Friday 21 September 2012

Pump Saga - 2


I delivered the nervous Volvo to the hospital for it's pump-ectomy and transplant early this morning, reassuring it that when it came out, it would feel much better.

Note the cunning modification attached to the outlet pipe.  Actually, it would be difficult not to notice it, but it is going to be hidden deep in the guts of the car anyway, so cosmetically, it should have no visual impact. The old 850 will still be a head-turner, or so I tell it.

It is a head-turner already, due to the ear-splitting squeal of the brakes as it comes to a halt in the streets. Children clap their hands to their ears as I approach, and their parents look round at me with expressions of irrational hatred. I am told this can only be cured by the complete replacement of the rear brake-units, but right now I do not want to spend any more bloody time or money on the thing, and now that winter is approaching and all it's windows are more or less closed, I don't have to suffer the noise in the same way as all the miserable and impoverished pedestrians on the pavement, who I drench as I sweep through puddles when I drive contemptuously past. Toad of Toad Hall.

Having passed a speed camera yesterday, I put my foot down and accelerated away, giving the old girl full freedom to express herself, but about three times quicker, a modified Audi with about 400 horsepower shot past us at around 100 mph and quickly gaining. That put me in my place.  Since acquiring the first speeding fine of my entire career recently, I have started to drive like the old man I really am, and I also show more compassion for the old car it really is. The whip hardly ever comes out these days.

I always remember those old boys - long dead - who owned Jaguars in the 1970s. Having reached the extreme age where they could actually afford one, they drove them around at a snail's pace, and these were the days before the ubiquitous speed-traps.  When asked why they had such powerful beasts in the first place, they always replied, "Ah, but it's nice to know that the power is there if you really need it." Smug bastards.

H.I. and me have a recurring fantasy which involves me coming in to a lot of money somehow, like - say - winning the lottery.

In this fantasy, the first thing I do is dump her and start dating a very young and leggy blonde, who I drive around in my newly acquired, open-topped, red Ferrari in the summer sunshine.

The engine growls away as I sit baking in the inevitably slow-moving traffic of central Bath, and my newly dyed, black hair starts dripping dark streaks of sweat down my red face and pristine, hand-made, Jermyn Street shirt as the blonde bimbo sits cooly by my side. H.I. stands on the kerbside as we creep past, and she laughs uncontrollably at me.

Another good reason to be poor. God has spared me from this indignity.

12 comments:

  1. I had a Ferrari in Cape Town but got rid of it because I could not stand the looks of pure hatred.

    Regarding your squealing brakes, you could try smearing a little copper grease on the back of the pads or between the pads, shims and pistons if shims are fitted. This has worked for me in the past.

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    1. They have a better reason to hate me, Hippo, and I know it's not envy. I jokingly said to my mechanic that I would oil the brakes, and he took me seriously. I think I believe him when he said that they really needed the combo discs/drums replacing, as he did take them apart. Sometime before the next MOT test, I think. Thanks for the advice, anyway.

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  2. Can't think why anyone would hate you.

    The alternator has failed on my panel van, the one Marcia uses to buy stuff for the shop. When I looked at the alternator, cleverly concealed in a most inaccessable position, I noticed it had a compressor on the back. This is for the brakes, I was told. Think about it, normally if the fan belt fails, all you're worried about is the engine overheating. Are they saying that if something as fragile as a fan belt failed, my brakes would fail long before the engine overheated and conked out? So I called the dealership and have just received their quote to come to my place tomorrow, fit a new alternator and change the oil and filters while they are at it.

    167,018.36 Angolan Kwanzas, about US$1,700.

    I don't want to say that my sob story is better than yours but I have just realised I have also run out of cigarettes as has my shop so I am feeling pretty bloody miserable at the moment!

    Oh for a decent Halford's or a Unipart store!

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    1. Running out of cigarettes is a lot worse. You might have to smoke the maid. I would.

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  3. I recently had a 'squeek' in my clutch pedal, and a friend suggested I use WD40. 'Where do I spray it' I asked. 'Just anywhere in the area' he replied. I did, and it worked.

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    1. I have a German friend who sprays WD 40 on her arthritic joints and swears by it. Idiot.

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  4. I have a reoccurring dream too Tom. It's of Jason tearing around in a Peugeot with the turbo just about to blow up, there is no blonde as the car is The Blonde. Oh hang on that's no dream that's my reality...!
    Sorry I've been absent from here. I've been skim reading blogs lately but I can't do that with yours as you're too bloody engaging! Xx brismod

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    1. I too have been skimming over the Hog's Arse, for which I am profoundly sorry. XXX

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  5. Those squealing brakes can be a lifesaver--it encourages little ones to run AWAY from moving vehicles. You are providing a public service.

    I used to be hard on brakes. I didn't realise it until my mechanic commented that i went through brakes pretty quickly. I changed my driving habits a bit, allowed more time for stopping and all that. But when they'd squeak interminably, i'd get them fixed sooner rather than later. Even with the windows shut, the noise bothered my ears, and i always feared that one day, the brakes simply would not work. The squeaks served as reminder that i was driving on borrowed time until i could get them fixed.

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    1. The little ones run away from me whether I squeal or not. Once bitten, twice shy.

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  6. I will reply to all your comments individually tomorrow, and thanks for them. Tonight, I am drowning my sorrows - THE FUCKING PUMP DOES NOT FIT AGAIN! I am back to square one, with it relisted on eBay....

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    1. Keep your voice down, Stephenson. I'm trying to sleep.

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