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

[Datsuncog]

On 11/27/2017 at 9:02 AM, Richard said:

I would be tempted to get a complete hub off a donor car, including wheel bearing and carrier. No matter what you do to that hub flange it will never be 100%.

Yeah, that may well be the best long-term option - I really wanted to get the total base spec Laguna RN running again and pass it on to someone who'd appreciate its pov-tastic placcy no-frills charms, but the amount of water and mould in it after only a few months of non-use has made me reassess whether that's a feasible option anymore. I'd bought the green RT Sport (TAZ) to allow me to work at the silver RN (KAZ) - but I've spent all my time and money fixing the green one! I'd sooner not start cannibalising KAZ for bits to keep TAZ running, but my options are becoming steadily more limited.

I'll see what else crops up on the MOT sheet tonight before deciding how much more money to put into it. I'd thought that it was a strong if slightly shabby example when I first bought it, but now I'm growing concerned as to how much bodgery has occurred over the years via its sole previous owner...

Annoyingly, I did have a no-hoper spares car that I stripped some trim and electrical bits from and then disposed of back in May, which probably would have yielded a decent hub and carrier. Always the way.

[Datsuncog]

Well, it's MOT day for TAZ, the Green Gooner with the dirty little secret. Like a twinkly uncle with a massive 'specialist' porn stash, there's been things going on in and under this car that I don't really want to think about. At 8pm tonight, TAZ has a rendezvous with destiny at Mallusk Driver and Testing Centre. Depending on how it goes, said car could find itself in the ring at the adjacent Wilson's Auctions tomorrow night, with two days' MOT left...

Lovely day for it.

Just to recap; yesterday's exploration, following Saturday's not-quite-accurate fast-fit centre diagnosis, revealed that at some point in the dim and distant past a locking wheelnut snapped in the front n/s hub. The previous owner - and there has only been one from new (and I know where he lives) - apparently saw fit to drill out the shank of the locking nut, but rather than make a proper job of it by re-tapping the hole and putting in a new bolt, he simply stuck the broken top back on through methods unknown. It was this demi-bolt that I was then presented with by the bemused fitter at MacGowan's Tyres.

Seemingly the car has been in use for many years, and passed many MOTs, without this anomaly coming to light. I will admit, I was perturbed. If a car is designed with four wheelbolts, then four wheelbolts it should have. The former owner - a retired aircraft engineer, with an impressive machine workshop filling his double garage - surely wouldn't have found it beyond his knowledge or ability to use a tap set to rethread the hole. And yet... he didn't.

So the bolt hole in question looks like this:

Fairly corroded, but the hole is a fair bit smaller than the correct bolt and, it would seem, eminently tappable.

My decent Hilka tap and die set mysteriously went walkabout, along with a huge quantity of other tools and workshop equipment, when my parents moved house twelve years ago (not wanting to cast aspersions on the removal men, but... it was the removal men), so last night I rocked up to Screwfix and took a lucky dip on one of their sets. Customer reviews for all of their kits veer wildly but consistently between five star 'GR8 4 AL JOBZ' and one-star 'snapped on first use and put my eye out'. So £25 quid got me this no-name 2.75 star-rated item:

Which comes pre-rusted and with a cracked case, for my convenience.

Unfortunately, as the online description didn't contain any trifling details like what was actually in it, or in what sizes, I was left to hope that there would be one big enough to do the job.

Typically, there wasn't.

The biggest tapered tap size in the kit is M12. As Mr Bo11ox confirmed, modern wheelbolts are generally M14 size. So that's no chuffing use to me.

Before work this morning, I scuttled over to a quality tool shop in Belfast in search of an M14 tap. No bother, says the counter chappie. What thread size? Well, it's a 1.5 gauge thread. Of course, they only had coarse thread taps in stock. Try coming back on Wednesday. So that appears to be that. Plenty of M14 1.5 taps on Fleabay, plenty on Scamazon, but none that I can walk in and buy before tonight. Homebase and B&Q have zip; local indie builders yards draw a blank. Arse.

