On the HRG's Facebook page this evening, a seasoned drag racer who really should know better has suggested that the HRG should stage a revolution and take over the reins of the country from the inept crowd of dullards and fudge-nudgers currently polishing Whitehall chairs with their arses. We should call it a Coup d'eTwat.
And what has brought on this sudden burst of political unrest? Is it a backlash against the recent 'double-dip' recession? Is it that the coalition seems hellbent on grinding the average working Joe into the ground via taxes upon taxes, especially the most cynical of all, 'Bedroom Tax'? Is it an outpouring of feeling from a country suffering from a dilution of its national identity in the name of multiculturalism?
No. It's because the Office of Fair Trading have looked into the price structure of forecourt petrol and diesel sales and said, "Nope, nothing amiss there." They were basically investigating oil companies and price fixing. Yeah, we're always going to get a fair inquiry into one of the richest industries on the planet. Let's face it, if there's one by-product of the oil industry, it's grease. Good for greasing the wheels, greasing the skids, and maybe greasing a few palms at inquiry time. Not that I'd dream of casting aspersions on the integrity of the government and its agencies, much less to suggest that most of them are so bent they could walk through a spiral staircase without knocking their hats off.
But the problem doesn't lie with the oil companies when it comes to filling the tank at the forecourt. My own integrity says that I should do some thorough research, but the rest of my brain is telling me to sod that, so here are some rough (read: wildly inaccurate) figures. Of the £1.30-odd you pay for a litre of petrol, about 50p of it is the wholesale cost of the petrol. A few pence - literally a couple of pence - is profit for the retailer. They work on volume - those few pence certainly stack up when you're flogging thousands of litres a day - and shop sales. That's why so many petrol stations have groceries, coffee shops, Ginsters pasties, off-licences, lapdancing clubs etc built in, because they wouldn't survive just on petrol sales. Well, maybe not lapdancing clubs, but give it time... This is also why everything's so sodding expensive at the fuel station.
The rest? The remaining 80-odd pence? Duty and VAT. And the VAT is calculable on petrol + duty, so yes, you're paying tax on your tax. Is there anything else on retail sale in the UK that attracts more than 100% in tax? Possibly tobacco, I don't know. Either way, I don't think the Office of Fair Trading should be investigating the oil companies; they should be investigating the bloody government. For instance, the road tax on the Bedford runs out tomorrow. That's £121 for six months' road rent. Will that £121 be put with everyone else's road tax and get spent on projects to maintain and improve our roads and transport infrastructure? Will it arse-biscuits. Some of it will, although nowhere near as much gets spent on the roads as gets spent on the rail network which, last time I looked, was operated by private businesses... which are still making a monstrous loss! Road Fund Licence - there's a clue in the title! It's like going to Tesco and buying a loaf of bread for £1. When you get to the checkout, the lass behind the till opens the packet, and takes out half the slices. Some she makes herself a sandwich with, some she feeds to the birds in some godforsaken third-world country and the rest she throws down the toilet. You get half a loaf of bread which is rapidly going stale and a bewildering, disquieting feeling that you're being done over somewhere along the line.
This has been a party political broadcast on behalf of the HRG.
Eugene
Random hot rod nonsense for the people who remember the Hot Rod Gazette as "the good old days"
Wednesday, 30 January 2013
Sunday, 27 January 2013
Going nowhere...
Had a good day down at the unit today. Graham, an NSCC competitor from days past and all-round nice bloke came along and bought an axle for his four-pot Fox. It was still attached to the car, so we (I say "we" as if I helped a fat lot at all) jacked the car up, undid the shockers, undid the axle ends of the trailing arms and removed the springs, then undid the axle ends of the upper arms, cut through the brake flexi and handbrake cables, and dragged the axle out. And here's the kicker - it was that easy! Nothing was seized, nothing snapped, there were no trips to casualty... a handful of spanners and sockets and out it came. It was so quick that we were convinced we must have done something wrong, even though the axle was now sat comfortably in the back of his pick-up. He suggested that we put it back on again and do the job properly, sweating and swearing and breaking things and ending up just cutting through everything with a grinder. The only problem was the sudden attack of high-velocity horizontal freezing rain that rocked up just at the point where we both needed to be lying on the ground under the car.
After Graham had gone, I took off the fuel tank and the exhaust. What special steel do they make fuel tanks and exhausts out of? The rust that you get on fuel tanks and exhausts is unlike any other sort of rust (and, believe me, I've been around the block a few times when it comes to rust) as it seems to stain whatever it touches and won't wash off. It's like the hot rod equivalent of a henna tattoo. In the fuel tank was some fuel. Bonus! God knows how long it's been in there, but I decanted it into a five-litre fuel can, found it was a strange brown colour like a very weak tea, but it smelled like petrol and there was nearly a gallon of it, so I wasn't going to waste it. I got a funnel and a filter (a bit of old T-shirt) and poured it into the Mustang's fuel tank. Job done. I removed the "filter" from the funnel and found it full of petrified insects. What kind of numbskull bell-end insect crawls into a fuel tank? What sort of food do they expect to find in there? I may pose the question to Springwatch in the hope that Kate Humble might show up to investigate, but knowing my luck I'd get Bill Oddie come round and gibber on about how this was the larvae of the endangered Four-Star Beetle and have a preservation order slapped on the bloody workshop.
I've now hit that point in my various ongoing projects where everything is waiting on everything else. The Mustang now has four uprated dampers and three lowering springs. I've got a bolt seized in the rear trailing arm so I can't change the fourth spring. As soon as I get chance, I'll head down to one of my mates' garages where there's compressed air and an impact wrench and try to free the bugger off, but if that doesn't work I shall have to cut the head and nut off the bolt. Then, with matching springs on the car I can finally get the tracking sorted. Note - local independent tyre place, "tracking, £28". Local ATS or Kwik Fit, "four-wheel laser alignment, £80". Well fuck my flat cap. Hmmm, but even though it's the latest space-age high-tech laser technology, it's still being operated by the sort of YTS knuckle-dragging grease-weasels who I wouldn't trust with any machinery more complex than a ring-pull can. And what's the point of four-wheel alignment on a car with a solid rear axle? If it does turn out that the back axle's on the piss, what are they going to do about it?
