NSCC Round 8... not 9

It's been almost two months since the last load of bumnuts on here. It's also been almost two months since the last round of NSCC. Coincidence?
It had certainly been a long, long wait since the last round of racing, but that only made the anticipation all the sweeter, and unless you arrived at York early on the Saturday evening prior to Sunday and bank holiday Monday's double header, you had to pit in Barnsley. Clearly everyone was taking the Sunday's racing very seriously, as they were all in bed by midnight ... or maybe they were just a great bunch of mincing fairies.
There were a couple of new faces among the usual suspects - Vix and Pete Smith turned up with their blown '07 Shelby Mustang and a small stately home on wheels, while Dave Mears appeared with his 403-powered red Trans Am and a shonky little tent like the rest of us. Some familiar faces brought new cars out for late-season debuts - Biff had a rather shiny (but not black) Trans Am powered by a 455 Olds, his old (black) SN95 Mustang now in the hands of ex-Viva pilot Rick Swaine, while the Hughes clan shared driving duties of the new 1600cc MR2-based Imp, Dec running in NSCC while Paul drove it in JDM brackets.

Sunday was a lovely day, warm but slightly overcast, but with the pits full of all classes, track time was in high demand. After two rounds of qualifying, Russ's Dutton dominated with a 9.75. Ian Walley, back with a new Dart block after the old one was found to have a nastier gash than Katie Price, was running it in gently with an 11.0, Doug "Uncle Ben" Hague third with 11.8, then James Murray with a 12.4. John Peace was the only one in the 13s with a 13.4, while Biff opened his account with a 14.0. Vix was just behind on 14.1, still using the traction control and no burnout to save the expensive Pirellis, with Sandra Lee in the Land Rover on 14.4. The diesel Landy now features a 4L80E transmission, but in true Land Rover tradition, Jamie has eschewed complex computer controls in favour of a series of rocker switches. Yes, a diesel Land Rover with push-button auto! That's brilliant. The lesser-spotted Lee Openshaw, not seen since May, was back, and feared no ridicule by bolting on a pair of pink front wheels. Why is uncertain, but the ones on the back weren't brown, sadly. He managed a 14.56, a whisker ahead of Steve Gilmour's 14.58, then Andy Errington, on the bottle and rounding out the top half of the ladder with a 14.6.

Shaun Cockroft was along with his handsome little Escort Harrier on 15.0, then Phil Winstanley's Moggy on 15.1, Andy Frear's mighty zombie apocalypse Bronco on 15.2 and Dave Mears with a 15.3, not a bad start for the car's first trip to the strip. Rick was getting the hang of his new steed with a 15.7, then Terry Morgan in the SBF Morris rat-rod on 16.2, and Dave Smith in the big barge Lexus at 16.33. The Hughes' little Imp was getting the hang of the job with a 16.34, Scott in the handsomely-facelifted Pop on 16.4, Nigel's Anglia on 16.9, then Mark Presland rounding out an impressive 22-car ladder with an 18.7. Twenty-two cars... the NSCC was the biggest non-RWYB class of the day!

Round one opened with John Peace taking it easy with a 14.1 against Dave's Lexus on 16.0, while the mid-table match-up of Andy Errington and Shaun Cockroft was decided on the line with a red light from the Escort. Russ ran a stout 10.9 against Mark's 18.9, while Mark's identical twin, Scott, was on the receiving end of a 12.0 from Uncle Ben. Ian Walley had turned up the wick a little, his 10.6 easily covering Nigel's 16.0, then a battle of the British Tin saw Phil's Moggy come unstuck at the hands of Gilly's giant-slayer Cortina, 13.8 to 14.2.

Biff had suffered overheating, puking and an embarrassing leakage in the pit lane during qualifying... Sorry, I should have said Biff's CAR suffered overheating, puking and an embarrassing leakage in the pit lane during qualifying, but was back to cover Terry's 15.6 with his 14.1, while James's almost shiny Cortina ran 13.7 to Dec's 15.9. Lee's pink bits clearly gave him an advantage, shutting Andy's Bronco down 14.5 to 15.6, then Vix rattled off a 14.2 to Rick's 15.7. The first round of eliminations was concluded with Sandra Lee blasting out a 14.1 - I believe a NPB for the diesel Landy - to Dave Mears' 15.3.

Round two followed ... eventually ... and opened with Biff stealing the win from Vix by less than two tenths of a second. Russ was up next on a bye, and usually a bye is an excuse to take it easy and not risk damaging the motor. Russ clearly couldn't give a bucket of steaming monkey dumps for that school of thought, using the solo run to bash out a 9.48 at 138mph.

Doug wasn't dithering, either, his 11.86 polishing off Gilly's 13.7, before John Peace ran 13.1 to Sandra-Lee's 14.4, a NPB for John and the blown Fox notch, though the euphoria would be short-lived.

The Angel of Death made a reappearance in this round. Andrew Errington's calm, sanguine, gentlemanly persona is merely a thin veneer hiding a sadistic scythe-waving maniac from a circle of hell that even Dante never got to find out about. Having caused his opponent to red-light in the first round, he again pushed the hidden button in the Mustang that causes the shit to hit someone ELSE's fan in his pairing against Ian Walley. While Ian was spooling up on the line, taching over 5000rpm on the transbrake, ready for one of his "Houston, we have lift-off" launches, Andrew was cruising off up the track on the way to a 14.99. At some point, he looked in his mirror and uttered the dread incantation, and as Ian released the transbrake button, his tyres gripped, he popped the welds holding his axle tubes into the diff carrier, the pinion went skywards, turned the propshaft into a question mark and bust the tail housing from the gearbox. The Dark Lord was satisfied, and the win light came on in Andrew's lane.