I've read the excellent advice posted to this very thread on how to make my own tap from a notched wheel bolt with interest, and it seems a cracking idea - but as I have none of the necessary tools or space to carry out such a task, it may not be much use right here and now. As it stands, any work I do to my cars has to be carried out either on the gravel drive, in a small wobbly wooden shed at the end of the garden crammed with garden furniture, or in the coal bunker. I do have a vintage Record vice that belonged to my grandfather, but it's in my parents' attic 50 miles hence. 

In sadness and regret, I returned to my desk, fuming. And my attention turned to the box of horrors, the Renault Boutique anti-theft wheelbolts themselves. This has been cable-tied shut as the hinges have split, but I can hear them rattling round in there.

Erm.... sorry, what's this?

Like, actually, what the jack shit is this??

Has he...

He hasn't.

GREAT HAIRY JEBUS PILOTING A MOSKVITCH 412, HE FUCKING HAS!!!

The old chancer has gone to the trouble of chopping and machine lathing one of the locking wheelbolts down to the size that it will poke through the alloy, and partly into the hub, and then just sit there. Just. Sit. There. Offering no tensile support whatsoever.

Why? Why would you even do that?

When you *could* tap the hole and put a standard bolt back in.

I'm just... stunned.

And baffled. And all the rest.

Suddenly, the vendor writing "SOLD AS SEEN" in block caps at the bottom of the receipt makes sense. Rather than this poor old giffer passing on his much-loved motor, bidding farewell with a tear in his eye as TAZ disappears round the corner, I'm now picturing him creasing up with mirth and strolling back into the kitchen, whistling a merry tune... 

"Marjorie! You'll never guess! He did! Yeah! £325 and all. I know! Quick, pull the curtains in case he comes back."

So yeah. What's next? Shampoo instead of brake fluid in the reservoir? Scrambled eggs in the radiator? The starter motor held on with clothes pegs and baler twine?

I do tend to run on trust with a car. The impression I'd got was of a car owned and well-maintained by a mechanically inclined keeper for all of its life. But then... we've all heard the old chestnut about cars owned by professional mechanics being generally hanging. I mean,  I'm not averse to bodging where safe and appropriate to the car's age and aesthetics, but I cannot see for the life of me why this reasonably involved and entirely non-functional 'repair' was commissioned. And here's the real issue. The 'sheared' bolt at the fast-fit place went in their bin. So what's this other thing in the bolt box? Is there *another* bolt 'repair' on one of the other wheels?? Yeesh.

So yeah. While checking the bulbs and everything this morning, I noticed that the passenger side washer jets aren't working. They were on Saturday. I poked the nozzles with a pin, but still nothing. So I swivelled one of the driver side nozzles over so it sprays most of the passenger side as well, and with any luck the MOT tester won't get too picky as long as washer fluid lands on both sides of the screen on demand. I'm sure it's only a minor blockage somewhere, but it's wet and freezing out and my patience is wearing thin.

My patience is also thin as - forgive the digression away from chod-related woes - it turns out the woozy feeling that has dogged me since last week and latterly accompanied by a startling variety of somewhat tender raised welts across my chest and back is, in fact, shingles! Woo! The first actual, GP-diagnosed illness of my adult life. (Don't Google it, you won't like what you see. I certainly didn't like it.) I'd put it down to RRS (Renner-Related Stress - and I have sometimes wondered if there's a link between NI being the UK's biggest per capita users of prescription drugs while also being the biggest buyers of Renaults), but it's not. I also recognise that I've been extremely fortunate up to now, with health as with cars, especially as others are not. So I'm just getting the feeling that my luck may be reaching the bottom of the barrel, suddenly and unexpectedly. Not having a moan - just a ponder. I've now a load of big packets of retrovirals and the like, which may put a dent in the bugger.

So yes... if the rain stops later on, I'll throw in a new set of Ebay plugs, which arrived last night from next-door, who'd been holding them hostage since MyHerpes dumped them at their door on Friday morning.

