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
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