Yet another bitter disappointment for Ian, and another early bath for the Mad Professor and crew.

As you can see, the evil hadn't quite worn off and the car appears to have claimed another victim in the shape of Al Perkins, another soul for the Lord of Darkness.

The quarter finals began with James Murray getting fried by the rice, Doug's stunning 0.51 reaction and 11.9 covering James' 13.2. He claimed a nitrous solenoid failure and returned to the pits, opened the bonnet and pulled out a loose length of broken wire saying "I've found the problem!"

Russ was, prudently, taking it a little easier, his 11.0 still being enough for Biff's 14.5. Rounding out the quarters was another battle of the Mustangs, Andy's SN95 versus John's blown Fox. This time, John won fair and square, 13.4 to 14.9, but the dark prince of the underworld would have his revenge... upon returning to the pits, John's engine was rattling in a rather potentially-terminal fashion. This was a double blow for John as his quarter-final win would have given him a semi-final bye into the final, but rather than risk any part of his rotating assembly getting scared of the dark and doing a runner, he prudently hung up his keys.

The semi finals were a brief affair, with only Doug and Russ showing. Doug again left with a 0.51 reaction, and seemed to have the race in the bag right up until the last few hundred feet when it seemed Russ just nudged the nitrous switch and took the win 11.0 to 11.75. And so, after a big field and a tremendous day's racing, the final would be something of an anti-climax. However, Russ wouldn't let the day end with a whimper, and finished the day with a solo run of 9.45 at 138mph.

Some early-exits from the eliminations elected to make an equally early exit for the evening cruise in order to be back in time for the on-track Cackle for KC, while the rest of us went for a damn fine nosebag at the Barnes Wallis. Upon our return, beers were opened, the bar was opened and the Dixon-Granger family barbecue was in full swing for everyone except James, who had borrowed Gary Leece's van and Derek Beck's trailer off Biff (eh?) to take John and his Mustang home.
It was a real blow to poor John but, as it happened, he missed absolutely sweet FA. Late Sunday night, a few raindrops began falling. By 3am it was raining good and proper, and barely let up for most of Monday. The weather forecast predicted that the rain would be coming down all damn day until teatime, so for the sake of safety, Mr Murty called the day off, refunded everyone their money and let them make a nice early start to dry off at home.
I'm joking, of course. Almost everyone - including everyone on slicks - had packed up and gone way before noon, but there was no official rain-off call. In fact, at 1pm, said Murt got on the Tannoy announcing that "In case you haven't noticed, it's stopped raining and timed runs will begin at 2pm." This was news to all the remaining people, who were left wondering just what this wet stuff still falling out of the sky was if it wasn't rain. But, true to his word, he found half a dozen RWYBers daft enough to run in the pissing rain and sent them off up the track with sidelights and wipers on. It's amazing that the previous evening, dozens of racers had gathered on the track under a glorious sunset to remember one of their own who had died in a tragic racing accident, and here, the following day under leaden skies with a constant rain falling, the track owner was sending cars out to race. It was an insult.
Still, after the half-dozen dimwits (who were doing burnouts before running on a track with standing water on it - what's that all about?) had got tired of running laps, the day was finally called at around 3pm and the remaining hangers-on hit the road homeward.
It seems Uncle Ben has got the 2015 championship all sorted, but there's still a chance Nigel could steal it in the last furlong. With only a couple of cruises and the Hot Rod Drags left for last minute qualifying and points-grabbing before the finals, it's still all to play for in the National Street Car Challenge!

Tour De Farce & NSCC Round 7

Last weekend marked the V8 UK Power Tour. This is the second year for the Power Tour, but for one reason and another, this year's was a two-day, two-venue event – Saturday at Santa Pod; Sunday at York, which also happened to coincide with Round 7 of the NSCC.

I told James that plan A was to arrive in daylight on Friday evening; plan B was to arrive before the rain that was forecast to show up around midnight. It started well when I arrived at James's around 7.30pm to find him spray painting his car. At 10.30 we'd just finished refitting the windscreen, so that was plan A well and truly buggered. We set off for Santa Pod, driving along the A45 watching the lightning in the distance, and arriving shortly after midnight to find the gates locked. A security chap walked over, and we told him we were with the Power Tour. He asked a trick question, “OK, where are you going tomorrow?” This completely fooled me, as all I could think was that I was hoping to be at Santa Pod tomorrow but fortunately James was much quicker on the uptake than me, and gave the code that unlocked the gate - “York”. We headed down to the far end of the pits where the Power Tour crew were camped, opened a beer, and literally the second I'd hammered my last tent peg in, the heavens opened. We'd accomplished plan B with less than a minute to spare.

Jesus Christ almighty, the storm that followed was biblical. Howling winds, thunder, lightning flashing every four or five seconds, and torrential rain. I grabbed my beer and ran for the V8UK guys' gazebo which, given the weather, they had sensibly shut up fairly tight. It was about three metres by two metres, and I walked around it twice looking for the door before knocking (on canvas, yes, really) and pleading with them to let me in. In those 20-30 seconds, I was drenched from head to foot. It was at this point that everyone else thought “Bugger this, I'm going to bed” so I then had to run back again. The storm, which had then been joined by a plague of frogs and four blokes on horses, continued for another two hours before finally heading north.

This meant that it was fairly late when we got to sleep, and when I finally got up in the morning, not only was the track dry and open for business, but about four Power Tour cars had already broken! John Sleath and Moose had arrived, and John had already broken too. Steve Neimantas had brought the Charger out on the Power Tour, done his runs and headed off already, but it turned out he'd broken down on the way back.

There was some interesting stuff about, like this Escort picking its wheels up.

The Taz Racing 126s are always good value for money, too.

