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Went the day badly?


NorfolkNWeigh
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If I had seen the car on a driveway after this incident, a brick would have hovered through the front room window of the adjoining house by some inexplicable esoteric force.

Also, the members of the biker club I'm a member of would know the address by now for sure.

Whoever gives me a bad day, will have a worse one. There is no exception to this rule.

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A lot of them know the address. The house was on a busy main road and even at that time in the morning there would have been too many people about. I like to err on the side of caution. No witness and one in one. Like i said what goes around comes around

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Around 5 years ago I was driving through the Norfolk market town of Acle minding my own business and I had some young inbred male in a Fiat Tipo swerve towards me to try and scare me. In a split second I noticed the young male (possibly also inbred) in the front passenger seat pulled a face at me so it was deliberate. There were two rear passengers as well.

 

I would wager that the driver wouldn't have done it if he was driving on his own. Hopefully the driver has grown up (maybe by marriage to a half sister or cousin) and seen the error of his ways. Or maybe he later on tried intimidating the wrong motorist and got beaten by someone built like a WWE Wrestler.

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Had this a few years ago on the North Circ. The cars bodywork was introduced to my bike chain and padlock that I had draped over my shoulder. I then fecked off quickly through the gaps in the traffic. My rather small and not very legal plate ensured that I never ever, ever heard anything from the plod.

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Experience has taught me that this Karma thingy often needs a healthy dose of help to get into the right direction.

 

to some karma is believed to operate in a straight line so basically actions from the past influence the present, if this is true, in this case the person giving the retribution is simply a tool in karma coming around 

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I used to love reading Went the day badly,they were recollections of stuart bladon who was/is an excellent motoring journalist who wrote in autocar magazine for many years.My fave was one about an olds toronado  that caught fire in a busy London street,reading these articles makes you realise how intrepid some of these road testers were in the good ol days,travelling abroad in sometimes not the most reliable of cars covering great distances with very little in the way of equipment and certainly no mobile communications devices.

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straight forward 'kno**edd' for me  :roll:  

 

I turned off the main drag through Wallsend, Station Rd., and just as I got kind of ready to drive up the road I'd turned into - whoosh - Slappedd lass pulls across street to do 3 -pointer.

 

Never looked in her mirror & lousy place to do it [on a junction]... I stopped DbblQuikk & fortunately, so did the guy following me  :shock:  :shock: .

 

fair doos to the boyfriend, in her car.... I think he explained, enthusiastically, what was going on + arm gestures... Nae sha99 tonite, M8  ;-)

 

 

TS

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Soon after getting legal we headed out west to visit me ma side of the family, was foggy as all the way down with nigh on zero visibility.

I can remember being at the front of a pack of cars who were clearly happy to follow my tail lights even when I went the wrong side of a traffic island somewhere near Andover. On the run home in similar conditions we got tail gated by a red bodyshitted orion who after me perhaps foolishly giving him the brake light shuffle tried to run our mk1 metro off the hogs back. Not the best of journeys though survival is key to life long learning.

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I had a bad week a few months back, I can laugh about it now but at the time I didn't! Lessons learnt included checking  timetables properly....

 

Monday

An easy number; spazzed three week old Astra from Wisbech to Bradford.


Tuesday.
Collect Kubota compact tractor from Ware, Herts.
Get there and the customer's gardener is waiting for me. Lord & Lady of the manor are upping sticks to Devon and the tractor is needed to tidy their acreage down there. "Did he mention the trailer as well?" No he didn't; luckily it's a little Ifor job which although fully laden is pretty light. No ball-hitch on the tractor, so ran the winch cable under the Kub and got it up that way.
 
Set off, with a piss-stop at Reading the only halt in a otherwise clear run to the edge of Exmoor. Find the farm, unload in a barn, collect my winnings and head off to Saltash to collect a Peugeot 106 headed for Jersey. Land about 6.15 and get loaded up, then hit the road for Weymouth. Stop for dinner at Exeter services and use their WiFi. A36 is shut near Honiton so go a arse about face way and land on the coast at 9pm.
 
Find the coach and truck park, nice and quiet and near the seafront. Settle down in the cab and sleep like a log.
 
