Who here
does a steady 29mph (in a 30 zone) when they're being tailgated?
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 23:49, 16 replies)

I can never understand why people buy brand new cars
I suppose someone has to though. A guy I know, he's not skint but he's not rolling in cash either, gets a new car on that pcp scheme where you take out finance on the depreciation of the car and then after 2 or 3 years you either pay off the remaining amount or hand the car back. A few years ago, he got a high spec Citroen C4 Picasso.

Now, I've had my Renault for 3 years and I paid £1300 for it. Add on repairs, parts, MOTs, road tax, my insurance and the total cost of all the petrol I've put in it (and I've put 32k miles on the clock) and it has still cost me less than he paid out in finance payments over 2 years.

He says it's the peace of mind and convenience if anything goes wrong. But is peace of mind that if there's a fault you can phone them up and they'll sort it really worth all that much?
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 23:42, 3 replies)

Pffft.
Some years ago at a friend's wedding I was asked to move his car between the church and the reception. Bit later in the evening the other ushers and the best man came outside to fill the vents with confetti etc. We discovered that at some point while the car had been entrusted to me I had picked up a puncture. We put the spacesaver spare on but bride and groom are fast drivers and going away in the morning. We are at the bottom end of Cornwall and it is a bank holiday weekend back when not much was open. Back into the reception to break the news to the groom. I offered to get it sorted in the morning but they decided one puncture was enough. I like to think that the couple of hours they spent in KwikFit at Truro was a memorable start to their honeymoon.
(jvz, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 23:20, Reply)

I once drove my car into the back of someone else's
Mine was a 10 year old Rover Metro. His was a 6 week old Mercedes.

:)
( Styxx hates when people talk in the third person, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 22:57, 4 replies)

Sister's Car
My sister lent me her Ford Escort car some years back, for a few days whilst she was away on holiday:

On Day One
It is freezing cold in the morning, and the car takes five minutes to start. Eventually, it ticks over and I kangaroo hop down the road until it warms up enough to stop stalling.

I go to college in the car, and have the same trouble starting it when giving friends a lift back to their house.

I leave their house at 1:00am. It's now very icy which means I can't get into the car, because the door locks have frozen. So, I go back to the house, get some boiling water and defrost the locks.

The car won't play at all. Worse still, the continuous attempts at starting the engine together with the use of hot water to clear the ice off the lights must have weakened the already dodgy welds holding the right hand side front body section. Because it falls off...

Somehow, after another five minutes of trying, the car does start - which is fortunate because the neighbours, who are glaring out their windows, look pretty angry about all the noise. So I put the bit that fell off in the trunk (the *boot*) and start kangaroo hopping home.

Unfortunately, I get stopped by the police on the way back, shortly after (stupidly) attempting to adjust the seat position whilst driving causing the car to move like a snake down the road:

"Is this your car, Sir?"
"No Officer, it's my sisters."
"Please breathe into this bag, Sir".

This is nice - it's probably the first time anyone ever called me Sir.

They go around the car, noticing that a large piece of bodywork is missing.

"Have you had an accident, Sir?"
"Erm, No, it fell off, Officer."
"Have you got an MOT for this car, Sir?"
"Errr, I believe so, Officer."

I get a telling off and have to bring the cars details to the police station sometime in the following week.

On Day Two
Next door neighbour has welding equipment, so Father and I spot weld the piece back on.

Have the same trouble starting the car, fortunately it is not so cold. Kangaroo hop down the road to college.

Sit in lectures all day (i.e. sleep all day).

Go to student bar on the evening, leave as sober as a judge at 11:00pm. Get to car park and look at the car. Horror! Someone has spiked all four wheels - all four tyres are flat!

Have to walk home.

On Day Three
Car is towed away to have the tyres replaced. I go to the garage to pick it up with Father (who has to pay because I have no money...) and drive it back home.

Half way back, I notice the car is shaking like mad when it gets above forty miles per hour.

We get back home and find that several of the nuts holding the wheels onto the car have fallen off...

On Day Four
I've given up driving.