Then give TAZ a hoover, clip the rear seatbelts in (the testers seem to like that) and shove it through the car wash up the road... before making my way over to the test centre. I fully expect a fail; the question is, how bad and how much? I'd thought this car would be a dependable old plodder, but I think it might turn out to be more of a wildcard liability. The functionality of the catalytic converter is in serious doubt. The exhaust mid-pipe also seems to have started rasping a bit, too - but with £400 sunk into it over the past few weeks, can I afford to sack it off for an eighth of that?

Will I ever get KAZ to start, and even if I do, will it kill me with its toxic steering wheel (assuming that shingles doesn't do for me first?)

Is doubleyeller's Pug 106 diesel roffle going to be my exceedingly unlikely saviour?

Tune in later, folks, for more Renner fun with Datsuncog.

[Guest Hooli]

That's brilliant. Why fix something when you can spend as long making a dangerous bodge of it, genius!

 

Good luck for later.

[beko1987]

Wow!

[Mr_Bo11ox]

Just bung his 'custom made' bolt in the hole, and sit back waiting for your MOT win!!!! Brilliant

[Parky]

To be honest that's kind of what I was thinking. Although my solution would probably have involved a matchstick or some bathroom mastic to help hold the bolt in place

 

Unless the Irish MOT involves testing the tightness of the wheelnuts, who would know? Not sure a Japanese Shaken would be passable mind

[Datsuncog]

All trains home cancelled until 6.30, due to a 'trespasser on the line'.

Because let's face it, things were going too easy for me... so a twenty minute train journey, followed by a further twenty minute drive to the test centre... giving me forty minutes in between to get home and do something with the wheel bolt, swap the plugs, give it a wash and vac, and fix the dodgy washer jet - all in the dark.

Easy stuff... certainly keeping things interesting...

[Datsuncog]

On 11/27/2017 at 5:58 PM, Parky said:

To be honest that's kind of what I was thinking. Although my solution would probably have involved a matchstick or some bathroom mastic to help hold the bolt in place

Unless the Irish MOT involves testing the tightness of the wheelnuts, who would know? Not sure a Japanese Shaken would be passable mind

I've never seen them check the tightness of the wheelnuts, but as you're ushered into a waiting area it's hard to know exactly what's being done... although, as it's a custom-fit key needed, and the bolts are deeply recessed...

May the Lord forgive me for what I'm about to do.

Assuming I can find the mastic.

[Parky]

Five Hail Marys and an Our Father should see you right

[beko1987]

I sort of agree with Mr bollocks. Mastic the stub in, get an mot then repair at leisure. Let's be honest, it's been fine so far, another month or so won't hurt, just don't go racing or anything. My old xm and zx had fucked wheel bolts and were utterly fine (although they had whole bolts in fucked threads so held it a bit better...

[Lankytim]

I think you should lob that modded bolt through his front window.

[Brodders]

Well? Did it pass?

[Datsuncog]

Update incoming...

(You're not going to believe this)

[SiC]

Wheel fell off? But not the one with 3 bolts, one with all 4.

[Datsuncog]

Okay, so. After certainly not* screaming into my clenched fist at the train cancellations taking an hour out of my already laughably inadequate MOT prep time, I arrive home at 7.00ish. Mrs DC has thoughtfully laid out the MOT appointment printout, and found my V5C form.

"What time did you say your appointment was at?"

"Eight. Where's the bathroom mastic?"

"In the shed. It says here the appointment's at 7.50."

"Ah yes. So it does."

"The outside light's just blown, so you won't see anything in the shed."

 

Cue further not screaming*.

 

The shed, as mentioned, is across the garden, small and stuffed with garden furniture and umpteen boxes of model cars, plus several crates of tools and home decorating stuff. It is not the time or place to begin a torchlight hunt for a tube of dried-up bathroom mastic last used sometime around 2012, like some sort of demented Crystal Maze game but without the benefit of anyone shrieking at me to "get out!!!"

