The Ultimate Driving Machine?

Bavarian Motor Works

Growing up in the later years of the twentieth century and being a bit of a car nerd, I can fondly remember the glossy adverts for the latest models.  Each brand seemed to have their own identity.  

Everyone knows Audi was vorsprung durch technik even though we had no idea what it meant, progress trough technology apparently.  My Grandfather made a fleeting appearance in an ad for the Audi 80, as the hapless ships captain dropping the car from a millionaires yacht into the Mediterranean.  Audi's boast of the car being made from galvanised steel meant it wouldn't rust, was offset by my Grandfather reporting the car was ruined by the time they'd fished it out, off camera of course. 

Ford had a catchy jingle to go with Everything we do is driven by you.  Volkswagen had the famous Changes advert.  A recent divorcee played by model Paula Hamilton, throwing away her possessions until finding her car key.  She smiles and drives off in her Golf to the caption: If only everything in life was a reliable as a Volkswagen.

Land Rover has been The best 4x4 by far for as long as I can remember and Fiat's Hand built by robots slogan was cheekily rewritten by the comedy show Not the Nine O'clock News to: Designed by lasers, built by robots, driven by Italians accompanied by a picture of a motorway pile up.

BMW, with their rear wheel drive saloons have always marketed itself as The Ultimate Driving Machine.  Adverts would be testosterone filled speed fests, with chiselled males and beautiful girls in exclusive parts of the world.  These adverts appealed to a certain type of person which according to YouGov is:

"Male, aged 40-59, lives in East Anglia. They’re likely to hold right wing political views and work in the business, finance or consulting sectors. Your typical BMW driver is interested in motorsports and motoring, and enjoys dining out."

I think we might all add that BMW drivers tend to view indicators as an unusable optional extra but I digress.

So with this owner profile you may be surprised to learn that when we had to replace my wife's rusty Honda HRV, given that it had gained the structural integrity of a lace doily, we went for a BMW X3.  The reasons were eminently sensible.  It's a 4x4 SUV, it's a comfortable drive, it's an automatic, and most importantly it was cheap.

BMW X3

The X3 when launched in 2003 was the first mid size premium SUV on the market.  It was designed in conjunction with Magna Steyr, the Austrian tractor manufacturer who also built them until 2010.  

So from an ownership point of view I was expecting a relatively easy time, and yet the Ultimate Driving Machine is at times a royal pain in the behind.

With my mechanical skills best described as enthusiastic amateur, I have tackled the following jobs:

• Full Service and Oil Change.  Relatively simple and the car ran much better afterwards.
• Replacement of faulty Air Bag Sensor.  A real pain having to disassemble the passenger B-Pillar trim.  The part is discontinued and took a while to source.
• Repair Vacuum Leak 1.  The rubber intake boot split allowing unmetered air into the engine.  This caused the car to run rich with poor fuel consumption.  I ordered a new part from the BMW dealer and dismantled the engine ready to replace it.  I then discovered my own car had an oil leak and I couldn't drive to pick the part up.  I got the train which took three hours, I had to change at Carnforth and then had a three mile walk from the station in the rain to collect the part.  I got very wet, but the car got repaired.
• Repair Vacuum Leak 2.  A rubber pipe at the bottom of the engine perished causing high fuel consumption again.  This time I ordered a part to be delivered from a specialist.  Trouble was it never came.  I managed to find one from a motor factor 50 miles away in Leeds and had to drive there to collect it.
• Replace front brake pads.  A simple job, that caused no drama.

These repairs were relatively simple, just time consuming.  However by far the worst job on this car by a distance is the rear screen washer.  This is without doubt the stupidest piece of design in the history of the automobile.  I know that might seem a bold statement.  You might say what about the Austin Allegro and its square steering wheel?  What about the Saab 900 you could drive with a joystick?  What about the Morris Marina and its Trunnions?  Or even the G-Wizz or Suzuki X-90? There have been a lot of poorly designed and built cars over the years but, all of those pale into insignificance because the rear washer on a BWW X3 is Premier League stupidity.

