Datsuncog's Heaps: Sept 2023 - Another Year's T-Met Exemption Certificate...

[They_all_do_that_sir]

He really has been some time. I wonder has he set fire to it in a rage yet?

 

Weather is absolutely hideous here and I'm barely a couple of miles down the road.....

 

Sent from my SM-A510F using Tapatalk

[Guest Hooli]

Probably still trying to get the matches to light

[Datsuncog]

Well, it sounds like success to me... Full write-up to follow... apologies all for the sideways video. I iz soshul meejah expurt.

 

[Datsuncog]

So, where had we got to? Oh yes. Saturday afternoon, out in the freezing cold, with a box of Lidl tools and what I was beginning to suspect was an utterly superfluous secondhand blower motor.

The routine was becoming rather more familiar to me than I'd have liked: passenger door open, mats out, torch on, head jammed awkwardly under the dashboard with a lively wind blowing up my trouser leg. Yup, the blower motor was still there. A few minutes with the Torx T20 screwdriver and it wasn't.

Before disconnecting it, I gave the blower a quick blast just to confirm that it hadn't magically become fixed overnight, in a fortuitous Grimm fairytale update ("The Elves and the Shitemeddler", perhaps?) - and funnily enough, it hadn't. Well, it was a long shot, in fairness. But wow, do those blades go round quickly when the blower's set to Position #4.

So I pulled the spade connectors off and connected up the secondhand blower, then balanced it precariously on the socket case in the footwell. And, with the ignition key advanced a notch, I turned the blower switch to position 1 and... nada. Nothing. Rien. Same with two and three.

On four however, off it went - quite literally. As the motor burst into life on full power, it toppled off the socket case, bit into the carpet and shot out the open passenger door in a bid for freedom like a demonically possessed hamster wheel.

Since it was still attached to the dashboard, it didn't get all that far, but banged around alarmingly on the outer sill until juddering to a halt. Mental note - don't do that again.

So, exactly as SiC predicted upthread, my blower woes were indeed nothing to do with the motor itself. And the HBOL assertions that the resistor pack is attached to the top of the motor?

Bollocks. Utter falsehoods.

I don't know why I should be surprised, as it's not the first time cheery, reassuring Mr Haynes has taken me by the (grimy, oil-stained) hand and led me down the metaphorical garden path.

But even so. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Seething with annoyance, but also shivering with cold, I carried out my second strategic withdrawal of the day and returned to the house to thaw out a bit and take out my frustration on half a loaf of wheaten bread. I scrolled morosely through the Renault Forums thread on the Laguna blower fix (yeesh, it's not all that user-friendly - some forums, eh?) and try to formulate some sort of action plan.

As ever, this formulation took rather a while and I ended up becoming sidetracked by other domestic matters, before realising that it was now getting quite late.

 

So out once again to the frozen wastes; and once again some troupe of friendly anthropomorphic creatures had unaccountably failed to fix it all in my absence. I'm going to blame a childhood of Ladybird Books for giving me unrealistic expectations of how insurmountable difficulties are overcome by supernatural intervention and everyone lives happily ever after. In the absence of a fairy chodmother, I did the only thing I could. I had another look.

So. From my worm's eye view in the footwell, and with the aid of a torch, I could see... all the way up into what I suppose is the heater blower chamber, with all the ducting and whatnot branching off it. I gave a cheery wave to the boggin' pollen filter all the way up at the top. It didn't wave back. There still wasn't very much to see.

 

Somewhere up there, out of sight, I was dimly aware that there must be more electrical gubbins. It was a very faint thought - rather like how a dog must be dimly aware of the changing phases of the moon - but I followed it anyway. Wiring to and from the ventilation control switches, for one. They must be... somewhere.

And then there was the question of the big red and black wires to the blower motor. In my initial ignorance, and encouraged by HBOL, I'd assumed that the current went to the motor and then something happened to alter that current to give me the four different blower speeds. It hadn't really occurred to me that if that were the case, we'd be needing rather more wires than were present. (I'm sorry, I really wasn't being over-modest when I said I was a bit clueless about car electricals. I truly am a dunce.) The cables ran up the way, into the dark. But I couldn't see where they went, and there were no screwheads visible to remove the acres of plastic ventilation housing.

I couldn't see any straightforward way to get the dashboard off, or any part thereof. I flicked through the HBOL just to confirm that it would be a bastard of a job, then rocked back on my heels a bit. Did I really need four blower speeds anyway? Wasn't it just showing off a bit? I could get the windscreen cleared okay with just position 4. It was hardly the end of the world. It just... wouldn't be quite right, that's all.

Idly, I poked at the blanking plate at the inner edge of the dash with the aperture to the door vent above, and then unscrewed it.

Then I shone the torch into the gap. Aye aye, what's this?

WIRES. And, more pertinently, wires leading to a blue connector block of a type previously seen in the Renault Forums thread. And aren't those my red and black cables from the blower motor? Suddenly, a new avenue of enquiry opened up. Access. I needed access. Out came the glovebox, and its manky contents. Screws were concealed beneath a sort of carpety bit. Interestingly, I noted that they'd clearly been removed before.  

