The Sick Brown Fox

Well, the crusty four-pot Fox is gone. as of this moment, it's only gone about 40 feet from my workshop, but it's no longer my concern. Had a really good day of it, as it happens. No photos, as I was far too busy...

Here's one I prepared earlier - throughout the course of the week, I'd stripped the shell down including taking the windscreen out in one piece. Sorry, I meant one dustbin. I'd unpicked the wiring loom so that all the engine side was in one piece, which was pretty easy as all the loom went through the bulkhead next to the steering column, straight to two multiplugs. All except one big wire and three normal ones that went through on the passenger side. The big one was the main power feed to the ignition switch; the other three I traced down the A-pillar to a big relay.

This is a great idea in a leaky old Fox, as rainwater treats the A-pillar much as the Colorado treats the Hoover Dam. Consequently, when I found the relay I unplugged it ... and the three spade terminals came with the plug. They were rustier than the sheriff's badge, and when I tipped the relay up, water ran out of it. Damn...

Anyway, today, a couple of Fox fans came all the way up from Essex to buy a body panel. The roof. Yep, Foxes are known for rotting around the sunroof, especially the right-hookers, for some reason. My crusty Fox is a rare beast with no sunroof, and the roof was pretty rust-free and sound. In fact I'd say you could land a helicopter on it... (sorry, too soon?)

Don and Steve rocked up, cut the roof off to replace the crusty tin-top on their rare '81 Cobra, and while they were at it cut a few more bits and bats off to take home. Great - no sense weighing in useful stuff. While they were doing that, I perused the wiring diagram and after some serious eye-strain trying to read tiny writing in Haynes' rather second-rate print, I found that the rusty relay was an EGR purge solenoid control valve relay or some such shit and is part of a whole ream of redundant emissions gear that can be thrown away anyway. Hurrah!

Then my mate Pete rolled up on his crotch rocket - he was just out for a blast - and we headed over to Andy's to help him move his Standard Vanguard project out of the garage. He's spent years and thousands of pounds making the basis of a superb street rod, but now the money's run out and he's facing the fact that he'll never get it finished. It's a shame, especially as it's at that point where it's had years of work pumped into it but doesn't show it - it just looks like a tacked together shell on castors. I mean it's been converted to a two-door, with the B-pillars moved back and the doors stretched 5". Looks wonderful, but as he said, he's got £1000-worth of labour in each door, but has ended up with a pair of doors that don't fit anything else and are therefore scrap if nobody buys the shell... A real shame. We moved it out of the garage, he took his pics, we moved it back in. I hope it finds a home that'll finish it.

I then headed back to the workshop, where Ben and his mate Bell-End (I still don't know his real name, but apparently everyone calls him Bell-End) helped me push the roofless Fox onto Ben's concrete workshop apron and crane the engine out. Then, while it dripped ATF all over his concrete, we shoved the shell back in front of my unit, he put the engine/box in the back of his Transit Luton box van, drove it the 40 ft over the yard and craned it out again on my side. He knew I wanted the back axle, so rather than chuff about with a jack, he just slung a chain around the back bumper bar and hoisted it up about 4ft in the air.

I thanked him very much, but I didn't want tomorrow's newspaper headlines to read "Scrap car supported by shonky engine crane crushes local moron". "No problem," says Ben. We craned the front end up, put it in the back of his Luton, then craned the back end up, and he reversed the van until the car was just over halfway in. Brilliant, removing the back axle, brake pipes and handbrake cables was a piece of piss. I then told him I wanted the back bumper bar... "No problem," says Ben, who reverses the van more so that three-quarters of the shell is inside, removes the crane and chain, then I unbolt the back bumper bar. "How are we going to get the rest of the shell in now?" I asked. "No problem," says Ben, who drives off across the yard to about 20mph, then slams on the anchors. CRASH, and the rest of the shell is firmly ensconced in the van, filled with a load of other scrap and will be weighed in in the morning.

This sort of stuff is lots of fun, especially when you can spend a day being very productive AND dicking about all at the same time.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more. And consign their parts most private to a Rutland tree...

Eugene

Trying it on

I've been getting on with the rotted Fox the past few days, but with it getting dark at lunchtime and me getting sick of working with frost forming on my extremities, it's been a bit slow. The interior is now completely out, and I've advertised all of it as free to a good home - or any home, frankly - and if nobody takes it, it'll be going to the tip at the weekend. That'll make it twice in a fortnight I've been to the tip ... must be some kind of record. Shame they don't offer Nectar points. Mind you, during the last visit I ran in to a right jobsworthy little bum-pucker. I was throwing out a Fox notch rear screen - another part I'd advertised as free to collector with no takers. I was walking up the ramp to the skip marked 'Small and bagged waste' when he yells "You can't put that in there!" Why not, where should it go? "It's got to go in 'Large and bulky waste'." But it's a windscreen. "No, that's large and bulky waste." Okay, so I walk two skips along and throw it in the almost empty 'Large and bulky waste' skip. SMASH! Oh, yes, I see what you mean, those 16,000 glass fragments certainly are large and bulky. You really are the intellectual power of Stephen Hawking in a hi-vis tabard, aren't you? Twat.

So, back at the ranch, working by halogen light, I got on with the job in hand. Man, this thing is really rotten. It's been left outside for the thick end of two decades, parked up against a hedge, and the hedge-side is just crusty rot, the sort where, in places, the steel has rotted to dust and left the paintwork intact. Everything you touch just collapses helplessly - it's like playing in the Premiership. for instance, this (above) is the top of the C-pillar. Remove the piece of plastic trim, however, and you find this:

All that guff just disintegrated under the sheer force of me looking at it. I thought this might be a good opportunity to polish up some of those helplessly trite phrases that chancers trot out when they're trying to convince you that the hopeless old shed they're trying to sell you is, in fact, an investment-grade classic in the making. How about: "Worth a lot of money when done up."

"99% done, only needs a weekend's work for MoT"

"MoT expired in 1990, but it's only done 4 miles since so it should fly through another one."

"Just needs welding for MoT."
"Ideal project."
"Valuable registration."
And my favourite one, "Rust free". Note the punctuation. If it said "Rust-free" this would imply that the vehicle was not suffering from any corrosion. "Rust free" sounds like a special offer - "Buy the car, get the rust free! While stocks last."
Sadly, my stocks of rust show no signs of diminishing at any point any time soon.

Eugene

What The Fox Say...

Christ, it's been two months since I last put anything on here. It's been a busy couple of months. First off, the NSCC ended, in fine style. The last round was a corker, and John Peace sewed the whole season up in fine style to retain his championship belt - well done, John, you've earned it. And hasn't it been a tremendous year? Six weeks of solid sunshine at the beginning of summer, some excellent shows and events, and nine rounds of NSCC at York Dragway with not one single rain-off! That's some good going, there.

