Classic car mechanic – I can see America

‘In the corner of the workshop, Olli Ragbin sits watching events unfold before him’

This week I’ve taken a break from the handing out of workshop rags and focussed my attention on my other day job, which is non-classic related (other than for the funding of the fleet).

Interesting developments in this side of life as I was off to New York City for a flying visit to get a taste of work on the other side of the Atlantic.

Before I can get my nose out into the mean streets to observe the stateside car scene, I have the tricky job of negotiating data allowances on my mobile phone. As soon as we land, BT sniff a buck or two and immediately text me to say that data is ladled out from BTHQ at a cost of £5.70 per Mb. As an average iPhone picture is about 3 Mb, that makes a ‘selfie from the plane’ an eye-watering proposition which could (at a different retailer of different products) get me a three course meal at Greggs.

Luckily I’m a prudent creature and have a cap on spending on my phone just in case it gets nabbed by one of the children and they go crazy whilst international roaming.

Maybe my cap will last me whilst I brave the outdoors between bouts of leisurely hotel (free) WiFi.

2 seconds later my chum (who is sitting in a posher part of the plane than I) sends me 8 texts with pictures of the new Rangey and instantly blows nearly all my cap. A predatory text arrives from BT saying my cap is nearly blown and would I like to quickly upgrade to a package before all data expires. (Hurry, whilst stocks last). I haven’t even taken my seat belt off.

I could hear the giggling from BT towers at the irony of their final pre-cap message which was delivered exactly £0.01 prior to cap melt-down. Try opening safari with £0.01 of data available and see how far you get.

After much faffing about with bags and when border control were satisfied I was neither a threat in general or a terrorist in particular, I was released into the evening ready to brave the streets, armed with a smile and wielding £0.01 of data. A formidable combination.

I’ve never been to NYC so spent much of my time either gawping upward at unfeasibly tall buildings, or staring in slack-jawed wonder at the size of the automobiles.

We took an Uber one night. A Toyata Prius it was not. This thing took up lanes and cast an angry shadow over anything but the largest competitors. I’ve not been in a car which wasn’t far off needing a ladder to get into. Or one which had an aisle from the passenger seats to the…er…. other passenger seats. There were rows of the things.

I struck up a brief conversation with the driver who informed me that the engine was somewhere in the 6.0 litre range. It sounded great and I made a mental note to plant trees for penance on arrival back home.

There were very few sports cars about and I saw no classics on my trip. But then again, in the financial heart of the city you’re probably unlikely to see that many.

No sooner had we landed, it felt like we were off again. It’s a stunning place, it really is. But there are jobs to do at home. The most pressing of which is arranging for the 18 year-old’s Fiesta to visit the workshop so that the techs can tut loudly at it.

It needs an exhaust welding back on (thank Christ) a service and an MOT. I can pick the old Porker up for the return leg which will be infinitely more comfortable than the outbound leg where I will have to endure not only the ridiculous noise from an un-silenced Fiesta but also the social relegation which will be foisted upon me by the neighbours as we leave at 7.30am in a bubble of horrific blaring, droning, parping nonsense. He loves it. I just want to hide in the boot till it’s all over.

Right, some pictures.

I don't know why, but Shrimp eye Justin (background) looks like he's up to no good. A quick tug of the rope he's holding and these two disappear into the front of the car

Somewhere in the South of England a father is opening his front door to see his daughter's new boyfriend pull up in this, then, as his darling off-spring is readying herself upstairs, he growls though gritted teeth at the youth (whilst jabbing a forefinger into his breastbone to underline each syllable). 'I've got your number sonny. Don't even think about it'.

In Italy the Rozzers get Lambos. Here we get these. The fear your average hardened criminal must have had when looking in the rear-view mirror and clocking that he's being stalked by a Tiffany blue Morris 1000. You don't see these on the estate ready to deploy the stinger.... helicopter with the thermals a must

The NYC equivalent of a small family hatch. I believe the horn is cord-operated

Not wishing to type-cast anyone, but this scene is played out daily in America. I got this shot on the way in fromJFK

Shrimp eye is off on his Mini adventures shortly. He has to declare his level of mimi-obsessiveness on the ticket. The fact that he's circled his answer 8 times in biro and left a 3mm circle gouged on the kitchen table justifies his answer

Right, April, let's do this.

Have a nice day y’all…..from the gang at CCM towers.

Olli

ps The gaffer is on hols this week. A miracle as he's let his passport expire and had to get a note from the queen clearing him for Gatwick departures. If you see him soon, please don't constantly remind him of his glaring error.