So an executive decision is made re. the missing wheelbolt.

May God have mercy on my black soul.

On it goes: two matches down the unthreaded hole in the hub, and a generous wodge of White-Tac around the shoulders of the butchered bolt. It fits. It actually looks okay. I give it a good old shove, make sure it's tight, then check the time.

7.30. The test starts in 20 minutes; the centre's about 12 miles away. If I'm being honest with myself, I don't really have time to change the plugs, vacuum or wash it, never mind fix the washer jet. I don't have time for anything much. I heft out a large basket of spare parts from the boot, for the sake of tidiness, hop in, wave a cheery goodbye to Mrs DC (who's seen far too much of this kind of thing) and hammer off for Mallusk.

About half a mile down the road, I realise I didn't check the brake lights. I checked all the other lights yesterday afternoon, moving methodically round the car to make sure I don't fail on a poxy bulb, but not the brake lights. I resolve to back up against a wall near the test centre, and check the reflection, just to make doubly sure. Anyway. Onwards into the night.

At 7.45, after what might conceivably be described as some spirited driving, I swing in to the approach road leading to the Mallusk testing station. It's located on a large industrial estate on the northern boundary of Belfast, and is nearly deserted at this time of night. Spotting a large white business sign by an entrance gate, I pull in, reverse up to the sign, and jab on the footbrake. Yesss. In the rear view mirror, two faint red blobs become three strong red blobs when the middle pedal receives a prod. Result.

With a langorous four minutes to waste before test time, I decide to check the outside bulbs again, because I'm paranoid like that.

Tail lights are fine, I  can see that. Indicators also fine, sending orange pulses at all corners. Main beams, fine. Fogs, fine. Dipped, fine. SIdelights - well, can't really see from the driver's seat. So I hop out.

What. The. Actual. Shit.

They were working yesterday.  I know it. I checked them. They were both working yesterday!

Bollocks. But it's okay. It's okay. I have a whole three minutes, and I have a set of spare bulbs, in the boot. It's okay. I can turn this around. I pop the bonnet, pull out the dead bulb, and hoke around for the spare bulb set.

The bulb set in the basket.

The bulb set in the basket that I took out fifteen minutes ago, and left in the hall.

FUCK MY LIFE.

I'm almost laughing. It's such a ludicrous situation. I wonder whether I should just drive down to the shore and let this bastard device roll into the sea, but it's raining and I've come out without a coat, in my flipping rush. So I drive round the corner to the MOT centre, bang on 7.49, with the resigned air of a flabby gone-to-seed amateur boxer about to square up to Floyd Mayweather.

The doors to Lane 5 roll open. I'm told to put my phone camera away and disconnect the dashcam. This is it.

[tbc] 

[Datsuncog]

I roll forward as instructed, and come to a halt. There's two testers; one tallish old guy who looks like the stunt double for Wesley out of Last Of The Summer Wine, and a small child of about nine in overalls. I look again. No; not a child, exactly, as there's slight stubble and a Liam Gallagher-esque haircut, but bloody hell - is this chap even old enough to drive?

Stunt-Double Wesley points at the computer screen by the door and mumbles something to Gallagher Jr. Ah right. A trainee. This could either be very good or very bad.

"Mileage?" Gallagher Jr asks me.

"121011." I sound out each digit separately.

"121...?"

"...011."

"12101...?"

"1."

"1?"

"1. As in 121011."

"11?"

"Yes."

"What's the mileage again?"

Eventually, we stop conversing in bastardised machine code, as he cranes his neck in through the window and it all suddenly becomes clear.

"Ah! 121011." 

 

The exhaust gas reader has been unceremoniously shoved up the Laguna's tailpipe by now. I begin to wonder whether the CataClean did anything useful after the three-pot running episode on the way home from Dublin, or if the catalyst is borked and I was just throwing more money out the exhaust. The readout monitor is tilted away from me, so all I can see is Wesley looking furrowed. I can't tell if he's just generally furrowed, or if I've given him a reason to be furrowed.