In home news, the MG Midget that has been occupying the back of the unit has been returned to its owner. Not finished, of course, that'd be silly. However, it will be back at some point for a coat of paint and some further reassembly. I got it rewired and running, but ran out of time. As I'd spunked a wad on hiring a trailer, I thought I'd best go and pick up another car that I was supposed to collect. It's only been 4 months...

I'd bought a pair of Fox Mustangs from a guy in Stevenage whose circumstances had changed. He'd seen a Fox on a driveway, and it had been there for years. It belonged to a little old lady, her and her husband had bought it while they lived in the States in 1979 and brought it home with them in 1982. Then, a few years later, he'd died and it had spent 12 years on the driveway against a hedge. It's a base-model 2.3 auto, but the guy finally persuaded her to sell, as he'd hoped he and his son could do it as a project together. Until they dragged it away from the hedge...

Hedge-side was as rotten as a peach. The top of the door, the top of the quarter, all round the bootlid, rotten. So he managed to scare up a bare, rolling shell from a completely rust-free 1979 GT V8. The project never got started, and when the old circumstances changed, he wanted to sell them as a pair, and quickly. I said I'd have 'em, paid 20% of the asking price by PayPal ... and that was in June. After the Mopar Nats, at the end of July, I went with a towing dolly to collect the shell, and paid a further 50%. Then, last weekend, I collected the ruin and paid the remainder.

Yes, this means I'd collected the bare, rust-free shell in July and left it outside for four months, while the already-rotten four-pot has spent those four months in a nice, dry lock-up. I didn't think that one through, did I?

Anyway, with the Midget out of the unit I can finally get the Fox shell under cover and start some work. The four-pot is beyond any practical repair - nobody gives two shits about Foxes when they're sweet V8s, never mind a shonky base four-pot, so I doubt anyone will take it on as a resto. It needs going by the weekend, ideally, but the end of the month at the latest, so if anyone can find a use for a Fox hatch, NO SUNROOF, let me know as the banger racer in the facing unit has put his bid in. It owes me about £200, all told.

In the meantime, I have a Bedford CF ambulance to begin dicking about with. And, having started out with sensible plans for Transit diesels and the like, I'm finally warming to the idea of a Lexus V8 and auto... how silly. So if anyone has an LS400 that needs intercepting on its way to the scrapyard, let me know. LPG would be even better, and wanting to PX against a rancid four-pot Fox Mustang would be better still!

28 Years Later

A week or so ago, I watched the first series of The Dukes of Hazzard on DVD. When this first came out (or, at least, when it first made it onto UK TV) it was the talk of the playground. It was ace, and then you could go out and buy the ERTL toys and reenact the stunts and such in the school yard. Thirty-odd years down the line, you realise that it's not really up to much by today's standards - the plot is as thin as the beer in York Dragway's bar, and I don't recall any of the cast ever being nominated for any Academy Awards for their acting abilities. But it was damn good teatime fun.

Tonight, I've just watched the pilot and the first two episodes of The Fall Guy. This was the teatime favourite immediately after the Dukes, if I recall, and, likewise, was just a series of stunts and set-pieces linked together with piss-poor script. Again, though, all good fun.

There are four major (ah-ha-ha) problems with watching these favourites again after all these years. First, you realise that all these were on TV over 30 years ago. That makes me an old bastard. Damn. Secondly, your realise that the cars that were disposable stunt props in 1980 are now exceedingly cool classics. Like the '66 Charger and the '68 Charger written off in the opening sequence of the Fall Guy, or the 409 (!) Dodge Chargers written off in the making of The Dukes Of Hazzard. Thirdly, Lee Majors couldn't sing to save his arsehole. Fourth is the DVD extras.

I love watching the extras on the DVDs, and most of them feature interviews with the cast. Now obviously, you can't expect all these people to look the same as they did 30 years ago; that'd be preposterous. But for christ's sake... This is Catherine Bach/Daisy Duke back in 1979, for the first series of The Dukes Of Hazzard:

And this is Catherine Bach recently, nearly 35 years on:

She's filled out quite nicely, I'd say. Yeah, she's no spring chicken any more, but still a good lay (c. some birthday card I saw once). You can certainly still see the remnants of the woman responsible for an entire generation of boys turning out heterosexual despite growing up in the Eighties.

Now here's Lee Majors as Colt Seavers, in The Fall Guy, circa 1981:

Now here's Lee Majors recently:

I think he might have had a bit of work done, don't you? Frankly, Lee, if I stretch my knacker-bag out until all the wrinkles disappear, it's still a knacker-bag and I'd have trouble convincing anybody otherwise. What makes you think you can get away with it? Who are you trying to kid? I grew up thinking of you as a daredevil stuntman on Saturday evening TV; now you look like the next candidate for investigation by Operation Yew Tree.

Do you also remember Heather Thomas, who played Jody in The Fall Guy? Here's how everyone best remembers her:

And here's how she looks now:

Christ. She looks like my bell-end with a vaguely surprised expression painted on it. Again, who are you trying to kid? Did you wreck yourself that badly in the Eighties that you have to try and persuade people (including yourself) that you're still a Hollywood starlet and should be considered for roles written for a 30-year-old? Love, if you have your mush lifted, nipped and tucked any further, you're going to have your ears on the back of your head and you'll have massive bags under your eyes. Your tits. At least Daisy Duke has grown old(er) with some degree of decorum.

I'm now watching the remake of Hawaii Five-O from a couple of years ago. What could possibly go wrong?

Eugene

The Way Things Were

*****Please note - Rubber Duck wrote this BEFORE the 2013 Street Racer championship***

Things are not the way they used to be. Shows have moved, gone, and been replaced many times over. Our hobby is in fact the one escape from the hum drum of everyday life. I was at a show a while back and the topic of conversation was how our scene has shrunk over the last 10 years, but on that note I would have to say I disagree completely. Over the last few years at shows I have seen many times where it has only been big money cars winning, over and over again, but when they say the scene is not as big as it used to be, they are just talking about the show and shine side, because if you lump ‘Our Scene’ all into one group - drag racing, show'n'shine, 50s retro and all that together - I think in fact you will find it's growing. I don’t see it as a “them and us”; we are all part of the same thing, whether your angle is parking on a field, or running the nuts off your motor down the quarter mile. It all comes from the same roots.

New blood is picking up spanners all over the country and attacking old bangers and turning them into drivable, streetable, road legal cars and popping down to the local drag strip or nearest show. The cars that are being run now are usable, everyday cars. The only problem I see is when these cars and young people turn up to shows, they don’t get the credit that’s due to them, with such big money cars always winning, and I’m not saying they shouldn’t, but what can we do to give them a boost? I have never been to a show and seen a trophy given out for Best Effort, or Young Restorer. Times have changed, not everyone can point at a crusty rod dumped in a bush and say, “build that for me, money is no object”. The one thing I love about drag racing is that you see a 18/19 year old, foot to the floor in a Pop or Prefect they are working on, but people still go round and look at it, talk to them. The Street Racer challenge at York raceway is a perfect example, you can have a 9-second road-legal car, but would it stand the challenge of constant runs next to a Pop with a 2-litre motor that can do a 300-mile trip in one shot with only fuel stops? Now that sounds like a good event to me!