And behind we have - aha! This looks rather more like it.

Yes. As per Renault Forums - this seemed to be the actual housing for the blower's resistor pack.

Can I just reiterate that Haynes is utterly silent about the very existence of this part of the car. Not a sausage to be found anywhere in the manual about what lies behind the glovebox.

So I removed the multiplex plugs and gave a hopeful tug at the housing itself. Nothing - though there seemed to be a triangular retaining clip of sorts down by the bottom edge. More deep scratches to the plastic were noted. My dirty mitts were clearly not the first to have guddled in this department.

I shall draw a veil over the next half hour; all you need to know is it wasn't pretty. There were coarse words, threats, cajolements and tears. I could feel a retaining clip on the other side of the housing, out of sight of man and reach of stabby screwdriver, but I couldn't get the bastard thing to relinquish its death-grip on the housing. My digits were too far numb to feel with any degree of detail, and the light was fading fast. In rage and desperation, I pulled and twisted... there was a bang, and suddenly there it was... the resistor module thing.

Now, the Renault Forums guide had also advised that the module must be repaired in situ, as it couldn't be removed - but the only thing holding it to the car now were the cables going down to the blower motor - so I disconnected these and the whole thing came away. With undisguised glee, I bolted back into the warmth of the house and ran my frozen hands under the hot tap, before examining it in greater detail.

I carefully prised the metal cage off using a pair of needle-nose pliers, and inside I could see the three springy things and the source of all my misery - the thermal fuse. I also saw a lot of scratches and the final damning evidence I needed to prove that this was not the first time this car had popped its blower.

The original idea, as per RF, was to snip the blown fuse out from the PCB, and use two block connectors to patch the new one in using the extant posts. This turned out to not be an option, as the existing fuse was very close to one of the posts. However, it was clear that when the fuse had been replaced previously it had simply been pushed back in and crimped to a join. So I jiggled and pulled the old fuse out from the posts...

...and pushed the new one into place, crimping the posts with a pair of side cutters. It seems to be making good contact, despite the hacked-about condition of the posts..

After that, it was just a matter of refitting the protective cage with a few strategic plier tweaks..

And there we have it. All this grief and rage over a 99p thermal fuse.

Now, with the penultimate stage of this total spunktrumpet of a repair seemingly done, I was keen to go out there and bang it all back in place, so desperate for a win was I. And I might have done, too, were it not for the fact that:

1. we were due to meet up with a friend in Belfast for a birthday meal in 45 minutes' time, and I was still dressed like Crook-Finger'd Jack from an am-dram production of The Beggar's Opera with added bits of foam in my hair for good measure;
2. assuming that the PCB repair would be as long and arduous as the rest of the operation, I had been uncharacteristically diligent in screwing the glovebox and blower back into place, and tidying all the tools away for the night. (I'll never make that mistake again.)

And so, experiencing mixed emotions of accomplishment and frustration, I put the component down and sloped off to wipe the tearstains from my grimy face, in the hope that the blower would run tomorrow, and I would by then have regained some feeling in my extremities...

[TBC]

[Guest Hooli]

Hurrah for frog electrics, or something

 

You have to love the haynes bol, it's a lovely work of fiction.

[Datsuncog]

[The blower saga continues - and concludes!]

The early hours of Sunday morning brought Biblical proportions of rain and wind, hammering against the windows from stupid o'clock. By the time the grey light began to slither through the blinds, the garden was already semi-submerged, and I was mildly surprised to find a large heron perched on the house opposite's roof, clearly anticipating the formation of a new fish-filled stream where once was road.

I dealt with the yowly cats, made myself some coffee and a plate of waffles, found the laptop charger and returned to the comparative warmth of the bed for some ponderous one-finger tapping of the first instalment of this weekend's spannering (because one simply has to keep one's legions* of screaming fans* happy, dahling). Any attempts to refit the resistor pack and fan would clearly have to wait until the elements abated, as the one thing I faintly comprehend about electricity is that it tends to mix poorly with water.

With the ripping yarn of The Yaris With The Wrong Stereo Leads safely preserved for posterity (the movie rights for which are already the subject of a heated bidding war from several major film studios), it was still pissing down rightly so other domestic matters were attended to (fitting dimmer switches and draught excluders to the upstairs bedrooms). Then, once again, I noticed it was late and I'd done bollock-all to TAZ. The rain had finally eased off, so with the air temperature measuring a whopping 8 degrees Celsius, I scampered out to deal with the resistor pack.

Removing the glove box and blower again as per Saturday was straightforward enough, bringing me back here again:

Mmm, deja-vu.

In with the resistor pack and – ah.

It would appear that the loud ‘bang’ during yesterday's brute force + ignorance removal stage was, in fact, the clip on the far side breaking off. In fairness, it was an incredibly stupid design – a sort of plastic shield hid the clip for no reason whatsoever, and it was this shield rather than the clip itself that I was pawing at, sight unseen, the previous day.

