Burt Jones’s Re-Build Diary

[Jan Coombes]

Yes very good.

I hope the date goes well.

[Bert Jones's Diary]

Monday, September 23

Corner weight: Logged onto WSCC site. Read a post from the motley Essex contingent giving it large about hogging the club’s corner-weighing scales for over three years and claiming Southerners were the only members skilled enough to use them. A Northern member was quick to counter-claim he’d had the club’s camber-angle gauge for half a decade and this is why no one south of Brum ever won a race. Logging off, I phoned-a-friend who works in the local  Kwik-Fit and asked what a camber-angle was. Moron started rambling on about toes-in or feet-out, making it sound more like the mechanical equivalent of hokey-cokey. I didn’t have the time to listen to such nonsense so told him to concentrate on flogging remoulds and I’d find out about camber-angles elsewhere.

8:22am – in the garage. With the Dutch courage sourced from half-a-bottle of JD sloshing around my empty stomach, I fire up the B&Q angle-grinder and staggered towards the shivering Westfield. With a quick flick of the wrist the job was done and a 9 inch section of top-tube clattered to the ground. If God was going to strike me down for such blasphemy she was going to do it now. I slumped onto pile of tyres, resigned to my fiery fate, and gulped back the JD before the first lightening-bolt was thrown from above.

10:32am – in the garage. I awoke with a thick head and the overwhelming desire to get the Westfield back on the road. Checking my list of things-to-do I decided a trip to Halfrauds was in order.

11:15am – local Halfords. I’d just wasted 20 minutes of my life trying to explain to a woman, who’d have walked a Jimmy Clitheroe’s look-a-like contest, what a Xflow manifold gasket was. So far she’d brought me a Cavalier’s oil filter, 2 sachets of screen-wash and a Bart Simpson air freshener. Finally, in desperation, I grab the biro from behind her cauliflowered ear and drew a picture of the manifold gasket on the back of her wrinkled hand. Success, she winks salaciously and scuttled off, reappearing a few moments later with a pair of fluffy-dice and a set of AF sockets.

11:36am – Halfords carpark. I bump into an excited D’Arcy who’s just spent his kids’ school fees on a dung-brown Dutton. Lifting the bonnet like a 3rd rate conjurer, he proudly showed me the engine. Exactly what manor of engine hid beneath enough caked oil to a keep your average Arab prince in golden finery for the next decade remained a mystery. I smile indulgently as D’Arcy excitedly explains how he traded up from his Robin Hood for this lump of 4 wheeled excreta. I left him scrapping away at the congealed mess in search of the carburettors and headed towards the Death-Burger van.

1:24pm – in the garage. Kerpal, Oxford’s only Halal mobile welder arrives. On Grease-Guns recommendation I’d booked him for the job of reconstructing the Westfield’s mutilated frame. I tried to disregard his unnervingly likeness to Yootha Joyce from George and Mildred fame however, watching him spend 10 minutes trying to light the Arc welder was harder to ignore. Eventually I point out his error and listen as Kerpal explains it’s his brother, Amish, who’s actually the welder and Amish is busy attending to a family blood feud. I feel it prudent to ask Kerpal about his welding experience. He grins disarmingly and says he’s usually a waiter in our local Biriani emporium but be assured all is well as Amish has explained all about welding.

1:48pm – in the garage. As I watch Kerpal’s fumblings it becomes increasingly obvious he doesn’t know the difference between an amp and an  Aloo Chat. Enough is enough, so I take away the arc-welder before he can do any damage and shoo him off to the kitchen to make a coffee while I attend to the reconstruction. 20 minutes later the Westfield now has a new U-shaped tube connecting the top-chassis members. Okay, my amateur welding produced more bird **** than a Trafalgar Square pigeon but at least the frame’s back together. As I slip off the welding mask, Kerpal returns with the coffee and a plate of Saag Machli he’s managed to knock up from breakfast left-overs.

3:46pm – sitting at computer. Find an email waiting from Cheryl Shingles wanting to confirm the time and place of our date. I’m starting to question the wisdom of sending a picture of myself with a full head of hair courtesy of Paint Shop Pro. I decide to tell Cheryl I recently lost all of my golden tresses in a fire-ball crash while lapping the opposition in the Speed Series.