Many apologies for length, style, use of punctuation
(Mucky has squinted at the screen with one eye shut since, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 22:57, Reply)

The pink Beetle
My mate, Keith we shall call him, for that was his name, had a metallic pink Beetle. A proper Beetle, none of this tarted-up Golf nonsense. We went out in the Beetle to pick up his mate Neil. Neil got in the back, and sat down, and off we went for a drive.

"Guys, there's a hot smell" says Neil. "Yeah, it's an aircooled engine, it does smell a bit hot, it's okay" replied Keith.

"No, really guys, it's quite hot-smelling back here" and indeed I could smell it too in the front.

"Guys, uh, the back seat's on fire..."

Turns out that the battery is under the back seat, and is supposed to have a bit of cardboard over it. Guess who left the cardboard off "because it got in the way", allowing the metal seat springs to short across the battery terminals?
(gordonjcp, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 22:41, Reply)

My driving examiner
was called John Wayne. True story.
(Freakmandu, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 22:37, 2 replies)

on my test
the examiner was rather a large bloke and sat in the passenger seat with his legs quite fat apart in order for his gut to fit comfortably into my instructors corsa (shite car but i can see why driving instructors use them, go over 50mph and it will start to shake and you feel absolutely every small bump which causes the learner to crap them selves and slow down causing the instuctor not to fear dying in a huge fire ball im sure)

anyway the knock on effect of this was that every time i changed gear my hand brushed up against his leg, my instuctor couldnt figure out why he kept looking at me all the time. must have thought i was coming onto him

still he gave me a pass and thankfully didnt try and slip me his phone number or anything else
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 22:33, Reply)

If you want to be an arse, be careful..
A long time ago, I lived in a small cul-de-sac and would often park my little white fiesta ‘Spitfire Lily’ at the very end of the street. It was a sunny friendly kind of place, and any parking issues were always resolved with kind words and understanding, most of the time.
One fine day I left the house to pick up my little boy from school. I came out of the house and I saw that a bin lorry was parked behind me. I walked towards the car, looking at him, smiling all friendly like, and gestured that I was getting in and needed to leave.

Bin man lorry driver shrugged his shoulders at me and looked away.

I then shouted cheerfully ‘I need to get out if that’s ok?’
He then raised half naked farmers tan arm, and in his grasp was a packet of mostly eaten sandwiches.
Being the nice girl that I used to be, I waved cheerily and popped back inside the house, I had five minutes and who was I to hurry a working man on his late lunch break?

I came back out and waved and pointed to the car again.

He leaned out of his window and like a friendly working class chappie shouted ‘I’m eating my fucking lunch, can’t you fucking hang on like 5 fucking minutes?’
Well, I thought. That’s a bit rude.
I approached the van and said ‘No I can’t actually I have to pick my son up from school so can you move?’
‘For fucks sake, what a bitch’ he uttered under his breath as he threw what was left of his spam sandwich on the floor, started the engine, throwing me the finger as he started to reverse.

Later that evening I called the dear old mother, who then relayed the message to my dad.
Who at the time was a local councillor. Yes, in my area.

To cut a long story short, a few days later the poor bastard was forced to come round to my house and apologise.
Not only that, I got his life story, tragic childhood, wife, kids the lot, and he ended up on his knees in front of me, crying like a hurt monkey, asking me not to get him fired.

I have never been so embarrassed.
And yes. He kept his job.
( Herb Alpert's Taxi Driver I have very beautiful lips, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 22:14, 23 replies)

Tapping your foot
to Mess Around by Ray Charles makes for erratic driving.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 21:35, Reply)

The last few hundred yards
of the Buttertubs Pass running north into Swaledale is not a good place to discover the phenomenon of brake-fade.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 21:35, Reply)

Just remembered one
Back when I worked in a sales office, someone phoned to complain about one of our van drivers, saying that he'd cut him up on a roundabout. The driver was in the office at the time, so I put the caller on hold and spoke to him.

He knew the incident the caller meant, and explained to me that the guy had been in the wrong lane. I picked the call back up and relayed this, only to be told "I most certainly was not! I should know, I drive a Mercedes SL!"