There was no similar set-up on the front-facing clip, and now the resistor pack (which presumably needs to be moderately air-tight in order to work) was jutting up at the back, with a fair old gap around it. So I needed something strong and yet flexible to secure the pack down to the plastic ducting…

Let he who has not bodged cast the first stone.

Come on, it's duct tape - this is literally what it's for, taping up ducting.

Plugs were re-plugged, everything seemed tight enough up top – so on went the glove box (loosely), giving me some room to get at the blower again. Two screws went on fine, but the third (the one at the very back, the one awkwardly right up against the bulkhead) dropped – down the back of the peeled-forward carpet and underfelt.

I rummaged, I tugged, I got my finger to it only to feel it drop further down out of reach… ballsacks. Short of removing the entire carpet, it wasn’t coming out.

So I swiped one of the screws from the glovebox (six screws seems overkill, no?) and tried to use that. It got halfway in, and then the poor angle for working and what turned out to be a slightly wider shaft diameter resulted in slippage and the Torx head ringing… Eventually, I got them all on tightly. It is not pretty, and I pray I never have cause to remove it. (Probably jinxed it right there.)

And there it was… I put the mats back, the last couple of screws around the glovebox (one of which fell down inside the void, so there’s only four screws holding it in now). So the only thing left was to try it out.

 

(apologies for shit footage, and also the spoiler-tastic earlier post of same – I will try to hold the phone the right way round in future).

Yup – it works! The blower turns merrily on all four speeds now, for both fresh and recirc modes.

Case closed. Job jobbed. Melodrama… drama’d.

I packed up and sloped back inside again, muttering to myself as ever. I don’t like these kind of jobs; they take up such a lot of time for a very small component, and when the weather is not kind they make me very grumpy. But at least we have a functioning blower again, and I suppose I’ve learnt a few things.

Learning points:

• I am pretty thick when it comes to car electrics. This is the primary reason why I’ve generally avoided cars made after 1996, as this seems to be the outer edge of my comfort zone. I look at posts about fault codes and OBD2readers, and tidy-looking 2000-ish VAG shite going into the fragger due to dodgy sensors shitting everything up, and I want no part of it. Limp-home mode? Fuck that, I managed to wring 1500 miles out of a Viva HC with a blown head gasket and shot crank bearings over two weeks of continental motorway driving (though I wouldn’t necessarily want to do it again, thanks). That said, as the years march on, more and more shite will require a more-than-basic knowledge of this sort of thing to keep them on the road, so I really ought to apply myself here.
• The design and execution of French electrics are a bit pants. Especially true for that utterly needless shielded clip on the far side of the resistor pack.
• I shouldn’t have just gone online and ordered up the first blower motor I found, without consulting with the learned AS hivemind… I’ll have to check the vendor’s returns policy. I really don’t want to have spent £30 on a doorstop. Mind you, as soon as I return it, you can guess what will blow next…
• If Haynes manuals contained an exploded diagram of the relevant system at the beginning of each chapter, like they used to, then their ambiguous language would be less of a problem. And I appreciate that there are many different Laguna 1 models with different innards, but there is no question whether the resistor pack is “part of the blower motor”. It just isn’t. What didn’t help was a series of components on top of the motor that looked a little bit like what I’d expected to find. Red herrings and all that… but this is one thing I can’t really help. Learn, fix, move on. It’s not called the Haynes Book Of Lies for nothing.
• This place is amazing (I kind of already knew that, but it’s good to have it reconfirmed).

So. Next job will be happening at the end of the month when I finally get paid; full service including coolant, to see if that helps cure the intermittently lukewarm heater, and hardwiring in the dashcam using one of those piggyback fuse things so I can close the ashtray because it annoys me to see it open get my 12v socket back.

But yes. I think we can tentatively call this a win.

Unless the car has other ideas…

[They_all_do_that_sir]

You may as well buy this one as well, saying as its sort of local 

 

https://www.gumtree.com/p/renault/for-sale-mot-22.05.18/1283755178

[Datsuncog]

^^ Cor - fairly late Phase 2 RT Sport with the 16v 1.6 unit - same spec as the one my dad had, only his was Venetian Red. They do look good in this metallic blue though, with connotations of Renaultsport and Alpine cars - in all honesty, I would have slightly preferred if TAZ sported this shade instead of Fiji Green. Trés francaise, non?

£400, MOT to May... looks reasonable (bar the floppy back box), though no interior pics. I daresay he'd take a little under that, as it's seemingly been sitting without tax (not SORN) since October...

No. I can't. I mustn't.

Gnnnng...

Seriously though, these cars really do represent cracking value. Many of them had issues, true, but the lemons were all cubed a decade ago (probably like my dad's, with its shonky overshimmed gearbox - p/x'd in 2001 and with no record of tax or MOT since 2005) and the survivors tend to just keep going.

