Somebody backed into the old motor and made shite of all the plastic trim surrounding the reg plate.
Very annoying. Very, very irritating.
Even more irritating when I went for the NCT and they failed me due to what? Sharp edges, that’s what.
Sharp fucking edges. Nothing else was wrong with the car. Nothing at all. Nothing. It was perfect apart from a little bit of cracked plastic.
Why the fuck is that a failure in the NCT? Am I likely to be driving along at 75 mph when some hapless pedestrian gets sucked into my slipstream and hacked to pieces by the jagged edges of the broken plastic around the registration plate?
It wasn’t the only sharp-edged thing they failed me for though. The rear indicator was also cracked where some fool with a supermarket trolley banged against it. That’s a fail too.
What next – ugliness?
Sorry Sir, but your car is revolting, Somebody might get sick if they see it. Fail.
Is this the Nanny State or what? My car is dangerous because it has a little bit of broken plastic on the boot lid. What?
Anyway, this being Ireland, the tester explained how to get around the problem. Just put a bit of tape over the sharp bits and bring it back.
But it will still be broken.
True, but it won’t be sharp any more.
I stuck some duct tape on the broken bits and sure enough, it passed the re-test, which was good for me, though annoying, since I couldn’t see why it failed in the first place. But at least, as a visual, I didn’t have to give them any more money.
Now, I don’t know what you’re like, but it annoys the shit out of me to pay good money to thieving main dealers for grossly-overpriced parts. I’ve always been like that and I probably always will be. It annoys me. It annoys me especially when that part happens to be a piece of plastic that contributes not a tittle to the car’s safety or performance, and so I left it for a while, but eventually it started getting on my nerves. I didn’t like that silver duct-tape stuck all over the boot of the car, and so I finally dropped in to that well-run scrapyard, operated by those well-spoken, polite, helpful Polish lads.
I don’t miss the days when you had to explain yourself to a fat smelly lout who might or might not speak any English — and he’d be a local guy.Thankfully, all the scrapyards these days are operated by well-educated Central European people who understand exactly what you want and can communicate in good English, for a change.
I approach the counter.
Have you got this, that and the other?
I will check. One moment, please. Yes, we have. Do you want it?
And within ten minutes, a polite, well-spoken Polish lad appears with precisely the part I require.
It took me half an hour to remove the old part and fit the new one. Suddenly, the motor doesn’t look like battered any more and I didn’t have to pay a main dealer hundreds of ill-deserved notes for an over-priced replacement.
Jesus, I love scrapyards, although it’s a pity that times have changed so much. In the old days you could wander in there yourself and randomly tear useful bits off cars as they teetered three-high, swaying gently in the wind. These days, for some reason, you have to wait at a counter when you’d be more than happy to have a go yourself with a socket set, but no.
Why else? It’s the Nanny State, isn’t it? The State that isn’t happy to let people skin their knuckles in scrapyards but is quite prepared to let disabled people languish untended in their own homes to save money on home helps. Ah, but that’s for another day.