Still, once the tracking's been sorted, I can finally put the steering wheel on straight - I changed the rack and now the steering wheel's at 90-degrees in the straight ahead position, nicely obscuring both the speedo and the tacho. And then I can put my "new" wheels and tyres on. The ones with tread on, which can come in handy with all this snow about. Damned if I'm going to fit them now so that my out-of-alignment front end can scrub the tread off for me...
Likewise I've been dragging Mustang spares into the unit and stacking them up in front of Andy's Chevy. But now I've actually achieved gridlock, and having used all the available floor space in front of the Chevy I've started stacking it behind the Chevy. So I decided I needed some shelves. So I bought a whole bloody load of shelves off eBay, thinking I'll collect them with the CF beavertail. But they've been dismantled, and even with a country mile of ratchet straps I can't imagine I'd get home with anything like as much Dexion as I set off with, having just distributed it down a 30-mile stretch of the M6. I'd have the gippos following me like Hansel and bloody Gretel... But when I do get it home, I'll have to shovel out all the stuff I've just put behind the Chevy, then roll the Chevy out, then shovel out all the crap I've put in FRONT of the Chevy so I can drag in all the new shelves, build them back up, then put all the crap on the shelves... This quick tidy-up looks like taking at least two days.
Eugene
After Graham had gone, I took off the fuel tank and the exhaust. What special steel do they make fuel tanks and exhausts out of? The rust that you get on fuel tanks and exhausts is unlike any other sort of rust (and, believe me, I've been around the block a few times when it comes to rust) as it seems to stain whatever it touches and won't wash off. It's like the hot rod equivalent of a henna tattoo. In the fuel tank was some fuel. Bonus! God knows how long it's been in there, but I decanted it into a five-litre fuel can, found it was a strange brown colour like a very weak tea, but it smelled like petrol and there was nearly a gallon of it, so I wasn't going to waste it. I got a funnel and a filter (a bit of old T-shirt) and poured it into the Mustang's fuel tank. Job done. I removed the "filter" from the funnel and found it full of petrified insects. What kind of numbskull bell-end insect crawls into a fuel tank? What sort of food do they expect to find in there? I may pose the question to Springwatch in the hope that Kate Humble might show up to investigate, but knowing my luck I'd get Bill Oddie come round and gibber on about how this was the larvae of the endangered Four-Star Beetle and have a preservation order slapped on the bloody workshop.
I've now hit that point in my various ongoing projects where everything is waiting on everything else. The Mustang now has four uprated dampers and three lowering springs. I've got a bolt seized in the rear trailing arm so I can't change the fourth spring. As soon as I get chance, I'll head down to one of my mates' garages where there's compressed air and an impact wrench and try to free the bugger off, but if that doesn't work I shall have to cut the head and nut off the bolt. Then, with matching springs on the car I can finally get the tracking sorted. Note - local independent tyre place, "tracking, £28". Local ATS or Kwik Fit, "four-wheel laser alignment, £80". Well fuck my flat cap. Hmmm, but even though it's the latest space-age high-tech laser technology, it's still being operated by the sort of YTS knuckle-dragging grease-weasels who I wouldn't trust with any machinery more complex than a ring-pull can. And what's the point of four-wheel alignment on a car with a solid rear axle? If it does turn out that the back axle's on the piss, what are they going to do about it?
Still, once the tracking's been sorted, I can finally put the steering wheel on straight - I changed the rack and now the steering wheel's at 90-degrees in the straight ahead position, nicely obscuring both the speedo and the tacho. And then I can put my "new" wheels and tyres on. The ones with tread on, which can come in handy with all this snow about. Damned if I'm going to fit them now so that my out-of-alignment front end can scrub the tread off for me...
Likewise I've been dragging Mustang spares into the unit and stacking them up in front of Andy's Chevy. But now I've actually achieved gridlock, and having used all the available floor space in front of the Chevy I've started stacking it behind the Chevy. So I decided I needed some shelves. So I bought a whole bloody load of shelves off eBay, thinking I'll collect them with the CF beavertail. But they've been dismantled, and even with a country mile of ratchet straps I can't imagine I'd get home with anything like as much Dexion as I set off with, having just distributed it down a 30-mile stretch of the M6. I'd have the gippos following me like Hansel and bloody Gretel... But when I do get it home, I'll have to shovel out all the stuff I've just put behind the Chevy, then roll the Chevy out, then shovel out all the crap I've put in FRONT of the Chevy so I can drag in all the new shelves, build them back up, then put all the crap on the shelves... This quick tidy-up looks like taking at least two days.
Eugene
Sunday, 20 January 2013
The Guillotine Falls
France, lovely country filled with lovely architecture and history. In fact the only thing that really spoils France is the French, oh and their profound inability to build cars of any substance. I mean, historically we Brits are pretty well the World leaders in historic motoring icons with our Bentleys and Astons; we obviously have a soft spot for the Yanks and their crude but so-fucking-horny V8 technology; and even the Germans and Italians can lay claim to some pretty fantastic machinery over the years. The French however, have given us - at best - some quirky little tin cans which never really aspired to be anything other than comfortable. Performance and elegance, no - but comfy, yes. Comfort in French cars is important. Especially as you're going to be sat in them for hours on end waiting for the emergency services to turn up - which is kind of inevitable given that their wiring looms are still made by Fisher Price.
It's possibly this abject failure to create anything worthwhile on an automotive footing that has prompted the Mayor of Paris, Bertrand Delanoe, to propose a ban on any pre-1997 car from entering the city (although it's alegedly for 'green' reasons). He's also proposing that motorbikes over ten years-old and trucks over eighteen be include in the ban, which some supoporters are saying should not only be within the Paris ringroad, but also within the much, much wider perimeter of the outer ringroad, the A86 Francillienne. Of course, this not only has a massive effect upon the residents, it would also see the extermination of many classic car restorers in that area. Significant classic motoring events which have historically used the city as part of their routes, or in some cases the start/finish will of course become immediately obsolete.