We are all part of the same thing, when you see a half-built rod or yank, just think: you were at that stage at one time. Give them some support and let’s keep the flow of our hobby the way it was, the way it is, and the way it will be in years to come, FUN.

RubberDuck

Retro Rides Gathering - a woman's tale

It’s nice to be out of the house with no kids in tow, for once in a while, even though it’s an early start: looking forward to meeting up with friends and having a good old catch-up. For us women who have men seriously addicted to cars, it’s a case of ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ (and we can NEVER beat them), so unless you enjoy being dumped for a couple of tons of mobile metal on a regular basis, ‘join ‘em’ it is!

Even though I had been going to many car events with my other half for quite a few years, neither of us had been to this one before. Driving through the beautiful little villages was charming, to say the least, and the sun was shining: it was promising to be a good day, despite the inevitable queue to get in and the size of the event. The interesting ‘stuff’ was queuing with us, and my other half was starting to get as excited as a kid on the run up to Christmas. I have to admit, I was rather excited too. I love old and ‘interesting’ cars of all types and my definition of ‘interesting’ is rather eclectic. What interesting wonders would we find?

The show field was rather extensive and we didn’t have time to cover much of it, especially since my other half had decided he was up for having a go at the hill climb. This was one of those ‘beat them or join them’ moments, so, since signing up as a passenger was free, and I had no one to worry about but myself, ‘join them’ it was! This, however, meant that we were sitting in queues most of the afternoon instead of pottering about. Never mind, the ‘interesting’ stuff was coming to us, as were our friends... life is good. The hill climb itself was quite exciting, especially when my other half put the boot in, but as a Northern lass, I did think of the countryside I drove round in years past, and this course was nothing more than a stroll in the park!

The cars in the show ground were lovely. All of them loved and cared for in their owner’s unique way. Race cars and restorations alike, were all lovely. However, I was constantly on the lookout for the cars I liked most, but none were there. I mentioned this to my other half and he very gently pointed out, that this was about ‘retro’ cars and not classic cars. That is when it dawned on me.... I was getting OLD! These lovely cars, which, in my mind, were rather new, were in fact 30 years old and the ‘retro’ in Retro Rides.

Overall, Retro Rides Gathering 2013 was a great event. I thoroughly enjoyed it! But I suppose my next step is reconciling myself with the fact my teenage years are further behind me than I thought

~ Jessica Rabbit

No fuel (like an old fuel)

The Fox let me down the other day. I shouldn't be too mad - I've had the car for nearly three years, it's hardly the picture of health, but this is the first time it's ever let me down. Previously, all faults have been traced to something that I've done...

In this instance, it had driven about 100 miles, then suddenly decided that that was far enough when the time came for the return journey. After much chuffing about, with help from nearby Dave Evans, plus Mark and Hoppy who happened to be passing, we determined that the fuel pump had pumped its last. Damn ... it came home on an AA wagon.

Mark, the picture of helpful generosity (and a Yorkshireman, too!), had offered me his old fuel pump as a replacement, so I was sorted. I got the chuff-end up in the air, removed the towbar and dropped the tank which was pretty easy. It would have been easier if it was empty. Well, it wouldn't have been easier, but would have hurt less when I dropped it on my head. The pump is an in-tank pump on a hanger bracket, and it seemed that the positive wire had chafed away against the bracket. It hadn't blown a fuse or anything, though. It was a simple enough job to open the bracket, and swap in Mark's old pump (which, after Googling the part number, turned out to be a Walbro 255lph pump! Result!) but the little plastic filter on the end was of the disposable, 'not designed to be removed' design and the grab-ring dropped off inside the filter.

Some copper wire-based ingenuity saw it reattached. Then I fitted everything back together, reinstalled the tank, turned the key and ... bugger all. I tested the voltage (again) at the multiplug nearest the pump, and, sure enough, it was 12v when the ignition was switched on, dropping to about 7v after a second or two. I phoned James who confirmed that this is normal - if there's no tacho signal to the ECU it drops the voltage to the pump after a second. I connected the old pump up to 12v and it fired right up.

So, I dropped the tank again. There was 12 volts right to the pump terminal on top of the tank, but still no pumping. So I took the pump out again, and connected the pump direct to 12 volts. Sure, it begins spinning.

More dicking around with the multimeter showed that somewhere between the top of the hanger bracket and the crimped join to the new pump wiring, there was a break in continuity. Tits. Where the wires go through the metal top of the hanger, the positive side had slightly melted the insulation, and the riveted connection was slightly loose. If I pressed it with my thumb, I got 12v; the second I let go, back to 0v. I looked on Rockauto.com for a new hanger - £39, but with postage, £93. I looked on USAutomotive's website, and they had one in stock, a snip at £330 plus P&P. Not on your life ... honestly, I can only assume that it was gold plated and came with a platinum fuel tank full of 110-octane Sunoco.

So butchery is called for. I carefully and delicately smashed the shite out of the multiplug at the top of the hanger with a pair of mole grips, which left two wire-sized holes. I Super-Glued the insulators back on either side of the holes, pulled the wires through the holes and hey presto.

I cut the other side of the multiplug off the loom, soldered the wires, covered them with insulating tape and put everything back together. First turn of the key, the pump pumps and the motor fires... Result. Should be all fired up for Prescott this weekend.

Mopars, more cars and flying aces

Ever since the Mustang passed its MoT, against all expectations, it's been pretty busy. I had a week off work, so decided to do some work on the Midget. An hour to remove one sodding brake drum was an indicator of things to come. While the back end was hoisted up in the air I thought I'd take a wire brush to the boot floor. The inside had been patched up a few times, and looked like it may have been involved in a rear end shunt at one point, but from this angle you can clearly see that the rear valance is a panel of filler with a thin skim of metal in it. It's in excess of an inch thick in places.

Jeezus. The boot floor was made up of patches on patches on patches, and in places was so thin that I couldn't set the welder low enough to weld to it without just burning holes. It's a 100-amp hobby MIG, for God's sake, and almost as shonky as the cars I weld with it. At one point, after trying to weld a patch on using a line of weld that looked like a dirty protest in a chicken coop, I found myself wondering why God had equipped every human with ears that serve as perfect funnels for catching weld splatter whilst lying on the floor, when the welder pulled a new trick. The wire welded itself to the tip - again - and when I pressed the trigger, the whole neck came out and the wire then welded itself to the INSIDE of the trigger.

Oh, how I laughed as I dismantled the bloody thing again. Then, while using the flapwheel on the grinder to grind away the abysmal welding, I considered the idea of safety goggles. You put them on, then your dust mask, then your leather gloves, and by the time you've got all that crap on your goggles have steamed up and you can't see what you're doing with the violent power tool about nine inches from your face. What's safe about that?