6:55pm – Watching television: Glancing up from Robot Wars I notice the wife’s walking like she’s clutching a pair of Green-Stuff brake pads between her ample buttocks. Placing a large packet of frozen Petit-Poi on a dining chair she lowers herself gently onto the peas. The wife’s haemorrhoids playing up means she’s in the mood for serious conversation. Sniffing back a tear, she blurts outs, “Bert, I want a divorce.” I let out an involuntary sigh of relief, for one horrible moment I thought she was going to demand I sell the Westfield. I nod my head sympathetically as the poor woman let’s forth a litany of pent up emotion aimed at me apparently ignoring her for months. At this point I can’t but help noticing that Chaos2 is putting up a spectacular display against Thermador, so I put my head on auto-nod and hope Chaos can get it’s flipper working properly.

7:35pm – in the garage hiding from the wife. Decided to try and work out why the reversing light keeps cutting out. Slide under the car and examine the wires connected to the gearbox. Touch the positive terminal with a screwdriver and suddenly Jane McDonald singing, You’re My World, is belting out of the fuse box and Louis Armstrong’s seminal version of, Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, is coming out somewhere near the petrol tank.

7:55pm – in the toilet. Reading through the latest Westfield World. A story on the letters page catches my eye about a guy who inadvertently brought a Catterham thinking it was a Westfield. The man only realised his mistake after he’d parked up on the WSCC site at Stoneleigh. Luckily the St.Johns ambulance crew were on hand and managed to remove the flag-pole although what happened to the Westfield pendent on the end of it remains a mystery.

8:37pm – in the garage. Spanner and Grease Guns have popped around to lend a hand dropping the engine in. Spanner’s managed to knock me up a couple of billet alloy engine mounts so we cross our fingers and prepare to lower the mighty Xflow. Spanner heroically volunteers to positioned himself under the Westfield to guide the engine onto the mounts. All was going well until the B&T chain slipped through Grease Gun hands. The unfortunate Spanner lets out a cry that sounds like Graham Norton doing an impersonation of the late Thora Hurd. I secured the chain and looked under the car expecting the worse. We’d missed the mounts and the entire engine weight was now resting on Spanner’s vitals, thankfully keeping my freshly painted sump from being scratched.

10:15pm – in the kitchen. We were on our second bottle of JD when Spanner mentioned a potential problem. “How are you going to change the oil with the engine cranked over at such an angle?” he slurred. Grease Gun scratched his weak chin for a moment and said, “Simple, hoist the two left wheels onto ramps, which would put the sump in a horizontal plain.” I was too drunk to understand a word they were saying and was just glad the engine was back where it belonged.

11:52pm - decide to give up smoking tomorrow. Went to bed and fell asleep reading Dale Winterton’s impressions of the Westfield XTR-Turbo in HELLO magazine’s celebrity road test: dream the mother-in-law inadvertently amputates a foot while trying to remove a verruca with my angle-grinder

[Buzz Billsberry]

Brill      

Buzz

[hilux]

Excellent

1399 views ( must be a record)

I send this page link to all my mates who love it even though they dont have anything to do with Westy`s.

Must be a bloke thing          

[mikehreynolds]

Absolute genius, was in stiches!! keep it up! been a long time since the last addition!! hopefully not long till the next!!!

mike

[chrisbin]

   

Where's Burt....

(that was a bit of a giveaway..... )

Blimey, quick work Burt.......blinked and it was gone......

[Bert Jones's Diary]

Friday, October 1

Corner weight: One of life’s great truisms states: your level of pedantism will be in direct relation to the amount of beer you’ve imbibed. So, it came as no great surprise when my conversation with 3 crapulent locals propping up the bar in the Bishop’s Finger turned toward defining the problem rather than finding a solution. We were arguing about corner-weight (CW), as one does, when John reasonably asked, where exactly did a car’s corners start and finish. The landlord  chipped in by stating grandly that you couldn’t measure CW at the wheels because they were obviously not at the car’s corners and a true CW should be taken at the outer-lip of the bonnet and rear of the body work. Admittedly he’d made a gloriously pedantic point, but, I wasn’t about to let that get in the way of unreasoned argument. “A Westfield, “ I slurred, “is specially designed to minimise weight by being corner-less. If you want to calculate corner weight you have to use a rolling road specially adapted for trigonometry.” I backed up my assertion by calling them all sheep-****** perverts then stumbled out of the pub in a huff.        

