So here I am, mad as a muppet with mumps about to embark upon what is likely to be even worse than before.  For on Saturday last, stultified reader, the excellent Ed and I collected our rented car transporter and picked our way carefully across to Leeds, home of the equally excellent Meerkat to retrieve the old chap from his home in a paddock of the last few months.  Whereas I can’t say he looked any worse than before, the word ‘better’ cannot really be used of Mr Rusty.  Trade descriptions can’t have any complaints either, as his name belies exactly what he is – almost entirely.

Despite leaving what I thought was sufficient air-gap between him and the ever malevolent force of Ermintrude and her Ermintritus, I was wrong.  Mr Rusty’s wiring is, well, without wires in terms of the ignition, so has to be started with a loop between solenoid and motor.  Whereas in the past he has not objected to this at all, firing up almost immediately, this time he was not at all happy about being woken up.  Despite being dragged violently around Meerkat’s manner by the legendary ex-Range Rover Frord, Mr Rusty stoutly refused to go. 

It took the efforts of five people in the end – Meerkat to apply the wire, Graham to add a little brakecleaner assistance, Emu to make ‘helpful’ suggestions, Ed to gun the gas and Gore to drink coffee before he gave up and fired up in a huge billowing cloud of filth.  To be fair to the old boy he then ran for the time it took to get him on (what turned out to be) the tiny car transporter, and home.

Now, all kinds of scenarios had played out in my head about the return journey.  Mr Rusty accelerating violently and suddenly backwards down the M62, us inventing the new sport of side-tobogganing on the same, or him driving through the truck’s cab and indenting a LR badge on the back of my head – all of these seemed eminently viable, however, as with all things that seem far too Ermintrude-like for comfort, none of this happened.  However, when we finally arrived at the storage facility, he ardently refused to start again.

We borrowed a big battery (with charge in, which helped) – he refused to start.  Flex turned up in Dougal with jumpleads – he refused to start.  We squirted flammable stuff into his air intake again – he refused to start.  After some considerable time, in pure desperation I covered the air intake with my hand and pulled it off – BOOM and he was running, once again filling the crisp evening air with voluminous clouds of rusty smoke.  Recognising, as we did, that 1. he appeared to have very limited diesel and 2. there was no water in the engine, we ‘whipped’ him off the trailer and Ed attempted to manoeuvre him into the shed.  The entire shed filled with such a huge cloud of smoke that time started to lose meaning for me as I directed him in, however I think we were in there for about 2 weeks.  As we began to approach something like the right position to keep him out the way of the other cars and the door, Mr Rusty got fed up of his electrics and all lights switched off.  This made things considerably harder as the shed’s rear lights were not working.  We persevered, and after probably another month we achieved it.  Sitting/standing/coughing back with joy, watching the various pixies and goblins dance nymph-like through the pink hedges, his lights came back on.

A final trip to deposit the car transporter was all that remained, and then some well earned nosebag.  Mr Rusty was then slumbering quietly in his new shed, awaiting the big restoration which will see him made into a basic camper, ready for expeditions around Europe and beyond.  This year there is a trip to Scotland I would dearly love to have him ready for, and next year one to Morocco on my trusty Ural for which he could be the support vehicle.

And so, the following day, relaxing with a cuppa and contemplating how much worse the day could have gone, I decided to thank old Ermintrude for not passing on her Ermintritus by fixing her alternator and getting her going, which I duly did.  Of course, I should have know this would have no sway with the old girl whatsoever.  It was then that I realised we’d left half of the straps that came with the recovery truck at the storage facility.  The tale of retrieving them and returning them to the owner is one of arduous hassle punctuated by no fuel and no wallet.  But suffice to say, Ermintrude’s influence is no less pungent than ever.

N.B. – a certain notorious idiot was involved….

Many of these blogs originally appeared elsewhere, however now they’re here – enjoy ‘em, and post comments – and have some sympathy for the endless, hapless exploits of the Gore family.

You’ll see some references to folks – these are my friends, for the most part, in the Land Rovering community.

Unfortunately, it would appear that the alter-ego of Tex Gore who once, many months ago got drunk and managed to ‘win’ a cursed old Series 3 Land Rover on eBay through damning cocktail of red wine and said auction site can think of a way to make things worse. Said alter-ego came along again, drunk as before, this time on a different site but nonetheless using the t’interweb, and wreaked his havoc. And that havoc came in the form of a big blue Discovery 1 called Florence.