Then I went along to the Mopar Euronationals. James and I had decided that, just for once, we were going to arrive in daylight, and should therefore meet at his gaff around 7pm. I had arranged to borrow a towing dolly, as I'd bought a nice, rust-free bare Fox shell from a guy in Stevenage and needed to collect it. As Santa Pod is already two thirds of the way to Stevenage, I thought I'd save fuel and collect it Sunday evening. So, having picked the towing dolly up at around 6.30, I was already late to meet James. That's when I discovered that the inch-thick pivot bar on the dolly was actually held in place with a rusty quarter-inch bonnet pin.

So, at 10pm that evening, we're in James's workshop and he's making a 70mm washer out of bar stock on a lathe. So much for "daylight"... We finally got to Santa Pod just as the band finished and the bar shut, and everyone went to bed.

The following day, after casually leaning against the wheel of the dolly, I noticed that the bearings in it were ... what's the word? Oh yeah, fucked. The left-hand outer one was bloody rusty. Having blagged some grease from Martin, I spent the next hour rebuilding the bearings on the trailer.

We had some rain on Saturday evening, but that didn't bother anyone much under the big canopy outside the beer tent. Later that night, I went back to my tent, sent the missus a "goodnight" text and put the phone down. In a puddle. In my tent. Bugger. That's my phone knackered then.

The rest of the weekend was tremendous, and at 5pm on the Sunday, I set out to get the shell. Aside from the fact that the shell had spacesaver spares on the back axle requiring a swift tyre rotation, and the bolts holding the rear axle on were just thumbed into the holes, requiring a spot of nut-searching and tightening, it went on really easily.

Then, as I was driving home, it occurred to me that the gaffer of the farm where my workshop is would be locking the gates .... erm, right about now, while I was still two counties away. I'll phone him and ask him not to. Well, pack my fudge and call me Thorntons, his number's in my phone and that's dead. So I find my work phone and call James - "Do you have Andy's number?" (I share the workshop with Andy). No, but he gives me Wacky's number. I call Wacky - he doesn't have Andy's number but Big Al will know it so he gives me Al's number, Al finally gives me Andy's number, I call Andy and he drives a mile up the road to ask the gaffer not to lock the gate.

Simple, eh? Now I have a gorgeous rust-free shell that's been dry-stored for ten years ... outside in the rain because there's a feckin' Midget taking up space in the unit.

Eugene

Faulty Towers

It's that time of year again, when the Mustang goes for the MoT test. I did all the preparation work - I checked that all the lights work, counted the wheels, made sure that the registration plate on the front matched the one on the back* etc - and went through all the usual procedure at the test centre - crossing my fingers, praying to any deity I could think of for leniency, shouting "My God, isn't that Linzi Dawn Mackenzie?!" and pointing across the yard whenever the tester got near a bit I knew to be marginal. It didn't work.

The tester was a friendly and very reasonable chap. There were a few minor faults; for instance, one of the two bulbs in the third-eye brake light was bust, which apparently should be a fail. He told me that the car was old enough not to require a third-eye, so if I disconnected the light it would pass, but if only one of the two bulbs lights it should be a fail. Go figure. There was a clunk from the offside front wheel, but as three of us spent 15 minutes trying to figure out what was causing it and failed, I got an advisory for a wheel bearing. One of the plastic headlamp lenses had gone all cloudy and wasn't casting the proper pattern. The hydrocarbons at idle were outrageous to begin with... 2000ppm, that shouldn't happen, but it cleared later.

Then he looked underneath. 

It was all going okay, he pointed out a patch under the back seat that would need addressing sooner rather than later, but when he looked under the front and went "Oh, dear Christ," I started sweating like Abu Qatada's Jordanian defence lawyer. Then when he looked under the other side and said, "For fuck's sake, Dave, have you seen this?!" I knew things weren't going terribly well. 

This was the nearside problem. Well, this was it later, down at the workshop, when I'd removed the master cylinder and balance block from in front of it, and poked at it with a screwdriver. Okay, maybe the tester had a point. This is the base of the front shock turret, around the area where the subframe bolts on, so I suppose you could call it structural.... 

Some of the metal in this area is quadruple skinned, and it's also the nearest point to the exhaust headers, so it's a common rot-spot. The rusty metal had gone like chunks of slate, that you could just break into pieces. James came over, and we started cutting plates, and hopefully we'll be welding tomorrow... Wish us luck.

* - I remember the works truck when I worked in Manchester actually failing an MoT for this....

Eugene

Need a brake...

Earlier, I was lying on my back in a pile of filth and shite and those bits of wire that spit from the zip disc and get lodged in your clothes so they can stab you later when they feel more like it, considering the issues of sexual inequality.

This was brought about as I was trying to remove a brake flare nut from an ancient, seized wheel cylinder on an MG Midget that hasn't seen the road this century. I considered that the brake flare nut is called the 'male' fitting, and the wheel cylinder the 'female' fitting. I further deduced that this is because the flare nut is a complete prick, and the wheel cylinder is a twat that doesn't do any work.

The main issue wasn't getting the flare nut out of the cylinder; rather it was getting the nut to release its grip on the copper brake pipe within without corkscrewing it. So I dosed it liberally with PlusGas, which didn't do much at all. Then I tried the blowtorch. All this achieved was setting fire to the puddle of PlusGas inside the brake drum. So, you see a fire, your first reaction is to put it out, so ... I blew on it, the result of which was that I blew the PlusGas - still burning - onto my arm and the blanket I was lying on. I think I put the fire out by sheer force of swearing.

Another volley of cursing and mighty oaths actually freed the brake pipe from the union, so I unscrewed it and left it all and went home before I did some proper damage. It does seem that cursing the bejesus out of old British brake parts does help. Not pleading, not cajoling, but some genuine, force 10 profanity that turns the air so blue you could knock a nail into it. Worth a try. I could bottle it and call it CussGas.

As an aside, I noticed another sexual inequality today whilst driving around. In this current spell of glorious weather, a woman can put on a summer dress and look cool, comfortable and glamorous. A man will put on shorts and a vest top and look an absolute bell-end. It's not fair. Likewise, a woman can put on a school uniform and blokes will steam at the earholes and drool uncontrollably. A bloke puts on a school uniform and looks like a steaming retard. Sorry, even if your name is Angus, you still look like a fuckwit.

I'm not sure where the last bit came from. Probably best not to lean on that door...

Eugene

Flaming June. And July

It's been a while since I put anything here, and a lot's happened. Aside from anything else, it's suddenly got sunny! Hurrah!
After the last debacle with the Bedford, I checked the documents and found that the MoT was due to expire on the 3rd of July. Damn. The thing was pretty mangy, and while I could have spent a day or two adding yet more patch panels to hold the cab together, it would still be the same old shower of shite, but with a new MoT. It was still running rough, the brakes were still poo and the winch hadn't miraculously begun working. Plus the tax was due at the end of the month, and the Mustang's MoT is due in a week or two, so it was time to cut my losses and put it up for sale. I put it up for £500, which is a good deal less than half what I'd put into it, but I could either sell it or leave it hanging around waiting for me to find the time to work on it properly. And if there's one thing I'm not keen on having, it's another project.