Still, that's France and not here, right? Because Boris Johnson would never do such a thing, would he? (RIP Wimbledon Stock Car Arena which died overnight when his Low Emission Zone came into force - along with countless other businesses). The enemy are out there alright, and they're not all the rifle-toting ragheads we see on the news.
Enjoy your hotrods whilst you can folks, I get the feeling they won't be here forever.
Ed Gasket
It's possibly this abject failure to create anything worthwhile on an automotive footing that has prompted the Mayor of Paris, Bertrand Delanoe, to propose a ban on any pre-1997 car from entering the city (although it's alegedly for 'green' reasons). He's also proposing that motorbikes over ten years-old and trucks over eighteen be include in the ban, which some supoporters are saying should not only be within the Paris ringroad, but also within the much, much wider perimeter of the outer ringroad, the A86 Francillienne. Of course, this not only has a massive effect upon the residents, it would also see the extermination of many classic car restorers in that area. Significant classic motoring events which have historically used the city as part of their routes, or in some cases the start/finish will of course become immediately obsolete.
Still, that's France and not here, right? Because Boris Johnson would never do such a thing, would he? (RIP Wimbledon Stock Car Arena which died overnight when his Low Emission Zone came into force - along with countless other businesses). The enemy are out there alright, and they're not all the rifle-toting ragheads we see on the news.
Enjoy your hotrods whilst you can folks, I get the feeling they won't be here forever.
Ed Gasket
Thursday, 17 January 2013
From the West Midlands to the Wild West
Evening. Yesterday I had the good fortune to drop by on "Wacky" Mick Wilkes at his workshop in Brierley Hill, in the Black Country. For anyone that doesn't know, Wacky Mick has a bit of a perverse penchant for old Vauxhalls and his latest, a Bedford HA van, is a proper sleeper. From the plain-jane paint to the 13" wheels with hubcaps to the inch-and-a-quarter dummy tailpipe sticking out under the back bumper, nothing about this van says anything other than "cute little resto van". Then he opens the bonnet, and there's a red-top 16v Vauxhall 2.0 with a socking great turbo driving the rear wheels through a T5 five-speed. It runs low 12s. Elevens with a slight sniff of gas.
This is the owner, Wacky Mick, standing at his 8" bench grinder. Is he fabricating some wonderful piece of engineering using some space-age alloy of his own creation? No, he's sharpening a pencil. Proper hot-rodder.
Now one thing that many of you will know about Mick is that he likes to chat. He's rarely short of conversation; in fact you could be forgiven for thinking that his tongue is mounted in the middle and runs at both ends. But, unlike most people who like to chat, Mick is WORTH LISTENING TO! And if you've not heard the tale of his trip to Hot Rod Drag Week, it's the best tale you'll hear all year. You just need 24 hours spare to listen to it...
Yes, Mick packed the little van onto a boat, then he and Deb went out to the States and competed in Hot Rod Drag Week, a five-day, five venue drag fest with about 1400 road miles in between and no trailers or support vehicles. If this doesn't prove that your car is a true street car I don't know what does.
The story is being serialised in American Car Mag at the moment, but here's the best bit - Wacky won the Spirit of Drag Week award. This was voted by the competitors, and Wacky won it for being friendly, funny, and never failing to stop for another competitor in trouble, plus the kudos of having travelled all the way from the UK to compete.
That, to me, counts for more than if he'd managed to run a nine. Despite near exhaustion and being in a foreign country without GPS, he'd never leave another rodder stranded. Now THAT's what it's all about. If you ever meet Mick, you should buy him a beer. This has two benefits. First, you can say that you've bought a beer for a true UK drag racing hero. Second, Mick's teetotal so you get the beer back! Hurrah, everyone wins.
Eugene
This is the owner, Wacky Mick, standing at his 8" bench grinder. Is he fabricating some wonderful piece of engineering using some space-age alloy of his own creation? No, he's sharpening a pencil. Proper hot-rodder.
Yes, Mick packed the little van onto a boat, then he and Deb went out to the States and competed in Hot Rod Drag Week, a five-day, five venue drag fest with about 1400 road miles in between and no trailers or support vehicles. If this doesn't prove that your car is a true street car I don't know what does.
The story is being serialised in American Car Mag at the moment, but here's the best bit - Wacky won the Spirit of Drag Week award. This was voted by the competitors, and Wacky won it for being friendly, funny, and never failing to stop for another competitor in trouble, plus the kudos of having travelled all the way from the UK to compete.
Eugene
Sunday, 13 January 2013
Tig Napier Holiday Inn drink-fuelled orgy shocker
Yesterday there was a surprise birthday party for Tig Napier's 50th birthday, thrown by his long-suffering wife and carer, Cath. It was a really good bash, lots of good friends, a top scran and a DJ with a clue about decent Rock music. What more do you need?
How about a cake? This one was a minter, although I did want to remove the icing red light from Tig's lane and replace it with a cherry tomato, but I thought that'd be a bit mean, especially as it's his party.
Cath and I did try to prop Tig's car up into a wheelie using a cocktail stick, but the cocktail stick just sunk into the icing. Shame - Tig hits 50 and suddenly he can't keep it up...
This was one of those pictures that was supposed to be as mystical as the Turin Shroud, because it looked as if Steve Neimantas had a halo. I thought that if this was what the second coming looked like, then the Jews must be pissing themselves. And if God has the Archangel Michael at his right hand, then the new messiah has the Archangel Moose, which would come in handy for smiting the unrighteous. Or anyone else for that matter. In the end, it just looked like Steve was really rather ill...
Get thee behind me, Satan, and eeeeeh, let's have a Conga!
Anyway, most of the photos I took came out dreadful which, while quite fitting for a HRG tribute, were the result of photographer ineptitude and camera intractability rather than poor photocopier reproduction. Here's another that actually came out in focus with the correct exposure.
Name that dynasty!
Anyway, the whole point of the evening was celebrating Tig's 50th, and celebrate everyone did. I owe Cath and Tig a lot - when I first started going to York drag strip and joining in with the NSCC crowd (some 14 or so years ago, now), Cath and Tig were the welcome wagon. They were the people who were always cheerful, always ready to help. When you were sleeping in your car after a skinful the night before, they were the ones who provided a wake-up call by firing Tig's Challenger up on open headers some five feet away from your sleeping head. And then they'd hand you a brew and a sausage sandwich (NOT a euphemism). They were the people that made me realise just what a lovely bunch of people drag racers were, and I've shared a whole lotta laughs with them. Thanks, guys.
And HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TIG!
He's the one on the right, incidentally...
How about a cake? This one was a minter, although I did want to remove the icing red light from Tig's lane and replace it with a cherry tomato, but I thought that'd be a bit mean, especially as it's his party.
Cath and I did try to prop Tig's car up into a wheelie using a cocktail stick, but the cocktail stick just sunk into the icing. Shame - Tig hits 50 and suddenly he can't keep it up...
This was one of those pictures that was supposed to be as mystical as the Turin Shroud, because it looked as if Steve Neimantas had a halo. I thought that if this was what the second coming looked like, then the Jews must be pissing themselves. And if God has the Archangel Michael at his right hand, then the new messiah has the Archangel Moose, which would come in handy for smiting the unrighteous. Or anyone else for that matter. In the end, it just looked like Steve was really rather ill...
Get thee behind me, Satan, and eeeeeh, let's have a Conga!
Anyway, most of the photos I took came out dreadful which, while quite fitting for a HRG tribute, were the result of photographer ineptitude and camera intractability rather than poor photocopier reproduction. Here's another that actually came out in focus with the correct exposure.
Name that dynasty!
Anyway, the whole point of the evening was celebrating Tig's 50th, and celebrate everyone did. I owe Cath and Tig a lot - when I first started going to York drag strip and joining in with the NSCC crowd (some 14 or so years ago, now), Cath and Tig were the welcome wagon. They were the people who were always cheerful, always ready to help. When you were sleeping in your car after a skinful the night before, they were the ones who provided a wake-up call by firing Tig's Challenger up on open headers some five feet away from your sleeping head. And then they'd hand you a brew and a sausage sandwich (NOT a euphemism). They were the people that made me realise just what a lovely bunch of people drag racers were, and I've shared a whole lotta laughs with them. Thanks, guys.
And HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TIG!
He's the one on the right, incidentally...
Friday, 11 January 2013
Autosport, Spandex and the Great Car Parking Rip-off
Yesterday I went along to the Autosport International show at the NEC. This is a tremendous off-season bash, well worth going to, almost the same size but several times more interesting than the Classic Car Show in November.
There's plenty to see, with some righteously expensive bizzle in the auction - including a Shelby and the lime green Capri from Only Fools and Horses, amongst others - and stages with interviews and other shenanigans. The stands are all pretty cool - Santa Pod had a cool stand (I buttonholed one of the guys about the possibility of NSCC playing at Dragstalgia or the Mopars - he'll "get back to me"), and if you looked far enough, tucked right away in the farthest corner was Geoff Hauser's Super Pro winning dragster. There were guys selling crate V8s, including one guy selling the new Ford 5.0 Coyote V8. I asked him how it stacked up against the LS V8; he said, "Well, the LS is lighter, smaller, cheaper and more powerful. These are OK if you really want a Ford engine." You're doing a shit hot sales job there, mate, I hope you're not on commission.
The Custom Paint stand had an amazing MkI Escort painted in heavy 'flake candy red - apparently the work of a Mr Bryan Whitworth - and, although stuck in the middle of a sea of Lambos, Ferraris and a McLaren, guess which one all the youngsters were taking photos of...?
After you'd looked at all the big manufacturers stands and blagged all the free pens and stickers and guff, there were a good few stands for race series and car clubs, which is where you'd find the really cool old saloon car racers like the Imp (above) and the Anglia (below), which again had people crammed around it at the expense of the much more modern machinery abounding on all sides.
The Chevette HSR (top) brought back memories for me, and there was a big tribute to Roger Clark and Sir Jackie Stewart, which is where you'd have found this:
Yum. It's a Lotus Cortina, but badged Consul ... that's a new one on me. There were traders doing special offers, like Mechanix gloves at £6 a pair and Hedtec selling Snell-rated crashing hats from £99, plus lots of magazines doing special offers, including PPC who had this on the stand - dare to be different, or dare to be daft?
It looks like something Darth Vader's missus keeps in her bedside drawer...
On the Saturday and Sunday 'public days' there's a live action bit with people toking around in stock cars and grass trackers and all sorts of noisy gubbins, but on the Thursday and Friday 'trade-only' days the last hall is stacked with engineering firms and parts manufacturers, and this is well worth a look. Okay, at one end are people selling massive CNC lathes and milling machines and all that, which is great if you're a minted mechanical smart-arse with a vast garage who can't find the wheels he really wants so has decided to make his own. But other than that, there are always a bunch of American firms, many looking slightly out of place, who welcome a chat with a keen petrolhead. I yapped to ARP, Titan, VP Racing Fuels, the guys from Cometic Gaskets UK (the senior of whom was chatting about when he crewed for the likes of Nobby Hills in the Seventies), Total Seal and so on. Sometimes you can get them to give you something for free, just to make you go away. Possibly a thick ear.
So it's a really good day out, except...
... there's always an 'except' with the NEC. Start off with the parking. The NEC is miles from anywhere, but to park on site they'll relieve you of £10. Bastards. That's on top of the show entry which is £30 per adult. That's taking the piss, sorry. And the food and drink concessions are equally outrageous. Some of the stands have bowls of sweeties on the desk, and if you're clever you can survive the day on stolen mint imperials. There's always the train, as Birmingham International station is on-site. Unfortunately, it's a bloody big site; the station is at one end, the show at the other, and by the time you've walked from one to the other you need a pint, poxy travelators notwithstanding.
Then there's the tits'n'teeth girls, who abound on all sides, and seem to be engaged in some sort of competition to see who can wear the tiniest outfit that still has enough material to write the company's name on. Or Spandex...
