, the car overheats every mile and we have to stop to cool down. Turning the corner into our street, Patrick cuts the corner to make sure we get there! The engine dies, and on inspection two cylinders have melted solid.

It's pay back time for Gordon. He goes off to the scrap yard and finds a suitable engine. By now he has a van. The staff at the scrapyard joke he's going to need a couple of them to move that, isn't he? So Gordon picks it up and throws it into the rear of his van and drives off without saying anything. Useful, is our Gordon.

We gather together to remove the old engine. An 'A' frame is hired for lifting, and a block and tackle used by Gordon - Patrick is a bystander at this game. The engine becomes wedged. We remove the bonnet, which fastens the 'wrong way on', and I insert a plank under the engine and jump up and down on it.

Well all's well that ends well. Patrick replaced the engine, painted the car by hand, had a new soft top made by a specialist, and turned in the only profit he had ever made on doing up a second hand car, so my sister says; and she's an accountant. Introducing him to arithmetic, she managed to convince Patrick that he was losing money on these deals, and the end of an era rapidly approached for us all.

Dave, reference story #3 - reminds me of my mate Rob who built himself a car out of assorted scrapyard finds in the mid 70s. He even had a badge made up (by an engineering apprentice mate). Since it was assembled largely from old Corsairs, he called it the "Ford Pubic"....

Note to self: Driving with Dave R, most likely a safe proposition. Driving with Dave R's brother in law Patrick, probably not a good idea.

Thanks Tracy (and what a nice e-mail eventually got through). :)

Patrick is of the opposite opinion. I sometimes drive crazy and come to no harm, he drives 'sensible' and gets into trouble. His worst was when the steering failed on his Austin Princess while towing a caravan.

Car story #6

When my ex wife abandoned my autistic son in hospital aged three because she couldn't be bothered to look after him, I only heard from her sister, who felt guilty about this state of affairs. I touched 135 mph on the M1 (unlit section at night in rain) and arrived to find Joshua upset, but in a way the staff would not have recognised. I have always believed his problems first arose from being left alone in hospital when I physically couldn't be with him and Elizabeth couldn't be bothered when he was three months old. So I wasn't having him go through that again.

I spent six days in there with him; it was the second week of opening for my shop, and just before Christmas as well. On my birthday Elizabeth went to a party and I stayed at the hospital with Josh. I wouldn't hve been anywhere else, and by the end of it we were having a good time in there.

I don't regret the speed for a moment, though I've never done anything like it any other time. I drive within what's possible, and if conditions are against I'll go at 20 and not be hurried by anyone's horns either.

Hint; if ever you have to drive at those sort of speeds, the M1 is a surprisingly bendy road. But with no traffic you can go down the middle lane safe as you like full throttle. This is the incident that led to the 'chase' scene in 'The Nextarillion'.

Dave _
Re story #3: Gordon sounds suspiciously as though a cat somehow got reincarnated as a human. :-)

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"God rot Botchkamos Istochnik!"

I’m sure one of you would love to become the owner of a Merlin kit car.

Semi-professionally built (not me). One careful lady owner (also not me).

Perfect for either impressing the ladies or totally confusing the men, who want to know why your husband lets you drive his car (grrrrrr).

Guaranteed free of onions.

No? Oh well, it was worth a try.

One of my mates was telling me last night that his bonnet had suddenly come unlatched and flown up, smashing the windscreen (which luckily stayed in place) as he did 70 (he says) in the fast lane of the motorway... He had to call the cops from the central reserve to get an escort out.



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Do something pretty while you can...

Early in my motoring career, I managed to drive out of Hartshorne (Derbys) with the handbrake on all the way up a big hill. Funny smell, thought I.

Simon, you have come up with some priceless comments. If so, Cheshire Cat; Gordon has a remarkable grin. Especially when wearing the tutu as pink fairy Gordon.

Car story #7
So Gordon needs my help in Nottingham. I agree to be ferried over to Nottingham in his mini (Patrick and Gordon spent the late seventies going through half a dozen cars a year - or so I remember it!).

Gordon arrives, we get in the car, and he hands me a piece of string.

'What's that for?', I ask.

'Look at the wipers', says Gordon.

His wiper motor was out, and I spent the whole trip manually operating the wipers in persistent drizzle using a continuous loop of string round the windscreen and in through the front windows, hence letting drizzle in at the sides.

You know if I had the cash I might well like a kit car, though little good would it do my children ---

I had a ride in a kit car once. Tremendous fun! It looked like a tin can on its side, made a terrible racket, and was absolute murder to get in and out of, but it was still a wonderful ride. :-)



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That which does not kill us makes us stranger.
(Llewelyn the dragon, Ozy and Millie)

Sarah

I've never been in a kit car, but I did get a lift home once, many years ago, in someone's Spitfire (the car, not the plane !) My bum seemed to be a few inches above the ground.

Hmm. Wonder if you could make up a few places in a traffic jam in a really low car ? You might be able to drive under the lorries and 4x4's.

Have never had a ride in a kit car or a spitfire, have had many memorable ones in an old ford tho......

Do you all know the old story about the person who had to spend a night trapped in their "bubble-car"? Apparently the model concerned didn't have a reverse gear, and when they drove it into their new garage they found that (a) the ceiling wasn't quite high enough for them to open the canopy in order to decar, & (b) there wasn't enough room in that garage to turn the car around so that they could drive out of the building again... They had to wait there, cramped, until somebody (the milkman?) came by in the morning and obligingly man-handled the occupied car back into the drive...

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"God rot Botchkamos Istochnik!"

My first driving lesson was with a cousin I was staying with, at Chobham Common, by a weapons research centre.

We were doing the 'clutch down, first gear' thing when I looked at the bonnet and saw a sheet of flame leaping up from the bonnet.

"David, the engine's on fire," I said. "Don't be ridiculous," said David, looking at the temporarily flameless bonnet. "Go on, clutch down, first gear..." So I did, and another, bigger, sheet of flame shot up from the bonnet into the air. "Aaaaah!" screamed David, "Get out of the car!" So we did. In slow motion.

Once we were out, he sent me off to get help (car burning merrily meanwhile). Wandered up to the guardpost, told them what had happened, asked them to call the fire brigade. "Yeah right!" they said helpfully. But did it in the end.

Went back down the road, to be overtaken by very military vans. Reached the car to find David held at gun and alsatian point by some very serious men with convincing weapons who'd been treating him with a certain amount of scepticism until they saw me... "And what happened here?" asked the officer, sternly. "Well, I was having my first driving lesson..."

And Ptols I do sympathise - think if the truth were told I'm petrified of driving too, otherwise I'd have taken my test more than once and frightened off the aliens... not sure what you can do though, sorry...



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If the English language made any sense, a catastrophe would be an apostrophe with fur.