I put it on Facebook, Rods'n'Sods and RetroRides, and it was via the latter that I got a call from someone who lives less than a mile from where it's stored. I was dead straight with him about it, and he still wanted to take a look, so he came around and had a look. Turns out he has a MkII Granada with a BOA Cossie V6 in. Nice.

Anyway, despite having looked at it first, he still wanted to buy it. "It's okay," he said, "my brother will help me out with it." "Is he a welder?" I asked. "No, he's an MoT tester..." Enough said, so if you see a bright orange CF transporter in your immediate vicinity, keep out of its way, don't cause it to brake suddenly or run over any bumps in the road that might cause parts to fall off.

I also finally put a few more hours into the MG Midget that's cluttering up the unit. It was brought in as a quick project as a favour to a friend. That was nearly four years ago. I expect I can remember where most of the bits are... I started wire brushing the boot floor and the inside of the rear wings. There's lots of welding been done on this car over the years, and so far it had all been done to a fairly high standard. By the time they got to the boot they were clearly pissed off with the job and did the "cut a plate, twat it to fit and weld where it touches" method. Bollocks to ripping it out and starting again, I'll just make the best of it. I also removed the fuel tank and emptied the 10-year-old fuel into the Mustang. It didn't seem to mind. Then I gave the tank a good going-over with the wire knot brush in the angle grinder, right up until I uncovered a nice rust hole in the top. Right, we'll put the nice, sparky power tools away and get the QuikSteel out... When it was all cleaned down, I gave it a good coat of Zinc 182, and thought a nice, thick Hammerite would work well. I checked through my old paint tins and found a tin of gold Hammerite. That'll do... I gave it a good coating and it looked like something that wouldn't look out of place on the parcel shelf of a minicab. Oh well, nobody'll see it.

And so to the Mustang. In preparation for the coming MoT, I thought I'd better give it its annual hoovering. Aside from the crusty sills, crispy A-pillars, crapulous strut towers and rapidly diminishing lower rear quarters, I found something else intriguing - the forward end of the towbar has almost pulled through the metal of the spare wheel well, causing it to split for about 7 or 8 inches. Arse. The list of possible MoT failure points goes on and on. If, by miracle, bribery or hard work (or combination thereof) this car gets another year's ticket, I think the coming winter will finish it off. Let's see...

On Saturday night I went up to York Raceway for the Sunday Super Stock, and as I was only racing in A/SS, there are no sign-on fees - bargain. It was a glorious drive up, windows open all the way, which is good - if the windows are closed, above 60mph the sunroof lifts about half an inch off its seal and whistles like the proverbial whore with a glass eye ... In fact, the shell is now getting so out-of-shape, very few things fit in their intended orifices any more but the exhaust fumes getting in around the bootlid stop you worrying about that. Or anything, for that matter. I arrived, the bar was closed! Good job I'd bought a couple of beers with me. Then I slept in the car. Or, rather, I didn't sleep in the car. I tried to sleep in the car, but really should know better at my age.

Sunday was an absolutely corking day, but in qualifying I struggled to a 15.1 then a 15.4 on a 14.9 dial-in. Damn. The transmission is beginning to pick its own shift points at random, even shifting manually, coupled with the fact that being more than 0.1 of a second off your dial wouldn't have got you inside the top 12 meant I was way down the field - the top half of the ladder was tighter than a bullfrog's bunghole. Then, in the first round, in the sweltering heat, the car pulled a 14.80 out of its arse and put me straight out! I didn't know whether to smile or spit - it was a NPB. Determined to make the most of it, I went out with the RWYBers and managed to get it down to 14.78. Tremendous.

In the event of the Mustang not passing its MoT in the next 10 days, I'm going to be on the lookout for a cheapo daily, ideally something that I can put on classic insurance, for just a couple of hundred quid. You know my penchant for the weird and unlovable, so any Yugos, Ladas, whatever... I've really got my dick out for a TR7 at the moment, and the feeling's not showing any signs of going away, either, so if you know of a TR7 that's on the road or not far off, let me know!

Eugene.

Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot

Finally, after months of dicking around, I took the Bedford ambulance up to Southport on the back of the Bedford transporter on Friday evening. Having rebuilt the top end - twice - and with not long to go before the MoT expires, I thought it's now or never.

So, at about 7pm, after the rush hour had died down (and, hopefully, those nice VOSA guys had knocked off) I set off. After about 15 miles, the temperature gauge was reading about three-quarters hot, but I figured it was a warm evening, and it was carrying a pretty heavy load. I joined the M6 at junction 15, and by 16 it was boiling so I pulled off the motorway feeling something like this:

This was Jessie, and clearly the Hook A Duck stall at the local travelling fun fair was just too much for her. Although, to be honest, this was the demeanour of most of the visitors to our local fair. And the staff, too.

Anyway, I let the truck cool down and got the water out to top up the radiator. Hmmm, it hasn't lost a drop. So I set off again. This time, I made it to Knutsford before stopping again. Same thing - boiling, but no water loss. I'd also noticed that if I put it in neutral and coasted down hills, it'd cool down a bit. While i was stopped, I had a bright idea - remove the in-cab engine cover and get some air circulating, cool the engine bay down a bit. It didn't make the damnedest bit of difference.

What I did notice, after coming off at junction 20-odd, was that it was now dark, but my exhaust downpipe was glowing bloody orange! WTF! It was running beautifully, but must be running so lean ... well, that could account for why it burned its valves out before.

The following day, before setting off, I thought a quick carburettor rebuild might be in order. I hadn't touched the carb previously, thinking "if it ain't broke...", but it clearly was so I had it apart, cleaned it, had the jets out, blew through everything with compressed air, removed the crap from the built-in filter and put it back together, then set off homeward. I would say I was going home empty, but a combination of circumstances meant I was actually going home with a scrap, engine-less Rover 620 on the back...

Same bloody scenario - still running way hot, and occasionally boiling. I stopped at a petrol station near junction 20-odd, as I'd had an idea. The built-in filter had been full of shite. There's a filter screen in the fuel pump too, isn't there?! The petrol station couldn't sell me a Philips screwdriver. Dog food? Yes. A bag of flour? Naturally. Sixteen different flavours of air freshener? No problem. A screwdriver? Fat chance. I pressed on to Lymm truck stop, and went to the 24 hour shop at the fuel station there. It was shut. Clearly it's open 24 hours, but not in a row. I ended up borrowing a screwdriver from the lady behind the counter at WH Smiths, who apologised for her newsagent shop not stocking screwdrivers - bless her - and lent me one from behind the counter. I had the top off the fuel pump and found this:

Crud, metal shavings, insects..?! But it still didn't make any difference. Two more stops on the way home and I finally got back five hours after setting off, still none the wiser about why it's running lean.