7:12am – in the garage. Now the engine is nicely cranked over, I fitted the new exhaust system, finishing the exit hole with a stainless weather strip. I try to fit the bonnet and discover to my horror it now fouls the carbs. b*******. Nothing for it, so I get the Dremal out and carve a hole in the unsuspecting bonnet.

11:15am – in front on the television. I’m minding my own business, watching a rerun of It’s a Royal Knockout when the wife sidles into the room and sits beside me. Thinking she seen the latest bank statement and the inexorable debits to Kingwinford, I prepare myself for the inevitable. Instead, a hand snakes across my thigh and gives my nuptials a playful squeeze. Now, I’m by no means a prude, but a wife wanting sex with her husband seems a touch unnatural in this age of readily available internet pornography. Leaning over, she nibble one of my ears and murmurs, “Bert, darling, is it okay if mum stays with us for a few days while her kitchen is being redecorated?” I’m about to protest when I feel her grip on my vitals tighten.  I smile weakly and nod my head. The grip loosens. “Good,” she grins enigmatically, “I’m sure the two of you will have so much to talk about.”

1:25pm – in the garage. Standing back and examining my Dremal inspired handy work I’m pleasantly surprised at the results. The exhaust exits low and the carb filter exits high through the new bonnet hole. I decide to test the engine. I quickly connect the fuel lines and then fire-up the mighty Xflow. It coughs, splutters them catches, blipping the throttle an induction noise akin to one you might expect Ruby Wax to make if she was being pleasured by David Dickinson spits out of the bonnet aperture. I like it. The problem of the slipping cycle wings remains, so I make a decision to visit my local Catterham owners club and find out how to secure the bl**** things for once and for all.

3:43pm – The Croissant, Ye Olde Tea and Scone Shope. Turned up at my local Catterham owners club meeting and was made to feel about as welcome as a blow-footballer with halitosis. I introduced myself to the blimp of an AO,  Duncan Smyth-Cravat, and followed his wobberling buttocks as he staggered to the back of the room under the weight of a tray piled high with 4  Devonshire Clotted cream teas. I was expecting to see 3 other people at the table, but Duncan was obviously a man with an appetite to match his girth. I waited until he’d gorged before asking if their was a special way of attaching Catterham cycle wings. He fixed me with a piggy eye (disarmingly, the other remained focused on the food), grinned maliciously and touched a porky finger to his bulbous nose, “Boy, Catterhams are held together with a secret ingredient.”

“Which is?” I nodded expectantly.

Jowls flapping, Duncan laughed, “Boy, we swear a blood-oath never to divulge The secret.”

“How about if I brought another round of cream teas and a flagon of Sarsaparilla?”

“Done”, he grunted, licking his lips, “Catterhams are held together with MRP, that’s Money Reinforced Plastic to you oinks. Shred a wad of £50 notes and combine with half-a-litre of resin, this mix will bond anything Catterham to anything else.”

6:45 – In the garage. Engine’s running hot. Spent most yesterday and a sizable chunk of today trying to bleed the mighty Xflow’s coolant system. Spanner popped around with a jug of treacle (don’t ask) and suggested I crush up a couple of Windeeze tablets and put them in the coolant. He reckoned if they removed trapped air from the human digestive tract they should remove trapped air from a few rubber pipes. Daft though it sounded, I  thought I’d give it try.  