... which is basically just a camel-toe looking for an opportune moment to happen. If you're going to wear an outfit that allows deaf blokes to lip-read even if you're not saying anything, you probably shouldn't stand next to a sign saying "RENT ME". Thursday is the first day of the show, which means that the fleet of tits'n'teeth girls are still quite enthusiastic and still grinning like wanking Japs on Mogadon. By the Sunday, after they've had three days of every herbert with an iPhone saying, "Can my mate (insert name of spotty oik here) have his photo taken with you?" they've stopped bothering asking, "Would you like a goodie bag, sir?" and start just thrusting the giveaway crap at any passing bloke, with a fixed grin (probably maintained by a Starbucks wooden coffee-stirring stick jammed across their mouths) but a look in their eyes that says "TAKE the f**king bag or I will take off one of these 6" platform heels that I've had to wear for four days and beat you to f**king DEATH with it."
Mind you, some of the employees on the stands are no better. Unlike the Mogadon grin of the tits'n'teeth girls, some of the suits just sit there with a face like a ripped arsehole giving off massive "Just go away!" vibes. You walk into their booths saying "Hello, I'd like to talk about the product/service you're trying to sell," and they look at you as if you'd just walked in with your dick in your hand saying, "Oh, sorry, I thought this was the gents." Maybe you're just not cut out for face-to-face work with potential customers, bud...
So, the upshot is it's a bloody expensive do but well worthwhile, especially at this time of year, smack in the middle of the off-season. If you're going this weekend, have fun.
Eugene
There's plenty to see, with some righteously expensive bizzle in the auction - including a Shelby and the lime green Capri from Only Fools and Horses, amongst others - and stages with interviews and other shenanigans. The stands are all pretty cool - Santa Pod had a cool stand (I buttonholed one of the guys about the possibility of NSCC playing at Dragstalgia or the Mopars - he'll "get back to me"), and if you looked far enough, tucked right away in the farthest corner was Geoff Hauser's Super Pro winning dragster. There were guys selling crate V8s, including one guy selling the new Ford 5.0 Coyote V8. I asked him how it stacked up against the LS V8; he said, "Well, the LS is lighter, smaller, cheaper and more powerful. These are OK if you really want a Ford engine." You're doing a shit hot sales job there, mate, I hope you're not on commission.
The Custom Paint stand had an amazing MkI Escort painted in heavy 'flake candy red - apparently the work of a Mr Bryan Whitworth - and, although stuck in the middle of a sea of Lambos, Ferraris and a McLaren, guess which one all the youngsters were taking photos of...?
After you'd looked at all the big manufacturers stands and blagged all the free pens and stickers and guff, there were a good few stands for race series and car clubs, which is where you'd find the really cool old saloon car racers like the Imp (above) and the Anglia (below), which again had people crammed around it at the expense of the much more modern machinery abounding on all sides.
On the Saturday and Sunday 'public days' there's a live action bit with people toking around in stock cars and grass trackers and all sorts of noisy gubbins, but on the Thursday and Friday 'trade-only' days the last hall is stacked with engineering firms and parts manufacturers, and this is well worth a look. Okay, at one end are people selling massive CNC lathes and milling machines and all that, which is great if you're a minted mechanical smart-arse with a vast garage who can't find the wheels he really wants so has decided to make his own. But other than that, there are always a bunch of American firms, many looking slightly out of place, who welcome a chat with a keen petrolhead. I yapped to ARP, Titan, VP Racing Fuels, the guys from Cometic Gaskets UK (the senior of whom was chatting about when he crewed for the likes of Nobby Hills in the Seventies), Total Seal and so on. Sometimes you can get them to give you something for free, just to make you go away. Possibly a thick ear.
So it's a really good day out, except...
... there's always an 'except' with the NEC. Start off with the parking. The NEC is miles from anywhere, but to park on site they'll relieve you of £10. Bastards. That's on top of the show entry which is £30 per adult. That's taking the piss, sorry. And the food and drink concessions are equally outrageous. Some of the stands have bowls of sweeties on the desk, and if you're clever you can survive the day on stolen mint imperials. There's always the train, as Birmingham International station is on-site. Unfortunately, it's a bloody big site; the station is at one end, the show at the other, and by the time you've walked from one to the other you need a pint, poxy travelators notwithstanding.
Then there's the tits'n'teeth girls, who abound on all sides, and seem to be engaged in some sort of competition to see who can wear the tiniest outfit that still has enough material to write the company's name on. Or Spandex...
... which is basically just a camel-toe looking for an opportune moment to happen. If you're going to wear an outfit that allows deaf blokes to lip-read even if you're not saying anything, you probably shouldn't stand next to a sign saying "RENT ME". Thursday is the first day of the show, which means that the fleet of tits'n'teeth girls are still quite enthusiastic and still grinning like wanking Japs on Mogadon. By the Sunday, after they've had three days of every herbert with an iPhone saying, "Can my mate (insert name of spotty oik here) have his photo taken with you?" they've stopped bothering asking, "Would you like a goodie bag, sir?" and start just thrusting the giveaway crap at any passing bloke, with a fixed grin (probably maintained by a Starbucks wooden coffee-stirring stick jammed across their mouths) but a look in their eyes that says "TAKE the f**king bag or I will take off one of these 6" platform heels that I've had to wear for four days and beat you to f**king DEATH with it."
Mind you, some of the employees on the stands are no better. Unlike the Mogadon grin of the tits'n'teeth girls, some of the suits just sit there with a face like a ripped arsehole giving off massive "Just go away!" vibes. You walk into their booths saying "Hello, I'd like to talk about the product/service you're trying to sell," and they look at you as if you'd just walked in with your dick in your hand saying, "Oh, sorry, I thought this was the gents." Maybe you're just not cut out for face-to-face work with potential customers, bud...
So, the upshot is it's a bloody expensive do but well worthwhile, especially at this time of year, smack in the middle of the off-season. If you're going this weekend, have fun.
Eugene
Sunday, 6 January 2013
Hot Rodders Are Green!
They are. And not just after a heavy night on the Poteen... What we're doing is recycling of the first order. Warning: a rant may follow
I've just spent a night of serious rock'n'roll hedonism dicking about with the tumble dryer. For a few weeks now it's been making a noise that would suggest that we were attempting to tumble dry a load of big end caps and wellington boots, so I thought I'd best have a look.