And, as observed elsewhere, they've kinda done a R21 in that they've gone from being common street furniture to quite uncommon in a very short space of time (about 18 months) - seems Laguna 1s are now at that critical stage of having zero image and being worth bugger-all, so even solid examples have ended up getting weighed in over something as trivial as a blown exhaust or needing a set of tyres and pads, since a crusty £200 Focus can be obtained for the same outlay.

I'm really tempted, but am in too deep with the various foibles of TAZ at the moment to take on another unknown quantity. And I'm on a self-imposed deadline to get KAZ up and running again, otherwise McKinty's Yard beckons... 

[tooSavvy]

In the words of Victor Kiam...

 

'I liked the speed controller so much I said "FCKU!..how much?" and made one'

 

 

You done a grand job m8

 

 

TS

[320touring]

Ahem...

 

https://www.gumtree.com/p/cars-vans-motorbikes/renault-laguna-19-dti-sport/1286820044

[Datsuncog]

DAAAH!!!

Another one! And it's cheap! And a dizzler too... hmmm. Some crustiness, and both wings somewhat dinged although the same colour as KAZ and the bonnet and bootlid do look straight... I may need to give this some thought... cheers for the tip-off!

 

[320touring]

DAAAH!!!

 

Another one! And it's cheap! And a dizzler too... hmmm. I may need to give this some thought... cheers for the tip-off!

Don't say I'm not good to you...

 

Goddam Gumtree app lets you set a search radius, rather than the old 'type in location' gig.

 

This means I end up with a 200 mile radius circle that takes in Manchester and hunners o Ireland/N Ireland

 

I therefore feel obligated to share the joy* with all and sundry:)

[Datsuncog]

Heh, that used to bug me about eBay... "Oh wow, a Cortina that's only 30 miles away! Oh wait... it's in Stranraer."

Verdict: GR8 4 Crows

[Lacquer Peel]

The 1.9 DTi is supposed to be gr8 4 veg. Would!

[320touring]

The 1.9 DTi is supposed to be gr8 4 veg. Would!

That's the highest of praise!!

 

Get it bort Mr Nissangear

[Datsuncog]

Okay, so I actually buckled and rang about this yoke at lunchtime, despite having received a warning eyebrow last night from Mrs DC when I raised the matter, and having no idea when I could possibly retrieve it from Fintona.

Turns out it already sold yesterday afternoon, and blokey hadn't got round to pulling the ad yet.

I'm now a curious mix of exceedingly deflated and substantially relieved

At that price, I'm not overly surprised - two years ago someone down the road from me had a diesel estate with the 7-seater package and a full year's MOT up for £200. It sold in about 20 minutes. S1 Lags are a weird mix of totally worthless yet still kinda sought-after. A lotta car for the money, I guess, though the danger is that even small repairs land them in the scrappie.

That said, another silver Phase 2 that was local to me and I tried unsuccessfully to buy back in 2016 has, apparently, resurfaced after a gap of a year - so that's some good news.

I really, really need to get KAZ running again, though. I fear any further purchasing would just be a distraction from this task. And TAZ needs a jolly good service - the feckin' splitter at the front means I can't get it onto my Paddy Hopberk ramps, so something will need cobbled together there. If it'd just stop with the bastarding snowing every weekend...

[320touring]

Ah, at least you tried.

 

And you'll no be as slow next time;)

[320touring]

Not that I see myself as a facilitator...

 

[Datsuncog]

Oh here - now that's something you don't see every day... and the first estate RN version I've ever clocked.

That's nearly the larger-rumped twin of KAZ: same colour paint and interior trim. Seems marginally more upmarket with centre console and radio data beside the clock (both if which KAZ lacks) Very, very nice... truly all the car you'd ever need! I like that very much. Cor!

[320touring]

Gib ffs

[Datsuncog]

For all I know, I could be about to win a Merc C Class!

[Datsuncog]

^^^ Jinxed it right there, of course...

[SiC]

99 pence start, no reserve. Let's see what this gets to and how unloved they are now! Despite a decent length MOT and supposedly looked after, I reckon it'll go for feck all. A Laguna I in a not too populous place in the country, with a few (minor) scrape marks, couple bits of missing trim and interior needing a good vacuum.

 

 

https://rover.ebay.com/rover/0/0/0?mpre=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.ebay.co.uk%2Fulk%2Fitm%2F282877961871

 

Edit: Despite the title (I don't think LXE exists as a trim), it's a RXE. Isn't that the posh spec? I spy talking computer buttons.

[320touring]

Having been the one who started posting random Laguna 1s for sale on this thread, I'm bloody glad that MK1 Toledo are super thin on the ground...

 

Datsun of you should buy the blue one btw!