Florence is a nice name isn’t it. It was coined by Sniff my Diff’s good lady wife. Clearly, the two have not met.

‘Don’t be so soft’ I hear you cry, ‘Everyone who has a Discovery expects a few glitches’. Oh do they. The alter-ego thought of that, and agreed to purchase, unseen and untested, not any old Discovery but one which has been considerably chopped about for the purpose of getting further in the mud than before. So that would be a non-standard, 17-year old, used-mainly-for-things-that-will-wreck-it, more-complicated-than-Ermintrude vehicle that, of course, has to come into close contact with her malevolent sister.

Let me take a moment to talk of the dreadful affliction that Sutherland Engineering Consultancy, my long-suffering advisory contingent, named ‘Ermintritis’. Ermintritis is real. It passes on the jinxed affliction which besets all who own Ermintrude by causing said vehicle to break down inexplicably at the most inconvenient times. It also causes the instant, and baffling loss of tools which will never be seen again. Furthermore it somehow has the ability to collaborate with Idiot Bassets, in the hiding of engine components, clandestine moving of little chairs (as you are about to sit on them), and the attempted removal (by force) of overalls and other items of clothing, hair, and body parts. I know Ermintritis is real and so do other members:

• Ask Bananahead how, after a visit and the close promximity of Reginald, his Discovery 2 to Ermintrude, Reginald inexplicably reversed into a wheelie bin.
• Ask Graham how, after visiting with his Lightweight, the car, for the first time ever snapped it’s not-old throttle cable on the way home. And then why the also not-old injector pump broke shortly afterwards.
• Ask BiosBill who, after a visit experienced his Rover suddenly becoming haunted, locking and unlocking itself and sounding alarms he didn’t even know existed.
• Ask Robbie why, at the very thought of Ermintrude’s arrival his 90 chose to block its own fuel pipes and Gary, his Renault 5 failed its MOT.
• And ask Tex Gore, who is battered, bruised, and covered in oil.

So Florence, who on first inspection appeared to be really rather good, albeit off-road soiled, as expected, was dully parked. Ermintrude has just undergone major open-gearbox surgery that weekend. With the assistance of the excellent BiosBill, and with the endless anecdotes, witicisms and tea consumption of FreqMikey, the long-problematic gearbox was rebuilt and replaced. As such Ermintrude was in the finest fettle of her career, and so, to further attempt to avoid any jealousy on her part (and therefore perhaps curb the spreading of Ermintritis) I even put Florence behind Ermintrude in the drive. It didn’t work.

I should, at this point make clear that I bought the vehicle ‘as seen’. I was conscious of that. Furthermore the previous owner did make me aware of known problems. One of these was Florence not really having very good brakes. This was, we suspected owing to the failure of the halfshaft oil seals in the rear axle, which had in turn caused oil to coat the brake discs and pads.

And so begins the hapless tale of Florence ownership. It’s a refreshingly different manner of causing Tex Gore excruciating wallet and heart pain from that which Ermintrude wreaks so effectively, but nonetheless it’s every bit as effective. Whereas Ermintrude resists with all might any attempt to repair or attach anything, Florence quite happily allows for all tinkering with a minimum of fuss. It’s just that when all the hard work is done, you might as well have spent the previous 4 hours oiling weasels, for all the good it did.

So I removed the hubs and stub axles, and it was at this point that ‘Team Gore’ discovered the reason for all the oil. Yes, the halfshaft stub axles seals were shredded, but so too were the hub seals. And why? Because it would appear that the rear axle has, at some point been kept in an aquarium (and a marine one at that) and the stub axles and halfshafts are as rusty as an Alfasud at Skegness. The halfshafts were, at least beset only with surface rust but the stub axles were badly pitted. These had to be replaced, along with all seals and gaskets. Following some interesting order placing with a certain supplier (that saw parcels arriving at my house but with BiosBills name on them, which entirely baffled both my wife and the postman), I began the task of changing out the various components. And so, for the first time in a long time, here is a GoreGuide to undertaking this simple activity.

Continued in Part two…

Here’s a few of the recent activities that have been going on at Gore Garages. Because their so busy, some had to be taken at night!

The workshop is clear and ready for a day’s hard work. Note the very famous client in the waiting area – fresh from filming a new episode of a certain popular motoring show….

A new chassis awaiting collection. This one is galvanised, and painted black for protection and authenticity, and also undergoes the specialist ‘can it sit on wood’ test….