Alarm goes at 06:30 SAS time and I awake to a glorious Dorset morning. Get the Pug unstrapped and unloaded as Condor bend you over for the full Frankie Says Huhhhhh treatment if you wish to take a loaded commercial over. 
 
Drive the Pug the short distance to the ferry terminal, have a good wash and brush up in the plush Condor building and buy my ticket from the ditsy girl behind the counter, "What time does it arrive in St Helier?" Oh about 2pm she says. Super.
 
Got a while before the boat starts loading so grab a coffee and have a wander.
 
Eventually it's time to book in and I drive the Pug to the booth.
 
"Guernsey mate?"
Er no, Jersey....
"Says Guernsey on here"
Explain I'd even asked the silly cow what time it got to ST HELIER, the bloke laughs and changes it on his screen (same boat).
 
Set sail.
 
By fuck though... it was choppy. I soon felt rough and went out on deck for some fresh air.
 
So we get off the boat and into the queue for customs.
 
An officer who looks not unlike Jean Michel Jarre takes one look at the chavved 106 and asks me if I'll be staying long. "About an hour", I reply, explaining I'm just delivering it. "So it's not your car and you know nothing about it... pull into that bay, please".
 
Then follows a good 35 minute inspection of car, paperwork, my insurance, car again and a check on both my number, the girl in saltash (who, incidentially, was fit as fuck) and the bloke I'm delivering to in St Helier. By the time they are done and satisfied I'm not drug running the return boat has finished loading and is getting ready to set sail. My mobile also doesn't work on whatever network the CI's work under so I can't ring my man to tell him to get here pronto. Incidentially, while JMJ is examining the car, another much friendlier officer points out a row of impounded motors on one side of the customs shed. "All drugs confiscations" he says... including a shit old sherpa shape LDV Luton van which had £170,000 of smack in it.
 
Fuck it, I think, set the sat nav and crawl through St Helier tourist traffic to the bloke's address, a crumbling mansion of a place clearly occupied by about 30 Turkish families. Fabio his name is; nice guy, dustman for States of Jersey, who tells me he's paid £600 for the Pug which once 'J' registered will fetch about a lot more, true or bollocks??
 
Knowing I've missed the boat I decline his offer of a lift back, take my wedge of cash (more of which soon) and have a very pleasant stroll through St Helier back to the docks.
 
In the Condor office I discover the next boat back to Weymouth is in 25 hours time.
 
Fuck fuck fuck fuck
 
Out with the Kindle and a quick search on alternative options... then Condor man says, "well, as you were held up by customs and you haven't got a ticket, I could do you a Portsmouth sailing tonight less the cost of a train fare to Weymouth?" GAME THE FUCK ON
 
Have a coffee and rinse the Condor WiFi to pay for more truck parking, then get on the boat. it's not very busy and no outside decks... WTF... buy some roast beef for dinner and go for a pint, which is quickly abandoned when the choppy sea takes hold and I retire to my reclining seat.
 

 
Sleep like a log, thankfully, till the 05:30am breakfast call as we approach Portsmouth.
 
THURSDAY.
 
Fucking throwing down.
 
So wet is it, that on the walk from the docks to Fratton rail station, I have to take my specs off in order to see anything at all. Hook them inside my jumper and trodge on.
 
At the station, I reach for my glasses... which aren't there.
 
Retrace my steps and after about 10 panic filled minutes find them. Some fuckers stood on them and bent the frames, but the glass is ok. Looks like one of the hinge pins fell out. 
 
Trodge back to the station and get a paperclip, wire the specs together and bend them so they stay on my noggin.
 
Picture the scene... piss wet through, probably smelling like a tramp after a night in a cab and then a ferry and with bent specs held together with a paperclip. Hi commuters...!!
 
Get train, happily the connection at Eastleigh is immediate and by 10.30 I'm back in Weymouth. Truck still there and untampered with... thank fuck.
 
Now before I'd left I had an enquiry from someone in London to collect a Jag from Rugby, my phone had been KO'd in Jersey so I'd emailed him to explain and said I'd ring him when I was back. Turns out he did want the job doing and could I at least collect it today in order to avoid storage charges? No worries said I, I'll get it on the way home and bring it down in the morning, so off we went Rugby-bound.
 