I pop the bonnet as requested. A cursory jiggle is given to the battery clamp and screw tops on the expansion tank and brake reservoir, followed by a quick glance at the VIN plate by Gallagher Jr. Then comes a puzzled look at the looped bits of string that the previous owner attached to the twin bonnet release latches, for reasons best known to himself. Homebrew quick-release pins, something like that. Down comes the bonnet with a bang, and I move forward as instructed.

Headlights now. Wesley remains crouched over the main computer by the shutter door; clearly Young Gallagher's been given the chance to fly solo tonight. Dipped beam. The measurement boxes are moved in front of the lamps, one at a time; numbers that mean nothing to me appear on another monitor to my right. Main beam. Same again. Indicators: left, then right. Press the footbrake: the mirror behind the car shows him what's working. Rear fogs. Sidelights only. Shit.

Face burning, I turn the stalk control back to sidelights only, knowing it's an automatic fail here. If only I hadn't taken the stupid box out of the back... it was an unopened Halfords twin pack of bulbs, too. And there's another pack in the hall drawer, too. Shitshitshit.

Wipers and washers. Flustered, I tug the wrong stalk and give him a coquettish flash of main beam, before a tiny squeeze of the washer and lots of eager wiper flapping. The frontman of Lilliput's premier primary-school Oasis tribute band does a double-take and leans forward.

"Washer again there, please..."

Bollocks. Rumbled. I give it a good old squeeze, trying to get the passenger side good and wet with the adjusted jet from the driver's washer. He narrows his eyes. Shit on a stick.

He punches something into the keypad at the side, to seal the car's fate, and then opens the driver's door to check the seatbelt. 

"If you could just slide over into the passenger seat..."

With the sort of grace not often seen since Bella Emberg gave up spelunking, I clamber across the central console and flop into the passenger seat while Gallagher Jr checks the condition and fitting of the rest of the belts. I hope he's so thrilled to find the rear belts all neatly clipped into place that he'll overlook the lack of lighting and utilisation of White Tac for an application strangely not mentioned by the maker. And then he's in the driving seat, kind of. With his feet on the pedals, his body is at approximately a 20 degree angle from the horizontal, and I'm sure he can't see over the wheel. He guns the engine and rides the clutch forward, onto the brake rollers.

"Long day?"

Strangely, it's him asking me. Most testers don't really instigate chat, leaving me to babble like an imbecile while trying to distract them from the squelchy carpets.

I very briefly consider telling him in a sad, squeaky voice "I just found out I have shingles this morning...", as I understand that a good solid sob-story counts for a lot in Britain's Got Talent etc - but decide against it, in case he leaps from the car with a shriek, and the test is abandoned. 

"Yeah, kinda... but not as long as you! Nearly there now though, yeah?"

Northern Irish MOT testers just love telling you that they work twelve hour days. When I once stupidly commented that I was actually working fifteen hour shifts in my place, I was given enough fails on my Mk2 Fiesta to require a continuation page. So now I just nod and commiserate in a greasily sycophantic fashion. I often fear I would have got on stunningly well in Vichy France, but conspicuously less well post-1944.

His reply is unclear, as the control station for the brake and suspension testing has an elderly Sanyo midi-system perched precariously on it, blasting out moderately tough sounding gangsta rap at a less than discreet volume through the open window. At a guess, this is probably not Wesley's music of choice, though I could be wrong. I once partook of an entertaining drive between Manchester and Leeds in a fucked Rover 600 driven at speed by a septuagenarian Metallica fan. True.

The rollers get up to speed; the brakes are jammed on. This is about the only part of the test I'm not so worried about - the brakes feel very positive on this car. More numbers appear on the monitor which I cannot decipher as good or bad. The car gets joggled around as the front shocks are put through their paces.

I lick my lips, trying to think of anything to say other than "please don't fail my shitty old car, I promise I'll get it fixed properly, really" - but nothing else comes to mind. Then the back end gets joggled about. It's a bizarre experience, sitting as a passenger in your own car while a total stranger hauls away at the handbrake and revs it back up out of the rollers, towards the ramp.