A very special Forward Control 101 ‘Overland’ project vehicle. This FC has been build specifically to conquer the most remote and challenging environments, and as such has a host of specialist navigation equipment. Note the extended sand ladders, bumper-mounted Hi-Lift jack spare wheels, rear ladder, snorkel and locker boxes.

All vehicles are tested for the specific environment in which they will be used.

Of course, the team wouldn’t use anything else for their own recovery vehicle than a Landy! This Series 2a is a classic – note how the wings don’t quite meet the bumper, in traditional style. Note also the white ‘Wolf’ wheels, and how the snorkel plumbs through the bonnet.

The winch and crane ensure a successful recovery every time. This is a LHD vehicle…

See the next thread for more as I appear to have exceeded the upload space….

The week it progressed like a pain in the head
With back-breaking lugging from loft, garage, shed
And endless discussion of what was to go
What’s Tex Gore’s is Flex Gore’s and Flex Gore’s her own

Now Ermintrude’s suffered, as perhaps you all know
With terrible running and constant go-slow
But with all the work that’s been done with real care
She’d surely dispensed with being the saboteur

So without a thought Ermintrude is piled high
With tables and golf clubs and stuff I didn’t buy
And cat polishers that have never been used
It’s no wonder our bank account feels abused

I’m told that my single lie-in of the week
Is not on the cards, if good selling we seek
With horror, alarm is set (though I resisted)
To a time I had no idea even existed

Our muscles are aching from lugging week through
And Ermintrude’s creaking from all the weight too
The idiot basset is crashing about
As slowly we start her, and make our way out

The cash machine for the float is out of order
The next nearest one is across the Welsh border
The shop has run out of the hot sausage baps
I’ve slept for 3 hours and feel fit to collapse

Our fears about Ermintrude didn’t occur
She runs very well (and that’s all the way there)
The virus she carries to spoil all we do
Seems like it has finally gone away, too

By now I think maybe it might be OK
The sun has come out and the cold gone away
The idiot basset is not being daft
And we might start to clear our immense overdraft

Oh why do I labour these things I believe
To think we’d been granted some kind of reprieve
For as round the corner we trundle all surly
We see with despair that we’re seven days early

Dedicated to the good people of Sutherland Engineering Consultancy ]]> http://www.texgore.co.uk/blog/?feed=rss2&p=96 0 http://www.texgore.co.uk/blog/?p=94 http://www.texgore.co.uk/blog/?p=94#comments Fri, 23 Jul 2010 21:17:25 +0000 Tex http://www.texgore.co.uk/blog/?p=94 In the months since my last wearisome entry (in both execution and record, believe me), some benevolent folk have, presumably in the absence of further stultifying blog entries, sent kindly messages enquiring as to the health or otherwise of Ermintrude. These mails have all had a common theme; one of hopeful enthusiasm, making the (desperate) assumption that everything surely must be Ok now? Nothing could surely continue, with this level of activity, for this long? Could it? In fact, exposing Ermintrude to a life of inanimate irrelevance in the Mouldsworth Motor Museum seemed to spur her into life, like when the television won’t work until you saw each one of its legs off one by one until it gives up and starts receiving ‘Sledgehammer’ again. So, after all that, it’s absolutely reasonable to assume that everything is sorted isn’t it. Read on…

You left me, beleaguered and covered in oil after our last ‘thrilling’ instalment when the fuel system had been cleaned and a bafflingly absent fuel filter installed. One Mouldsworth scaring later, and I felt confident to take Ermintrude the 120miles up to our little haunt in the Lake District, having, as we were, two weeks by Coniston Water. In fact, reliable as she now seemed to be, I felt a return to the old activities of making lots of incorrect and unnecessary components hang precariously off her with bits of scrap metal, spray glue and Dutton. As such, I became excited at the thought of the epic trip, and all the deeply adventurous activities we would experience there – challenging green lanes, deep wades, steep climbs, mud, ravines, canyons, volcanoes and cannibals. As such I gave some thought to preparation for the epic adventure being that I’d had quite enough of ending up looking about as adept with all things Land Rover as a deer flying a helicopter. No. This time, I was going to be ready, and people were going to respect Gore for the seriously capable man of mechanical masterdom he had become. As such I constructed my list of issues, complimented by action to be taken:

Awful grinding noise from front area when cornering – stereo loud enough to drown it out, check
Unfeasible temperatures emanating from engine – windows and ‘climate control’ (flaps) open – check
Idiot Basset bouncing all over the place – idiot basset installed into Flex’s car – check

And so it was that Tex, with new confidence, set off for the wilds of Cumbria with Camel Trophy purpose and a new sense of enthusiasm. The only slight niggle in the back of my mind was the newly installed electric fan system which, although operating perfectly in terms of switching on and off at the right time, the fan itself didn’t seem quite so efficient as I’d hoped. Still, it was a cool day, and I didn’t anticipate any major traffic issues.