At Burbage I decided I'd better put a splash of diesel in and pulled into a Esso, £20 in and went in to pay. Oh bollox.... Fabio had paid me in Jersey notes, and Condor's change had also been in Jersey notes, the cheeky buggers. The petrol station manager said there was a post office in the village so I had to leave him my driving licence and the £20 in Jersey money and go to get some changed. 
 
Find post office, it's shut for lunch.
 
Wait 40 mins, man arrives. No we can't do those, you need a bank... Marlborough... about 3 miles away.
 
8 miles and a traffic jam later I'm in Marlborough and after trying 3 banks Lloyds agree to change £20.
 
Zoom back, hit the road again Rugby-bound for Charles Trent Insurance Salvage incorporating Truckbusters and Surly Fat Woman Who Does Not Tell You When You Ring At 4PM To Ask What Time You Are Open To, That After 2PM They Do Not Let Cars Go.
 
So after my wasted trip I set off back home and to a much needed glass of plonk.
 
That evening, with increasing alarm I looked into the problem of the Jersey money and quickly came to the conclusion I might as well have had a wedge of Monopoly money. Nationwide (our bank) wouldn't even take it. 

However - my mate Munkie wanted his Landy 109 taken up to Lincs in order to have it's double cab roof fitted by an alloy welding guru there. He banks with HSBC who would do the biz with the Jersey notes. We agreed a price on moving the LR and Munk said he'd come along to move the Jag in the morning. 

 
Friday.
 
Up early and set off the 2 miles to Munkie's... and run out of fucking diesel on the road into his village. Munk arrives with jerry can and we get going again, with dog as co-pilot.
 
Back to Rugby and a long long wait while the fat bird gets the yard lads to bring the Jaguar round. It's a S type with a monged front end. "Do you forklift it on?" I ask. "No there's a £10 charge for that". OK so does it run? How should she know...
 
Anyway the yard lad jumps it and we get it loaded up and set off.
 
The customer has been somewhat elusive for the previous few hours and I eventually get a call from a completely different number who tells me the delivery address. Visions of being fobbed off with no cash/being bummed/being stabbed cross my mind but after a hassle free run down the M1 we get to Haringay, meet the fella and drop the car.
 
He gives us a £30 tip!! Legend.
 
Set off again homeward-bound, down the Seven Sisters Road to the A10, unfortunately this happened...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-beds-bucks-herts-24771483

 
Three hours it took us to get from the A10 through Crews Hill to Potters Bar... M25 was shut both ways and it was completely gridlocked everywhere.
 
When we eventually got on the motorway again I noticed the heater wasn't blowing hot air anymore. As we pulled into South Mimms there was a cloud of steam from under the bonnet.
 
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
 
Had a look and a hose had blown between the engine block and the oil cooler. As the temperature hadn't gone in the red and it clearly hadn't overheated I think we were lucky but my morale was at a massive low by this point.
 
Rang the RAC who said they would be out ASAP. Several hours later a man arrived with a variety of hoses, none of which could be made to fit as the hose in question was bent in a S-shape and had different size ends. They then told me, despite me making sure it was covered, that the Sprinter was too long for recovery and I'd need to pay.
 
Fuck's sake.
 
So I asked him to get a quote while I searched for a local Merc commercials dealer. One in Welham Green just up the road.. but it shut at 8pm.
 
RAC man came back.... £759 sir.
 
Our mate Steve offered to come out with a Landy and straight bar but we decided that the most sensible course of action was to get a room in the Days Inn and try and get the hose in the morning. They take dogs for an extra fiver so that was OK. Munk went and got some dinner for us while I got on the net to try and find part numbers.
 
Ate grub and saw the funny side. TT Closer To The Edge was on the telly as well which Munk hadn't seen... he was actually dead calm and back to his usual self. Slept fitfully and Roo kept barking at noises.
 
SATURDAY.
 
Up at 7, on the blower by 8 to Merc Trucks who had the part in stock!! Straight onto a taxi firm and within half an hour I was at the parts counter.
 