First step was to check the drum for big end caps and wellies. Nope, untoward nothing in there, and it's still making the noise. Open a beer, then drag the dryer out, unplug it and take the top off. Vacuum out 10 years of assorted fluff, unidentified minging bits and rodent skeletons, then you figure out that to get to the important bits you have to take the back off. Make a quick wiring diagram and off comes the back. The entirety of the drum is supported on a bearing about the size of a 50p piece (but round, obviously - heptagonal bearings have never really caught on). There is a stub axle pressed into the bearing that bolts to the back panel of the dryer, while the outer race of the bearing sits in a triangular aluminium hub that's riveted to the back of the drum. Riveted. The bearing has worn, so the rivets have begun chewing into the aluminium, and the hub is now slack on the drum.
There's a company I've used before - www.espares.co.uk - who sell spares for washers, driers and so on. I can get a new bearing and stub axle kit for less than £8. Terrific. I can't get a new aluminium hub, though, except as part of a new drum, which is £85. So £93 plus postage. Or a brand-new dryer of the exact same make and model with a warranty for £129. No contest, but another load of waste.
It's the same with modern cars. Yes, they're more reliable and oh-so-bloody green, but how long into its life is it likely to be before the cost of a fairly standard repair exceeds the value of the car? Back in the day, pretty much any garage could do the job, or you could do it yourself. Ask anyone in the trade about the increasing number of simple servicing jobs that either require the car to go back to the dealership, or require your local garage to pay a wad to licence some excruciatingly expensive computer software.
It wasn't so long ago that the main factor in determining a car's second-hand value was how rusty it was. After 10 years, a MkIV Cortina was probably already on its third set of sills, and most Minis would have been mostly made out of roasting tins, baked bean cans, and seventeen miles of MIG wire. Or the sides of knackered tumble driers... But the point was, if you wanted a cheap car, you bought a 10 or 15 year old car and welded it, fixed it, "did it up". Now, a 10 or 15 year old car with near-immaculate bodywork but the ABS light on is pretty much a lost cause.
A car, over its life, uses a shedload of energy. The greater proportion of that energy is used before its first owner has even bought it - manufacture, delivery etc. A car that has lasted 20 or more years has already amortised its energy usage.
So which is greener? A brand-new plastic marvel with every gadget under the sun, or a Triumph Herald with a Ford Zetec engine? It's the Herald. The Herald that you've welded new floors in, rebuilt a differential, replaced the taper bearings in the hubs... Because you haven't scrapped the Herald, sent it to be crushed and fragged, put it on a boat to Poland where the steel is smelted down into new sheet, where it's put on another boat to a Chinese plant where it's stamped into new panels and put on another boat to Korea where it's built up into a brand-new Hyundai, which is then put on another boat, shipped to the UK and sold as an ecologically-friendly small car! Strictly speaking, it's done that many miles already it's due its third service.
If anyone gets in your face about how your "polluting old car" is killing the planet, please feel free to use the above argument in return, preferably while pinning them down and beating them across the earhole with a spade or shovel. If they tell you that their Prius is the answer to an environmentalist's prayers, tell them to come back in 10 or 15 years and confirm that this was actually the case. Scrappage scheme? Don't even get me started on that - I can't believe an entire nation bought that barrowload of bullshit and swallowed it without even asking for a glass of water. The Americans bought it too, and everyone turned out to be the poorer for it, including the environment.
I've done enough ranting on, now, so I think I'll just sit here with my beer and consider that, while I'm sitting here listening to World War Three coming from my tumble drier, I'm actually saving the planet by driving a Ford Mustang...
Eugene
I've just spent a night of serious rock'n'roll hedonism dicking about with the tumble dryer. For a few weeks now it's been making a noise that would suggest that we were attempting to tumble dry a load of big end caps and wellington boots, so I thought I'd best have a look.
First step was to check the drum for big end caps and wellies. Nope, untoward nothing in there, and it's still making the noise. Open a beer, then drag the dryer out, unplug it and take the top off. Vacuum out 10 years of assorted fluff, unidentified minging bits and rodent skeletons, then you figure out that to get to the important bits you have to take the back off. Make a quick wiring diagram and off comes the back. The entirety of the drum is supported on a bearing about the size of a 50p piece (but round, obviously - heptagonal bearings have never really caught on). There is a stub axle pressed into the bearing that bolts to the back panel of the dryer, while the outer race of the bearing sits in a triangular aluminium hub that's riveted to the back of the drum. Riveted. The bearing has worn, so the rivets have begun chewing into the aluminium, and the hub is now slack on the drum.
There's a company I've used before - www.espares.co.uk - who sell spares for washers, driers and so on. I can get a new bearing and stub axle kit for less than £8. Terrific. I can't get a new aluminium hub, though, except as part of a new drum, which is £85. So £93 plus postage. Or a brand-new dryer of the exact same make and model with a warranty for £129. No contest, but another load of waste.
It's the same with modern cars. Yes, they're more reliable and oh-so-bloody green, but how long into its life is it likely to be before the cost of a fairly standard repair exceeds the value of the car? Back in the day, pretty much any garage could do the job, or you could do it yourself. Ask anyone in the trade about the increasing number of simple servicing jobs that either require the car to go back to the dealership, or require your local garage to pay a wad to licence some excruciatingly expensive computer software.
It wasn't so long ago that the main factor in determining a car's second-hand value was how rusty it was. After 10 years, a MkIV Cortina was probably already on its third set of sills, and most Minis would have been mostly made out of roasting tins, baked bean cans, and seventeen miles of MIG wire. Or the sides of knackered tumble driers... But the point was, if you wanted a cheap car, you bought a 10 or 15 year old car and welded it, fixed it, "did it up". Now, a 10 or 15 year old car with near-immaculate bodywork but the ABS light on is pretty much a lost cause.
A car, over its life, uses a shedload of energy. The greater proportion of that energy is used before its first owner has even bought it - manufacture, delivery etc. A car that has lasted 20 or more years has already amortised its energy usage.
