The Understudy

I book the ZS in for a service last November. The road tax expires at the end of October so that's another 190 notes to the Chancellor. And I have to MoT the car first in order to qualify for the privilege of paying this charge. Then I realise my road tax will expire before the combined service/MoT at the (former) MG dealership. I manage to get an MoT at the weekend and cancel the MoT at the dealer's.

Come Wednesday they MoT the car again. I only find out when they call up to say the brake discs need replacing. So a £280 service turns into £700 (even after having the MoT charge removed).

Roll forward to April. I get an email from Dr Zephead. His £240 service will require new front discs plus road tax plus MoT. That'll be £670 thankyouverymuch. I'm starting to believe that Dr Zephead is becoming Alf with a 6 month lag.

*

I notice that our ING on-line accounts still have our old address so I update it. We get letters for each account noting the update. They also tell me they have sent this same notification to our old address for security purposes. A house we moved from nearly 3 years ago. FFS.

Goaty Steve Buys a Car

I never considered my Rover 220 a particularly troublesome car but it was probably this one in which the image of Unlucky Alf inveigled itself into the collective memory of various close compatriots. It was a British Racing Green 220 GTi model bought when 2 years old with some 44,000 miles on the clock. It had a small dent in the front wing which the seller offered to either fix or knock £200 off the price. Well, £200 is £200, isn’t it? And it was a very small dent. This turned out to be a quite un-Alf-like decision. But small beer compared with what was to come.

The servicability misfortunes were mostly minor. A new alternator – ok, that wasn’t minor – and a broken clutch cable. Two weeks after the cable was replaced it went again. I was ready for a major argument with the garage until it transpired that it was the clutch cable housing that had sheared and not the new cable. And generally parts during scheduled servicing were pricey; I blame Honda for that, this being one of the joint Rover-Honda designs.

Then the other incidents started to happen. One Friday evening I parked outside my outside house, shot in to collect some things for a long weekend away with the future Mrs Alf, came back out 40 minutes later to see the car in the parking bay at the front of the house now somewhat askew. When I looked round the back I realised something big and heavy had clearly reversed into it. Even with some good fortune it was only the rear bumper that needed replacing yet this was still some £300 plus for parts, labour and spraying. That made it an insurance claim and I was to become something of a regular at the local body repair shop.

Next the car was stolen outside a friend’s house when we went round for dinner. I had a bemused look around the flats’ car park as I realised that some scroat had clearly made off with it. The police called later to stay it had been found abandoned by the side of the A14. The bonnet and windscreen were damaged as were the radio/cassette and door locks and ignition switch. Everything was repaired without a problem (well done the Co-op, shame you were so expensive when I bought the ZS), I got a new radio/cassette and I even had the dent on my wing repaired. That £200 saving was worth the chance.

Three months later it got broken into again! This time it was outside Mrs Alf’s flat overnight and the incompetent tw*ts didn’t even have the decency to steal the car after breaking the door locks and wrecking the steering column. Again. Another trip down to the bodyshop and another complete set of door locks. By this time you can imagine how thankful I was not to have been a cheapskate and protected my insurance No Claims Bonus.

The next one, sadly, I couldn’t blame on the criminal fraternity. During the heavy rains at Easter a few years back (after having nothing else to do all day, as will become clear, I recall well from continuous news it was the time of the Northern Ireland Good Friday Agreement). We’d been to friends in St Ives the night before and on driving home around the St Ives ring road, approaching one of the roundabouts, I saw ahead a large puddle of water. Ok, it was around 20-30 yards long, but another vehicle was stopped ahead of me at the roundabout and I assumed it had just driven through. How deep can it be, thought Alf? However, even a dip in the road before a climb up to the roundabout was enough to leave around 2 feet of water. The car went in up to the middle of the wheels and promptly stopped. To cut a long story short we trudged back to our friends’ house and begged a bed for the night. By morning the water had gone but the car was still immobile and it was an all day wait for the AA relay van due to the huge number of other calls they had received. Rather than being an electrical problem the engine had actually ingested water and when it tried to compress it had bent a con-rod. A nice job for the village garage and touch-and-go whether the insurance company would pay for repairs rather than scrap the car. Happily, it lived to drive again.