Sitting in stationary traffic some 20 minutes later on the M6, the relentless Saharan sun beating down on me, I felt the sinking of my heart in direct proportion to the raising of my temperature gauge. Still, it didn’t seem to be climbing anywhere near the red, and the genius use of a pair of headphones was not only cheering me up with the happy sounds of Canned Heat, but was entirely drowning out any interesting Ermintrude grumbles. I had also taken up smoking especially for this trip, to do the same drowning out effect with the array of alarming smells that invade from the moribund engine. As such, I was in carefree mood, so much so that my confidence built up to the removal of the headphones. And that’s when I noticed the noise.

What on earth can that be. A kind of grinding, whirring noise unlike anything I have ever heard (except perhaps that of an electric screwdriver) coming from the rear of the vehicle. With a growing and familiar sense of dread, I pull into Charnock Richard Services (the subject of the only cryptic crossword clue I have ever invented) and investigate.

With the electric screwdriver in the toolbox switched off we resume our slog. The traffic is as mobile as a Yak in a phonebox, and it’s getting hotter. Fortunately the music has a louder setting, so I hack and cough my way up the M6 eventually fighting past Lancaster and into more open road. It is then, with sweaty countenance and no hearing to speak of, I bounce into my destination to be greeted, and partially de-trousered by the hugely enthusiastic idiot basset who attaches herself to what are about my last pair of untoothmarked hosen. No matter, we have arrived. The fuel kangaroo appears to have finally been put out of my misery, and we’ve survived conditions surely only previously experienced by anyone on during the Paris Dakar rally. Happy days. I stagger into the front room, Basset attached piranha-like to my lower leg and stinking of sweat, smoke and oil coughing violently and grinning maniacally.

Ermintrude then provides good service, bumbling from lakeshore to residence carrying boating equipment and such like, letting in rainwater (it is Coniston after all) and gaining snooty pouts from the various new Defender drivers who inhabit the same site. All is good.

Some days later, my friend and professional procrastinator, not to mention legendary bassist, Bradbury Knox, decide to plunge ourselves into aforementioned offroad manly adventure. In anticipation of the sheer plethora of locations in Cumbria, we put on suitably macho adventuring trousers (his are three-quarters, mine were ‘modified’ by the idiot basset) and spread out the OS maps. Trying not to think of the ‘Fast Show’ extreme sports characters (it’s gripped) our only worry is choosing amongst the inevitable cornucopia of twisting, grid-like lanes.

An hour later we find what might, just, be an unclassified road which connects an almost unreachable hamlet with an almost unreachable farm. Drawing from our considerable reserves of bravado, we set off, winding our way down the Wrynose Pass toward what might be an unclassified road and therefore adventure of epic proportions.

Crawling along the single carriageway twists of the Wrynose, as we chug past the only passing place for what must be around 290 miles, Ermintrude hiccups. It’s not much of one, but with the running issues of the last 387 years, my concern is immediately raised and, given our impending plunge into the rainforests, we pull over to administer carb cleaner. It worked last time, after all, and with the new filter nothing much can be getting through.

It is at this point that the otherwise entirely silent road is suddenly and alarmingly populated by what appears to be some kind of convoy. A huge motor home, Range Rover, a Van, and other vehicles of similar girth all trundle up together – in opposite directions. And Ermintrude is inhabiting the only passing place this side of the Ukraine. I bury my head further under the bonnet, and try and make roly-eyed faces designed to articulate the sheer frustration I feel for these people given that I have irrevocably ‘broken down’.

That’s when Bradbury starts the engine. Of course by this time there is so much traffic in both directions, and so much fawning reversing going on, that all this serves to do is reveal us to be the passing-place hogs we really are. I fix him with a grim look and cut the motor on the carb.

When the crushing embarrassment has passed (and believe me I have a thick skin for this kind of thing – I used to pull a folding camper) I resume reparatory activities by carefully removing the fuel line from the carb and spraying cleaning fluid into the intake.