9:12pm - Quiff and Salami, public house. Local Area Meet (LAM). It’s the AO birthday and the LAM lads have ordered a stripper. Before the “entertainment” arrives a heated, alcohol fuelled discussion starts about much of a Westfield’s frame can removed to save weight without compromising rigidity. Maybe I was missing the point, but there’s something incongruous about a bunch of guys with Olympic sized beer-guts arguing about saving a kilo of weight. The stripper arrives, looking for all the world like Dot Cotton in drag, then proceeds to shed her clothing to the rhythmic sounds of Benny Hill’s seminal Ernie, the fastest milkman in the west. I watch stunned at the gyrating geriatric struggles to remove her support stockings then tries to sprinkles Horlicks over her breasts, but can’t reach down that far and ends up putting her back out to collective cries of, “Get ‘em on.”.

11:12pm – in front of the computer. Email from Cheryl Shingles. This time she enclosed a picture of herself. I’m amazed she’s worn so well; doesn’t seem a day over 30. With an amorous lump sprouting in my trousers I decide to bring our date forward. I’m just about to email back declaring my undying love when I notice a copy of the Daily Mirror in the background of her picture sporting the headline: Thatcher Becomes Britain’s First Female Prime Minister.

11:33pm – still in front of the computer. Log onto WSCC site and peruse the Cars For Sale section. A guy from Manchester has posted up a picture of a SE he’s flogging. If Ann Widdecombe had acted as a surrogate mother to Clare Short and Lily Savage, their collective off-spring would have looked like this car. The engine was from a Honda CB250 with a chain running the full length of the prop tunnel before joining up to cog on a differentialess rear axle. The suspension boasted polished copper wishbones and the body-work looked as if Stevie Wonder had painted it in hepatic yellow bathroom emulsion using an electric toothbrush.  The owner described the car as being used daily but, for what, we can only guess.

11:55pm - decide to give up smoking tomorrow. Went to bed and fell asleep reading the bit in Ulrika Jonsson’s autobiography where she claims to have made whoopee with Sven Goran Eriksson in a Catterham Superlight R: dream the mother-in-law melts her dentures and loses most of her facial tissue after using a Bic lighter to check if she’d cleaned out the Westfield’s fuel tank properly

[Mark Stanton]

ROFLAO            

[neilwillis]

Somebody nominate him for the booker prize!

My sides ache!!!!!

               

[Ian Podmore]

The office wonders why I'm crying  Bravo Bert, keep it up so to speak....

[Bert Jones's Diary]

Saturday, October 8

Corner weight: The Bishop’s Finger Pedant Society has once again drunk enough to discuss corner-weight (CW). Baz, the yodelling roofer, claims CW is a virtual measurement because each bend you take will cause the CW to change depending on the radius of the bend and your speed. Gravity and G-force, mumbles D’Arcy drunkenly, before sliding off his stool. Pert barmaid, Vikki, picks up our empties and giggles, “Silly boys, corner-weight is a dynamic force not a static measurement. If you modelled a computer simulation of the torsion and tensions across the chassis you could calculate the torque both laterally and longitudinally which could then be dynamically applied to unsprung weight and suspension tolerances over a positive and negative movement plane.” Stepping over D’Arcy, she giggled again and disappeared behind the bar.

We look at each other astounded, mouths agape. “Well what do you think boys?” I ask eventually.

Baz rubs his chin reflectively before saying, “Defiantly not wearing a bra.”

“….or knickers,” slurs D’Arcy from the floor.

10:27am – visit to Kingwinford. Parking Spanner’s Allegro well away from the factory we slip on Porsche sweatshirts and walk to the reception. Spanner, Grease Gun and my good self are ostensibly here to collect a pair of sports seats, but thought we’d blag a test drive or three at the same time. Entering the factory’s scruffy reception area I sniff appreciatively at the lingering smell of engine oil. The chirpy receptionist smiles a hello and Grease Gun leers back. Ignoring my boorish friend, I saunter over to her desk like a man weighed down with the worries of having more money than he can spend. “I phoned a week ago to book a couple of test drives, “ I lied. She nods and presses a green button on her desk. A moment later a harried, middle-age man appears with what looked like a nylon ginger mop stuck to his head. Now, I’m not one to mock another man’s vanities, but this guy’s wig would have had Bernie Ecclestone sniggering. Trying to ignore his mullet I said we were here to test drive their cars and could he hurry up because the Porsche was double parked. He shuffled uncomfortably and said the only car available at the moment was something called a Megabusa. What’s that I asked? Grinning proudly Mr. Mullet says it’s a Westfield powered by a Suzuki Hayabusa engine. Hearing this Grease Gun starts sniggering and Spanner tells Mullet man to stop p******** about and go and get something decent with a Xflow in it. Mullet grins like a shark and says to Spanner, “Why don’t you give it a spin, sir?”