O_o
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 21:28, 4 replies)

Witness Statement
I received a letter today from the police saying I have 7 days to write a witness statement and draw a pretty picture with crayons because some twunt rolled his car 8 times. Didn't even see it, I was just the first on scene of the accident and helped the ambulance crew. Bloody teenagers and their "I wasn't speeding, honest, there was a dip in the road and that's why I lost control. Didn't you see it too?". err.. "No?". 8 bloody times, yeah, you must have been doing 60 to do that...
Happened over 6 months ago too...
(Something funny, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 21:21, 3 replies)

Tales of a mini, these will bring a rosy glint of nostalgia to many eyes here
Ah days long gone, my first car was a herald convertible, that needed bailing in the rain and needed superman`s reactions if you lifted off in a corner. The telscopic driveshafts then did telescope and due to the designed after a pissup rear suspension the outer wheel assumed a 45 deg angle not in the beneficial direction. Evil sudden oversteer.
When this "oner for a runner" (£100) little beauty succumbed to red rot about 9 months later ( it was old enough to have sexual relations legally) I got £20 scrap for it and started saving up for a mini.

What a contrast! Went round corners on rails, I`d just take it out for a run round the country lanes and come back grinning.

(Aside- a formula ford on stickiest allowed race tyres can produce .76 corner g without downforce, this came as a comparison figure from a group test in CCC magazine early 80`s which showed a mini outcornered all the super minis and hot hatches on standard as delivered road rubber, some were trounced by a 10% + margin. It was only 2% less corner g than the racing car. Minis don`t go fast, they just don`t slow down for bends.)

After a time this led to breakdown tale #1 (not quite chronologically breakdown 1)

I was coming home the country lanes way and it hesitated going round a corner, this got progressively worse on each bend and I thought ah, low fuel, and carried on as I had a spare gallon can. Then I noticed someone had a wood bonfire, which was odd as there were only fields nearby, a glance in the rear view showed smoke coming from the sides of the rear seat cushion, bloody hell!

When I pulled over and opened the boot my ringpiece did goldfish out of water impressions. I turfed everything out, and managed to unbolt the - braid from the battery which stopped the sparks. ( to the unaware, original Minis have the battery in the boot which means the + lead goes through the front end of the boot floor via a rubber grommet) The battery had no clamp under what was left of the fibreboard cover and had shifted around on cornering,

The grommet had wriggled down, no longet keeping the cable away, and the rusty floor had cut into the + lead insulation shorting the battery, this had melted the insulation, charred the cardboard cover and the smouldering haynes manual was all that was stopping the metal spare petrol can from shorting across the battery! drove home carefully with a clothes peg found in my tool box wedging the battery lead away from chassis, and the remains of the haynes keeping the bare lead off the floor. ( haynes manuals DO have a use)

#2
First winter, it was turning over very slowly on starter and the choke was getting stiff, one evening It wouldn`t go in, the plugs fouled up, and I managed to get a tow off a mate. Bloody engine earth had worked loose and the choke and throttle cables were helping out, choke had welded itself up with the starter current.

#3
I use engine braking on the approach to a set of lights so that if they change I can carry on, saving fuel and time, I changed down into second and something felt funny about the gear lever, as i accelerated away there was clonk and as I eased up there was a clonk and the gear lever going up and down. I found the top steady bracket weld had cracked so the bolt was only held at one end and the eye of the steady had dropped off, so it was just rocking on the bottom mounts.
I got home holding the gearstick down and driving VERY progressively.

#4
As a shift worker I had a reserved parking place for nights, I got in to work was about to reverse into the space and grabbed a handful of wheel which became more than a handful, the whole steering column came away from the dash, as the bracket had cracked, Phil my supervisor said "they do that, come on lets have a look". So with cable ties, two hose clips and a few cut up pieces of heater hose for grip I was sorted to get home.