I have since had a brainwave. The brakes are shite, but the pedal is rock solid. The servo doesn't seem to do anything at all. It certainly doesn't lessen the pedal effort. Could the engine just be sucking in fresh air through the servo vacuum pipe? But surely it would affect the idle more than anything, whereas mine seems to suffer more at high revs/cruising speed? Any ideas?

Eugene

Fun With Corners

I missed Hot Rods & Hills this year. Again. Despite the fact that it was the best event I went to in 2009 that has so far been the only running of this event that I've actually made it along to. Damn.

Still, the silver lining is that I had to go to the inaugural American Speedfest event at Brands Hatch on Sunday June 9th, and Christ almighty what an incredible event that was. An international-standard venue, a packed bill of racing and the organisational abilities of MSV meant hundreds of cars on display trackside and plenty of other entertainment for the visitors, which apparently numbered almost 20,000. That's not dicking about.

Top of the bill was the Euro Racecar series, which is a European version of NASCAR but on road circuits. It was cool, lots of V8 grunty power and some close racing, but once the pack had strung out a bit it seemed rather processional. The Legends had an endurance race - 40 minutes. I'm not sure whose endurance this was meant to test, the drivers' or the spectators', but it took some enduring. There was an Intermarque series for what seemed to be large go-karts with odd jelly-mould bodies, but I didn't get that at all. Pick-up trucks looked lots of fun, though, even though they're four-pots.

The true stars of the show for me were Bernie's V8s. Now this series really appeals to me. The criteria are thus: 1. The cars must be production based, no kit cars. 2. They must be V8s. 3. Convertibles must have roofs up or hardtops. 4. No whingers. That's my kind of rule book.

 Obviously there were stacks of Corvettes, Camaros and Mustangs filling the grid, but in amongst them you'd find some really rare stuff like this (above), an Iso Rivolta with a 327 Chevy V8 and quad Webers. There was a Ford Maverick, which looked the business, and an Opel Manta painted in a stars'n'stripes paintjob that really kicked some arse. Apparently it used to race in Thundersaloons, or some such?

There were TR7 V8s like this above, and a MkI Capri that the announcer said was a Perana but I'm not so sure. Actually, I couldn't give two shits whether it was a Perana or not, it looked the dog's and went like frozen shite off a shiny shovel.

These guys all lined up behind Bernie's old Fifties Chevy pick-up on the grid, then went for a parade lap before Bernie peeled off and they took the green flag as a rolling start. If you can imagine 30-odd V8s on a rolling start when you're stood right next to the start line ... I think a little bit of love-wee came out. The fastest cars on the day were the Brits - an MGB V8 took both race wins, with this SD1 running a close second all the way

Of course the Yanks have more power, but the MGB was close to half their weight. He and the SD1 swapped the lead once a lap for five laps. And that's racing...

And it has to be said that none of these guys were at all precious about their rides. There was one guy with a Shelby GT350, and I don't know what was under the bonnet, but when he opened it up on the back straight... oh boy. Imagine a jet engine on the brink of orgasm. Although it was me who had to fight the urge to give Mr Winkie a good beating. One guy in a Sunbeam Tiger lost the back end getting back on the power after Druids and fetched the tyre wall a mighty wallop. He restarted it, reversed out of the tyres and got the fuck on with it. I think he finished fourth. One guy with an Aston Martin DBS V8 stoved the front end in in the first race. Did it stop him? Did it arse-burgers. One guy with a Cobra Daytona rep tore the middle out of one of his rear Halibrands...

At the end of the day there was a parade lap for all the American cars on show. They lined up, three abreast, and filled well over half the Indy circuit. One guy in a C4 Corvette pulled onto the track, gave it a load and ended up backwards into the gravel at Paddock. Total time spent on track? About 10 seconds and 100 feet. Total number of cars who drove past him thinking "Wanker"? About 200. Bless.

This event has been Brands Hatch's biggest event of the year. At 9am, I joined the back of the queue to get in. It was four miles away, on the M25. The event outsold the BTCC and the DTM events, no problem. Some of the marshals told me they hadn't seen crowds like this for a non-motorbike event since the last British Grand Prix at Brands Hatch ... that was in 1986, when Nigel Mansell won. It's been so successful that they've already pencilled in Speedfest II for the same weekend next year. And if you can't make it to HR&H, this is definitely worth the trip.

Eugene

Gary's Glitters

Last weekend was Gary's Picnic / Yanks weekend at Shakey County. Last year, this weekend was the one truly glorious, sunny, hot weekend we had all year; this year wasn't quite up to the same scorching standards but it was still beautiful. Having arrived on Friday evening, I set the caravan up, handed the car keys to the missus and that was pretty much the last I saw of them all weekend...

Last time we were up at York, the startline marshall had noticed a drip of water at the front of the Mustang. By this time, a few weeks later, the drip was beyond a joke - my front crossmember was more moist than the chairs at the WI when Daniel Craig was guest speaker. What follows shows not only how indebted I am to some people, but how a gang of mates in the car scene will put themselves out to help a fellow in need....

Just before setting off, I'd asked Graham (who I knew was going to the event) if he had a spare water pump. He didn't, but he put a message on the Fox Doctors Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/groups/FoxDoctorsUK/) to ask if anyone else had. Two guys - Steve and Don, were heading up to Manchester on the Saturday to buy more Fox bits, and said they'd got a second-hand pump. After a day's racing on the Saturday - well, there wasn't THAT much racing due to oil-downs and such - they said they'd detoured to the M40 and could I meet them at j15 at 4pm? Graham gave me a lift there, and, as good as their word, at 4pm, an old Ford Ranger full of Fox bits came off the motorway and the guys handed me a water pump, and Graham a rear axle! Would they take any money for it? Not on your Nellie - I had to force some cash on them. What top guys.

Back at Shakey, I whipped the old water pump off, which was dribbling through the lower vent hole like a gerbil on Ex-Lax, and fitted the new one. I'd had the foresight to bring a gasket and some gasket-goo, so it should have been fairly straightforward, but the old gasket was well baked onto the block. I headed down to the Motorshack stand to get a scraper, but he was shut; fortunately, Simon Boot was nearby and handed me some Stanley blades which got the job done with minimal loss of fingers.

Sunday was another blinding day, and, now watertight, 'er indoors was off and running again. Monday was a different matter. For some reason, the place half emptied on Sunday night, and there was hardly anybody about on Monday, so she had a lap time of about 3 minutes at one point. Her best time of the weekend was 15.03 - not bad for a car with 32psi in the budget radials and the shifter in D. 

The photos above are courtesy of Martin from Drakie's Americans - see the linky to the right for more. 

Also, having lashed up my fan belt tensioner after snapping the LEFT-HAND THREAD bolt by not knowing it was a left-hand thread bolt, I got a new bolt in the post from Mark Butterworth. Somebody else willing to put himself out to help a fellow in need. It restores one's faith in humanity, it really does.

Oh, and a little money-saving tip I discovered whilst putting the Bedford back together: prevent wastage of expensive anti-freeze by fitting the bottom hose BEFORE filling the radiator... twat.