Let me explain.

The car has a screen wash reservoir in the front under the bonnet.  It has two pumps, one for the windscreen and one for the rear, so far so standard.  The rear washer jet is supplied by a 6mm pipe that runs from the reservoir to the rear through the car under the carpet.  Again nothing too unusual in that except, BMW in their infinite wisdom decided to make the pipe in two sections.  The joint is on the drivers side of the transmission tunnel and is a push fit.  

So what? I hear you ask, well the problem is this.

When there is cold weather, the rear jet freezes.  When the rear screen wash is activated the pressure forces the joint apart.  As the now broken pipe is lower than the reservoir the entire watery contents leak into the rear footwell, where it soaks into the foam sound deadening material and rots the carpet.

Moreover, this pipe cannot easily be reached, that would be too sensible.  No, no, instead you must remove the rear seat, the drivers seat (remembering to disconnect the battery so the airbag system doesn't fault), and all of the surrounding plastic trim.  You then peel back to sodden carpet to reveal a small lake and the gushing joint.

The Offending Joint

Repair is the next problem.

The first time, I spent hours drying the carpet with a halogen heater and the hairdryer.  I simply pushed the joint back together.  It clicked and I thought no more of it.

Two weeks later it broke again.  This time I glued the joint.  That repair lasted a month.

This time I meant business.  I taped with PTFE tape, glued and for extra piece of mind clamped another larger hose over the top.

Summer came, the car dried out and I felt I had cured the problem, until this week when the weather went cold and the screen wash disappeared.  Yet again we have a leaking joint.

So what is the solution?  Ultimately a new piece of pipe from pump to jet without a joint.  That would involve removing the interior of the car completely and in the current freezing temperatures is not appealing.  I could send it to BMW who charge £500 to effect a repair without a guarantee it won't do the same again once the weather goes cold.  Instead I'm going to use a coupling that is used by water dispensing fridges.  They use 6mm pipe and it is possible to get a fitting to join two pieces of pipe together.  You have to order online as no one appears to stock them, believe me I trawled the local plumbers merchants and DIY stores.  I event went to a shop that sells fridges.

The Solution?

I'm writing this whilst I wait for my Amazon delivery.  Hopefully this is the permanent solution.  Anyway I've cut a hole in the carpet, just in case I need to repair it again.

A Summer Scene: Bexhill-on-Sea

 

The sun shines. The midsummer heat is moderated by the strong wind blowing in from the south west. It blows constantly, flapping the torn flags atop the lifeguard station. The people here all carefully socially distanced wear their summer clothes and bask in the English definition of summer. Two women walk into the teeth of the breeze. Their long blonde hair streams behind them as they bend to make progress along the shore path.

The sea a constantly shifting blue and green patchwork sparkles in the afternoon light. It crashes driven by the wind against the shingle shore. Away on the horizon sailing yachts make slow progress from right to left passing the Sovereign Light, its grey outline looking like an old railway semaphore against the cloudless blue sky.

Conversation and laughter drift across the browned grass. A terrier chases a ball and returns it to its family. It looks betrayed when its owner pretends to throw the ball, and it runs off anticipating its prize only to be disappointed for a moment as the ball has vanished. It bounces looking around for its toy until it is eventually thrown again. It retrieves the reward and returns to repeat again.

Cyclists weave between the strolling walkers frustrated at their lack of faster progress, whilst a group with freshly bought, fast melting ice creams, hold them at arm’s length like live hand grenades trying to avoid the drips that are running down the cones.

A young couple, with bronzed bodies walk hand in hand laughing. In the centre of the scene she trips and falls on her untied converse shoelace. They laugh harder, she is in hysterics on lying on the grass as her partner tries to help her up. He helps her to her feet and then lifts up her leg to tie her lace as she hops about enjoying his attention.