12:11pm – The Pheasant Plucker, just outside Kingwinford. Two of us are sitting at the bar with  pints of some sickly Northern brew and a couple of flaccid Ploughman’s. Grease Gun glances at his watch, then nods at the toilet, “How much longer is he going to be in there?” Still fuming I growl, “I don’t ******’ care, but he’s not getting back into the bl**** car with us until he’s washed his underwear.”

3:14pm – on the toilet reading Westfield World. The mag now has an Agony-Uncle section hosted by the arboreal Dougie Dick; Jungian Psychotherapist and spanner man to the stars. Described as cross between Jeremy Paxman and Eddie Izzard, Dougie has offered his unique brand of no nonsense advice on personal and mechanical conundrums in every magazine from Fiesta to National Geographic for more than 20 years. Dougie column starts in the next issue; can’t wait. Interesting item in the For Sale section. Look at the contact number and see it’s Wayne the Essex AO, no less.

3:35pm – in front of the computer. I’m a worried man. Cheryl Shingles has emailed me a picture of a recipe for boiled rabbit with a short note demanding to know why I’ve not responded to her previous email. I can’t shift thoughts of Fatal Attraction out of my mind and wonder if I should end our budding relationship here and now. Of course testosterone wins the day so I email back and ask what veggies should I cook with the rabbit.

4:15pm – Ring Wayne the AO. Great news, he hasn’t sold it yet. Arrange to meet him tomorrow night.

5:23pm – in the garage. Taking Spanner’s advice on trapped air, I’ve mixed a jug of water with 3 packets of Windeeze and pour the lot into the header tank. Jumping into the car, I fire-up the mighty Xflow and rev the engine until the temp-gauge it’s Rubicon of 80c then switch off. First I hear a deep rumbling from the bowels of the car then, a screeching hiss. Deciding discretion is the better part of valour I leap out of the shaking Westfield and dive through the garage door just as the radiator cap blasts off followed by a Krakatau of a mechanical fart. Lying on the ground outside the garage, gagging on the sulphuric flatulence billowing out of the open door, I look up to see my neighbour peering over the fence at me. “What the heck was that, Bert?”

“Trapped air,” I cough, trying to clear my lungs, “thought I could get rid of it with 3 packets of Windeeze.”

“Next time I’d stick to the recommended dose,” he frowns, then disappears back to his gardening.

6:15pm – Phone call on mobile. PC Traipse has contacted me as part of an on-going enquiry into stolen kitcar parts. I tell him my Westfield is a component car not one of those cheap kit things, so he’d be better off investigating a Catterham owner. PC Traipse still insist on wanting to examine my car and arranges to come around the following day. I immediately phone D’Arcy and tell him I’ve got some pukka Catterham cycle wings for his Dutton he can have gratis.

7:35pm – in the garage. D’Arcy has pulled his junk heap up to the garage door in preparation for the transplant. I slip on a face mask, fire up the grinder and expertly slice the Dutton’s integral wings off. The body work immediately sags so I quickly Duck-tape on the cycle wings before he notices. Job finished. D’Arcy stands back and wipes a tear from his eye as I explain, if he painted a 7 on the bonnet people would think he was driving a real Catterham. Overcome with gratitude, he whips out a bottle of brown ale and cracks it (literally) against his bonnet, then announces grandly, “I christen thee Dutterham.”

7:44pm – Outside chez Jones. I watch in relief as D’Arcy and his dire Dutterham belch away in a grey cloud of bubonic motor oil. Finally I’m free of the accursed cycle wings. Or am I?

8:12pm – in the garage. Looking at the Westfield without it’s cycle wings fills me with mixed emotions, can’t decide if I should go back to clam-shells or spend even more of our holiday money on Kingwinford originals. If the wife ever sees the state of our bank account she’d take out a Fatwa against me. Decide not to decide and go down the pub instead.