[Datsuncog]

Mmm... yeah, can't imagine that blue RXE going for megabucks - RXE spec is a plus, but only the 1.8 lump and that damage to the sill will be annoying to repair right... I don't think there's many people deranged enough to be buying these as anything other than a disposable Bangernomics chariot (other than me) - even if it is a Talkie. Though R9UKE of this parish did get hold of a fully loaded Laguna 3.0 V6 Monaco a year or two back with more toys than a Gamleys warehouse, and that did go onwards to a collector (hopefully one with an electric mop and a jumbo pack of T-Cut).

I can't see myself buying anything else until I get KAZ sorted and moved on (pure lack of space), but keep 'em coming - it's good to see what's still out there!

[Datsuncog]

Daaaah.

So where to start. Probably by weaving together my assorted incoherent and increasingly shrill posts from the News 24, Grumpy and Junkyard Jewels threads.

The big news is that TAZ is very likely dead, or possibly fatally injured. I don't yet know for sure, but I'm working on the premise that blowing out the entire engine's worth of oil at motorway cruising speed is rarely a long-term indicator of longevity.

And it's all my fault. Kinda.

 

So. Easter Monday. A cold, wet, 7.00am start, to head the 45 or so miles over to Stewartstown in Tyrone for the annual Junkyard Jewels chodathon. After wind and rain battering the house all night I very very nearly didn't go, but the rain didn't seem too bad whenever the pale dawn light came a-trickling, so I got myself sorted and slipped out of the house.

I'd like to formally register at this stage my bitter resentment that I could have avoided every pick of this car-related hassle through the exceedingly simple process of merely keeping my lazy arse in bed until 12, and then guzzling a load of chocolate for breakfast in front of a Netflix binge-session. I won't be making that mistake again, let me tell you.

First up, obligatory pez shot.

Now, weather-wise it wasn't all that bad whenever I left the house, but by the time I was midway through filling up, the wind had started to blow the rain horizontally under the forecourt canopy. By the time I emerged from the Eurospar, £63 lighter and clutching a travel mug of double-shot latte cut with hazelnut syrup (plus a bag of moderately stale jam donuts) it'd turned into sleety snow. Which became snowy snow as I ascended the New Line up into the Antrim hills. I stopped to commemorate my rugged determination* for the eternal admiration and inspiration of all like-minded shiters.

The actual journey was fairly dull, as low cloud meant that scenic views weren't really happening and roadworks abounded. Much of the journey was motorway anyway, with the charming* rural roads only arriving towards the end. TAZ was running as normal - no issues, noises or warning lights.

Despite a few misgivings, Google Maps proved very accurate and I was massively early for Junkyard Jewels, who like to keep things like opening hours a closely-guarded secret. It turns out the autojumble etc. was from 10 until 4. I was there a smidge before 9. However, after ruminatively chewing on a hard donut and tappy-tap corresponding with Faker of this parish (who wisely had left later and stopped for a fry en route), I decided to head on in as a steady stream of chaps in flat caps and rally jackets appear to be wandering through the gate. A lad in hi-viz collected my £3 entrance fee to Shite Wonderland, and beyond him I could see a crusty Triumph 1300...

I re-emerged about three and a half hours later - soaked, frozen, and probably burbling incoherently. The rain had mostly stopped, and I was looking forward to getting home and into some dry clothes, before maybe heading out for a spot of lunch with Mrs DC.

Once again, with an air temperature of 4ºc registering but the windchill apparently taking this down to -5ºc, it would have been nice to have a working heater. But I didn't, having been waiting in vain for some weeks for a day that's not so cold that attempting to backflush the system would leave me like a human icicle. So I pressed on, or tried to - as I quickly ran up behind a One-Speed Wullie in his little red Focus, maintaining a steady 45mph regardless of whether he was travelling through a NSL zone or a 30 zone.

After about twenty minutes of watching him pull away through villages, only to catch him up again half a mile into the 60 zone along the twisty road, I was becoming rather fed up. This general fed-up-ness morphed into actual fury as my previous route was unexpectedly barred by an Easter street fair in Toome, just as I was about to approach the roundabout onto the main A6. A PSNI officer diverted me away in the opposite direction, which meant I had to access the A6 dual carriageway by means of a rather nasty T-junction situated on a curve.

There was a bit of a queue at the junction from all the diverted traffic. And I really wanted to get around Wullie in his wee Focus. Eventually, he crossed the first set of westbound lanes to the central median, and I followed him across as space permitted.

However, he was then dithering and being unnecessarily (I felt) hesitant in joining the eastbound dual carriageway, to the point that a silver Transit that had been behind me for quite a few miles suddenly crossed over the westbound lane and drove up my nearside, neatly blocking my view of the oncoming road.

This was becoming dangerous, and I wasn't happy.

Wullie took off, finally - and I nudged forward to the broken line, but so did the sodding Transit, continuing to block my sightline of the oncoming road. Fearing it was about to take my nose off if I didn't make a move, I trusted that Wullie's instinct for caution meant that he'd waited for written notice of a totally clear road before making his move out into the eastbound carriageway - and so I followed him out of the median, with the Transit also continuing out, on my nearside flank.