Deb Laugher was out testing her Super Pro ET Corvette, which looked gorgeous, but was showing an alarming tendency to turn right at about 60ft

This thing puzzled me no end - a wheelie bar on a French FWD Civic? Then I realised it's tied into the roll cage, and is set very low to prevent the front end getting light and unloading when the power comes in.

I queued up to get a run in, and the queues were already Mopar Euronats long. First run into a fair headwind with a very gluey track was a 16.6, with the transmission in D. There's a switch next to the shifter that alters the shift points and such, so I switched it from Normal to Power, queued up for another hour or so, and ran a 16.8. Hmm. One look at the queue told me I wasn't going to bother waiting for another run, and, try as I might, I can't get a feel for Hondas and such, so I began decamping. James had made a balls-up of his first two runs, so queued up for a third, ran a 12, decided that was as good as it was going to get and packed up himself. Most of the other Power Tourers had already buggered off, apart from a few other stragglers, so I flung everything in the boot, poured the rainwater out of my tent and threw that in on top, and we set off.

We had to stop at Tesco on the way, but as our combined shopping list was sticking plasters, milk, a bag of ice and some clean pants, we decided we'd each get our own to prevent Wellingborough thinking we were a couple with some 50 Shades thing going on. The cruise up the M1 was uneventful, though as about half of it is limited to 50mph we were more in danger of nodding off than anything else. The only highlight came on the slip road onto the M18 where the driver of a white van on the hard shoulder was frantically flagging down passing traffic. We stopped to help, but it turned out that he was Hungarian, spoke no English, and thought he was lost although (using my “speaking English slowly and loudly to foreigners” technique) it turned out he actually wasn't and was on the right road. Tit.

We stopped at the Chinese takeaway in Howden on the way, and my accomplishment of the weekend was being able to eat a whole Yung Chow Fried Rice, with a fork, whilst keeping up with James on the 12 miles of B-road from Howden to York Raceway. I didn't even spill any! Tent up, beer out, job's good. That's when we found out that York had decided to run a round of NSCC that day, so we had to go round telling all those who'd taken part that they hadn't earned any points from it.

The evening passed rather rapidly. It was one of those cases where you're standing around talking and suddenly realise that almost everyone else has gone to bed, so I did likewise. Sunday was a rather cool, overcast and breezy day, but it did make for some good racing. After two qualifying sessions, Ian Walley was out on top with a 10.28 at 129mph after some stellar tyre-changing services from Jamie Hughes the previous evening. Russ was next on 10.93, follower by Power Tourer Doug Hague in the Skyline on 11.71. He was followed by James murray getting back towards form with a 12.5, and John Peace not even close to the potential of that Mustang on 14.0. Both of those guys were also Power Tourers. Sandra-Lee Hughes was next with 14.3 from the diesel Land Rover, then Steve Gilmour on 14.55 and a NPB from Andy Errington, 14.83 from the Mustang. Andy Frear with another diesel topped the lower half of the ladder with 15.2, then Terry Morgan's Morris on 15.9, then me on 16.0, having suddenly lost 0.6 of a second from the previous day. Nigel Henderson's Anglia was next on 16.1, then Scott Presland in the fresh-back-out Pop on 16.9. Final Power-Tourer Ryan Chatburn was on 17.2, slightly ahead of Mark Butterworth in the Porsche 944 on 17.5, with Rick Swaine at the wheel of Mark's 100E on 19.4 at the bottom of the ladder.

Round one began with the top and tailers, Ian and Rick, Ian taking the win by a handy nine seconds. The two Andys were next, Andy E's Mustang getting a mighty drop on Andy F's Bronco at the lights and taking the win 14.8 to 15.3, then James ran a no-gas 13.6 to finish Scott's day. John pulled a 13.8 at 106mph out of the hat against Nigel, before Russ showed the Dunkirk spirit, his home-brewed British kit car defeating Mark's mighty German meister-machine 10.9 to 17.9. Steve's 14.4 was enough to head off Terry's rod, and Doug's Jap machine Pearl Harboured Ryan's pseudo-Yank Probe. After the aforementioned stellar tyre changing technique the previous evening, it was slightly ironic that the Hughes dynasty's Land Rover was a no-show with a puncture, leaving me to solo through to the quarter finals.

Round two began with Ian Walley ripping off another 10.5 like it ain't no thang against Andy's 15.1, then James turned the wick back up with a 12.5 against John's NPB 13.6. Russ hammered home his advantage with an 11.0 against Steve's 14.5, then my brief good fortune wilted embarrassingly in the face of Doug's 11.9 to set up the semis.

In the semis, James turned the wick up again to record a sharp light and a 12.4 at 111mph, but Ian was conserving gas with a gentle 11.2 to take the win. Then, once again, the Allied forces of British kit car and American engine conquered the inscrutable cunning of the far East, Russ's 11.1 seeing off Doug's 12.4. This should have been Victory for Dutton Day, but who wants to see a flag saying “Happy VD Day!”?

Talking of victory for Dutton, there was a real upset about to happen in the final. Russ had already been told that he couldn't take part in the annual Street Racer Championship because his car couldn't be street legal, on account of the rear tyres sticking an inch or two out of the arches. Hmmm. This is in spite of the fact that the car used on the flyers and adverts for the Street Racer Championship was... Russ's Dutton, complete with sticky-out tyres.When we were told this, we all wrinkled out noses at the sudden stench of bullshit, but it wasn't over for Russ. He and Ian staged for the final and Russ got a blinding launch, charging up the track to a 9.972 at 137mph against Ian's slowing 10.7 to take the win. However, the second the scores flashed up on the scoreboard, the voice of the Metatron* came over the radios saying that this run doesn't count, and Russ is hereby disqualified from this round of racing. Ooo-er. Apparently, Russ had already been told that his car doesn't have enough cage to run under 9.99, but he's been careful enough to sandbag it for the past year or so. Today, he slipped up, and The Metatron was waiting to spring the trap. This added something of an EastEnders-style drama-laden cliffhanger ending to the NSCC, but the drama was far from over.