#5, ( really #1 I got tooled up and did all my own stuff after this i`ve just realised)

I had a first MOT and a fail on brakes due to brake pipe corrosion and I was a bit of a car virgin then, didnt have an easibleed or even the right tools, so I got them done and re MOT`d by a garage with a fair rep. 1 year down the line approaching a roundabout I tried to brake and the pedal went a very long way indeed. So it was hand brake and pump and crash down the gears. Fortunately it was a rear cylinder seal, so the rear brake limiter left me with some front brake, I limped home as in driving on snow and ice. I stripped it down, the cylinder bore was rusty, but i`d been charged for its replacement, the other one had been done I checked it all. I have never ever let a garage loose on the brakes on any vehicle since. (I did go and get very eastendian with the garage, as i hadn`t ticked the death option box, I got supplied with the bits i`d been charged for and not fitted, a more than token part refund and a most importantly- an apology. Fair enough. Shouldn`t have fucking well happened, don`t piss about with peoples lives or yours will be pissed with seriously my friend, got it? good.

Because the reg was UGY it bacame the ugly min. It was that bright orange that it seemed all minis from many of the years in the late 70`s were.

I learned something from a mate who was a paintsprayer which really showed up where work had been done, If the colour is red or orange look at it in a sodium streetlamp`s light and you will see every paint job and touch up. Poor old ugly had been badly treated.

Phil my superviser was a biker and mini racer, and an engine builder since 16, he gave me most of his mini bits when `er indoors said he had to give up racing as their daughter needed a father without any more steel in him, or with a wooden jacket rather than leather. His nickname was "ironman" aka desperate dan `cos of the blue chin.

I went down to Kent to collect the freebies ( I had to fight to give him £20 for a thank you drinkies, the wheels were worth well over a ton alone) and amongst odds `n sods got a duplex cooper cam chain set, and 7 genuine cooper steel rime. I aked why 7? "2 to put chains on to carry for winter you fool! quicker to change the wheels than fuckabout fitting chains in the cold and dark" ). Fair enough.

Apologies for length I did 40 000 miles in that thing and my back is still not right, but it was fun to drive, like having your hands on the road, total driving experience. You could 4 wheel drift the bloody thing with complete confidence that you could undrift it instantly and stop or steer normally.
(tootired Is searching for a funny sig, nothing good so far, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 19:50, 2 replies)

"I'm a small man in some ways, Bart. A small, petty man"
Have you ever trundled around a car-park, spotted that magical final space off in the distance, only to get closer and find - Balls! - It's useless, because a quarter of it is taken up by the enormous 4x4 nob-extension in the adjoining space, which someone appears to have swung into the gap blindfolded? I know I have. What follows is a tale of small, petty revenge, and would probably benefit from hefty editing and a bloody good proofread.

So a few weeks ago, I was visiting a generic public building. As I drove in, I found myself behind an aforementioned behemoth-on-wheels. A massive car which appeared to have at least three storeys and its own postcode. At one point I was able to switch off my engine and let this car's gravitational force pull me along. Anyhow, crap reconditioned yo-mamma jokes aside, this huge car was in front of me. And we both needed a parking space.

He spotted the last two spaces. And, luckily for him, they were together. Did he carefully pull into one space, leaving the other for me? Did he buffalo. He swung into the vague general area of the gap and switched off the engine, taking up one and a half spaces, rendering one space useless to any car whose driver was planning on opening any doors.

I was narked. However, I also needed a space. With the sort of concentration only usually seen on the face of a teenager on Kick Start trying to ride his scrambler across a narrow beam, I immediately shoe-horned myself into this remaining 'space' that he'd left me. As soon as I was in, I realised I couldn't get out without undergoing a squeeze of torture-chamber proportions. But that was OK; Neither could he.

"Sod the rush" I thought. "Let's see what happens next". Veeeery carefully, Dumptruck O'Bastard opened his door. He knew I was still in the car, and so he couldn't fling it open with gay abandon, or even bi-curious abandon. Out squeezed a ginormous blob of a man. Gingerly, he manoeuvred his way between the cars, tiptoeing as much as a man his size could, the look of concentration on his face only usually seen on the face of a teenager on Kick Start trying to buy porn. It was like watching a barefoot man stepping through a minefield liberally sprinkled with turds. The entire agonising operation took over a minute. A minute during which, hopefully, one car-park sociopath realised what he puts the rest of us through every day. Hopefully.