Being lunch time couples sit and enjoy their fish and chips from cardboard recyclable boxes. They keep the lids tightly closed between mouthfuls. Here is the domain of the herring gull. They float in the sky, circling, cruising looking for food. They land in the grass and try to look disinterested in the bounty they seek. They stalk the unwary diners, like ninjas in the darkest of nights.

A family throw a few chips at the gulls to get them to pose for a photograph. They arrive in numbers, calling for the senior gull to come and eat first, he arrives, larger and meaner than the rest to calm the cacophony. He eats his fill and his minions fight over the scraps. Presently the carnage ends and all that remains are small white feathers that flutter with the grass in the breeze.

A middle-aged couple walk past. They are very earnest, discussing some vital issue with great passion. The man with his flat cap and round horned rimmed glasses nods sagely as they walk, wearing a T-Shirt that proclaims the legend “Only elephants should wear ivory.” His leather shoes creak slightly.

Meanwhile the smile of the one I love encourages me.

Baking for Lockdown

During the enforced COVID lockdowns, interest in baking reached fever pitch. Now as a cook I must admit to being no more than just about competent.  I can follow a recipe if its simple, and can manage passable Roast Potatoes when the need arises.  As things get complicated though and as the amount of washing up increases, I will invariably reach for a take away menu, or something easily microwaved. 

However as the summer days stretched on I began to look back through old cook books looking for something a little different to try.  Buried deep in a box at the back of a garage lurked a slim volume from the dim and distant past, a cookbook sold by my primary school in London to raise funds for a swimming pool that was never built.  Parents and staff contributed their finest recipes and the books were sold out from what I remember.  The cover features an illustration by the famed Willie Rushton, who was a local resident.

The extremely rare Bousfield Cookbook

I flicked through classic recipes from the 1970’s dinner parties the cosmopolitan parents of an inner London school were making at that time.  Homemade delights such as Taramasalata, Spanish Prawns and Tabouleh, which for the uninitiated is Lebanese Parsley Salad.

Tucked away in the pudding section is a recipe for Crundle Pudding, which was submitted by my mother.  The origins of the recipe are lost in the mists of time, but it was made by my paternal grandmother and was passed down through her family.  It’s really quick to prepare, and is very filling.  So, for some 70’s nostalgia, courtesy of the long forgotten Bousfield Cookbook give this a try!

Ingredients:

1 ½ oz Margarine

2 oz Self Raising Flour

½ Pint Milk

2 oz Sugar

1 Egg

Jam or Syrup Sauce

 

Method:

Cream the margarine and sugar, then add the egg and beat into the mixture

Add the flour and mix well

Add milk just before baking

Pour the mixture into a greased dish (it will be slightly lumpy)

Cook for 45 mins at 190 °C

Serve with Jam or Syrup

If you're brave enough to give the recipe a go let me know how it was in the comments.  If any of you are really keen I might even share some of the other recipes from the book.  Let me know below.

Bentham’s Nuclear Bunker

On the moor between High Bentham and Clapham there used to be a secret military installation. Part of a national network whose purpose was to assist in the defence against nuclear attack, this is the story of Bentham’s Nuclear Bunker.

Following the First World War, the government concerned about the threat of attack by enemy aircraft, formed the Observer Corps. This new force was made up of local volunteers spread across the whole country. Their job was to recognise and identify hostile enemy aircraft flying overhead.

Observation posts were built on open and high ground. In more urban areas high buildings would be chosen, including one on the Brunswick Tower of Windsor Castle. These posts would usually be wooden or concrete platforms protected by sandbags. Each post would be manned by a minimum of three observers and would communicate to one of 39 control centres by telephone.

By the time of the Second World War, there were over 1500 observation posts, manned by more than 100,000 volunteer observers. Whilst the Chain Home radar system could track the approach of enemy aircraft, once over the coast it was these volunteer posts that played the vital role in monitoring aircraft movements. The Corps were bestowed with the Royal title by King George VI in 1941 in recognition of the important part they had played during the Battle of Britain.

