Past few days [catchup post]

So, uh, Thursday was Treys Birthday. Which rocked.

We headed up north, to my spiritual home (which, incidentally, is not dodgy); Birmingham. Remembering from oh-so-many trips up there and when I lived there I expected moderately bad traffic on the motorway. So; off we went incredibly early; and we arrived…. incredibly early. No traffic at all.

It’s really bizzare; it’s another place that although the detail has changed the rhythm is the same, if you get what I mean. The place is not just the way I remember it, but it’s close enough for jazz, Euroco may now be The Discount Store, but it’s basically the Northfield I remember. Heading on in we flew in to where I used to live. Not the prettiest place, Griffin Close, indeed the cheapest, grottiest student accomodation Birmingham had to offer. But I loved it…

….it was home to me for 3 years, and I had some utterly fantastic times there. Although I vaguely knew it had gone, I had to see it for myself. It’s odd ‘cos the road layout’s vaguely the same, but the car-parks have gone… and it’s all been replaced with posh new housing.

…Ah well.

So we killed time in Birmingham City Centre; popped in to The Oasis and wandered round. Attempted to find lunch. Found lunch. Ate lunch. Wandered back to the car and headed off to Trey’s tattoo consult [where I thought that the tattoo artist was very cool, and Trey seemed happy, so I guess it went well].

I took that picture in the Abandoned post, and off home we went. Unfortunately, Sherholm, I think, services, graced me with food poisoning so I spent the next few hours, after we got home, curled up on my bed feeling quite unwell. Fortunately, my body’d disposed of the food matter that upset it pretty darn rapidly, thus meaning my recovery was swift and we still headed out to the pub in the evening. Whereupon we drank (soft drinks for me…) and were merry. Then we got home and had some fucking good sex. Which is really the way Birthdays should be spent.

So. Yes. What about yesterday? Uh, yeah, came home early and watched The Price of Milk – which I got Trey for her Birthday. It’s a fantastically bizzare love story; wandering through metaphorical images and beatiful visuals. Totally unexpected treat.

Um, yeah. Then found out my dad’s gone back into hospital; it’s potentially very serious this time; depending on what they decide to do. Worried. Not going to talk about it now…

….anyway, packed the car up ready for Pride…

And then at 5am (well, 4:45, actually) this morning hauled myself out of bed showered and slapped on underwear and overalls and headed for London. I’d say in procession, but since A Pride of Minors was, well, down a car… we uh, kinda went as a pair.

Halfway down to London my coil went south. Literally. The coil bracket snapped in exactly the same place as it did last time I had a fine Bosch/Wipac coil; handily it (the coil) landed and perched on top of the distributor cap – where it stayed for the next 40 miles until we pulled into services near London. At this point I swore (a lot); fished out the coil bracket which was pressed into service last time I got a new coil; and lo we were mobile again.

Incidentally, a van did at one point attempt to drive through us, bringing me to the worrying conclusion that the world has had enough of me. That’s the 3rd drive-through-Kate-narrowly-avoided incident to occur in the recent past (i.e. last week).

On reaching london, well, it was a bit crap really. Live8. Live8. We’ve had Hyde Park & Co booked for one day, one sodding day for the last n years (since ’75, I think). And yet our Bob, Bob-de-bob-de-bob arranges Live8 for the same day as our one day of celebration.

So…we crawled through London. Crawled. There was no sign of pride at all; no sign, apart from the appauling traffic. Mind, that was mostly Live8 too.

Finally we got to Park Lane (South) – and waving our Pride logo got ushered through the cones, and organisation seemed afoot. Our home printed; taken from the pack as directed pride logo was replaced with a Laminated and most shiny one stating ‘E3’. We were directed down Park Lane to our assembly area. Where we assembled parts of our props and the two mogs were dressed up.

And we were periodically accosted by Stewards of varying degrees of seniority with updates and grins. Photos were taken. Many many people took photos. Some queried if they really were a driving school car and a recovery truck; something I find distinctly worrying (I mean, the crane’s made out of frickin’ wood!).

And we chatted and were cheery. Finally they said Start your engines… so, we started ’em, got the sound-system such-as-it-was going (mmm, probably around 80 entire tasty PMPO watts)… and sat…. and sat…. and sat… and after about 15 minutes they said “noooo. Stop your engines”

….then later, they said start your engines…. and… we crept slowly forward, finally entering the parade proper at about 45 minutes after we’d started.

Uh.

Oh.

Oh dear.

45 minutes of sitting still in a car with a running engine. A 40 / 35 year old Morris Minor with it’s notorious fuel pump.

Click it went. Click….click….Click. but as time went on and the engine bay reached the kinds of temperatures that we don’t like to discuss.. the petrol started to vaporise in the carb bowl and the pump had to work harder to keep it full…

Click..Click..Click..Click..Click.

And as we entered the parade, the engine now having to actually move the car, not just idle….

Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click ………………..Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click Click ……….Click Click Click Click Click .Click Click Click Click ..Click …….Click ……………………………………………………Click ……………………………………………………………………………………… Click ………………………………………………………. Cli…noi’vehadenough..Stop.

Hotter than you could touch was Hebe’s fuel pump. And Hebe stopped. Hebe stopped as we rounded the first corner. We coaxed and prodded but to no avail. My Rebecca, she towed Hebe off, but we lost our place in the parade.

Oh well, home… only no, we’re planning to pick up Emma. Emma who’s not got her mobile…

So, stripping the car partially down we pile props into Hebe, who’s now waiting with a very frustrated and upset Nikki and Kate, for the AA And Lauren into ‘beccamog.

And out we go into traffic…

Because we went up a one way street… and from that point on things got a bit ‘silly’.

The police who seemed unaware that pride was on, where it was, or that we should be allowed back onto the parade route so that we could get to the ‘Make Safe’ area to finish stripping our car down (and, ideally, meet Emma) kept forcing us out and along.

They each just guarded their stretch of road which was closed for some reason they seemed aware of; despite our Pride Pass. Finally after 2 hours of abuse, Rebecca’s fuel pump went the same way as Hebe’s. 2 solid hours of crawling through London’s conjested traffic – probably peaking at 5 mph – inbetween traffic lights.

Getting out and hitting it enabled us to keep moving on and off, but finally as frustration was beginning to mount Rebecca did something spectacularly useful; the pump stopped as we entered a box junction.

Oh, you can’t stop there said our local policeman, guarding his no entry sign. You’ll have to bring her in here… and they moved the cones. Didn’t help us fucking push though did they. Oh no.

But we got her in.

And let the pump cool down for a while, then headed down and to the Make Safe area, which due to ‘becca’s ceasing to run was in fact, one turning away.

Where we waited ’til the pump had reached ambient temperatures, and then I discovered that ‘beccamog had now disposed of enough oil that although it registered as a mark on the dipstick, that mark was the very bottom edge of teh dipstick somewhere below the MIN line. Met up with Emma, test started ‘becca, and found that she could generate ordinary oil pressure despite the piss-poor amount of oil.

Crept, gingerly around London, a place strangely short of Fuel Stations, bought oil and fuel and headed home. Stopping only to pick up food and my exhaust from a guy in the MMOC.

She got us home no problem, and is resting outside.

I’m pissed about Pride, I’m pissed about not taking part and I’m pissed about the fact that the Police were so ill informed this year, presumably because of Live8.

Ah well. Anyway, enough, now bed I think.