Then another car left so I fucked off and took that space instead.
(costas, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 17:13, 7 replies)

More embarrasing than anything..
My dad had a Lancia Delta. Lovely car. Usually.

One particular day, the whole family (including dog) had gone up to my Aunt's in Northampton. It was quite late, and we were on our way back. On the M1, we were happily bombing down the road (in the fast lane, unusual when my dad was driving), when suddenly we smelled something and heard a loud bang. All of a sudden, the car lost nearly all it's power and slowed to less than 15mph..

That wasn't the embarassing part. No. That came, because both the middle and slow lanes were incredibly busy, and it took a while for my dad to cross the lanes safely and go to the hard shoulder. In the meantime, we had an increasing traffic jam behind us.

The other part was that after we'd waited for the RAC to turn up and tow us back, we left the car at my Aunt's. My uncle managed a large Volkswagen repair centre, and he promised to get one of his guys to look at it. We got the train back.

It was nearly midnight when we got back to Charing Cross station. The dog, having never been on any train, suddenly had to cope with both over and underground trains, and, being rather stressed by her experience, shit herself. Right in the middle of the ticket office at Charing Cross underground station. Actually at the point about 10 metres in front of the escalators (just so everyone could see her). With me holding her leash.
(Ok, I'll get me coat, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 17:05, 2 replies)

Death on the road
A few years ago a friend of mine was moving out of his rented house. As he couldn’t drive he asked me to hire a van and help move the stuff to another friend’s house.
No problem
I hired a fuggin big van, long wheel base, high top, etc. Anyway, we get the van loaded up with his furniture and it was a lot of furniture. The van was full of everything he owned.
Having reached our other friend’s house, we parked it up outside, on the side of the road, went in, had a cuppa and a quick smoke.

Being lazy bastards, it was decided the best course of action would be to get the van as close to the house as we could so we wouldn’t have to carry it that far. The problem was the driveway was very narrow.

Feeling confident, after looking from the cab at the width of the driveway and having another sneeky smoke, I decided I could do it no problem. I will be the reversing king!!

So, I stuck the van in reverse so I could get in position to back it the drive.

I checked my mirrors, all clear. I guess rather than reversing, I kind of charged backwards and smashed straight into the front of my friend’s mum’s most beloved Morris Minor (which is a lot narrower than a huge van). She’d parked up when we were sitting in ther van and hadn’t realised.


The Morris Minor looked ok(ish) I thought it’d be fine. It turns out that I’d bent the chassis and fucked it completely.

My friend’s Mum hates me for killing her car
( real i'm not happy 'til you're not happy, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 16:50, Reply)

Black Mini MNB 671P #2
The horrible little bastard's brakes didn't work when it was going backwards. Not that they were particularly effective when it was going forwards to be honest.

I skillfully reversed around a corner at speed opposite the shop my girlfriend worked in and jumped on the breaks to stop me hitting the flat bed trailer parked up in the cul-de-sac. Sticking my foot through one of the rust holes in the floor would have been more effective as the car stubbornly refused to bleed off any speed as it smashed into the back of a steel bar designed to stop cars from driving underneath them in the event of a shunt.

Sheepishly getting out and apologising to the driver of the flat-bed lorry who was sitting reading the Sun and smoking a fag he casually got out, inspected the damage on his truck (Absolutely none) and winced at the crease I'd managed to put in the boot of my own car.

"You'll want to get that looked at son." says he as he ambles back to his truck to finish his paper.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 16:42, Reply)

Actually
IIRC isn't there a plan to privatise the Dartford Crossing?

If so, I shall buy some shares and, as a Volvo driver, will be able to honestly say "actually, I do own the road".
(Neil_E_There didn't the Aussies used to be good at cricket?, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 15:59, 1 reply)

The moment I stepped into my bulletproof Jag...
... I just assumed no one could hear me.

It was all Sue's fault.
(dxg, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 15:57, Reply)

In my short driving life
I have had so many cars, I must be getting quite an expert now. In seven years, it works out I've had a car roughly every six months. And one day I shall actually get a nice car, not the £300 cars I've had to buy because I am skint.