A typical observation post c1939.

Following advances in aircraft and tracking technology, the need for visual identification of aircraft was much reduced. As the Cold War intensified the government decided to modify the role of the ROC to help with defence against Nuclear attack.

Between 1958 and 1968 the traditional observation posts were replaced by sub-surface reinforced concrete bunkers at a cost of around £5000 each. This created a network of 1563 bunkers built around eight miles from each other right across the UK. These were excavated to a depth of 25 feet. Inside was a large room containing detection apparatus, canvas chairs, desk and metal bunk beds. A smaller room with a chemical toilet cubicle was attached. Electric light was provided by a 12 Volt car battery, that could be charged from a small petrol generator. On the surface there were two ventilation ducts and a single hatch to access the bunker via a steel ladder.

Cross section of a typical bunker.

Each post would be manned by three observers, still local volunteers. Their task was to detect the size and direction of any nuclear blast and monitor the radioactive fallout. It was anticipated that the crew would need to remain underground for at least 21 days after an attack. The conditions could only be described as cramped, cold and damp.

The bunkers were grouped into clusters of between three and five, with one designated as a master. Bunkers communicated with the master using standard telephone lines, one of the best ways to identify one is a line of redundant telegraph poles that stop in the middle of a field. The master bunker was also equipped with radio communications in order to contact the regional control centre.

By 1968 the government had decided that the Cold War had begun to thaw, and the threat of nuclear war had eased. Many local areas were beginning to have trouble recruiting enough volunteers to man the bunkers in any case. The decision was taken to reduce the number of posts and the number was slashed by more than half. The remainder stayed in service until 1991 when the ROC was finally disbanded and all the observation posts closed.

A large number of the bunkers were filled in and demolished. Many of the sites were bought by mobile phone operators as their strategic locations on high ground were ideal for cellular radio masts.

Which brings us to the fate of the Bentham bunker. It was located on the side of the B6480 Clapham Road, just short of the Greystonegill Lane/Nutgill Lane crossroads. It closed in 1991 when the ROC was disbanded, and was finally demolished in 1997 when a mobile phone mast was built on the site.

Site of Bentham Bunker today.

Most of the neighbouring bunkers in the cluster have suffered a similar fate. Caton was located next to Bull Beck Picnic Site. It closed in 1968, and the bunker became a septic tank for the picnic site. The bunker at Settle was closed in 1991 and was located in a field between Anley Hall Nursing Home and Lords Close. It was demolished and nothing remains. At Horton-in-Ribblesdale the bunker was just north of St. Oswald’s Church. It closed in 1991 and has also been demolished.

However, the master station at Kirkby Lonsdale survives. It is located in a rectangular fenced compound next to the new Oakfield Park housing development adjacent to the QES Astroturf. Although it too closed in 1991, the surface features are still clearly visible. So next time you do the school run or go shopping at Booths in Kirkby, spare a thought for the brave volunteers of the ROC who manned the all the observation posts to help defend the country. The hatch is however firmly locked.

Kirkby Lonsdale Observation Post.

So We Did It Then!

Pirate Studios Salford

Well after much planning and replanning with the help of many pints of ale, I found myself heading towards Manchester last Saturday morning.  A date to relive my musical past with four of my oldest friends.  We all had doubts, that much was clear.  James had only recently acquired a bass guitar.  Martyn no longer has his own drum kit.  Greg hasn't sung for years.  Yet we were all hopeful that the songs that have languished forgotten for 25 years could come back to life.  It might be like one of those dramatic resuscitations you see on A&E After Dark, where the patient splutters into life for a while but ultimately passes away.  We hoped not, but after such a long time we all felt somewhat nervous.

Arriving at the unassuming industrial estate in Salford Quays wasn't easy in itself.  The trains were on strike so everyone was on the roads.  City were playing at home and the road leading to the rehearsal studio from the motorway was closed.  This meant a lengthy detour around Media City.  Eventually after annoying my Land Rover Sat Nav by refusing multiple U-turns, I finally arrived.  

