b3ta.com user Mr_Wendel
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Profile for Mr_Wendel:
Profile Info:


Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» Pubs

I work in motorsport. Sounds glamorous, actually isn’t. My chosen branch of motorsport is the poor relation of Formula 1. The kind of motorsport that is kept chained up in the loft and never spoken of. You do however meet all kinds of characters, from multi-millionaires (of which there are many) to journeymen mechanics who have been spannering cars in all four corners of the globe, man and boy.

The maxim ‘Work hard, play hard’ has never been truer than for those people who work with racing cars for a living. Everyone seems to be a borderline alcoholic, but after pulling your plums out for seven days on the trot, for twenty hours a day, in the frozen wastes of Sweden to the dust bowls of Greece, you could be forgiven for wanting to let your hair down a little at the end of an event.

One engineer I had the pleasure of working with had a legendary reputation for mischief after a drink or two, he had that genius streak that left him perpetually teetering on the borderline of brilliance and madness.

He had a real Jekyll and Hyde personality, after just a single glass of red wine or a Gin and Tonic, the mild mannered engineer (who had spent just a few of his formative years in Liverpool) would transform into the most Liverpudlian drunk you would ever meet. It was a given that bad things always happened when he had a drink, and you could always be sure there would be a large, expectant, crowd gathered to watch the resulting mess.

After one particular session, he came out of a nightclub and got an attack of the munchies as soon as he saw the hot dog van serving tepid, vaguely burger and sausage shaped scrapings form the abattoir floor, to a captive audience of hungry drunks.

Full of Dutch courage our hero marched to the front of the lengthy queue and demanded, in the nicest possible way, to be served one of the vendors fine hot dogs. ‘Mate, mate, gis a hot dog mate’.

Obviously used to such behaviour, Mr Sizzle (other mobile food franchises are available) pointed to the back of the queue and politely invited our friend to join it. Not to be deterred, and now on a full charm offensive, Mr Engineer again demanded to be served a hot dog. ‘Aw, mate, come on mate, gis a hot dog’. Once again he is invited to join the back of the queue, but again he declines offer.

Mr Sizzle and the queue of angry drunks have now had enough, and despite desperate pleas, Mr Engineer is being ignored by Mr Sizzle. With logic that could only be applied by a steaming drunk, Mr Engineer staggers around to the back of the hot dog van.

Imagine the look on the faces of those in the queue, and Mr Sizzle, as the hot dog van drives off down the road just as Mr Sizzle is serving his umpteenth grease-fest of the night! The van draws to a halt, Mr Engineer disembarks, staggers back around to the front of the van and calmly and politely again asks for a hot dog, citing that he is now at the front of the queue, where-upon, as a nod to his ingenuity, determination and sheer cheek and stupidity, Mr Sizzle promptly served him his hot dog.
(Fri 6th Feb 2009, 14:41, More)

» I'm going to Hell...

Dad would have been proud.
Finally, a QOTW so perfect for me that it has snapped me out of my habitual procrastination and forced me to register to share my story.

2008 has been a shit of a year. I lost my Grandmother at the end of March and then my dear (not so) old Dad in June, meaning my poor Mother became an orphan and a widow in the space of three months. A messy business all round.

The task of organising Dad’s funeral rolled around, made easier by the fact we had got a bit of match practice in a few months earlier, and I decided I wanted to write a eulogy for him.

As an aside, Co-op Funeral Services (other funeral directors are available) do not feel it is appropriate to offer a loyalty card system for funerals.

The funeral, at Dad’s request, was to be a happy occasion, with bright clothes, rock and roll music and a big party afterwards.

The day came; we arrive at the crematorium in the cars, piped in by a lone bagpiper. There are literally hundreds of people stood waiting. I’m cacking it. I’m not the best public speaker, and the thought of standing up in front of a capacity crowd, combined with the emotion of the day was not one I relished.

So, yer man in the dress does the God bothering bit and then it’s my turn to speak.

I take a deep breath and begin to address the masses:

"This is the part of the service called the Eulogy; it comes from an ancient Greek word, (Dad always insisted we look up a word if we didn’t know what it meant) it means to give a speech praising someone. Eulogies can also be used to praise those that are still alive, and I would like to think that today is more about keeping alive the happy memories we all have of Dad, rather than focusing on the sadness of his passing."

It’s going well. Lots of people in the audience cooing and muttering things like, ‘Isn’t he brave’ etc.

… and then I got to this bit.

“I have Dad to thank for my dry, slightly dark, sense of humour. You could always rely on him to tell a most inappropriate story or joke.

Right now I am sure he would be telling the one about the boy who went into school one day and apologised to the teacher for not being there the previous day.

‘Sorry I wasn’t at School yesterday Miss, my Dad got burnt.’

The teacher says; ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I hope it wasn’t serious’

He says; ’They don’t fuck about at the Crem’ Miss!’”

I should have just got onto the conveyor belt and ridden it down with him.
(Thu 18th Dec 2008, 11:56, More)

» Addicted

Tesco Value Midget Gems
The addiction has brought me to my knees.

Mainly because I am 6’ 5” and Tesco insist on putting these crack like, glistening jewels of ‘E’ number filled reconstituted animal bone on the very bottom shelf.
(Tue 23rd Dec 2008, 12:54, More)

» Easiest Job Ever

Have it your way.
I set the bar high with my first, part-time, job which was at a motorway service station. I got to stand in a booth, sell the occasional motoring related gift, watch motorsport videos, eat, read magazines, chat to the AA man, people watch, celebrity spot and annoy the fit girl in Sock Shop next door. I could also take advantage of friends who worked in the various catering establishments on the site.

Me: Can I have a ‘Whopper’ meal with Coca-Cola please?

Martin: Yes, that will be 17p please.

Me: Thank you, here is your 17p.

Martin: Thank you, here is your 17p change. Enjoy your meal.

For my 0p, I would, at the very least, end up with one of everything from the grill, a huge bag of fries and four massive soft drinks.
(Thu 9th Sep 2010, 22:54, More)

» Expensive Weekends

Daddy, I want a pony.
A wise man once said; ‘The only way to make a small fortune in motorsport is to start with a large one’.

I used to work for a small rally team before I decided to run away to the hills to become a snowboard bum. The cars, worth anything from £250,000 to £500,000, were generally owned by gentleman drivers who were successful businessmen and used to fly in by helicopter for a day of sport. I would regularly write bills for £30,000 for which they would have had around fifty minutes of competitive driving. An expensive weekend you may think. So did I, until we landed a new customer who’s Daddy promptly purchased four new cars at £500,000 each. One to wash and one to wear and all that.

This boy was a great driver, a record breaker even, but he really raised the bar when it came to the size of the bills I had to write. The reason his old man had bought some £2,000,000 of cars was because the boy had a tendency to put them on their roof with metronomic regularity. He was crashing them faster than we could build them.

Such were his driving skillz, when he wasn’t in the trees or upside down, that he was surrounded by a whirlwind of PR and he was being touted as a future world champion at the tender age of seventeen. His debut in one of his shiny new cars was a high profile affair and he managed to get a lot of television coverage. Mainly because he managed to have one of the biggest accidents I have ever seen, right in front of the worlds media.

Luckily he was insured, the policy for three days insurance coverage was a snip at £15,000. Good job really because the claim I put in was for £145,000. Add in the other sundry costs for a day and a half of tooling around in a fast car and the boy managed to spunk around £200,000 of his Dad’s money in the space of thirty-six hours.
(Thu 13th May 2010, 22:48, More)
[read all their answers]