10:55pm – Come home to an empty house. Second time the wife’s been out this month which has only added to my suspicions since she started bleaching her moustache and having a monthly French wax. Also, I accidentally found a dubious note the other day while I was going through her coat pockets. It simple said. “

See You At 7pm, Usual Rendezvous – E"

11:18pm – in front of the computer. With 7 pints of Light and Bitter topped off with a kingsize Pot-noodle sloshing around my stomach I log onto WSCC site and ask about a cure for the mighty Xflow’s over-heating. 20 responses later I’m reeling at the number of eclectic ways to plumb a simple Xflow. One guy from Rotherham had a particularly novel solution by plumbing in a total-loss cooling system. Apparently he’d fixed a 40 gallon pressurised water tank in place of the passenger seat and run pipes fitted with fine sprinklers through the bulkhead and into the engine bay. When he started the car an auxiliary pump would power up and spray cooling water over the engine and gear box. He claimed 8 mp(water)g and said if he didn’t have to use £5 worth of WD40 every time he wanted to start the engine the system would be very economical.

11:59pm - decide to give up smoking tomorrow. Went to bed and fell asleep reading Pope John Paul II favourite motoring anecdotes: dream the mother-in-law suffers oesophageal haemorrhaging after drinking a glass of the Westfield’s brake fluid thinking it was her Senokot.

[Mark Stanton]

                 

[Doug D.]

              give this man all the alcohol he wants    

[neilwillis]

         

[Bert Jones's Diary]

Sunday, October 9

Corner weight. Take the car down to the local weigh-bridge and bribe the operator with a bottle of Tesco’s own label Riesling, a box of Black Magic and pouch of rough-******* for his pipe. The plan is simple: drive the car onto the weigh-bridge; jack up 3 of the corners, leaving on one the weigh-bridge. Repeat the process 4 times and, hey presto, problem solve. Takes me less that an hour and I now know each corner of my car weighs exactly 545 kilos; which means the Westfield is in perfect balance; even if it does weigh a few kilo’s more than I though. Can’t wait to brag about it on the WSCC site.

9:14am – in the garage flicking through the copy of Mother & Baby I found in the betting shop this morning. Reading through the mag, I chance upon an interesting article on baby burping. Now, I’m no expert on rug-rats but, it was easy to see the parallels between a mother trying to wind her kid and me trying to free the trapped air in the mighty Xflow. Lacking a crane and a 20ft shoulder I thought I could improvise by hoisting up the car with a block and tackle then giving the engine a pat with an industrial sized rubber sledgehammer. I’ll talk the plan over with Spanner and see what he thinks.

10:26am – on the toilet reading Westfield World. There’s a lot of space given up to something called the Speed Series. I’m not exactly sure what this is, although the obvious conclusion would be a race of some sort. Now, call me old fashion but, why would anyone race something with the aerodynamics a breeze-block and the structural integrity of a Big Mac?

11:17am – in the garage. Blissfully bolting in the new seats, I’m taken aback by the wife’s sudden appearance. Behind her was a bizarre woman who looked like John Wayne wearing a pink jump-suit with Gretchen embroidered across her ample bosom. I smile weakly and hope they’ve not noticed the Westfield’s new seats. I’m formally introduced to the Germanic Gretchen; who wastes no time in barking out that she’s now wife’s new counsellor. Ignoring my outstretched hand, Gretchen sniffs at the air suspiciously, “Is dat alcohol I can smell, Herr Jones?”

“N, n, no,” I stutter, “the car’s got a wind problem I’m trying to cure.” Hearing this, the wife laughs just a little too hysterically and sits on one of the new seats while she fumbles out a Temazepam. Gretchen glares at the Westfield’s claustrophobic interior and asks, without preamble, if I’m an autoerotic fetisher for owning such a constricted car. Trying to make a joke I say, “No, I’m just into your usual stuff, rubber sheets and enemas et al.” As soon as the words tumble from my mouth I realised my mistake: never mention enemas to a German frau.