So which is greener? A brand-new plastic marvel with every gadget under the sun, or a Triumph Herald with a Ford Zetec engine? It's the Herald. The Herald that you've welded new floors in, rebuilt a differential, replaced the taper bearings in the hubs... Because you haven't scrapped the Herald, sent it to be crushed and fragged, put it on a boat to Poland where the steel is smelted down into new sheet, where it's put on another boat to a Chinese plant where it's stamped into new panels and put on another boat to Korea where it's built up into a brand-new Hyundai, which is then put on another boat, shipped to the UK and sold as an ecologically-friendly small car! Strictly speaking, it's done that many miles already it's due its third service.
If anyone gets in your face about how your "polluting old car" is killing the planet, please feel free to use the above argument in return, preferably while pinning them down and beating them across the earhole with a spade or shovel. If they tell you that their Prius is the answer to an environmentalist's prayers, tell them to come back in 10 or 15 years and confirm that this was actually the case. Scrappage scheme? Don't even get me started on that - I can't believe an entire nation bought that barrowload of bullshit and swallowed it without even asking for a glass of water. The Americans bought it too, and everyone turned out to be the poorer for it, including the environment.
I've done enough ranting on, now, so I think I'll just sit here with my beer and consider that, while I'm sitting here listening to World War Three coming from my tumble drier, I'm actually saving the planet by driving a Ford Mustang...
Eugene
Friday, 4 January 2013
Celebrity What?!
Celebrity Big Brother has just started up again on Channel 5! And if that's not a good enough reason to hoy a camshaft through your television I don't know what is. Honestly, on "eviction day" they should have a secret extra phone number that costs £2.50, and the option is to leave them all in there, lock the doors and turn the cameras off. £2.50 well spent, I think you'll agree. These godawful gobshites are on the telly for hours every night, while Wacky Mick Wilkes shipped his HA Viva van over to the States, and competed in (and completed!) Hot Rod Drag Week and he's delighted that he made a small article in the Halesowen free newspaper...
If ever there was a better reason to sack the telly and hit the laptop, I can't think what it might be. First port of call should be the HRG Faecebook page. That's buzzing at the moment, and what it really needs is anyone with any old photos of HRG/NSCC events to get the buggers scanned in and posted up. With a bit of luck, you'll be seeing some posts on this blog from erstwhile HRG stalwarts like Ed Gasket and Roady before too long, and it'll be just like the good old days. But with more expensive fuel. And more GATSO cameras. And so on.
Stay tuned to the HRG blog when, with a bit of luck, we might have some actual content for you. And check the HRG Faecebook page for the regular bursts of profanity and idiocy. And don't go on there bleating about Celebrity Big Brother or we'll come round your house and stuff your computer up your cack-hatch.
Eugene
If ever there was a better reason to sack the telly and hit the laptop, I can't think what it might be. First port of call should be the HRG Faecebook page. That's buzzing at the moment, and what it really needs is anyone with any old photos of HRG/NSCC events to get the buggers scanned in and posted up. With a bit of luck, you'll be seeing some posts on this blog from erstwhile HRG stalwarts like Ed Gasket and Roady before too long, and it'll be just like the good old days. But with more expensive fuel. And more GATSO cameras. And so on.
Stay tuned to the HRG blog when, with a bit of luck, we might have some actual content for you. And check the HRG Faecebook page for the regular bursts of profanity and idiocy. And don't go on there bleating about Celebrity Big Brother or we'll come round your house and stuff your computer up your cack-hatch.
Eugene
Wednesday, 2 January 2013
Back To Work, Back To Faecebook
January 2nd, the hangover should have cleared, and I suppose most of us are back to work. Which for many people, I suspect, means sitting around an office chatting about how much you spent over Christmas, and wandering around Facebook. I reckon that when it comes to lost man-hours at work, they'd be better off ignoring Norovirus and searching for a cure for Facebook. After all, Norovirus results in weariness, a blinding headache and vomiting. Or "a weekend", as it's also known. Facebook lasts all week.
Facebook is a tremendous medium for social networking, catching up with old acquaintances and keeping in touch with people you might not see very often. It's also a tremendous medium for comical pictures of cats with amusingly misspelled captions, and being bombarded with banal and inane shite about the trivialities of peoples lives that you honestly couldn't give two dry shits about.
Which is why I'm so delighted that the Hot Rod Gazette Faecebook page (it's a Faecebook page because that's where you can go to spout shite) has taken off quite so uproariously. It's only been up there about 24 hours and it's already bustling like the bar at Shakey during happy hour. There's a linky-thing to the right - go click it.
It can also be a bit of a double-edged sword, though. It's meant to provide everyone with the enthusiasm to keep cracking on with their build or their rebuild, so that come the start of the season, we'll have a line-up of NSCC/HRG cars that'll make everyone sit up and take notice. On the other hand, people might be thinking, "Shall I go and bust a gut in a freezing cold garage all evening, or shall I stay in here, where it's warm and there's beer, and prattle on the HRG Faecebook page?"
The simple answer is, BOTH! Work on your project, take some snaps and then SHARE your efforts on the HRG page! Spread the love, and all that waz. Tell people who actually CARE about it! Let's face it, ask the people in your house which they'd prefer - listening to you chunter on about the job you've just been doing on your car, or an hour-long dose of stomach cramps and fizzy bum-gravy - and I bet at least half of them would choose the latter. So come to the HRG Faecebook page - it's like Cheers bar, but without the irritating canned laughter and dodgy Eighties barnets.
It's an invite-only page, and if you haven't been invited it's not a personal insult; it's because the person doing the inviting is about as much use as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest. Just click on and get yourself invited. It's a lot more fun than building your own virtual sodding farm...
Facebook is a tremendous medium for social networking, catching up with old acquaintances and keeping in touch with people you might not see very often. It's also a tremendous medium for comical pictures of cats with amusingly misspelled captions, and being bombarded with banal and inane shite about the trivialities of peoples lives that you honestly couldn't give two dry shits about.
Which is why I'm so delighted that the Hot Rod Gazette Faecebook page (it's a Faecebook page because that's where you can go to spout shite) has taken off quite so uproariously. It's only been up there about 24 hours and it's already bustling like the bar at Shakey during happy hour. There's a linky-thing to the right - go click it.
