Bangers and Metal

So last weekend we shoved a bunch of goons (of the French, Jolly Blogger and Sath Ifrikan types) in a car and headed for the hills, to drink rough cider and watch cars smash into each other, aka 'Banger Racing'.
I'd meant to go last year, but timetabling issues (mainly boyfriend goon's employers insisting on sending him to the US at inconvenient intervals) failed me, so I was a banger virgin.

I'd heard a lot about the bangers from other goons, and I was praying I wouldn't be disappointed as it sounded great. So us and a car half-full of normal people headed off to the wilds, unfortunately the person who knew the way was in the car following, fortunately Jolly Buffon has map-reading skillz, so I could just sit happily in the back and annoy everyone by shrieking along to French goon's 'Best of Girls Aloud' CD, and take the piss out of Ka's with pink alloys.

We got there fine, the racetrack is in a very picturesque place, so we all admired some fields, some trees, hills and more fields, all highlighted beautifully by early Spring sunshine.
Then the racing started. And wow, it was everything I'd been promised and more! The smell alone was beautiful - a mixture of burning rubber, oil, over revved engines, locking brakes, and overheated, at-breaking-point assorted car parts.


I was a bit suprised by just how tiny the track was, considering the next day's racing was 'Limos and Hearses'. We got bangers, hot rods and stock cars when we went, though unfortunately no Robin Reliants, which tip over when just going in straight lines, so figure they'd be awesome in a banger race.


Fairly shortly, there were more rookie bangers off in the middle of the track than on:





After jumping up and down and getting overexcited at crashes, (yup, far too excited to remember to take any pics, sorry) we refuelled (ok, I wasn't all that fussy on the local liquified rotten apples, so I stuck to the whisky) and went to look at the pits.

There were some quite smushed cars:




And some awesome repairs going on:



even better:




Basically, a great day was had by all, we learnt that you DO NOT want French goon's support, as not one car he picked finished a race, and that rolling down Somerset hills whilst off your face on whisky and motor oil fumes (me and Charliecat) is great fun. I do have some more pics somewhere, so may add these later.

Amen

So basically the garage fucked me over some more, were 3 days late in finishing it, which resulted in me taking a day off to stay in Bristol to collect the car and avoid terribly long train journeys, then they didn't deliver it.

So had to leave boyfriend goon's house at 5.30 am to catch train to Wales, catch connecting train up the valley to work, then repeat in reverse to collect car: total train time: 5 hours. Total walk time: 40mins, then drive home from Bristol 50 mins. Long day, the only thing that saved it from being 2.5 hrs longer was nice French goon offered to collect my keys from Garage Shithole to save me having to catch 2 trains home from work and 1.5 mile walk home to get spares keys then 2 trains back to Bristol. (Thanks Frenchie!)

But my car's now back and, so far, running ok.
Touch wood.

ARGH, but more so.

Anyhoos, so I've toddled off for a couple days away with boyfriend type of goon, come back, and car still isn't fixed, due to wrong parts being supplied/leaves on the line/celebrating the anniversary of Hitler's first masturbatory emission. I eventually pick car up at 17:20, hand over £150 and drive off, thinking 'at least that's over and I've got a car back'.
Dropping goon off home after an evening of being bad at sport, at say 23:30 I turn the ignition, and....

Yeah, you guessed it, "and nothing". That'd be my starter motor gone then.


So instead of going away to Wales for the weekend, taking in some picturesque scenery (yeah, we gots some pritty sheeps), and helping friend move house, I'll get to spend it getting picked up by the AA and towed to the garage, for them to suck their teeth some more, order in some more incorrect parts and generally fanny about with it so they can slap another bill on me.


The annoying part: I don't have a 15 yr old, 99 000 mile Fiesta, (as some people I know own very happily with no problems); I have a goddamn 3.75 year old, 40k mile Toyota, serviced less than a month ago, of which the sole purpose of me purchasing and spending nearly 2k more than I'd planned was so that it was completely reliable, never breaks down and I don't have any hassle with it or have to spend any money on it. But instead it stops working less than 6 hours after picking it up from the garage having spent £150 on repairs. Grr.

Anyway, as goon, myself and boyfriend type of goon (who was called to my aid by goon one, goon one having noticed my redness of face, inability to speak without spitting profanities and, quite likely, steam coming out of my ears, and deciding he didn't want to bear the brunt of it)
are attempting to push my car away from place blocking someone else's driveway and into a place where I can dump it for the night (and maybe set fire to it later), the police turn up.

With their amazing deductive powers, they've decided that three people standing under streetlights in full view of a whole bunch of houses, with bags of shopping, are attempting to steal the piece of shit car by pushing it very very slowly into a parking space.
(Although, to be fair this is Horfield, not known for the intelligence and cunning of its criminal underworld, so they probably foil several similar plans each night.)

Police decide, after some questionning that we're not actaully attempting to steal the car, and kindly give me a hand to 7 point park the damn thing.

At present, I'm still torn between torching it and calling the AA in the morning.
Answers on a postcard please.

ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

So, driving to Bristol on Sunday night for the start of a lovely, relaxing week off, I hear a strange noise.
First of all I'm slightly confused, as I didn't think I had that much bass on my sound system thingy, and since when do Girls Aloud do heavy rock anyway? Noise quickly gets louder and I decide I should pull over and have a look.
So, lying under my car at side of Glos Road with asshole boy racers whizzing within mere inches of my fragile, quite pretty little skull at 50mph, I notice that the long bit looks sorta saggy. I poke it and it wiggles.
I rev, and it sounds like it's a Ferarri.
(Well, that's not quite accurate, as a certain annoyingly correct sarcastic soul pointed out, it sounds more like an afore-mentioned boy racer's fugly pimped Saxo). But you get the idea - loud and obnoxious, either way.

As it's dark, I baby it home and retire to the pub, seeking refuge in alcohol and thoughts of botch welding to last until I can flog it to some poor unsuspecting sucker/ aka bastard car supermarket, and start dreaming of prettier motors to replace it with.
(Unfortunately, none that I both like and can afford)

I take it to the garage after calling around and picking the one that sounds least like a goddamn rip-off merchant, and after some sucking of teeth and 'no, impossible to weld it there, well, we can replace it, but X might break, in which case it'll be an extra £50
- what, how does that work?! you break it, you pay for it is the rules I have to play by (eg see above ref to my goddamn exhaust pipe, I didn't even break that, it just spontaneously fell off, and I have to pay £150, but you break it and I have to pay you £50??!!)
- I give them the car to fix.