"If you'd just like to hop out and take a wee seat over in the waiting area there..."

Gallagher Jr indicates a strip of three incongruously modern cafe chairs, arranged behind a steel rail festooned with signs telling me that the use of mobile phones is strictly prohibited. A broken man, I concur wordlessly and take a seat, moving aside a copy of Truck & Driver that appears to be older than my tester. The Laguna is revved onto the ramp directly in front of me; giving a ringside seat of whatever indignities might follow and confirming that the mid-section exhaust blow has returned with a vengeance, at the worst time possible . At least I was sitting further away on the occasion my XM estate had its sills split open like a sea bream with the tester's screwdriver, allowing all its rusty guts to spill out onto the floor to the general mirth of all assembled (except me). This puts me in mind of sitting in the Royal Box to watch an autopsy.

 

Thankfully, a garrulous painter and decorator whose five-year-old Citroen Relay is in the next lane comes across to the waiting area too, and proceeds to chitter pleasantly about deteriorating walls on the Michelin spare tyre in his Citroen's underfloor cradle. I'm aware of inspection lights under the Laguna; wheels being turned, suspension components tugged. I tell the painter lad that my car hates me and it doesn't want to live anymore, which he accepts with good grace. I suppose he meets all sorts.

Surprisingly quickly, I see the lift supporting the Lag coming back down to ground level. Usually my heaps get the full works, involving lots of hammering and thumping and shaking. The last time I brought the silver Laguna through, three cars passed over the other lane's ramp in the time it took for them to conclude that nothing worse than a perished n/s brake hose and split steering gaiter afflicted it. Is it so bad there's no point even checking any more? Will they refuse to even let me drive it away, in case I lose control outside the Home For Blind Nuns And Kittens? I've seen testers refuse to let a car leave the premises other than on a low-loader, on more than one occasion... 

Gallagher Jr revs it off the ramp, seemingly blissfully unaware that clutches can be left engaged while moving and engines will operate at below 4,000 revs - but I expect he'll learn that in six or seven years time when he's old enough to apply for his provisional. He dumps it by the back roller doors before ambling over to the printout machine. L'il Liam is there for a while, presumably inputting all the failure items - and Wesley isn't there to offer assistance. He's probably busy fitting wheels to a bathtub or something.

After an age, he waves me over to the computer. I bid a fond(ish) farewell to the painter and decorator guy, who has performed an unwitting Samaritans role to me, and wish him all the best with his MOT and also his detailed plans to use opaque polythene sacks to avoid future deterioration of the new spare tyre.

I'm shaking a bit as I walk. Just how fucked is it? I prepare some feeble excuses involving poor weather, bad luck, and scurrilous pensioners with access to lathes who ought to be ashamed of themselves.

He thrusts some papers into my hand.

"There y'go,"

And off he toddles back down Lane 5 towards Wesley.

 

I stand there, somewhat taken aback as usually the tester goes over the failure chart in detail, pointing out the fail areas and explaining the rectification needed and re-test process. When I was younger, I was once even properly finger-wag scolded by an MOT tester for bringing such a "woefully unprepared" Viva HC in for testing (which ironically was the one and only time I ever paid good money to have a pre-MOT check carried out by a garage).

And then I take a look down at what's in my hand.

That can't be right. I look back down the lane, but Gallagher Jr's up by the brake station having it large to some phat beatz.

He must have given me the wrong paperwork. But then, it does have the non-washing screen washer listed as a minor defect. I check the other sheet. Yep, it's a certificate alright. And it's for TAZ.

For a second, I'm almost ready to call back up to him, tell him he's made a mistake. I mean, there's bulbs out...