I have had a:

Yugo Tempo (upgraded to...)
Rover 414 (TWO gear box failures)
another Rover 414 (head gasket went)
Toyota Carina II (Drove into a sapling)
Renault Laguna (Drove into a ditch)
Daewoo Espero (Thermostat went and couldn't get a replacement)
another Daewoo Espero (superceded by below)
yet another Daewoo Espero (superceded by company van and later caught fire)
Peugeot Partner (company van)
Ford Ranger (company van)
Ford Mondeo (loan car from my brother)
Vauxhall Corsa (Isle of Man registered - suspension collapsed)
Renault Laguna (Driveshaft went)
Vauxhall Vectra (Pile of shit, everything went)
BMW 318 (current)

Sadly my R-reg BMW is the best car I've ever had, I'm just glad to drive something that works and has only broken down twice. Although, she is LPG so it is nice to fill up with cheaper fuel :)

Ninja edit for spelling!
( VandenPlas can't think of anything clever - no change there!, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 15:54, 11 replies)

Honda Accord
My stepfather drives on of those massive Mercedes - it's got a sign on, does about 1mpg, and has a turning circle the size of Devon. It's over 30 years old, I think.

We were lidderally crawling out of a turning, and dinked the Honda Accord in front at 10mph.

He broke the covering of the headlight, which, understandably annoyed him.

The Honda Accord was, pretty obviously, a write-off.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 15:51, 2 replies)

The Purple Pisspot.
This was the name given to my mum's Ford Escort estate which I had the pleasure of driving just after I'd passed my test.
It was to introduce me to the joys of insurance paperwork.
Within a month of passing, some woman reversed into the front of the car, putting a nice crease in it.
One week later, somebody else did exactly the same thing.
The next week, somebody pulled out of a junction into the left front wing, creasing that.
Less than a week later than that, I'd just parked up, and about to put the key in to lock it, when some twat thought he could play chicken with a bus found out he couldn't, shunted into the rear pushing the car ten feet up the road. (He'd been drinking, wish I'd had the thought to just call the plod.)
By this time, when I called up the insurance, told them my name, they just said,
"We'll get the paperwork straight out to you!"

I finally put my own mark on it though. When we had the heavy winds of '89 (I think- not the really big storm of 87) I opened the door to have it ripped out of my hand by the wind and bent it parallel with the bonnet.
So every panel was dented. I'm sure I remember something happening to the roof as well!

Great car for a teenage horny type though. Back seats down and a blanket gave almost six foot of double bed space!
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 15:46, Reply)

Cars - and them round things.
Twice in my life the purchase of a motor vehicle has nearly brought about my rapid demise. Well the purchasing of a car by someone in the family commonly referred to as my father, who happens to be a skin flint.

Wavy lines to the mid 80's, we were poor and in need of transport, a trip to a local car auctions provided us with a beautiful example of a mini estate replete with mustard and rust spotted body work, mustard faux leather interior and that smell that only 20 years of damp, smoke and various oils can produce.

The car was poo, it had issues, but it was cheap and filled the requirements of moving forward. Upon getting it home from the auction the following week, my father got around to doing a service on the car. Taking one of the wheels off to check the brakes or whatnot, one quarter of a turn on the bolt caused the nut/bolt to come away, this then was repeated not only on the one wheel but both front wheels. The back faired far better. nuts were seized on to one wheel whilst the other was simply missing a nut/bolt!

Death trap!

This is one of those things, I am sure worse things happen. Much like what happened not 6 months ago.

The old man had picked up a new car, I wasn't best pleased as he had spent way too much and bought it in a car park with no reciept etc etc. The car was tidy and clean, but I had a strange feeling about it. Plus there was an odd noice coming from the one wheel. Not living at home meant that I didn't have a chance to fiddle nor even listen to it until I came over for a weekend visit. Randomly we popped to the petrol station to pump up the tyres, upon returning also coincidentally I had a look at this noisey tyre/wheel, and noticed the side wall of the tyre was bulging out. So set about swapping it.