Wullie, however, seemed to forget what the pedal on the right did - so as I moved forward after him, he failed to pick up speed, moving across the lanes at an absolute snail's pace. And the Transit was also aiming for the inside lane, squeezing me out to his right in order to pass in the outside lane, as there was nowhere else for me to be.

And then, to my horror, as I  glanced to my left I could see a black Mercedes rounding the curve - and travelling at substantially more than the posted 50mph.

I did what I felt I had to do to avoid a collision: I floored the Laguna in the outside lane, hammering up to about 40 in second, overtaking Steamboat Wullie and pulling back to the inside lane when safe to do so, as Merc Boy tailgated and flashed his lights at me in a friendly* and encouraging* manner. He cruised on past; I left Wullie pootling along in my rearview mirror, and settled TAZ at the limit. Right. Twenty-five minutes should see me home.

Eight or nine minutes later, the A6 turned into the M22 for a pointless two miles or so, and I was shortly about to join the M2 at Antrim to take me the nine miles or so home. But something was up. Since the acceleration incident, something felt... different about the car.

I mean, there were no untoward noises or vibration, but it was like the pressure in the cabin had changed, somehow - as if there was air flowing through the inside, somehow. I couldn't feel  it, it's not like I could detect an actual airflow, but the car seemed... open. That's the only way I can describe it. I fiddled with the leccy window buttons and ventilation controls, trying to see if that made a difference. It didn't.

And then came the noise. A rumbling, grumbling kind of a noise. Engine, not wheel; it changed as the revs changed. I stuck the iPod on mute (yeah, it was Wings as it happens, for maximum Partridge), and listened. Shit shit shit. Something wasn't right. Temperature gauge and warning lights were all showing situation normal, but something was definitely amiss and it was getting worse. I bashed the hazards button and steered onto the hard shoulder, bringing TAZ to a halt. There was a lot of noise. Clattery. Tappetty.

Had some wag swapped my 1.8 Fonte engine for a Talbot unit while I was mooching round the scrappie? That's pushing the bounds of credulity, admittedly. I prodded the throttle pedal again. It got worse. I decided to maybe stop prodding the pedal, and switched the engine off.

 

Hopping round the back of the car, I was unexpectedly confronted with the kind of iridescent road-rainbow stretching right the way behind me along the wet hard shoulder, that I wondered whether Rainbow Brite astride a sparkly unicorn along with Nyan Cat had recently passed this way. Heh, some unlucky bastard's had a bad time of it.

Oh wait. No. It's me.

I'm having a bad time of it.

Looking like a shite version of Pink Floyd's 'Dark Side of the Moon' album cover, this spectrum of dazzling colours terminated in a mucky Renault and then went no further. I hurried round to the front... for some reason a thick, dark, viscous substance very like Lyle's treacle was now oozing from under the front of the car and running into the gutter. I knew it wasn't treacle really. I did know. I just wasn't ready to accept it quite yet.

Bonnet up. Blue smoke curled out at me, everywhere, and the sleet splashed on the hot block, sizzling. There was oil everywhere. I couldn't really continue with my treacle/unicorn denial mechanism any longer. The front of the block had become a black, bubbling, smoking mess. The side of the air box and the n/s driveshaft were dripping with the stuff. The amount of smoke was so great I was concerned that the car was actually on fire somewhere. Fuck. Fuck fuck fucketty fuck. This was not good. This was not repairable with a cable tie and some GunGum. This was a bit serious.

So. After a bit of a fight, I extricated my RAC membership card from the driver's sunvisor pocket. I've had RAC membership on and off all my driving career; and to be honest I've never been that impressed with them the very few times I've needed to call on them. I'm probably just the kind of mug they like, one who keeps handing over £140 year after year.

A 20 minute wait on hold, listening to what sounded suspiciously like some of Peter Gabriel's rejected b-sides, was kindly interspersed with helpful* motoring advice about defrosting locks and making sure I have anti-freeze in the radiator. Because that's obviously going to help a lot in my particular circumstances.

The recorded message also advised me periodically that their call centre is "exceptionally busy". Being exceptionally busy seems to be the default for all call centres these days, which to my mind suggests that it's no longer the exception - and maybe they need to put a few more bods on the phones, eh?

Eventually, my call was answered. The lady at the other end seemed a bit irked, because I kept asking her to repeat what she was saying. After all, it wasn't like I was standing by the side of a motorway being blasted by high winds and driving rain as trucks barrelled past about ten feet away from me.

I explained where I was, what had happened, and that there was no point sending Mr Fixit in a breakdown van - because all the oil that used to be in the engine was now very much outside the engine, so I reckoned the likelihood of someone effecting a reasonable roadside repair was zero. I needed recovery, end of.

She asked me yet again to clarify where I am.

I'm on the M22 - one mile from Junction 1 of the M2, past Randalstown but before Antrim, on the Belfast-bound section of carriageway.

"Is that in Ireland?"

Yes. Yes, it's in Ireland. As opposed to fucking Kent. To the best of my limited knowledge, there is no Belfast near Strood or Faversham.