It’s at this point that Bradbury tries to start the engine. I emerge, drenched in fuel and bug-eyed from the engine bay so utterly speechless that I have nothing to offer him in the few seconds before I trip off to a bizarre psychedelic world brought on by the fumes. I dream strange dreams of malevolent Ermintrudes, laughing sardonically at me from Yak-infested phoneboxes. I come out of this reverie as Bradbury tries to start the engine, again.

Some time later we arrive at the end of the road to find, to our delight, an informative sign giving comprehensive instructions as to usage of is. Yes – it is a green lane! Yes, 4x4s are permitted at any time! Yes, it has not rained too heavily recently so should be Ok to try! And we are at the wrong end. With deep, ‘unparalleled’ joy we crank up the mocking Ermintrude and make our way to the other end.

Some 398 miles of shoestring roads and one poorly executed 37-point turn later, we arrive at the other end. It is though a much be-gated farmyard, and beyond we see the first, steep and gravelled section. So this is what we have spent half the day getting to. A brief conversation ensues.

“Looks a bit hard doesn’t it”
“Er, yes”
“Fancy a pint?”
“It is a bit thirsty, this offroad work”

And so, under the malevolent gaze of the farmer, we execute a second 398-point turn and retreat to the Black Bull for a pint of Bluebird, and a long discussion on our big adventure.

Some days later, the next ‘big adventure’ is getting home. I’m not even at the motorway when, with inevitable horror the kangaroo makes a return. I grimly bounce home, the two weeks of Cumbrian holiday already fading into the mundane reality of Ermintrude ownership.

TG

So, what finally has us arrive at this point? Is is the ridiculously iterative chase through the ignition system, replacing just about every component until I could no longer afford the petrol to test it, or the shoes to get to it? I don’t think so – she managed to ride over all that with problem intact. Is it then a very similar process with the fuel system, comprising new carbs – in fact no less than two new carbs, or the new fuel pump, fuel filter or tank cleaning combined with the new sport of ‘tank face cushioning’? Possibly, but I doubt it – that would be too logical for this vehicle. Has the idiot basset mistakenly worked it’s ridiculously-eared magic erroneously making my life easier, rather than the usual alternative? Possible, but she’s not quite that much of an idiot.

Nope, the answer is my favourite motor museum. Not Beaulieu, despite how good that is (if you have a month), Gaydon, or even the Monteverdi one (and I should know; I’ve never been to the latter two). No. My favourite, is the venerable ‘Mouldsworth Motor Museum’. Sited in a converted Waterworks, and covering around 3 square feet, it once sported such motoring icons as an Austin Princess, a Maxi, and, under a tarpaulin (which I got very excited wondering what the secret car might be they were clearly keeping hidden ready for a future big event) a Volvo 740.

Of course, I am being unnecessarily harsh. I do actually love Mouldsworth Motor Museum. It used to be the case that if a party wished the see the exhibits during the week, the curator would have to take the day off work to show them round. The venerable Parry Thomas ‘Babs’ was there for a while too, and it’s actually packed full of great stuff.

How does this lovely and quaint little place help me with my plight you aren’t asking? Well, simple. The idea came to me as I was sawing the legs off the television one by one until it gave up and started receiving ‘Sledgehammer’ properly again. I simply drove Ermintrude to said location, and let her peruse long and hard the silent, lifeless vehicles standing quietly and morosely in the brick expanse, many of them considerably younger than her.

Since then, she’s running like the classic Bentley Continental.

By which I mean thirsty, heavy, lumbering and without any brakes of notable value.

And now there is a horrible screaming problem diagnose….

TG

Ragged and bloody and covered in oil
This is a life full of Ermintrude toil
Blood that is permanently on the boil
This is the life of Tex Gore

Having no knowledge implicit or tacit
As techy mentor is hardly an asset
Exasperated by idiot basset
This is the life of Tex Gore

Lying prostrate in a heap on the floor
Can’t fight the Ermintrude battle no more
Eponymous poems are really a bore
This is the life of Tex Gore

Blue series 3s that are parked in my drive
Millions of noises that come from inside
Doors that bend outward like big metal wings
These are a few of my least favourite things

Dizzy caps that go on either way round
Sinking for no reason into the ground
Every day new pain Ermintrude brings
These are a few of my least favourite things

When the dog bits
When the wife stings
When I’m feeling skint
I simply remember all Ermintrude’s things,
And then I feel considerably worse