Ian Walley had also been contesting the Street Racer championship, and made it to the final alongside Power Tourer Owen Forrest, all the way up from Kent in a big-block Ford-powered Fox Mustang notch (ex-Nick Gunby). The last race of the day, they lined up, blasted off and ran side-by-side tens, with Ian's turbo power just managing to overcome the massive cubes of Owen's Mustang. As they returned down the track to claim their prizes, the fact that two Fords, each also powered by Ford engines, had made it to the final of Street Racer had caused a massive rip in the fabric of space/time. The Metatron was standing atop the shithouse portacabin, brandishing his mop like Gandalf's staff in an attempt to keep the beasts of the netherworld in their own dimension, while, with lightning flashing to the south, the prizegiving was a somewhat hurried affair. “Here's your trophy, here's your money, now smile at the camera, good, now RUN!” I just about made it to my tent before the rain hit, with hail, gales, cosmic anomalies in the nature of reality and all-sorts hit. Once again, the tent was thrown into the boot but, within 20 seconds, I was piss-wet-through. Again.

Hey-ho, it was a fitting ending to a really good weekend. Some excellent racing, a lot of fun, and Owen picked up the All-Motor trophy for the Power Tour so it was far from a wasted journey. A chap called Martyn with a high-tech Nissan GTR picked up the Power-Adder trophy with a combined average of 9.96... bloody hell, that Yellow Peril is never far away. A top weekend.

Eugene

* - The highest of the angels, the celestial scribe and chancellor of heaven. Or Steve Murty, as we know him.

Flaming June

June's been a busy month for most of us, it seems. It started badly for me when, right at the beginning, James and I made a trip down to the Smoke, gaw blimey, apples, pears etc. It lived up to expectations, in as much as James and I felt like foreigners and a pint cost in excess of £4 though, to be fair, it wasn't a bad pint. We'd gone to be in the studio audience for QI, but despite being early (I know! Me! James! Early!) we failed to make the cut along with 100 or so other people in the queue behind us. Still, it wasn't a wasted train trip. I'd been looking out for an old Lexus with the 4.0 1-UZ V8 to use as a donor car, and I'd found one out near Harrow. It was cheap, and I wasn't expecting much, but we went to take a look.

Long story short, I bought it for a song and drove it home. I told the missus on the way back that I'd bought the Lexus I mentioned, and she replied "There was never any doubt in my mind that you would." Bah, she's rumbled me.
The subsequent Saturday, I gave it a wash and brush up, and it came up pretty nice.

I drove it down to Brands Hatch on the Sunday, and it proved to be a silent, comfortable and capable car that averaged 28mpg. Bugger breaking it for its engine; it's the new daily driver.
The following weekend, everyone else was at Hot Rods & Hills but I'd jizzed all my money on a shonky Lexus so I wasn't going. The following Thursday, though, I'd managed to blag a ride for a few days. I drove down to Luton, parked the Lexus up, and drove out in this...

It's a Vauxhall VXR8, basically a Holden Commodore HSV with the supercharged LSA motor and six-speed manual. You know it's going to be good when the massive tank is brimmed full and the computer reckons you can expect 200 miles from it. I'm guessing that everyone who has taken it out before me has ragged it like a cheap whore when the fleet's in, leading to low expectations of fuel economy from the on-board computer.

While I was there I did get to have a quick gander around Vauxhall's Heritage Centre, and boy do they have some cool stuff in there. All nicely restored, from pre-war stuff to the last Monaro, a Lotus Carlton, a Bedford CA and CF, and something I could really go for, a droop-snoot Firenza. Yum.

Still, the road was calling, and I took the 570-odd bhp VXR8 out of the gates, onto the M1... and straight into rush-hour traffic. For two hours. And that clutch is heavy. As soon as I came off the motorway, I had a BMW pull up next to me at the lights giving it big licks. Right, I thought, I'll show him. Green went the lights, down went the boot, and paaaaarp went my arse. The thing took off so hard it snapped my neck back, then forwards again when it hit the rev limiter. I grabbed second and repeated the process, all the while shrieking like the prettiest boy in the cell block. I'd covered half a mile, using both lanes of the carriageway, ruined a perfectly good pair of trousers and left the BMW sitting there as if someone had stolen his throttle pedal. Which is just as well, otherwise he'd have seen me being thrown around inside the car like a big lass's tit on a bouncy castle and laughed himself into a lamppost.
That weekend saw us all at Shakey County for the Nostalgia Nats. What a terrific weekend. There was a real buzz about the place, some real enthusiasm floating around. And talking of floating around, here's a picture of two reprobates mugging a child for his bicycle.

And here's one of them riding it around the pits and trying to pull wheelies before falling flat on his mudflaps.

Honestly, you'd think driving a seven-second street car would be enough of a thrill, but no, riding a bicycle designed for someone roughly the size and weight of one of his morning bowel movements was more exciting. The Saturday was a bit of a dead loss due to rain showers, but Sunday was a great day with plenty of NPBs for NSCCers including Andy's 7.77 at 178mph, Keith Freeman well inside the 10s, and Sandra Lee taking the coal-chucking Land Rover down to a 14.4. Good fun all round.
Andy even managed to continue his efforts at infanticide by proxy. Not content with setting fire to the poor little bugger at York, this time, when the nitrous bottle he was heating up in a bucket of boiling water blew its burst disc, the same child was standing next to it. He laughed about it. Well, we all did - we'd just inhaled 10lbs of nitrous oxide. So either Andy's a psychopath or the kid's a jinx. And that's another perfectly good pair of my trousers ruined. I'd only just chipped the solids off them after the VXR8 incident. Mind you, if a 1200psi blast of nitrous and boiling water didn't shift the stains, nothing would.
And I even got a chocolate race car for father's day!

