I Hate Oil
And when I say maintenance, I mean it.
Not being funny enough to be a real comedian (I'm really just good at "off the cuff, being a bastard" sort of remarks), I still have the day job, and one of the perks, or rather necessities, of the day job is the maintenance of a car. Where I live, being apparently closer to Boston than Berlin, the public transport is bollox!
And when I say maintenance, I mean it. Have you seen what mechanics charge round here? Two hundred squids to put the wrong sparks in the mobile and not check the gearbox oil - well sod that! I invested a fiver in the Haynes manual and sank another thirty in a decent toolkit, reasoning that anything simple enough to be done by a cackhanded mechanic's apprentice could be equally well done by me. And so to business.
One fine winter's day, I decided to take the plunge and see why the car was making funny noises. "Take the whole thing to bits" advised the manual, which I didn't like the sound of any more than I liked the sound of the car, so I resolved to change the plugs, leads, distributor cap, oil, water, brakes and the front nearside wheel which had been rammed through one pothole too many. Square, I felt, was not the ideal shape for efficient rolling.
Well, the brakes were surprisingly easy - you undo the wee nuts that hold them on they fall off, and then you stick on new ones - basta! New wheel? Even easier. It's like changing the wheel except you don't keep the old one. Sparks. I got these ultra excellent super four-prong things that looked like the guns from Flash Gordon. They probably sit in the engine happily going "pieuw pieuw" and blowing shit up. So all's going well until I get to the oil.
It's marked with one spanner in the book, meaning if you can't do it you must be a complete spanner. Looks fine. Sump-nut, then; What and where is a sump-nut? Well what it is is easy. It's the thing that stops all your oil getting out and making the place smell funny. And where? Well, that's easy too. It's under the car in the second most inaccessible place the designers could think of (for some curious reason they reserved the most inaccessible spot for the filter).
So I get a socket and slap it over the nut and give it a pull. Nothing. You'd think that with all the tasty black glop on the other side it couldn't rust, but it has. Solid. So I increase the level of brute force with the not unreasonable expectation that eventually something will give, and hoping it's not going to be the entire sump.
Still nothing. Am I pulling the wrong way? (Take off socket and play with wrench thing a bit 'til I'm sure I know which way nuts turn to open. I was doing it right.) So back again under the car.
I should mention at this point, that there's only about eight inches between the engine and the ground, which doesn't leave much room for me, scrawny as I am. Also, that my nose is itchy. So I stretch my long arm in under the car and muster up my entire strength and heave. The nut gives up in disgust and I smash my knuckles off the road.
What amazes me most is the cool colour scheme which can be derived from a mixture of blood and boiling oil. The oil has seen thirty thousand miles and like Guinness, looks black, but spread out thin can be seen to be very dark green. This contrasts nicely with the cheerful red of the blood. The sump-nut, meanwhile, has fallen into the basin and is now under four inches of aforementioned black gank. What now?
I'd better wash my paw, I suppose. No telling what nasty things can happen people who get oil in their blood. I'll probably get gas gangrene and my arm will fall off, or it'll circulate up to my brain and turn into evil little prions or something. I wipe the worst of it off on a tree and head inside, at which point a new problem presents itself.
Quite apart from the difficulty of opening a door with oil all over one's hands, I, being personally fastidious, don't want to cover everything in oil (actually I just couldn't be arsed cleaning things). Also my nose is itchy.
Nothing for it; I make a mess and gain entry, and leaving a trail of pollution make my way to the bathroom and try and wash the stuff off. No dice. Will hot water melt it off, perhaps? The probability turns out to have been zero. Hmm. Dilemma. I don't want oil in my blood, turning me into a robot, but it seems the only thing which will shift it is Swarfega, which I also don't want in my blood. Oh what the hell, it's probably antiseptic - I'll risk it.
So, hands clean, I emerge into the bright light of day again and proceed to scratch my nose. The tree appears to have died - pathetic weakling. Then I remember the sump-nut.
Five second's thought suffices for me to realise that there's no way to get it out without getting more oil everywhere, so I fish it out. Nose itchy again. What next? Oh yes, filter. I absentmindedly scratch my nose.