We were booked into Studio 12 and we ventured in with a mixture of trepidation and excitement.  Exploring the building we found the Studios were numbered 1-11.  After 10 minutes of frustration, we discovered by checking the fire evacuation poster, that Studio 12 was accessed from another door around the side of the building.

Finally, we were in a confined space with instruments for the first time since 1996.

Startled and blurry Band

"What shall we play?" asked Tim.

"What do you fancy?" replied James.

"I don't know, what about The Price?" said Greg.

"Ok" was the almost unanimous response.

"Which ones that?" asked Martyn, who thinks in terms of drum rolls instead of lyrics.

"You know, it goes like this...."

Cue A minor add 9 chord with riff. (Technical stuff).

Away we went.  We played all the songs we planned, plus a couple we hadn't.  We changed some lyrics here and there, adjusted the tempo and feel of some of the songs.  Even the ones we felt were weak all those years ago, with a little polish began to sound much better.  It was like meeting an old friend that you haven't seen for years, and you suddenly realise you've missed them like crazy.  It was like we'd never been away.  Apart from the grey hairs, and aching limbs we could have been back in that draughty Liverpool warehouse in the 90's.

Greg & Tim

James in usual Bass Player pose

Martyn in his natural habitat

We were all amazed that we could remember the songs easily, but even more amazing was that we played together so well.  Really tight, being that great little band that we were all those years ago.  It was like we must have some kind of telepathic link, or that we had played those songs an awful lot in the past.  Whatever the explanation it was still remarkable.

So, the burning question is what next?

We all agreed we need to do it again and get the songs recorded properly.  We have at least 25 original songs in various states of completeness.  Maybe we could produce an album since 2023 will be the 30th anniversary of Tim and I forming the band in the first place.  Something I talked about in a previous post here.  James even wants us to play a festival in Manchester next September.  So why the hell not?  That and some better photos, we were concentrating on the music instead of the visuals!

First step, we need to plan, and plan in detail.  There should be much planning.  I think it's probably my round.

The Healing Consensus of a Pint of Beer.

Bentham Station

It's a grey Saturday morning and I'm in a rush.  Got to get the 8:04 train.  I'm fighting the effects of last night's wine and I could murder a bacon sandwich.  Rushing down Station Road the bakery is open, time for coffee and a sandwich?  No, it's 8:03 and there's a queue.  Better get that train and pick something up at Lancaster.

I reach the platform and I hear the train approach.  A couple of other hardy souls are up at this hour.  Hang on, the destination is only Carnforth, this train doesn't go as far as Lancaster.  I can meet my connection there and at least Carnforth has a cafe, trading on its appearance in Brief Encounter.

I climb aboard an almost deserted train except for the middle-aged woman having a very loud telephone conversation.

"No Clapham.  Yes, not that one.  Yorkshire. Y-O-R-K-S-H-I-R-E! No Carnforth.  Yes, I'm hoping for a brief encounter of my own ha-ha."

I plug in my earphones.

Twenty minutes and we arrive.  My connection to Manchester is on time, just a ten-minute wait.  I approach the cafe and find it shut.  A grumbling stomach and a mild hangover are reminders I should have gone to the bakery.

Piccadilly is busy and I walk with the throng from the though platforms to the station concourse.  A walk that makes a trip to a Weatherspoon's toilet seem short.  There by the departure boards is Tim.

"I need breakfast." 

He nods sagely at my friendly greeting.  We take a short walk to a trendy cafe, where Greg joins us.  We three devour a full English each and feel much better.

Martyn is texting, he is about to arrive at Piccadilly.  We walk back and meet him, ready for a day of making plans and beer, plenty of beer.

We find a small pub on Portland Street, The Grey Horse, just opening up.  A couple of pints in and things are going well.

Grey Horse Inn Portland Street

We want to play together again.  Doing so at a distance is ok, but could we try a proper rehearsal? Martyn doesn't own a drum kit of his own. Tim has one at home.  Should we use an electric one?  Could we record the basic tracks as a band and then do overdubs later from a distance?