Yes, it's likely to be more structurally sound than most of my race cars, though it won't pass scrutineering now as ... well, I've eaten it. So, by tomorrow, it'll be an EXACT replica of most of my race cars...

Eugene

Sunny For Sale!

For Sale: 1987 Nissan Sunny 1.3LX. MoT until end of September, < 66k miles. Body & interior in really good shape, polishes up beautifully (yes, I've actually polished it!). Everything seems to work, and I'm averaging 43-46mpg. Problems: sills will need doing for MoT, and there's a rust hole about 1" across in boot floor. Radio wiring and dash around it has been butchered. And on a long journey, it can overheat after 50 miles or so. I drove down to London last week, 300+ miles round trip, overheated twice on the way there, not at all on the way back. It'd make a nice little retro for someone, cheap to insure for younger driver. Let's start at £325... you know how to get hold of me.

A Nice Drive and a Weekend Picnic

Last weekend, we flipped a coin and decided to skip NSCC rounds five and six at York, and instead take in Yanks Weekend and the NASC Gary's Picnic at Shakey. There were a good handful of NSCCers doing likewise, including Andy Faster and the Twister team going great guns in Supercharged Outlaw and rattling off several 8.0 and 8.1 times. He even put his name in the hat for the Gary's Street Shootout and won a trophy and a wad of cash from Gary Healey, which will go towards yet another gearbox rebuild... Still, maybe that was payback for donning a policeman's helmet and setting up a speed trap in the pits using a timing strobe, or aiding flaming burnouts on a Fifties moped that had 'CHiPs' written down one side... and 'Egg' down the other.
Another merry band that were along was the Hughes clan with the newly en-dieseled Land Rover. All was going great, with Sandra Lee hammering it down into the 14s, until it blew a load of oil out of the breather and the marshalls got the hump. Full marks to Sandra Lee for operating that big diesel clutch despite having a dozen stitches in her thigh a day or two previously...

Vicky and Pete Smith were also along in their new toy, a 2007 Shelby Mustang GT500, but they weren't out on track, preferring to wait for a set of drag radials rather than scrub the frighteningly expensive Pirelli PZero road tyres that are on it...
Meanwhile, in another Mustang, Andrew Errington was out trying to get his 5.0 SN95 down into the 14s. After a whole load of bolt-on mods, this car has steadfastly refused to budge from the mid-15s. Fortunately, he'd brought the Bootlegger team for moral support. For instance, they told me that they'd taken the belt off to fit a smog-pump bypass, and when they came to refit it, nobody could work out which way around the pulleys it was supposed to go. There were four of them leaning into the engine bay for over half an hour, and nobody could figure it out. Eventually, they said, "Sod it, let's have a beer," stood up and realised that they'd been leaning on the diagram on the fan shroud that tells you which way around it goes.

This is the same brain trust that spent ages helping Andrew find his flip-flop. One evening, he found he only had one half of his pair of flip-flops: a flip, if you will, or possibly just a flop. After having spent ages turning the car and truck upside-down looking for the damn flop, they said, "Sod it, let's have a beer," opened the cool box and there, in the cooler with the beer, was the missing flop. I think we can all learn something from this, not least of which is that the goddess of beer will always provide the answer if you make an offering in her honour. And Andy did finally crack the 14s, and even got to the semis of the Bracket Gamblers.

The previous Thursday, I went to the SMMT Press Day at Millbrook Proving Grounds. This is where a bunch of manufacturers bring along their latest models and a load of journos turn up, pick some, take them out for 20 minutes or so then run off to the buffet. I'd been to test all the American cars that were there, so after a quick off-road trundle in a Jeep Cherokee I tried the new all-electric dual-motor Tesla. Man, I want to take that up the strip. The acceleration is truly frightening - 0-60 is something like 3.1 seconds - and because the torque curve isn't a curve (it's as flat as a fart from beginning to end) and all the torque is available from 1rpm, it's just relentless.

I also drove a Caterham. I tried one, but fell at the first hurdle when I couldn't slide my lardy arse into the wrap-around Kevlar bucket and I could press all three pedals at once with one steel-toed boot. After someone found some WD40 to help me out again, they showed me the wide-body model (not too sure what to make of that) which was great fun. It's just a motorbike that you can't fall off, but even for 15 minutes I found the gearing tiring. As you can see, 100mph was a screaming 6,000rpm.

I then drove a Maserati Quattroporte diesel - a 2.8 V6 unit made by VM, which is owned by Fiat ... as is Maserati. It was a very pleasant sports saloon, but I don't know why you'd cough up Maserati prices when Jaguar, Audi or BMW can do it just as well. Then I tried the Bentley Continental GT V8 S convertible, as it was such a sunny day. Now this, I could get used to. The first thing I did was set the driver's seat to 'massage' setting, then found Planet Rock on the monster DAB stereo set-up, then planted my boot into the shag pile and nearly befouled the beautiful leather. It rumbles around in silence, but when you hoof it it has exhaust cut-outs and bawls like a muscle car! I took it on the hill/handling course and chucked it around like a right featherweight. It was amazing, and when my six numbers come up this will definitely be in the top five.

Next was a Lexus RCF, a very Skyline-like two-door coupe with 475bhp and all the toys. This was also frighteningly fast, but with all the computer-aided crap on it I never really felt like I was driving it - it always felt like it was taking over. And I couldn't get Planet Rock on the DAB. Yes, an amazingly capable ultra-modern GT, but not for me.