Aargh! Wank! Bollox!
I'm still not paying anyone else, though.
And when I say maintenance, I mean it. Have you seen what mechanics charge round here? Two hundred squids to put the wrong sparks in the mobile and not check the gearbox oil - well sod that! I invested a fiver in the Haynes manual and sank another thirty in a decent toolkit, reasoning that anything simple enough to be done by a cackhanded mechanic's apprentice could be equally well done by me. And so to business.
One fine winter's day, I decided to take the plunge and see why the car was making funny noises. "Take the whole thing to bits" advised the manual, which I didn't like the sound of any more than I liked the sound of the car, so I resolved to change the plugs, leads, distributor cap, oil, water, brakes and the front nearside wheel which had been rammed through one pothole too many. Square, I felt, was not the ideal shape for efficient rolling.
Well, the brakes were surprisingly easy - you undo the wee nuts that hold them on they fall off, and then you stick on new ones - basta! New wheel? Even easier. It's like changing the wheel except you don't keep the old one. Sparks. I got these ultra excellent super four-prong things that looked like the guns from Flash Gordon. They probably sit in the engine happily going "pieuw pieuw" and blowing shit up. So all's going well until I get to the oil.
It's marked with one spanner in the book, meaning if you can't do it you must be a complete spanner. Looks fine. Sump-nut, then; What and where is a sump-nut? Well what it is is easy. It's the thing that stops all your oil getting out and making the place smell funny. And where? Well, that's easy too. It's under the car in the second most inaccessible place the designers could think of (for some curious reason they reserved the most inaccessible spot for the filter).
So I get a socket and slap it over the nut and give it a pull. Nothing. You'd think that with all the tasty black glop on the other side it couldn't rust, but it has. Solid. So I increase the level of brute force with the not unreasonable expectation that eventually something will give, and hoping it's not going to be the entire sump.
Still nothing. Am I pulling the wrong way? (Take off socket and play with wrench thing a bit 'til I'm sure I know which way nuts turn to open. I was doing it right.) So back again under the car.
I should mention at this point, that there's only about eight inches between the engine and the ground, which doesn't leave much room for me, scrawny as I am. Also, that my nose is itchy. So I stretch my long arm in under the car and muster up my entire strength and heave. The nut gives up in disgust and I smash my knuckles off the road.
What amazes me most is the cool colour scheme which can be derived from a mixture of blood and boiling oil. The oil has seen thirty thousand miles and like Guinness, looks black, but spread out thin can be seen to be very dark green. This contrasts nicely with the cheerful red of the blood. The sump-nut, meanwhile, has fallen into the basin and is now under four inches of aforementioned black gank. What now?
I'd better wash my paw, I suppose. No telling what nasty things can happen people who get oil in their blood. I'll probably get gas gangrene and my arm will fall off, or it'll circulate up to my brain and turn into evil little prions or something. I wipe the worst of it off on a tree and head inside, at which point a new problem presents itself.
Quite apart from the difficulty of opening a door with oil all over one's hands, I, being personally fastidious, don't want to cover everything in oil (actually I just couldn't be arsed cleaning things). Also my nose is itchy.
Nothing for it; I make a mess and gain entry, and leaving a trail of pollution make my way to the bathroom and try and wash the stuff off. No dice. Will hot water melt it off, perhaps? The probability turns out to have been zero. Hmm. Dilemma. I don't want oil in my blood, turning me into a robot, but it seems the only thing which will shift it is Swarfega, which I also don't want in my blood. Oh what the hell, it's probably antiseptic - I'll risk it.
So, hands clean, I emerge into the bright light of day again and proceed to scratch my nose. The tree appears to have died - pathetic weakling. Then I remember the sump-nut.
Five second's thought suffices for me to realise that there's no way to get it out without getting more oil everywhere, so I fish it out. Nose itchy again. What next? Oh yes, filter. I absentmindedly scratch my nose.
Aargh! Wank! Bollox!
I'm still not paying anyone else, though.