The moral of the story is......

[Phssthpok]

Last night, on the way home from my local kebab emporium with a chilly special on the passenger seat a glance of the fuel gauge informed my hunger pangs they were going to have to wait. Maybe, in-between their endless tea breaks those dear chapettes at Westfield could knock-up a tank capable of holding more than two pints of 4-Star. Seeing a Q8 sign I reluctantly pulled in for petrol.

In my more crapulent moments, I’ve often imagined a Kitcar version of the fabled elephant’s grave-yard. A mythical place where, old and unwanted kits ended their lonely lives. Anyway, if this was true, and there really was a nirvana for self-built dross, I’d found it on the Q8 forecourt.  With the possible exception of the Lomax club stand at Donington, I don’t think I’d ever seen such an ostentatious display of fibre-glassed junk.

Pretending not to notice the twenty pairs of beady eyes watching me, I pulled up to a pump, leaped out and started filling the tank. Ten minutes later, with the tank still only half full, a possè of old men in leatherette flying jackets detached themselves from their group and tried to engage me in conversation.

Being a well-hard Westfield owner, with a head full of shinny hair, I shun such social niceties and get the same satisfaction talking with strangers as that bloke who has to pick chewing gum and pubic hair out of public urinals has with his job. Nevertheless, these guys were persistent.

“Coffee?” said an elderly fella, holding out an ancient, battered flask.

“I only drink fresh ground Java,” I shrugged, and carried on filling the tank.

“Build it yourself then?” asked his equally cheery mate.

Thinking he’d noticed the bonnet’s scuttle gap was a thou’ out, I bristled and barked, “Factory job mate, so take any smart-arsed observations up with them.”

“No, I was just thinking they did a bl**** good job,” he said with a homely smile.

“When I said the factory made it,” I sniffed, grabbing the compliment back for myself, “I meant they just made the kit, and I built the car of course.”

Still waiting for the tank to fill, I let my gaze wander over the rancid collection of kitcars and their equally rancid owners milling around the forecourt. One particular mechanical monstrosity, looking more like the turd of some nameless bovine, caught my jaded eye. Nodding in it’s direction I giggled and said, “Who the ####’s got the neck to be seen driving that pile of ****e?”

“Me,” mumbled the guy with the flask. Then added, as if in apology, “I know it’s not pretty, but I’ve had it for so long it’s almost part of me.”

“So’s my herpes, but I don’t boast about it,” I shot back.

The old man’s mouth dropped, shock etched into his kindly features, sniffed back a tear, and wandered off to be comforted by a group of his cohorts.

“You didn’t have to say that,” chided the guy with the homely smile, “I though us kitcar owners were supposed to stick together.”

Standing up, so I could look down the full length of my nose at him, “Stick together!,” I snorted, “What makes you think I’d want to stick together with a herd of dead-beats like you? I drive a component car. You drive kitcars. So lets not pretend there’s some sort of equality here sonny.”

On the way home I realised there was a major problem. The Westfield was coughing like a constipated tramp with terminal TB, and my left foot was in danger of being poached. One look at the temp gauge told me all I needed to know. I pulled over and was immediately enveloped in a cloud of super-heated steam. Okay, maybe I should have followed the build manual’s advice and fitted a four-core-rad’, but why should I spent my good money because of Westfield’s latent inability to design a car that would take a big, and more importantly, cheap radiator?

I sat and pondered my options while a steady stream of passing tin-can motorist honked and sniggered like puerile school kids at my predicament. What could I do? I wasn’t in the AA, RAC, or any other of those parasitic organisations who feed off the mechanically inept.

Then the skies opened.

There are any number of apocryphal yarns featuring marooned drivers inventing novel solutions to break-down problems; The guy who used a Durex to transport a gallon of petrol back to his car. The woman who topped up her radiator with fresh urine, or the couple who used a pair of tights as a fan belt. These stories, along with all their ilk, are so much stuff and nonsense. In reality, petrol melts latex condoms, urine’s boiling point is too low and tights break. I’m sure there’s probably some story doing the rounds about a motorist who fixed a split coolant pipe with a couple of sanitary towels and a packet of marshmallows. But, as I had neither, I resigned myself to the inevitable wet walk to the nearest garage.