I did, however, use the Lexus to put something to the test. Millbrook has a two-mile, four-lane bowl, progressively banked. Apparently, in lane four, the most banked part of the track, you can let go of the wheel at 100mph and the car will just follow the course. So I did. And it did! There are stories of a couple of journos with a new 5-series Beemer who got in lane four, set the cruise control, reclined the seats, got in the back and videoed the journey...

A few other manufacturers had brought along classics from their heritage collections. Vauxhall brought the very first Viva, looking a lot less anonymous than the new one, certainly.

Suzuki brought a restored Whizz-kid, and I had a go in that. It was a tight squeeze, but it's like driving a shoe. I soon found that it had bugger-all in the way of brakes, with the pedal disappearing to the floor and then locking up.

Newspress, a trade PR outlet, had a theme of 'Your First Car', and had brought a Nova, a Micra, a MkII Fiesta and this, a rather scabby 1100cc Allegro. It was as-found, complete with wheelarch and sill rust, mis-matched touch-up paints, butchered wiring and saggy brown velour seats.

I desperately wanted to drive it and find it to be a cute and endearing drive, friendly, like an old Mini. Sadly, it lived up to its reputation, was uncomfortable and noisy with a whining sump-ful of gears and heavy steering.

It was also rather unreliable, requiring many rescues and repairs through the day.

Jaguar had brought the last XJ12C coupe off the production line, and I managed to have a drive in that. Dave, a gent from Jaguar Heritage, had to accompany me to make sure I wasn't drifting it or doing rolling burnouts or anything clever like that. This was mitigated considerably by Dave telling me about the '70 Chevelle he'd just bought... and subsequently brought along to Gary's Picnic!

Favourite car of the day? This 1972 Toyota Crown coupe... a very American-styled pillarless coupe with a big, lazy 2.6-litre straight six and soft, boulevard handling. It was owned by a member of the owner's club, and he was a top bloke - he also owned an early Celica and a couple of other models - and the car was perfect. Pneumatic central locking, loads of switches, manual front windows but electric rear windows, even a period in-car phone. I loved it just as it was, but I can think of no better home for a nice LS6...

Eugene

NSCC Rounds 3 & 4

NSCC Rounds 3 & 4, May 3^rd-4^th, 2015

Mayday! Mayday! Anybody arriving at York on the Saturday evening for the rounds three and four double-header probably got a valuable insight into why people shout that in times of dire distress. High winds and rain, plus the fact that the jolly farmer has ploughed the field on 'our' side of the pits meant that there was a definite 'back to nature' feel to the whole show. More Glastonbury than Bakersfield.

The weekend didn't begin well for a couple of competitors who got rogered before they even arrived. Russ Pursley had gone down to Santa Pod to get some practice runs in on the Dutton, and managed to bust his rear end. Rick Swaine, meanwhile, got his rear end bust for him by an inattentive BMW Mini driver, effectively writing off the lovely orange Viva. Fortunately, nobody was seriously hurt, but it would just be the beginning of another war of attrition that would leave many by the wayside.

Sunday morning dawned with rain, mud, gales, shattered tents and groaning wounded. The NSCC pits looked like the Somme, though the groaning wounded had less to do with violent conflict on a global scale and more to do with the bar now stocking bottled guest ales and Jack Daniels. Most of the morning was spent watching the rain coming down, but by lunchtime the 'invaders from the planet Cloud' had buggered off elsewhere and the track was slowly drying.

Eventually, finally, 16 competitors headed out for one-shot qualifying. The track was far from perfect, but that didn't stop Andy Fadster belting out a psychotic 9.3 at 147mph, Next up was Ian Walley, freshly repaired after the fire of four weeks previous, struggling for traction but managing a 12.0 at 123mph. Four tenths behind was another fresh rebuild, Derek Beck's TVR, and two hundredths behind him was Keith Freeman's blown '32. Sitting on a solid 13.3 was Doug Hague in the Tango orange Skyline, then Paul Hughes in the blown MR2 on 14.1, again just two hundredths ahead of James Murray in the now-all-green-again Cortina. Tom Barker's Astra cranked out a 14.8, while Phil Winstanley in the Moggy Minor was suffering electrical gremlins and managed an off-form 15.3. Andy Errington's Mustang gave 15.4, Lee Openshaw's huffed Punto a 15.5, and Shaun Wilson's A roadster a 15.6. Andy Frear's Mad Max-alike Bronco smoked to a 15.9, championship leader Nigel Henderson's Anglia ran 16.3, and Jamie Hughes had bust the blown big-block Ford after last meeting and replaced it with a six-pot Cummins turbo-diesel, running-in with a 19.8. Bum luck award and the first casualty was Paul Everitt, whose Rover-powered Pop was pushed back off the line for dripping water – it was only puddle water – and after drying it off, had clutch issues and stalled on the line. Although he completed the run, he was outside the 34-second cut-off so the timing computer put him down as an aborted run and left him off the ladder. D'oh!

With the minimum of dicking around (which was definitely a culture-shock for some), we headed into round one. Fadster set the bar high with a 9.1 at 151mph, just to show that the track was up to it. Tom profited from Phil's misfortune, the Moggy no-showing to allow the Astra an uncontested win, while Keith breezed to an 11.9 against Andy's 15.9. Doug showed Shaun the way, 13.2 to 15.6, before Ian, getting well into his wild launches, ran a 10.8 against Jamie's improving 17.9. James was lazy on the line but still managed to drive around Andy, 13.9 to 15.9, while Derek ran 11.7 to cover Nigel's 16.4. The first round was concluded by Lee Openshaw pulling a stellar 0.509 light and 15.8 run, but not enough to beat Paul's 13.6 in the opposing lane.