But then I catch myself on. Maybe he couldn't find the button marked 'Banjaxed' on the printout terminal, or maybe he's the living embodiment of intuitive mechanical expertise. I don't know. I genuinely feel that, over three months and 3,000 miles, TAZ has given me few causes for concern. It's a sound car, mostly, and it's been driven long and hard with few complaints. I know from checking underneath that brake and fuel lines are good, and CV boots etc are all fine. I know more work is needed (the hub, for starters), but I should just take this seal of approval and run with it. The Gods of Shite may be smiling on me; no need to poke at them with a stick. Can a pass be revoked at the insistence of the owner? Why would I even think of such a thing?

So I fold over my pass sheet and MOT certificate, valid to the end of November 2018, and drive out into the cold wet night, away from the test centre. On Jo Whiley's Radio 2 show, 'Cannonball' by The Breeders fires up, and I grin and crank the volume on the Pioneer unit northwards. Up ahead, I pull into a yard entrance to text Mrs DC the unexpectedly positive news, then hop out to take a quick snap to commemorate the occasion. And stop.

All the lights are now working. I really don't know how that's possible.

Maybe, just maybe, this heap of unloved chod has the will to live a little bit longer.

Behind the gate, a distressed stack of HIAB'd cars stare out at me, blindly. This yard is the entrance to one of NI's main metal recycling yards. "Buck it over to T-Met" is the usual response on NI car forums when something (usually VAG) has shat the bed big-time. This very gate is the automotive Styx, the Valley of the Shadow of Death, the transparent veil between the living and the dead. And as shiters, we all drive that shadowy route daily.

Not today, muthafuckas. Not today.

[Parky]

Yes!!!!!

[Rusty_Rocket]

Fantastic (your writing and the pass!)

[beko1987]

You have a great knack for amazing writing! And something some thing car! Fancy taking my gooner for its mot in January?

[twosmoke300]

I present between 5-10 cars a week for mots and that was still entertaining reading. Good result!

[andy18s]

Cor, a '94 model! Now that's rare...

 

Mould seems to be coming from combination of a dodgy rear doorseal, and being parked up the side of the house where the sun never shines. I'm going to have to do summat about that, mould and mildew are not good things and the back footwell is actually swimming.

Honestly,I would drill a small hole at the lowest point of that foot well and use it as a drain

Once dry paint and seal it but leave it open with a rubber plug

[Pillock]

Can you take it again next week as that was a really entertaining read. Well done on the pass!

 

Can now try to avoid creating a hilarious meme that will never die based on white-tak and matchsticks?

[twosmoke300]

White tac totally unsuitable for that job - everyone knows it’s got to be original blu or nothing

[The Moog]

Excellent read ... very well written .. almost like a mini AS movie! 

[beko1987]

I've just had to read that again...

[Eddie Honda]

Amazing what a fifty under mat gets you.

[Guest Hooli]

Brilliant read, would MOT again eleventyfour/10

[Datsuncog]

Hey, cheers for the feedback! Couldn't sleep much last night and off work today what with the unpleasant shingling, so writing chiefly for distraction... glad you enjoyed! I expect that more exploits will follow, as I attempt to sort the hub out at some stage... 

[Datsuncog]

On 11/28/2017 at 8:30 AM, andy18s said:

Honestly,I would drill a small hole at the lowest point of that foot well and use it as a drain

Once dry paint and seal it but leave it open with a rubber plug

Yes, I think I'll do just that - there's nothing to lose, as it's slowly becoming an aquarium otherwise. The rear door card has been removed and refitted badly at some point, and I think it's opening the doorseal somewhere - though I've also heard these cars always suffered bad drainage on the back doors. The green Laguna has had two holes drilled in the rubber channel on each side, just at the point the worst water ingress seems to be on the silver one. I shall have a bash - thanks!

[Vince70]

I’m not sure if it helps but I had a problem like this on a old motor a few years back and it was because someone has removed the plastic sheeting behind the door panel so water was making its way inside the car.

I just got some plastic sheeting and cut it to size and it was fine after that, I had some double sided sticking tape knocking about but I’m sure white blutack will do the job.

I loved the mot write up I was in tears of laughter.