Eugene

PPC In the Park, then Pissed in a Field

Saturday was a busy day for me. I got up early (for me) and headed off to PPC In The Park at Mallory Park in Leicestershire. I really like this venue, it has a lot of character, and I haven't been for years. PPC ITP is a sort of open track day where interesting and oddball stuff can buy a 15-minute slot on track and go for it. There was everything there, and we even got a handful of NSCC cars along - myself, James, John P, Derek B and Simon B, plus new guy Andrew E in another TVR.

I'd always fancied going, but it was Martin Drake's kind offer of a free ticket that really swung the deal. In the pits, Simon's Bootlegger Camaro was certainly the favourite of the camera-phone crew, but sadly not the tech inspectors. With the local council paying a worrying amount of attention to goings-on at Mallory, plus a surprise visit from the clipboards, Mallory Park had dropped the noise limit to just 98 decibels, and even with his four-box duals on, Simon still fell foul. Bugger.

Silver lining, though - Simon let me have his track slot! What a gentleman. The NSCC was out in force in group G, and having unloaded all the junk and shite from the Mustang I passed my own noise test and headed out on track. Jeeez, I wish I'd checked my tyre pressures ... erm, this month. Still, driving a car is most fun when you're on the limit. A full-weight Mustang on budget radials with an automatic gearbox that changes up and down on its own schedule finds the limit a lot quicker than some lightweight, race-bred special! I got blown away by a Morgan, a white Fiesta Popular Plus (yeah, right) and plenty of other stuff, but had a great time in the process.

I also got dusted off by a real sleeper, a Rover 110 with proper patina, full leather and wood interior and stock tyres. Under the bonnet was a Corvette small-block and T56 six-speed manual, and even with stock single-circuit non-servo brakes, he still blew me away. He said he was struggling halfway down the straights, as the stock SU fuel pump couldn't quite keep up...!

Just as I'd loaded all my junk back into the boot, Simon asked me if I wanted his second track slot! I did, so I unloaded everything again and went back out after lunch. This time I had a clue about what I was doing, and my mission was to try to shadow John. I now had a passenger - Sarah B - who had been out with John in the first session, and was kindly taking some photos for me. I tried my damnedest, and managed to keep John in my sights. Sarah said that riding shotgun with John was a pleasant and relaxing experience, whereas with me it was a tyre-sqealing, oversteering thrill ride, which is a nice way of saying that John knew what he was doing and I was going at it like a dog at the postman's leg. She also had to upbraid me for waving to Womble on the spectator banking at Shaw's hairpin.

We got dusted down by the same Fiesta again, but I didn't care. I'd had the most fun I've had all year. Derek had a spin in his TVR but lived to tell the tale, while Neil L'Alouette managed to lightly kiss the barrier in his big-block Chevy pick-up, a bent bumper and cracked fibreglass wing bearing the brunt o the damage. After the clipboards had gone home, the organisers did let Simon out on track for a few laps, bless 'em, but I was already queueing to get out by then.

That evening, I went up to join the other half at a bike rally near Garstang. It was around 9pm by the time Womble, Sarah and I got there, and the evening's festivities were just getting going. I've been to a few club bike rallies now, and they always slightly puzzle me. People turn up on a Friday, pitch a tent, get pissed, then some go for a ride out on the Saturday but most just start getting pissed again before the main evening's drinking session, then on Sunday morning they pack up and go home. Aside from the mode of transport upon which they arrived, there doesn't seem to be much "bike" about a bike rally - it's just people getting pissed in a field. That, to me, seems like a weekend wasted - at least at the strip there's a day's drag racing in between the getting pissed.

However, the evening's clubhouse bash was a treat. Two bands and a DJ, and rock tunes all the way. The bar sold bottles of Spitfire, Speckled Hen, Bishop's Finger etc for £2 a pop - cheaper than my local Co-op - and it went on into the early hours.

Overall it was a top day at the track, and a top night at the bar. It was just a shame they had to be about 150 miles apart.

Eugene

Valve Lap Dancing

Here's the latest in the ongoing (read: dragging on tediously) saga of the Bedford CF with the crook cylinder head.
I have decided to go back to the original cylinder head. Yes, it was cack and the valve seats had receded so far they were almost in another engine belonging to a passing Peugeot, but at least it was a known quantity. So, I set about the head with some degreaser and a toothbrush.

After cleaning it up and scraping off all the welded-on remnants of the previous gaskets, it began to look okay so I had all the valves out. Obviously, the exhaust valve with the chunk missing would need replacing, so I nicked one out of the other head. The inlet valve on pot #2 was absolutely caked with shite, which would suggest a lot of oil down the guide, and lo and behold the stem seal was knacked.

I cleaned the valves up on the poor man's lathe (put the valve in a drill and use a screwdriver to chip the shite off) and they came up alright, though the exhaust valve in pot #1 was showing some radial cracks so I nicked another out of the other head and began the tedious and charmless lapping-in process.

It was while lapping in #4 exhaust valve (the one that had a chunk missing) that I spotted a tiny crack in the seat. It's so tiny I could barely get a photo of it, but if you look hard enough at the photo, at about 4 o'clock on the valve seat there's a bloody crack. God damn it. I don't think it actually goes further than the seat, and after all this mither I'll just have to live with it. I also found a tiny bit of play in all of the valve guides except #1 exhaust, where there was a sodding shedload of play - about 2mm at the valve head. This will get a new stem seal and it had better make the bloody best of it. I've ordered a new head set off eBay (which is due to arrive tomorrow) so, at this rate, I should just about have the poxy old nail up and running in time for it to fail its MoT in July.

In other news, I went along to the NASC Neil's Springnationals at Drayton Manor yesterday. What has happened to that show? There seemed to be about 150 cars, and despite the organisers' best efforts, the atmos was truly lacking. The weather was sodding miserable, raining, windy and cold, and everyone looked like they'd rather be somewhere else, but I spoke to some people who had done the weekend, and they said that the evening do in the clubhouse was just as lifeless, but for no good reason. Where has the spark gone from this event? It was such a blinder, back when the HRG crew helped the set-up and organisation, it really was what you spent all winter looking forward to. Now, I went along for the day, got there at 12 and had buggered off again by 3. Most of the showfield had thrown in the towel even before then. I don't know what's gone wrong - it doesn't seem to be a lack of anything on the NASC's part. What's the answer?

Eugene

Off With Its Head!

I've been posting a lot of tripe on the HRG Faecebook page about my Bedford CF cylinder head woes. The latest was that I'd replaced the cylinder head with one from another 2.3 CF and now it boils within 7 miles. Having checked everything, flushed the system and checked everything again, I had to take the head back off. First thing I noticed was that the little bypass hose between the water pump and this little water manifold bolted to the front of the block was definitely on its last legs.

It was looking a bit plump before the multiple boiling episodes, but now it was looking like a pot-bellied dick. Anyway, it came off along with the water pump which, naturally, was fine. I was hoping that would be the nice, easy explanation. No such luck. With the head on the bench I gave it a damn good coat of looking-at but failed to see any problems.