The biggest drama in the second round happened in the fire-up lane, when Derek's TVR suffered a stuck-open nitrous solenoid followed by a mighty bang that blew the intake pipe and plenum apart and caused rapid weight-loss in anyone standing nearby. The throttle butterfly was later found, bent into an ellipse, so Derek was out, allowing Paul to run an uncontested 13.7. In the battle of the MkII Cortinas, James cut a good light and upped his game to a 12.8, but was no contest for Ian's 10.9 at 129mph. Keith and Doug had a race that looked closer than it probably was, the win light coming on in Keith's lane, 11.8 to 12.3. Tom's luck was about to run out in spectacular style, his 1.49 being no contest for a breathtaking 8.26 at 175mph from the Twister, on a track that had puddles on it just a couple of hours previously. Wow.

With the evening wearing on and the welcome prospect of a big dinner hoving into sight over the horizon, the semi-finalists were chivvied into the pairing lanes. Proceedings began with Fadster's luck running out in style – a hard launch damaged the transmission input shaft, which then sheared on the gearshift. This meant he was coasting for at least half the track, but it was a close thing – Keith only just managed to catch him at the line, winning 11.7 at 117mph to 11.9 at 75mph. On the other side of the ladder, Ian ran another stout 10.9 to finish Paul's day and set himself up against Keith in the final.

It was 6.10pm by the time the final was actually run, and many of us could almost smell the carvery waiting for us 10 miles away. The two yellow perils headed for the line, both Fords, both Ford-powered, but otherwise very different. Their times weren't that different, though – Keith's '32 got a four-tenths holeshot off the line and went pounding off up the track, but the turbo 'Tina's mid-track boost let Ian catch up and juuust squeak past at the line, 10.9 to 11.4. A close and hard-fought race, but well-done to Ian.

Right, bugger all that racing lark, it's dinner time! In dribs and drabs, most folk headed off towards the Barnes Wallis after successfully navigating the lakes on the entrance road. The Voyager developed another of its mystery faults on the way, giving every indication of having run out of fuel despite the fact that there was at least a quarter of a tank left. Still, many thanks to Paul Everitt and family who were heading out in the towcar, and who ran down to Howden to pick up a can of diesel for us. Strangely, it did the trick.

After a damn fine nosebag, we headed back to the track where we found that Andy and Craig had shot off to John Sleath's Magical Emporium of the Arcane and Esoteric and returned with another input shaft. There then followed some real thrashing in the mud to get the gearbox refitted which, to the credit of all involved, was achieved before some well-earned drinking was taken care of. Top marks for effort.

Monday morning was a world away from the previous day (apparently – I missed most of it) and with all being dry and having a decent following breeze, it looked like a stupendous day for racing. In any decent narrative, the Twister crew should have been rewarded for their overnight work with a 7.9 straight out of the box before going on to win the meeting. Well, this isn't Disney and what actually happened was that the new input shaft snapped like a cheese-string in the burnout, leaving Andy plenty of time to pack up early.

This left the way clear for Ian Walley to snatch pole position in qualifying. With plenty of time to spool up on the line, there were some clues of what was to come with monster launches and a 10.2 at 131mph. Steve Neimantas had rolled up, minus the amazing Bentley but with a drop-dead gorgeous black '68 Charger. Gasket, having reminded Steve about the good old days in NSCC, sold him a race number and he caned the big-inch Mopar to an 11.0 to take second spot. Keith rattled off another 11.4 for third. Shaun Cockcroft was back with the smart little MkII Escort Harrier, a 15.2 putting him mid-table.

Round one opened with the closest race of the day, Lee's Punto and Tom's Astra. With reaction times less than one hundredth of a second apart, Lee managed a 14.97 to Tom's 15.03 to squeak the win. Keith was ever-improving, his 11.3 at 115mph being plenty against Nigel's 16.0, while Paul's little MR2 ended Andy Errington's day early 14.1 to 15.3. Andy then went on to try his hand at Sportsman ET – we may have a star bracket racer among us soon. James's fresh engine still wasn't delivering the promised goods, but a 13.8 was enough to beat Gasket's 15.7, then Ian went out and ran 11.2 on his bye, just for the hell of it. This was the first appearance of the mighty and widely-photographed launch technique that saw the Cortina lift its nearside front wheel three feet off the deck and twisting the shell so that the front bumper was 45 degrees clockwise to the back bumper. Andy's Bronco was not so much rollin' coal as bustin' blades, his Cummins having developed an appetite for bits of its own turbo, so he sat out leaving Doug to cruise to a 14.9 solo win. Phil's Moggy, now cured, curtailed Shaun's brief reappearance 14.0 to 15.2, before the beautiful Charger shut down the diesel Land Rover 11.0 to 16.3. It turns out that Jamie had only been using third and fifth gear on the strip thus far, so you can just bet there'll be more to come from this before the year's out.

With a full complement of RWYBers, the gaps between rounds was pretty lengthy, so it was a while before the second round (which was also the quarter-finals thanks to a 15-car ladder) kicked off. It started with an upset as Steve's Charger picked up a puncture while waiting in the fire-up lane that wasn't noticed until he reached the startline, so he backed up and let Phil's Moggy take the solo win. Paul's MR2 had it all to do against Keith's '32, but he blew it on the startline, red-lighting while Keith streaked away to another 11.3. Ian's Cortina had to be re-scrutineered after the wild round one launch, but he managed to almost repeat the trick as he ran 11.6 to Lee's 14.9, then Doug and James ran a close race, Doug getting to the line one tenth ahead on almost identical times to set up the semis.