Hub cap off, wrench thing on to loosen, kick, hmmmmmm the weight on the spanner undid the nut. Now I am no engineer, but I do presume that there should be some torque on a nut holding on the round bit that sits on the road? All 4 or 5 bolts hadn't been done up, the noice was the wheel vibrating, if it hadnt had been for the tyre wall (which was caused by a pothole) (and we got money back for a new wheel from the council) failure then it's quite possible in a few weeks the wheel would ahve flewn off. . . probably on the motorway!

Death!
(feedingtimeatthezoo day 1 of his bikini diet started, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 15:39, Reply)

A short falsehood
I was driving home the other day, late, it was dark and I was drowsy. Worse, I'd left my stash of methamphetamine in the glovebox of my OTHER Bugatti Veyron, so I had nothing to wake me up. Before I know it, I've dinged the back of the car in front, braking too slowly in the approach to a roundabout.

Bugger. Luckily it's a little Metro and my car should have survived without any damage. I get out to swap insurance details with the other guy, trying not to look knackered/shifty/smug that my motor is so vastly superior to his. And then I have to try not to look surprised or amused, cos the gentleman is, shall we say, vertically challenged. Hang on, this is B3ta; he's a dumpy twat. A shortarse. A dwarf.

He looks at me, reads my expression, gets angry. Strides purposefully over to me (takes a while), puffs his chest out and declares "I'm not happy."

To which I could really only say one thing.

"Well which one are you, then?"
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 15:33, 3 replies)

LPG and fags - a no-no
A quick thanks to TheSnark, otherwise I wouldn't be posting again. So, if it's crap, you know who to blame :)

The first part of the story is background for the (slightly) more interesting part, please jump to *****.

One of my many cars was a Daewoo Espero, 2litre automatic. It had quite a bit of poke in it, but by far its best feature was that it had been converted to LPG. Converted badly, I hasten to add.

Picking the car up was an adventure in itself - it was being sold as spares or repairs for £150 - and the hubby and I drove up to Hull (yes, I have been to Hull and back), tried to drive it back, the battery failed spectacularly, so we ended up sleeping in the car, buying a new battery the next morning and driving it back.

One new alternator later, we set about repairing the poorly installed and non-functional LPG kit and hey presto! One fully working car for the overall sum of £250. Result!

Driving around on 35p a litre was fantastic, but a few weeks later I was given a company van, so I let my brother-in-law (BIL) borrow it as he had found himself in a bit of a pickle car-wise.

He drove it around for a while (probably a good year) until the head gasket went. As it was still in my name, I put it up for sale at my father-in-law's (FIL) house (he has a drive unlike me).

******

So this P reg Daewoo Espero is now up for sale. The LPG kit is running fine, but no certificate. With a blown head gasket it is definitely a non-runner, and I make sure I put this in the ad. Also MOT but no tax.

A guy is interested, he comes to buy it whilst I am out, so FIL sold it for me. All is good, although I am slightly concerned to hear that he has tried to drive it down the road, then found he couldn't and had to wait for an hour for his mate to give him a tow.

Oh, well. The logbook has been sent off, so it's not my problem any more.

A few days later I get a call from this guy asking for a partial refund. Apparently, he had opened the bonnet to check how the engine was running, went inside to get a spanner (or something) and had returned to find the car ablaze!

The fire brigade turned up and put the car out but all that he had left has a smouldering shell of a car (for those of you unsure LPG burns a lot better than petrol).

I told him as the car was sold as seen, I wouldn't give him any money back and it had been running all fine before the head gasket went. His story sounded a bit strange anyway.

Three weeks later, I get a call from BIL. It turns out he and the guy who bought the car have a mutual friend. It transpires that after he bought the car, he got it home and sorted out the head gasket, getting it running.

Then for reasons unknown, he decided to fiddle about with the carbs - which is right where the LPG is fed into from the tank. This would be bad enough as escaping LPG measures about -40 celsius, but he was smoking a cigarette at the time!

Needless to say, he set the LPG alight and the whole thing burnt to a crisp, including his eyebrows and fringe. Silly sod was lucky he didn't seriously hurt himself.