They had the hose and I asked for some clips as the ones on it were a bit minging. The parts bloke apologised as every jubilee clip has to have a Merc parts number, and he might be some time. He wasn't kidding and by the time I got back to South Mimms I was £23 down on a 4 mile round trip.
 
Munk and I got the hose on and the system filled while he eyed up two Virgin air hostesses in a BMW, and we ran it up to temperature. NO LEAKS NO OVERHEATING THANK FUCK
 
Hit the road at warp factor mong and landed in Barrowden at about 11.45am, to be greeted by the most unhappy face I've seen in a while from Ms_Munk and a shouted 'greeting'... I made my excuses and headed home for a proper welcome.
 
Loaded Munk's Landy that evening when everything had calmed down, but not after an hour's wait as he had indeed got it ready for me and even left the keys in, but had also gone out shopping and left his GF's locked up Peugeot parked right behind it. "Sorry I forgot we went out in the Audi".
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From a LR forum:

 

I should have known things were going to go “slightly wrong†when I started….

I decided to use Jons Waxoil gun, and my compressor, I had the propane burner on in the workshop since 3.,00pm flat out and it was like the sahara, in fact it was so hot I decided a T shirt and shorts was the dress code………

Grabbing some white spirit to further thin the waxoil I entered the kitchen and unscrewed the waxoil lid…

Thhhhuuuumpppppppp !…grwat big snotty big dollop spewed out over the kitchen worksurface........, no probs I thought, ...I’ll sort that out when I’ve finished, as I might make "a little bit more mess yet", .....glad Sues not in….

Clutching bloody hot waxoil injector thingy, part filled with waxoil and mixed with very very warm white spirit I squirted and soaked the chassis blasting away, and also practising holding my breath .....as it went misty in the workshop….

1 Gallon later I was nearly there, I was at the rear cross member, with yet another huge refill…….

I ought to point out that I had also decided that at some of the angles I was at pulling and holding the trigger was a pain in the Ar&e...( I have a really bad back) so I had devised a cunning lock of an elastic band on the trigger so that I could let it do it things whilst it sprayed away……

Shove tube into hole and pull trigger….lock and waggle etc…

Enter my wifes love of her life…..

The cat….

It sat there and looked at me the way only a cat can….it sniffed (unapprovingly) the dripped waxoil, and I said…

“Huh, you don’t want to be in here matey, this stuff will stick to your fur like sh*t to a blanketâ€Â……and at that very point the jammed on tube extension came off the gun…

Could I release the elastic band round the trigger ?…

Could I Boll*cks….

The gun squirted warm waxoil / white spirit out at a force never so far experienced, one particularly good jet hit the cat, who bolted, knocking over the 2/3 empty (1/3 full) can of hot waxoil / white spirt mix, which flowed oh so well under the landy, and into my clothes T shirt and clothes and skin areas exposed..., but I was still fighting with the hot octopus trying to switch the damned thing off, but I failed, I was saved when it just ran out…..

Just when I thought nothing could get worse than lying under a Land Rover with waxoil soaked clothes, waxoil dripping onto my hair and face, and running into my ears….

Some waxoil drpped onto the lead lamp….

Ping….

Blackness…….

Blackness as it also pinged the fuse for the lighting circuit, getting myself out of the underneath of the landy proved friutfull, in that I knew all the places that waxoil had “leaked†……

Removing dripping clothes I entered house in “minimal Clothes†to resolve fuse prob, when Lights went on I saw the cat…

I AM GOING TO DIE IF SHE SEES THIS !

Here Puddie cattie……

This did not improve the sink / kitchen area 1 little jot, .....ever tried holding a 'waxoiled cat' in a sink with water and rags, and especially when cat does not enjoy it ?….

1 hour later cat was scrubbed and very piss7d off with me, I’ve had 2 baths, and also cleaned the bath it seems that the bath will not be rusty….scrubbed kitchen fllor, sink, worktop

Will she notice….

Cat stinks, garage sticks, alley way stinks, I stink, kitchen smells of lemon washing up liquid, which strangely we seem to nearly be out of ?….floor stinks……

She will be back any minute…….

[gulp]

Nice job on the Landy tho.......

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