It can also be a bit of a double-edged sword, though. It's meant to provide everyone with the enthusiasm to keep cracking on with their build or their rebuild, so that come the start of the season, we'll have a line-up of NSCC/HRG cars that'll make everyone sit up and take notice. On the other hand, people might be thinking, "Shall I go and bust a gut in a freezing cold garage all evening, or shall I stay in here, where it's warm and there's beer, and prattle on the HRG Faecebook page?"
The simple answer is, BOTH! Work on your project, take some snaps and then SHARE your efforts on the HRG page! Spread the love, and all that waz. Tell people who actually CARE about it! Let's face it, ask the people in your house which they'd prefer - listening to you chunter on about the job you've just been doing on your car, or an hour-long dose of stomach cramps and fizzy bum-gravy - and I bet at least half of them would choose the latter. So come to the HRG Faecebook page - it's like Cheers bar, but without the irritating canned laughter and dodgy Eighties barnets.
It's an invite-only page, and if you haven't been invited it's not a personal insult; it's because the person doing the inviting is about as much use as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest. Just click on and get yourself invited. It's a lot more fun than building your own virtual sodding farm...
Tuesday, 1 January 2013
Fate made me buy new tools...
It's 2013. Looks and feels pretty much like 2012, except you don't normally see this many people with hangovers on a Tuesday morning, even in this town.
It's clear that there are plenty of old rodders out there who remember the Gazette fondly. I can provide you with a HRG experience that'll take you right back to those glory days, if you'd like. Simply send me a stamped, self-addressed envelope. I'll cover the back of it with smudges of photocopier ink, bang some crooked thumb-stabbing staples through it and post it back to you. Ah, just like old times...
Had an interesting experience on Saturday. I was down at the workshop/storage unit - it should be a workshop, but it sees a lot more storage than work - late in the evening. It's on a farm, so it's pretty dark, and suddenly this young couple comes wandering in, saying, "Do you know anything about American cars?" Parked outside are three Mustangs and an El Camino, so I can't really deny all knowledge. Anyway, this young lass starts telling me about how she's just bought a third-gen Firebird and she's after some bits, can I recommend anywhere to try? I suggested www.rodsnsods.co.uk and a few other places, and I mentioned that I had a set of 17" wheels, brand-new, unused, with a Firebird/Camaro offset. The eyebrows went up like chapel hat-pegs - "Ooh, can we see?" I showed them one - they're a cross-spoke design that would really have only suited an Eighties or early Nineties F-body - and they asked if they were for sale. Sure, £200 the set. "We're going to the cashpoint, we'll be back in 5 minutes."
Sure enough, five minutes later, they're back with £200 in twenties. They had the wheels and off they went. What, no haggling, no sucking air through the teeth, no crap offers of payments in instalments?
It turns out that they were here to see one of the guys in the other little workshops around the corner. I'd seen their Subaru parked outside and thought nothing of it ... because it's a Subaru. He'd sent them round to me because I like American cars. And that's how we get a bit of new blood into the scene.
It's also odd that I'd been trying to sell these wheels for ages, had no luck at £150, not a sniff at the Northern Swap Meet, then two strangers wander in out of the dark and buy them for full asking price!
I took this as a clear sign from Fate. I had a card from the local Machine Mart offering a 20-percent discount on all Clarke products the following day, and clearly Fate wanted me to have some money burning a hole in my pocket so I'd go and spend it on shiny things. Far be it from me to piss Fate off, so I did just that. I now have new shiny things in the workshop. Hurrah! And some shelves, so that I can reclaim some floor space from the ever-spreading sea of sodding tat that has flooded the gaff since I started breaking a Fox Mustang for spares.
Clarke reckons this construction of 1.5mm steel and 9mm MDF can support 350kg per shelf. That's more than two of me, on each shelf. I think not... but I'm not going to put it to the test.
Eugene
It's clear that there are plenty of old rodders out there who remember the Gazette fondly. I can provide you with a HRG experience that'll take you right back to those glory days, if you'd like. Simply send me a stamped, self-addressed envelope. I'll cover the back of it with smudges of photocopier ink, bang some crooked thumb-stabbing staples through it and post it back to you. Ah, just like old times...
Had an interesting experience on Saturday. I was down at the workshop/storage unit - it should be a workshop, but it sees a lot more storage than work - late in the evening. It's on a farm, so it's pretty dark, and suddenly this young couple comes wandering in, saying, "Do you know anything about American cars?" Parked outside are three Mustangs and an El Camino, so I can't really deny all knowledge. Anyway, this young lass starts telling me about how she's just bought a third-gen Firebird and she's after some bits, can I recommend anywhere to try? I suggested www.rodsnsods.co.uk and a few other places, and I mentioned that I had a set of 17" wheels, brand-new, unused, with a Firebird/Camaro offset. The eyebrows went up like chapel hat-pegs - "Ooh, can we see?" I showed them one - they're a cross-spoke design that would really have only suited an Eighties or early Nineties F-body - and they asked if they were for sale. Sure, £200 the set. "We're going to the cashpoint, we'll be back in 5 minutes."
Sure enough, five minutes later, they're back with £200 in twenties. They had the wheels and off they went. What, no haggling, no sucking air through the teeth, no crap offers of payments in instalments?
It turns out that they were here to see one of the guys in the other little workshops around the corner. I'd seen their Subaru parked outside and thought nothing of it ... because it's a Subaru. He'd sent them round to me because I like American cars. And that's how we get a bit of new blood into the scene.
It's also odd that I'd been trying to sell these wheels for ages, had no luck at £150, not a sniff at the Northern Swap Meet, then two strangers wander in out of the dark and buy them for full asking price!
I took this as a clear sign from Fate. I had a card from the local Machine Mart offering a 20-percent discount on all Clarke products the following day, and clearly Fate wanted me to have some money burning a hole in my pocket so I'd go and spend it on shiny things. Far be it from me to piss Fate off, so I did just that. I now have new shiny things in the workshop. Hurrah! And some shelves, so that I can reclaim some floor space from the ever-spreading sea of sodding tat that has flooded the gaff since I started breaking a Fox Mustang for spares.
Clarke reckons this construction of 1.5mm steel and 9mm MDF can support 350kg per shelf. That's more than two of me, on each shelf. I think not... but I'm not going to put it to the test.
Eugene
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