It all looked pretty good. There was a lot of sludge that had accumulated in the water galleries despite repeated flushing, but not enough to actually stop the water circulation. I checked the intake manifold side against the old original head.

The original is on top; the replacement below (with the blue gasket-goo all over it).As you can see, the water jacket hole on the left-hand end is a lot bigger on the original, and there are a few slight machining differences, but not enough to cause any major issues, surely? I was starting to get really pissed off with the whole show. Then I had a shufti at the gasket itself, the brand-new, very expensive Payen head gasket that had covered about 25 miles.

Well bugger me with a gypsy's stick, there's a dink in it. A little groove going from No3 piston straight into the water jacket. If anything, this photo makes it look worse than it is, but it could certainly account for pressurising the cooling system, couldn't it? But here's the issue: I'm damn sure the damage wasn't there when I fitted the gasket, but did I do the damage while FITTING the head or while REMOVING it again afterwards?! Because the engine is half under the bonnet and half in the cab, plus it's canted over at 45 degrees, there's no easy way of dropping the head onto the block, especially not for a slack-sided glass-back like me. I could well have done this while fitting the head to the block, or equally easily while taking it off again.
I think what I'll end up doing is putting an exhaust valve from the head I've just removed into the original head, grinding half a mil off the tops of the valve stems and putting it all back together. It does mean I've got to shell out for another gasket set, though, damn it.
To top it all off, I thought I'd better flush the remaining sludge out of the water galleries in the block. I also thought it would be a fine idea to wait until it was almost dark to do this. Poke hose pipe in one gallery, watch rusty sludge and bum-gravy pour from another. Poke hose into another gallery, watch same crap pour from another. Poke hose into another water gallery ... and, nothing. Ah! Could this be the cause of the overheating?

No, it couldn't, you great bell-end, because you've just put the hose down one of the oil drain-backs and filled your sump with tap water. Better add another gallon of 20W50 bogwash to the bill, too...

Eugene

Getting head

My Bedford CF transporter was running sick. The old 2.3 was way down on power, usually sounded like it was running on three at best, and would backfire like a vegetarian full of Guinness. When I tried to adjust the tappets, I found that there wasn't enough adjustment left to put enough gap on the exhaust valves. Bugger - looks like I'm not the only one receding. 

I have another two Bedford CFs that aren't going to be seeing the road any time soon, neither of which will miss its cylinder head, so I picked the nearest and relieved it of its head, then took it along to a local engine place. A few days later I got back a lovely clean head with hardened valve seats and reamed guides..

On Sunday, after the Curborough jaunt, I started on the transporter. I drained the oil, removed the filter, then drained the radiator and removed it. You don't need to remove the radiator, but it gives you a bit of extra working space and gave me the opportunity to back-flush it for good measure.

Jeeez, the guy who painted this didn't believe in wasting any masking tape... Mind you, he did succeed in making a spray paint job look like the worst kind of brush-job. Not even a brush so much as a chewed twig. Anyway, once the radiator's out the way, access is pretty good.

After everything's disconnected, you just remove the cambelt and rocker cover, then the cam carrier lifts off wholesale... and if you're lucky, the followers stay on top of the valve stems and don't drop into the gravel.

Then you have to remove the exhaust manifold to get at the outer row of head bolts, but this was surprisingly easy. Then 10 head bolts let you take the head off complete with intake manifold. With the head on the bench the problem became pretty clear.

Not only were the valve seats receding, number 4 exhaust valve was missing a big chunk. Yeah, it really doesn't think much to this unleaded petrol lark. So, before opening the nice, new Payen head set, I thought I'd just check the new head lined up nicely on the block. Hmmm, it really wasn't keen. So with both heads on the bench I got the caliper and drill bits. Right, on the "new" head, the holes for the locating dowels were a tight fit on a 9.5mm drill bit, whereas on the bust head you could wiggle a 10mm drill bit in there. Maybe the dowel holes need drilling out? I wasn't going to risk my expensively-reconditioned head to me with a hand-held drill, so I popped over to James's where there's a massive drilling machine and somebody who knows how to use it.

This photo looks very cool and industrial, but doesn't convey the fact that it took at least an hour to get the head level and clamped to the bench before the drilling could commence. It took over an hour of build-up for about 90 seconds of drilling. We didn't draw any sexual comparisons there at all, of course.

The following evening, I went back to the unit with my freshly drilled head. First I took the intake manifold off the busted head, which would be very easy if it weren't for the thermostat housing which, naturally, is cheap, nasty alloy and the bolts corrode into it. I had to persuade the manifold with a blowtorch before it'd release one of the bolts.

You have to take the thermostat out of the way because, believe it or not, one of the bolts for the intake manifold lives behind it.

Yes, a steel bolt lives inside the water gallery, sealed by nothing more than a copper washer. Anyway, with the intake manifold to one side, I went to trial-fit the "new" head. Still it won't seat. Bugger. Back on the bench I looked at both heads side by side.... just a f**king minute. Out with the caliper. Yep, the dowel holes aren't in the same positions on both heads. They're only out by about 5mm, but the "new" head ain't going on the old dowels. Could I just forget the dowels? No, as it happens, because some of the water jacket steam holes don't line up either! Out with the caliper again, and off to check the engine on CF#2 that I'd relieved of its head. Bore x stroke = ... well bugger me bandy and call me Dorothy, it's a bastard 2.0. The DVLA think it's a 2.3, the guy who sold it to me said it was a 2.3, even the letter L cast into the block says it's a 2.3 (though L could also designate a 2.0, according to the Haynes manual. Thanks, Bedford). So, lesson learned - a 2.0 head doesn't fit on a 2.3 block.

Now what? I suppose I'll just have to see if CF#3 is a 2.3 and rob the head off that. Off I trot to CF#3, and set about removing the head. Now clearly this CF hasn't been buggered about with at all - the 53,000 miles looks to be genuine, no chopped wires, no cable ties, it's all factory. The exhaust manifold still has those bend-over locking tabs on the bolts, which is nice to see but unbending them took the thick end of an hour. Taking the rad out was a revelation - not only was the a truly diarrhoetic dribble of frightening brown sludge from the rad, but also I have never seen hoses or a thermostat housing quite so caked with that white crystalline gubbins.

Anyway, when the head finally came off, I tentatively explored its inner dimensions with the caliper. It was a 2.3, and seemed to be in very good order! I did a triumphant run around the yard,waving my arms about like a footballer's goal celebration and breaking into an impromptu chorus of the Goons' Ying Tong Song. No, I don't know where that came from either.

So I know have three headless engines. It's like Ozzy Osborne's been round. I'll be refitting head #3 this weekend, with a bit of luck. It also means that if anyone needs an expensively-reconditioned unleaded head for a slant-four Vauxhall/Bedford, I have one for sale. If you want the short engine to go with it, you can have it, but you'll have to be quick...

Eugene