As I was trying to decide which way to go, the far off thrum of badly tuned engines hovered in the air like a blue-bottle convention. Turning in the direction of the sound, I saw a distant convoy of convoluted cars chugging towards me. As they neared, the indistinct blobs, coagulated into a misshapen menagerie of kitcars: the self-same cars I’d seen in the Q8 garage. On a rainy night, never let it be said that Phssthpok is one to hold a grudge, so I stuck my thumb out and tried to look suitably contrite.

One by one, the deformed cars passed me without a flicker of recognition from their owners. I was on the verge of giving up hope, when a straggler peeled away from the pack and pulled-up behind the Westfield.

It was moments like this that made me truly believe in the benevolence of man-kind. I recognised the lumpy, dung-like lines of the four-wheeled turd immediately, and despite my appropriate insults, the driver had still decided to help out a fellow component car driver. I must admit, I nearly felt ashamed of myself. I started to understand the error of my despicable nature, and vowed to changed my depraved ways. From now on, I’d be a model citizen, I’d give to charity, feed the cat regularly, not laugh at Robin Ho*ds and stop nagging the wife about her dependency on Barbiturates. Wiping a tear from my malignant eye, I gratefully walked towards saviour; a good Samaritan above all good Samaritans.

At my approached, the driver’s window slid down and a voice from the dark, warm interior said, “Do you need hand son?”

“Yes please,” I mumbled, ashamed to the very core of my being.

With that he stuck his hand out of the window gave me a round of applause and cackled, “Next time buy yourself a Cat*rham.”

My mouth dropped, as the window rose and the car belched away, leaving me standing impotently in a cloud of exhaust gas and drizzle.

I’m sure there’s a moral to this story but, unfortunately, I’m far too shallow to work out what it is.

[Blatman]

There are any number of apocryphal yarns featuring marooned drivers inventing novel solutions to break-down problems; The guy who used a Durex to transport a gallon of petrol back to his car. The woman who topped up her radiator with fresh urine, or the couple who used a pair of tights as a fan belt.

I particularly like the one about a Westfield owner, who extinguished an under bonnet fire with a particularly large "sample bottle" of patients urine. Apparently, the plastic bottle was placed on top of the engine, and our hero waited for the flames to melt it, thus extinguishing the flames with a veritable deluge of number ones    . When the fire brigade asked who put the fire out, our cheery respondent said "I did, with p*ss.......". Apparently the firefighters were quite impressed. Can't remember who wrote it though..............

I'm no good with morals either..........

[Phssthpok]

   

[Mark Stanton]

Tales of Phssthpok        A memory of years gone by        

[Phssthpok]

Count yourself lucky, that was the abridged version. Now, where did I put that 6,000 word story about how I built an SE using a 2CV as a donor....

       

[Mike H]

Brilliant as always.

Reminds of a time as an adolescent yob after a night out at the local 6th form boozer we crammed into a mates sisters Mini for the trip to someones house for further refreshment. On the way we passed 2 large blokes on a small moped farting their way up a long hill. Needless to say we let rip at them with the usual stuff.

About a mile further up the road, said mates sisters Mini somehow left the road and finished passenger side down in a ditch - oops. What happened next - yes you guessed it. 2 large gentlemen - 'get off and milk it you fat bast*rds' - came round the bend laughing their ars*s off!

There must be a Chinese proverb for this sort of thing.

Have you fixed you rad?

Mike

BTW how did the BMW story really end?

[Mark Stanton]

Now, where did I put that 6,000 word story about how I built an SE using a 2CV as a donor....

As published in Westfield World many moons ago ....... very funny        and there were even folks who wrote in asking how ?    even funnier        

[The five fingered widow]

Have I missed something?

[Blatman]

Have I missed something?

Yep............    

[Nick Algar - Competition Secretary]

Reminds me of:

"A friend in need, is a friend indeed."

[Phssthpok]

"A friend in need, is a friend indeed."

…or even, “A friend in need is a bl**** nuisance.”