And so a couple of years later I sold it. To Goaty Steve. It was fully serviced, had a veritable library of servicing paperwork to accompany it and still Goaty Steve rather unreasonably expected a full year’s road tax. So, with 105,000 miles on the clock I bade good-bye. I warned Goaty that there was a bit of a whine on the clutch but it hadn’t got worse over the past 10,000 miles.

So of course the clutch failed a couple of months later although as that was the original clutch (as far as I am aware) that wasn’t bad going. Even if Goaty Steve didn’t see it that way. Anyway, we now live only a few streets away apart and he still lets me buy him beer from time to time.

But worse was to come during its Goaty career. During the 2002 World Cup Goaty and I met up one lunchtime to see an England game and Mrs Goaty was running him home. She turns up in my fine old 220 with all the coaching strip hanging off. All I can say is that Goaty Steve was quick to point out that he wasn’t reversing when it was all ripped off. It finally expired after a head gasket failure and was deemed beyond economic repair.

Car Alf - it happens with Fords, too

Goaty Steve is convinced that my motoring trouble is down to me being something of an enthusiast for British cars and that I have owned only Rovers and MGs. After the last few weeks with Mrs Alf's Fiesta I still feel that my claim that MG-Rovers are no less or more troublesome than their French or Italian mass-produced counterparts is entirely justified.

The Fiesta's central locking went on the blink recently. When the driver's door was open the central locking would cycle dementedly until the door was closed. Mrs Alf took the car (an increasingly shabby looking '97 model and, with 2 kids, an interior like Goaty Steve's underpants) to the local garage and also asked them to check the front brakes because of an odd noise. In true Alf fashion the central locking was going to cost £150 just to investigate (as each door would have to be stripped to check the actuators) so it was decided to simply deactivate the driver's door mechanism. So, £184 later, with 2 new front discs, the driver's door lock still doesn't work even with the key although the constant cycling of the mechanism has been halted.

Then the speedometer stopped working. I took the car in again after we returned from the Easter break at the in-laws. TFD spent 4 days in kennels as the FiL, quite reasonably, won't allow him in his house. TFD had obviously barked himself insensible with the other dogs so that he was hoarse and could only make a pathetically funny honking sound. There is some justice in this world after all.

I noticed that the engine temperature of the Fiesta was a little high (yet another recent fix) when collecting TFD. Of course he's not allowed in my car! I checked the oil and saw it was a little on the low side which probably explained it, so topped it up the next morning and gave the car a quick road test before dropping it off again at the garage.

And so the inevitable phone call.

"The speedo cable is broken so you'll need a new one of those. That'll be £100 including fitting. Plus VAT."

I hardly have time to splutter in outrage before the next bombshell.

"And if the speedo hub itself has gone, which we won't know until we strip all the dash off to replace the cable, that will be around £234."

"What, including the cable?"

"No, that's just the new hub. And there is a bracket loose on the exhaust that needs replacing."

Silent screams of pain.

"Oh, and when did you last check your oil?"

"Why this morning!" I declared proudly.

"Ah, well, the oil filler cap's missing and it's sprayed oil all round the engine compartment."

Frankly one of my better self-inflicted Alfs. Against all the usual Alf-form it turned out that it was just a broken speedo cable that needed replacing meaning I got away with around £150.

Including a new oil filler cap.

Dr Zephead's Easter

This amused me so much I had to post it here (with Dr Zephead's permission):

On Saturday after the great bread debacle* we went on the Seaton tramway. Not the most exciting of passtimes unless you are 5 or under, it's good for twitchers though since it travels up the Axe estuary. Seaton itself was the worst sort of Chav beach resort; pub on the sea front, entry by tattoo only. My eldest jumped into the sea fully clothed which I thought was humorously daring for her since in the past she'd have run a mile from a wave but Mrs Zep was less than amused (volcanic would be another way of describing her mood).

On Sunday after the great egg hunt we had a stroll on the Grand Western Canal in Tiverton, but we'd made the mistake of taking the outlaws along on this jaunt and, to be fair, MiL's hip is still a bit shaky but even so we only went about 200 yards since they insisted on stopping to talk to each bloody dog owner in Tiverton out for a stroll. How do you tell a five year old that Granny and Granddad who haven't seen us for 4 months would rather chat to some strangers for 10 minutes who just happen to own a mutt than walk with us I do not know? Oh well, we did see a nesting swam and a nice narrow boat although a 2 hour canal trip was "oh far far too long to sit on a boat". FFS, why did we come to a canal famous for its trips then?