Upon realising what a twat he'd been and the fire brigade (supposedly) charging him for being an idiot, he then phoned me to try and get some money back.

So what have we learnt boys and girls? Smoking is bad for you - especially when you're fucking around with an LPG system.
( VandenPlas can't think of anything clever - no change there!, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 15:12, 4 replies)

wedding car
When i got married, we booked a taxi to take us from the hotel to the airport for our honeymoon.

The driver handed me his sat nav and said "could you put the name of the airport in for me? I can't see too well without my glasses".

I asked if he thought he'd be ok to drive and he said "oh yes don't worry, its just very close up things i can't see".

This was confirmed when he started the car, shot backwards and broke a faux-roman statue in half. He laughed and said "this stuff happens to me ALL THE TIME!". And we were off.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 14:46, Reply)

My best friend and I
Used to driver side by side on two lane highways at about 30mph just to piss people off. One guy took extreme offense and tried to pass me on the shoulder. He then wanted me to pull over either to fight or to jack me off (I couldn't really tell which hand gesture he used). But for some reason he decided not to press the issue after he saw me inspecting the quality workmanship that went into my tire iron. It was such high quality I just had to look at it right then and there. It was shiny!

Oh, and the guy in charge of traffic rules and regulations in my city is missing an eye, has never driven a car, and doesn't believe that a car should legally be able to go above 25mph as "anything over that kills people."
(CactusZack Shaved his coin purse on, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 14:41, 10 replies)

Cyclists
Obviously, I'm a driver. I appreciate this makes me a dangerous, inconsiderate dickhead to most cyclists, but it's not "most cyclists" that this post applies to.

I live in Guildford, the town's in the middle of the south Downs and has some absolutely beautiful scenery around it with the fun country lanes to go with it. I love driving and I'll happily go out and drive around on the country lanes to kill some time.

What absolutely ruins this otherwise peaceful pastime are the hordes of spandex-clad, number wearing cyclists tearing up and down the roads as if the roads belong to them. They ride out in the middle of the road, two, three or even four abreast blocking my progress. When I try to pass them they weave around all over the place and should I have the temerity to sound my horn in an effort to alert them to my presence or sometimes out of sheer frustration, I get a load of verbal and non-verbal abuse hurled at me.

It's often some sort of organised cycling rally at fault and I think they ought to be banned from public roads for the safety of all involved. Cyclists are squishy. If I should happen to hit one, I'd most likely kill them. Not to mention scratch up my car. I can't manouevre as quickly as they can, I can't brake as quickly as they can. So why do they feel the need to play this stupid game of chicken with me?
( Kroney, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 14:34, 30 replies)

Trying to kill my family
Both my parents quite like actual driving. So though we'd go somewhere nice for Easter holidays like Spain or Italy (avoiding heat), for summer holidays we'd generally stick to Britain or France, and go to somewhere like Cornwall. Naturally this involved a fair bit of driving, and once you got there lots of meandering slowly around country roads. This bored me to tears naturally. I'd read for hours and hours and we'd still not be there. One time the boredom got too much.

The car was driving slowly, the weather was absolutely beautiful, and soon the car was missing one child. I had climbed out the window and onto the roof of the car using the rack on the top, and was lying spreadeagled holding onto it. It was warm and fun, but eventually (a few minutes) I got bored and that's when the panic set in. I was holding on with both hands to the raised rack and I didn't dare let go to try and get back in. Like climbing a tree it was much easier to get up than it was to get down. Suddenly the car seemed faster, and I was entertaining horrifying thoughts that maybe I'd never get back inside. A cloud covered the sun, it was suddenly cold, there was wind and I was stuck on a roof. So the obvious solution occured to me. I inched my body forward, and gripping on extra tight, moved one hand and dangled it in front of the windscreen. My father says it almost gave him a heartattack, and it was lucky we were travelling so slowly or we'd have crashed.

So there's the story of how I almost killed my family.
( Amberl was stripey and dominated Europe, Wed 28 Apr 2010, 14:22, 2 replies)