The semis were a straightforward affair, which started with Ian and Doug. Ian was trying to tone down his wild launches, while Doug was trying to take it easy on the Skyline, but neither was giving an inch. It was Ian who came out on top, with a 12.3 against a slowing 13.5 from Doug. Keith wasn't taking it easy, however, his 11.4 being more than enough against Phil's Moggy which appeared to be playing host to the gremlins again at 16.1.

All this set up the finals and sod me bandy if it wasn't those two yellow Fords again. It was a good, clean race, Keith being slightly dozy on the line, and his 11.5 not being enough to catch and pass Ian's 11.3. It's also worth noting the turbo car's top-end charge – Keith crossed the line at 113mph, Ian at 129mph. So a full complement of points from the weekend for Ian, though he now has to go back to Darlington and address his rear suspension issues. Twice the bridesmaid for Keith, but still plenty more to come. A damn shame for the Twister team, that seven at York being so close and yet still so far. And well done to Doug, his lairy orange Skyline stretching out a hell of a lead at the top of the table even at this early stage. The perfect combination of muscle and streetability for NSCC … are we just going to let the Jap have it? Will Derek's luck ever improve or did he murder a Pope in a previous life? Is the Twister team sponsored by Jack Daniels, or is it actually the other way around? What's it all about? Is there any end in sight? All these questions and more answered at the next round of NSCC, Spring bank holiday weekend.  

Well, Goodness Gracious Me!

You know those times when you feel a fart brewing up, and you think it's going to be a real crowd-pleaser? So, you shout, “Shut up, everyone, I've got a real prizewinner bubbling under, here!” and everyone shuts up and looks on in anticipation while you, at the centre of everyone’s attention, adopt the Bruce Forsyth elbow-on-knee-and-knuckles-on-forehead stance, and wait, and wait, and you're starting to go a bit red because of the strain. Then, eventually, it arrives at the bomb-bay and goes “pp”. And you go absolutely crimson out of sheer shame, and the fact that there's a worrying, slightly damp sensation spreading down under?

Then you'll know the opposite. Those times when it's quiet and still – for instance, in a waiting room, or on an aeroplane, or in the dock just before the judge releases the jury to consider their verdict against you – and you think you have a tiny fart that you can safely get shut of in silence. So, you surreptitiously lift one cheek a millimetre and... and it sounds like a ten-second blast on a foghorn half-full of porridge, rips your jeans, leaves scorch marks on the upholstery, causes the linoleum to curl up at the corners and creates a cloud of stench so thick you could knock a nail into it. As the cloud drifts across the room/court/plane, causing people to run, gag, retch and generally wish they'd lived a better life, you try to adopt that disgusted, “Jesus, who did THAT?” face while looking at the people around you, despite the fact that your chair is smouldering and there's a skidmark laminated to the wall behind you to a height of five feet which, if you look at it the right way, could depict the face of Satan.

Where's all this going? Well, the orange four-pot Mustang has sold, and it's gone off to its new home down in Essex with a gent who knows a thing or two about Fox Mustangs. For me, that car definitely fell into the first category – it was a GT, painted metalflake orange, with GT wheels, GT suspension and brakes, the GT body kit and '5.0' badges on the wings, but with a really limp 2.3-litre four-pot. It promised much, but delivered very little indeed. It shouted bang, but delivered whimper. It was a sheep in wolf's clothing, which I wouldn't have minded so much if it had provided 'sheep-level' fuel economy; it was definitely a wolf when it came to unleaded.

So now I have this little Nissan. It's a really basic 1987 Sunny LX 1.3-litre four-door saloon. And it falls into the second camp. Why? Because I expected absolutely nothing from it, so everything it does is a delightful surprise. It starts on the first touch of the key, and though it's far from fast it feels quite nippy and, somehow, faster than the Mustang. Though that's not difficult.

The previous owner was an elderly gentleman from Buxton, recently deceased, and it definitely has an “old geezer's car” vibe about it. For a start, there's the tartan rug on the back seat. Then there's the charmingly politically-incorrect little caricature dolls on the parcel shelf of our colonial cousins. I've left them there for the time being.

Then there are the floor mats. What is it with old people and soft furnishings in their cars? There were no fewer than four bits of additional carpet in the passenger footwell, on top of the OE rubber floor mat, along with a tin of pound-shop “Back To Black” under the seat.

Emptying the glove box was a lesson in itself. If seems that the executor of the previous owner's estate couldn't be arsed to empty the car before punting it on, so the glove box contained everything you see on the seat in the photo. There were a dozen or so cassettes, mostly Elvis and Roy Orbison, though centre stage went to “Al Jolson's Greatest Hits”. There was a pair of sunglasses with one lens missing, a scalpel(?) and a load of boiled sweets that had melted and stuck everything together. No, they weren't Werther's Originals, but they were still the sort of sweets that seem to only be bought by pensioners.

Another lesson was the cassette player. Somebody had gently removed the original radio-cassette – possibly with a pick-axe, judging from the state of the dash – and replaced it with a really fancy Sony tape deck. That same person, presumably, wired it in with the same degree of panache – chocolate-block connectors everywhere, everything connected to a switched live, the bare constant-live wire was just floating about, there was no earth so it was presumably only earthed through the aerial, one of the speaker negative wires was connected to another switched live and only one of the two speakers worked. I stuck a CD player in, though the door speakers are beyond shite.

Of course, despite its 64,000 miles, it's far from perfect. There's a clunk coming from the driver's side front suspension which I couldn't trace but suspect a drop link, the driver's window doesn't wind up or down quite straight so it's a two-handed job, and the door locks are so worn you could open them with a teaspoon. But, overall, I'm delighted to say that my new old car is a massive, wet fart.

Eugene