Monday was spent avoiding the MiL who insisted on using up all our new bread* on sandwiches for Mrs Zep's brother's family even though she was under strict instructions that food was not necessary. She was damn well going to provide food whether it was wanted or not and spending all morning doing it was neither here nor there, the fact that it racked up a cracking score on the 'being put out by visitors' was probably justification enough. Upon reflection some brown bread appeared ((aghast)"you can't have salmon on white bread" which didn’t strike me at the time but should have alerted me sooner that something smelt a bit fishy and it wasn't the Shipham's paste).

Came back yesterday, traffic fine, stopped off at Hatfield House, yes we made it that far before the kids wanted out, saw the oak tree under which Elizabeth I was told she had ascended the throne. Cool.

* So, as hinted at, bread featured prominently over the weekend. I mean, if you had family coming with small children for the weekend you wouldn't need to contact the Met Office to predict that the probability of sandwiches sweeping in from the east would be high would you? However, we've been caught out by this before, because the outlaws eat like sparrows they buy a loaf and freeze it. Have you ever had a sarnie made from defrosted bread? Have you ever tried to feed said sarnie to a more discerning kiddie? It's not pretty. So yes, Thursday night, the night before the big trip when one would usually be packing was actually spent in Sainsbury's buying bread to take with us - Warburtons, white, sliced sandwich loaf, nothing unusual, no siree.

So come Saturday morning, we find out that they only have frozen bread. Aha, we brought our own, you know, had some left over, no point leaving it, it will go off etc (cunning excuses already devised, see).

"Fancy a bit of toast? We'd got a new toaster, bought it with the new kettle, which would insist on whistling when it had boiled so we got rid of it."

"Yes please", (idly thinks) "what is wrong with a kettle that whistles?"

Ten minutes later I begin to wonder what has happened to the toast, so I wander into the kitchen (kid feeding and breakfast had been banished to the dining room) and there I find the FiL hovering over the electric oven of Aga-like dimensions and it seems of Aga-like ease of cooking.

"Just waiting for the grill to heat up."

"Erm, I thought you were going to use the new toaster?"

(Reproachful tone) "The bread you brought is too tall, it won't toast all over, so we thought we'd use the grill. It's just taking a while to heat up."

"Why don't you just flip the bread over half way through?"

(Astonished looks like I'd just discovered penicillin) "But, but, but...oh, ok, I'll do that then."

(MiL sounding peeved that someone was in her kitchen dictating food preparation) "Look, just cut a bit off."

(Me) "Erm, I think we can just flip it half way through and not waste any."

(MiL) "Well, I'll just leave you men to it shall I?" (Storms off in huff fully expecting her kitchen to be burnt to ground by us men.)

FFS, how can you reach the age of 70+ and still manage to fvck up the process of making toast?

So after not buying any bread (nor Easter eggs actually - "we only knew you were coming a couple of weeks ago!" (thinks I) "but you have been out to the shops at least twice since you went out for some Guinness for me, failed to actually buy it and went out again, but you couldn't be @rsed to get your grandkids any proper eggs even though you can't not see the sky high piles of them in any decent shop you go in") MiL then proceeded to make stacks and stacks of ham sarnies for lunch.

Hmmm, bang goes the eldest's breakfast bread then, so off I go to Sainsbury's but, hey, I need some petrol anyway. I buy another loaf thinking that should do us. Things are calm on the bread front for a day, then Mrs Zep's brother comes on Monday. What does MiL do? Use up all the fvcking bread again!!! FVCK!!! How many times have we told her the eldest only eats sarnies in the morning?

Come Tuesday we were off. FiL is off to the shops early to get some bread - comes back with Sainsbury's basic white. I mean it's not as if they live on the bread line (ho ho) and yet he still buys "Value" bleeding bread!! FFS, the war finished 60 years ago you know, we don't have rations now!

But to cap it all off, the icing on the cake, or the crust on the loaf as it were, was that I'd noticed the previous night that they had 3 unsliced fvcking loaves and another "Value" sliced in the garage. WTF were they there for I wondered? Obviously I’d found the source of the mystery brown, I'm surprised it wasn't stored in a cabinet with 'break glass in case of salmon sarnie emergencies only' written on it. What was this bread twilight zone I'd entered?

So it's nice to be home, shame I had to pop to the village shop last night though. Can anyone guess what was top of the list?