Mechanical Maladies

Or, how beer and mechanicals don’t mix

As a pub located in a bustling village centre, you’d be right expect that the vast majority of our customers, and in particular the regulars, arrive and leave on Shank’s Pony. But,as is often the case with groups of men in various stages of drink, talk often turns to vehicles, power tools, or other mechanical things.

After all, men are men; if it’s got a motor or an engine, men are interested in it.

Not that there are many regulars I’d trust to look after or repair anything of mine which needed some spanners putting to it.

Of course, the conversation very rarely involves swapping tips or helpful suggestions; normally, there’s three elements to it.

First, there’s ‘black dog syndrome’: if your car can get to 60 on the bypass, you’d better believe your mate’s can get to 65. If you’ve got a new cordless drill, your mate’s got a far better one. And if you had a crash and smashed the front end up, there’s for sure someone there who’s had a worse crash and is lucky to be alive.

Then, there’s the unsolicited advice: ‘why are you buying a new angle grinder? I’ve got one you can borrow that I’ve had for 20 years and it’s never let me down!’. Or ‘I can’t believe you’ve spent £200 on a new circular saw; I got mine from the middle of Lidl and it’s as good as a Makhita’…

Then, finally, there’s the ribbing, or banter. ‘I borrowed Brunel’s circular saw. Well, it started out circular when he bought it, but it’s only good for cutting right angles now…’. And it doesn’t matter what the subject up for banter is; it’s always rubbish. You could arrive with a brand new Ferrari, and your mates would tell you it’s terrible, you can only do 70 in it anyway, and the noise it makes is horrible.

In almost all cases, this is primarily caused by jealousy.

Before I get into talking you through some mechanical maladies the regulars have experienced, though, I need to tell you a little about my experiences with the landlord and power tools.

You see, almost nothing is unsalvageable. For years he’s kept and used a chop saw which was missing its guard, through some unfortunate event or another. The glass washer we use has been in need of replacement for years, but instead, several parts have been replaced, and he’s even retro-fitted a bolt to hold the door shut, after the hinges packed up years ago.

His desire to recycle and maintain even goes as far as the benches in the beer garden. If one has rotted beyond repair, he’ll strip it down looking for some wood he could salvage to either repair another bench or use elsewhere.

And I once helped him strip a bench for this purpose. He’d decided the most efficient way was to grind the seized-up bolts off. And had thus acquired a borrowed angle grinder.

We hadn’t been going for more than five minutes when the grinding wheel ceased to be attached to the grinder. And it came flying in my general direction.

Honestly, I now know how Valetin Dmitrovich Zukovsky felt in his caviar factory when Bond had shot down that helicopter, sending the saw blades flying everywhere in The World Is Not Enough…

Gary

Whilst the majority of this update focuses on mechanical maladies, it’s worth pausing for a moment to explain a little about Gary’s history. He’s always been a really keen golfer, and plays pretty much every day, come rain, sleet or snow. I don’t even think a visit from St Nicholas would keep him from the course.

That was, at least, until he was struck down with a sciatica. He’d always maintained that, if and when his body got to the point where it could no longer carry him unaided around the golf course, he’d pack in. And he kept this attitude up for probably longer than was good for him, playing regularly in the morning and then being so wracked with pain that he was basically unable to move for the rest of the day.

Naturally, he’s now overcome his stubbornness and started using a buggy to navigate the course. Which does come with its own negatives.

Firstly, mechanical assistance to traverse the course tends to mean you arrive at the next shot before your playing partners. That means that if they’ve hit an errant shot, you’re there first and etiquette means you’re obliged to start the search for their ball. And, of course, renting a buggy isn’t free. Playing five or six times a week, the cost soon mounts up.

Which is why Gary is incredibly thankful to Rory McIlroy.

He received an email not too long back to tell him his betting account had been dormant for 18 months and he had to use the funds or lose it. Of course, he thought he’d have a quick look to see if there was a bet which caught his eye.

And as a keen golfer, he had a look at the soon-to-arrive Open Championship. A special bet was advertised. Rory to shoot 71, 70, 69, 68. 1000/1. Gary thought he’d have a fiver just because he could. Except fat fingers took over and he pressed ‘6’ instead of ‘5’.

He even forgot about the bet after round one because he got the first two scores mixed up in his head.

So imagine his surprise when he logged back on on Monday morning and found he was £6,000 up from the bet!

Ever resourceful, he decided to use his new-found wherewithal to invest in his own golf buggy.

He did, though, make a little miscalculation when purchasing. He opted for a petrol-powered buggy instead of an electric one. And then played in the club championships the following weekend. The round took five hours. And he was sat in his buggy. Directly above the engine. In the middle of the hottest weekend of the year.

Legend has it, his arse is still burnt..

Batman

Pongo told me recently that he’d happened upon Batman in one of the local car parks, having emptied the entire contents of his car. He tells me it looks like he was having his own, impromptu car boot sale.

There was clothes, boots, a table, fishing rods, a cool box, nets, shoes and hats strewn all over the car park.

Naturally, he had to establish what on earth was going on.

A dishevelled and slightly breathless Batman explained ‘the lid has come off my box of maggots and they’ve all got out!’

He was in the middle of a major clean-up operation, trying to locate every maggot which had come loose, before they grew and became flies.

Anyone who’s ever tried to clean the interior of a car will recognise that there are many, many places a maggot could secrete itself out of reach of your standard human fingers. So, obviously, he was not entirely successful…

So if you’re ever out and about locally and want to find Batman, just look for a car driving along in a swarm of bluebottles!

Greg

Greg is big friends with Tarzan, and even shares a trade with him as a tree surgeon. Talking to Tarzan recently, I’m not convinced which of them is more proficient at felling trees. Tarzan alleges that on more than one occasion when they were doing a job together, Greg has managed to fell the wrong tree completely.

On one particular occasion, they needed to acquire a replacement part for a chipper. Naturally, this meant establishing the model number of the chipper. And the serial plate was located somewhere on the belly of the beast.

Now Tarzan gives up about a foot in height to Greg; in fact, I reckon Greg may well be able to prune some well-established oaks without the aid of a ladder. So guess who went under the chipper to find the particulars…

As Greg is crawling under the machine, he tells Tarzan he’s found the required information and will read it out. Tarzan begins to make a note.

‘7’, says Greg.

‘Gotcha, 7’, replies Tarzan.

‘1’

‘Ok, 7, 1. Next’

‘0’.

‘Yep, 7, 1, 0. Carry on’

Then there’s a deathly silence for a couple of beats.

‘Oh, hang on. That’s where the oil goes…’