I was about to put my well-used pedant hat on and clarify that while she was correct to state that it's in Ireland geographically, in political terms it's actually Northern Ireland - but didn't want to come across as a patronising berk.

Having spent a fair while living in England, I learned that most people have no time for the petty wrangling and distinctions over the controversial socio-political reasoning that led to the Partition of Ireland. Everyone who knew me described me as Irish, and coming from Ireland, and I was fine with that. Specifying that I was actually from Northern Ireland just led to lots of blank looks and confusion.

So I let this one slide, and the call handler rang off saying that someone would be with me within 45 minutes.

Big mistake.

I stumped up and down the litter-strewn verge behind the Armco for a while, trying to keep myself warm. For the novelty, as I'd had it in the back for years and not used it, I trudged about 150 metres back along the road with a little pop-up warning triangle thing, and positioned it daintily on the hard shoulder. It was utterly pointless, but it gave me something to do for ten minutes. I gave the box a shake to see if the handy little wheel-changing child depicted in the illustration was still inside, but all that fell out was a desiccated spider. It merely lay there on the boot carpet looking crispy, without making the slightest effort to assist me in my hour of need. Oh well.

After about twenty minutes, the phone rang. It was someone else from the RAC. Could I just confirm that I was in Northern Ireland? Because the original handler had sent a breakdown crew to a pointlessly short stretch of the N2 outside Blanchardstown in Dublin, that for reasons unknown was re-designated as 'the M2' a number of years back.

FFS.

Yes. Yes, it's the M2 in Northern Ireland.

Not this.

Not this either.

Yeah, this one.

Handler #2 then confirmed that RAC don't carry out vehicle recovery jobs themselves in Northern Ireland, so my job had been given to a recovery company called Creightons. They would be in touch within 45 minutes. I went back to stumping up and down the path. I did manage to find quite a sturdy lemonade crate half-buried in the undergrowth, which pleased me no end, and I had another chewy donut to celebrate my unexpected good fortune.

An hour and twenty minutes later, I was no longer feeling quite so chipper. In fact, I was beginning to wonder if I was entering an early stage of hypothermia, despite my hat, scarf and gloves. My boots and jeans had got pretty badly soaked at the scrapyard, and were now deeply uncomfortable. I also began to regret being so honest about my circumstances, and wondered whether telling a little white lie about giving a lift to a load of diabetic nuns with epileptic kittens would have got me seen to rather more swiftly. It's about then that the phone rang again; a mobile number this time.

It was Creightons. They hadn't forgotten about me after all! I confirmed exactly where I was, and was told they'd have someone with me in twenty minutes. 

I ate another of my donuts out of sheer elation/boredom.

Then, unexpectedly, a large slice of battenburg cake pulled up. No, hang on - cold-induced bakery hallucinations aside, it was PSNI's Motorway Patrol in their Disco.

They asked me whether I was waiting on recovery. Hastily brushing away all the donut sugar, I gave them my particulars, including the conversation a few minutes ago with Creightons, and they asked if there was anything they can do for me.

I realised I'd become slightly over-animated (as I tend to do around authority figures), and probably gave them the slightly erroneous impression that I was thoroughly enjoying this unexpected sojourn amongst the frozen turds and bits of exploded remould littering the side the M2.

Officer #2 in the passenger seat told me that this is the neatest breakdown he'd ever seen on this stretch of road - and he'd seen a lot. He gesticulated to my warning triangle, the hazard lights, the stupid little magnetic roof-mounted flasher beacon thing I received as stocking filler around 1999 and had never before used, the fact that I was standing a safe distance away, behind the barrier - "You clearly know what you're doing."

I got a tiny little puff of tragic pride. I'm good at having breakdowns in useless old French shite.

On one hand it's quite nice to be told you're doing something right by a professional; on the other it's like the most heartrending backhanded compliment ever.

Police-approved FTP-er. Accredited breaker-downer.

Maybe I can get a little badge made or something.

They took my mobile number, advised me to call 101 if anything changed, and off they toddled. I took my phone out of my pocket and realised I now had a missed call - the ringtone inaudible above all the traffic noise and wind. Bollocks. I selected redial; but the recorded message said something about the RAC not accepting inbound calls on this number. I pondered whether to call them back on the main call line, but the thought of another 20 mins on hold dampened that thought. Oh well. If it were super-important, they'd have left an answerphone message, right?

Second big mistake.

I spent another while looking for more lemonade crates, without much success, and then realised that 45 minutes had passed since Creightons called to assure me they were 'on their way'. So, for lack of much else to do, I gave them another call to see whether they were on their fucking way to Dublin and all.

Blokey answered. "Oh no, we've been pulled off that job. We're not doing that one now. That's gone to Agnew's, not us."

Oh right. Well, wouldn't that have been good to know?

So I rang RAC's main centre, again, for another welcome burst of Peter Gabriel and more handy Idiot Driver 101 tips.