“Das ist gut, Herr Jones,” Gretchen almost smiled, “da clean bowels makes for a gut husband, ja?” Sniffing at the air again she said, “I think your crampt car would benefit from an enema, no?” Then, with a clap of her large hands, she bellowed, “Come, Mrs Jones, we have to counsel.”

12:33pm – in front of the computer. I’m a worried. Cheryl Shingles has emailed saying that she wants to come over to my bachelor pad for a night of fun and frolics. Deciding that I must be a man and sort this before the wife finds out; also decide that Grease Gun is just the man to do it for me.

2:14pm – in the garage. The seats are now in place and look succulently sexual with their colour-coded 4-point harnesses. I’ve been practicing and can now get in and out of the harness in a shade under 30 minutes. I bolted the clam-shell back in place and immediately saw a problem; they cover up a good portion of the expensively polished manifold as it exits out of the car’s bodywork. Decide drastic action is in order so go into the house and grab the remains of the Spanish brandy I was saving for Christmas.

2:24pm – in the garage. Fortified with a belly full of the fiery Spanish fly I feel confident enough to fire up the angle grinder. Saying a quick prayer of contrition I chop off the rear half of the nearside clam shell. Taking another deep slug on the brandy bottle I shape a piece of corrugated Perspex with the angle grinder and fix it onto the circumcised clam-shell with 4 self-tappers and a good dollop of Plumbers Mate. I now have a Perspex observation window through which the hoi polloi can view the gorgeous exhaust system unhindered by fibre glass emb*******ance.

4:21pm – in the kitchen being interviewed by the local car-crime officer. I hand PC Traipse a coffee and explain that my Westfield is 100% kosher. Licking his pencil, he asks me how to spell kosher then spends the next 10 minutes scribbling in his notebook. The young PC, who reminds me of an uglier Andrew Lloyd Webber, finally finishes writing and insists I show him the Westfield.

4:35pm – in the garage. PC Traipse gazes at my car and frowns like a man who just been goosed by Valerie Singleton. He obviously hasn’t the slightest clue as to what he’s looking for or at. Licking his pencil again, he asks shiftily, “What’s the engine?”

Patting the mighty Xflow I say proudly, “Race spec 1600 Ford unit.”

Narrowing his eyes, the PC points at the rocker-cover triumphantly, “Then, why does it have Burton written on it?”

“Because, it’s a Burton prepared mighty Xflow,” I reply patiently.

“Does it run?”

“Do bears shi….. never mind, I’ll show you.” Sliding into the new seat, I fire-up the mighty Xflow and rev the engine until the temp-gauge reaches the magical 80c then switch off. As soon as I hear a deep rumbling from the Westfield’s bowels I say, “Hang on a minute, I think I can hear the phone.” Jumping out of the car, I just make it outside as a screeching hiss is followed by a gigatoic blast as the radiator cap flies off and fills the air with a putrefying stench. The hacking cough inside the billowing garage tells me the young PC is alive, if a little battered.

8:47pm – The Ferret’s Scrotum public house, the WSCC Essex Chapter’s monthly meet. Dressed in the de rigueur shell-suit and fat, gold-link bracelet I pull into the car park and see a line of white Westfields with bumper stickers proclaiming, My Other Car’s An Escort XR3i Cabriolet. Inside, the theme pub I follow the (great) smell of Brut to the function room where I was met by shell-suited Wayne, the AO. Flashing gold capped teeth, perm-a-tan Wayne thrusts a pint of Bucks Fizz in my hand and takes me to the function room where he keeps his portable lock-up. Checking we were alone, Wayne unlocked the miniature garage and pulls out a magnificent pair of mink, fluffy dice. I paid the asking price without quibble and leave before he changes his mind. Once outside I carefully wrap the dice and set off for home safe in the knowledge that the wife would forgive me all my sins once she sees what I’ve brought for her birthday.

11:55pm - decide to give up smoking tomorrow. Went to bed and fell asleep reading Bamber Gascoigne’s scathing critique of the Westfield build manual: dream the mother-in-law is crushed by the Westfield after catching her support stockings on the pneumatic jack.