The search is on for a venue and date.  We move on to the Old Monkey where there is a quieter bar upstairs.  More beer helps develop a consensus.  Then the message we've all been hoping for.

"Jobs done, on my way bitches."

As only a bass player can, James announces his unexpected attendance at the summit.

He catches up quickly.  He's all in like the rest of us.  Let's do it.  More celebratory pints are quaffed.

Too soon I have to leave.  It's a two-hour train trip home for me and there aren't that many trains to Bentham.

We've agreed the songs to play, we've booked a rehearsal studio for the start of October.  We are, after 26 years, officially, back.

L-R: James Greg, Tim, Matt, Martyn

On Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth

HM Queen Elizabeth II

The Summer of 1977.  I was not quite four years old.  The United Kingdom was celebrating the Silver Jubilee of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.  

Events began on 6th February, with church services marking the date of her accession to the throne.  A busy year of Royal visits followed, first to the Commonwealth and later around the United Kingdom itself.

That year my dad was appearing in the 25th year of The Mousetrap at the St. Martins Theatre in London's West End.  On Jubilee Day, Tuesday June 7th, The Queen travelled by the gilded state carriage, not used since her Coronation, from Buckingham Palace to St. Pauls Cathedral for a service of thanksgiving.

The Gilded State Coach on its way to St. Pauls Cathedral

That damp June day, my mother and I left my dad to perform his Matinee and walked from the theatre, through the back streets from St. Martins Lane to the bottom of Regent Street.  There pushed forward by helpful strangers to the safety rail, standing on an orange box, I saw the procession pass on its way to St. Pauls.  The magnificent golden coach shimmering in the sun.  The Queen and Prince Phillip waving to the crowd, followed by The Prince of Wales, riding a black Gelding, almost unrecognisable underneath his Guards Bearskin and bright red uniform.  The clatter of hooves, the marching boots and the cheers of the crowd, the unapologetic pageantry are seared into my memory.  I still have the toy Silver Jubilee Routemaster that my mum bought me in Hamley's afterwards.

Corgi Commemorative Silver Routemaster

Little did I realise back then, that this was the only time I would ever see Her Majesty 'in real life'.

That isn't to say I've been deliberately ignoring the Royals.  I've done the tourist trails at Windsor Castle, driven past Buckingham Palace looking to see if the Royal Standard was flying to show if The Queen was in residence.  My primary school was overrun by journalists in 1981 when they discovered Lady Diana Spencer lived in a flat around the corner.  I even saw Princess Anne open the Road Haulage Association HQ in Weybridge back in the early 1990's.  It's just that Her Majesty and I haven't crossed paths again.

However, like so many people I must confess I was surprised by just how emotional I felt at the Queen's passing.  It is difficult to explain just why I was choking back the tears as Huw Edwards delivered the news:

"A few moments ago, Buckingham Palace announced the death of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II"

Even typing the words has me filling up with emotion.

Perhaps it was The Queens devotion to her duty, her longevity, her kindness, her wicked sense of humour, all qualities to be deeply admired.  Maybe it's because my own Grandmother is still alive and the same age.  Whatever the reason, the loss of someone that has been part of everyone's lives for so long has been deeply affecting.

The scenes of public grief have been remarkable, like something from an earlier age.  The Royal Family, having to grieve in public, have shown the sort of stoicism and dignity for which the Queen and the late Prince Phillip were well known for.  For this alone they all deserve great credit.

Watching King Charles make his first address to the nation, in what must be a time of great personal loss, he showed the dedication to duty for which his mother had long prepared him.  It seems that he is trying hard to live up to her example of service and duty.

Having had the benefit of The Queen's wisdom for so long, the whole world is a poorer place without her.  It is almost certain that we will never have another Queen in my lifetime. We will certainly never know another Monarch like her either.

The Queen is dead, long live The King.