"Remember to put fuel in the fuel tank! Close the doors while driving so you don't fall out going round a corner!" Or something along those lines.

I was now becoming mildly concerned as, having taken some 546 pictures at Junkyard Jewels and now spent an awful lot of time on hold waiting on calls to be picked up, my phone battery was now down to 23%. And dropping. Ten minutes on hold to the 'second time caller' option, in the middle of which I received a welfare check call from the PSNI control centre, and then my call was finally picked up by an RAC call handler.

"Oh yes, Creightons were very busy and couldn't attend your breakdown. So Agnew's will be handling it. They should be with you in 45 minutes."

FFS. Starting to get mildly peeved at this 45 minute bullshit now. My phone charge was hovering just above 20%, and I'd only one donut jerky left. Plus, I'd lost all feeling in my left foot.

And yet, amazingly, within a matter of minutes, another mobile call came through from the Agnew recovery driver. He was nearly at the junction, and would be with me soon. Somewhat sceptical, I retraced my steps back down to the warning triangle - and just as I reached it, there was indeed a bright yellow wagon cruising past in the opposite carriageway. By the time I got back to TAZ with the triangle under my arm, he'd gone round the big roundabout and back down the other way, pulling in just in front of me. I was Quite Pleased, to put it mildly. Finally, after over three hours.

Agnew Bloke was just the right mix of friendly, professional and no-nonsense. He'd got a job to do. He tutted, looked, shook his head.

"Looks like the whole sump's blown or something - that's a right oul mess. But we'll get you home."

I handed over the keys to my stricken Lag, bundled everything up, and was delighted to accept the offer to go and sit in the cab of the recovery wagon with the heater on. The Renault crew cab was just-valeted spotlessly clean, with warm tartan blankets and friendly-looking dim lights. It'd almost been worth freezing my spuds off to experience the delicious warmth therein. Almost.

I heard much clonking and whirring behind, as TAZ got its front wheels snared in a webbing cradle of some description, and then hauled up onto the tilting loadbed. Boom. That's it.

Agnew Bloke confirmed where we were going, then radioed back to control as - guess what - RAC hadn't confirmed with Agnews that I actually had a recovery policy in place, and technically he couldn't move me until this was authorised.

I waved my sheaf of policy documents confirming full UK roadside, homestart, relay recovery etc, and permission was granted - control agreed they would sort something out with RAC. And we were away.

I bade a not-so-cheery farewell to my temporary roadside abode; it'd been nearly as bad as the afternoon I once spent in Newhaven (I didn't have any donuts while in Newhaven, so that's why Marker 18B 26 ranks more highly as a breakdown destination).

I actually managed quite a good chat with Agnew Bloke on the way back; he was into motorsport in a big way - tarmac rally - and we had a few mutual acquaintances in common.

It also appeared that my recovery experiences were not uncommon. He was given news of the job at 16:08, according to the job sheet. He phoned me at 16:10. He was with me by 16:15. Apparently Creightons will take on any job offered, even if they know they can't possibly do it. Then, when RAC rings them back to ask if they've attended and they admit that they can't do it after all, only then will it be reassigned to someone else who can. I began to mentally compose my letter of fire and fury to RAC customer services.

The sleet turned to proper snow through Mossley, the fields were white. It didn't take too long before we were back in Carrick, in the sleet again, and I got the joy of manoeuvring TAZ off the slippery wet loadbed and into the driveway using only gravity to assist. Obviously, I wasn't planning on starting the engine, hence no power steering. I couldn't see a damn thing, but did as I was told and somehow managed to roll the car backwards in a wonderful S shape off the truck, down the drive, and came to a halt in front of the house. We were back. It was 5pm, I was frozen, my car was dead - but I was back. KAZ down the size of the house, not starting, slightly white with ice. TAZ now out the front, exploded and dripping oil. I'm sure the neighbours were mightily impressed.

Agnew Bloke was pulling everything back into shape on the wagon, and I was somewhat dismayed that my status as a rainbow-maker had remained with me - the road, the pavement and the driveway were now covered in a purple-greeny-bluey sheen of motor oil.

"Never worry - wee taste of washing-up liquid will shift that."

And that's it - he was away off, into the sleet, away home for the day. I retrieved a bottle of Fairy from the kitchen, and marvelled as thin strings of it seem to suck all the oil-sheen into nothingness, and it all disappeared down the drain. Within a minute, it was all gone. Just me, in the sleety rain.

I shoved some old recycling container lids under the engine area to catch any more oil, and then realised I could do no more. I know I'll have to make a fuller investigation at the weekend, if and when the rain stops - but I reckon it's curtains for this one.

One more fallen soldier.

[Dirk Diggler]

We need a not like button

[holbeck]

We need a not like button

 

Aye, not like.

[beko1987]

Yep, been there done that with 5 hours on the side of the m25 with a wheel missing.

 

Don't you have a spares car with another engine in though?

[SierraMikeHotel]

Damn. That is spectacular. Sorry to see this dude