Bodged Breast Surgery
A rewritten pearoast
If you can bother to rootle through my posting history you can find the original account.
So anyway many years ago after a farcical stay in hospital involving a breast lump that turned out to be a harmless although puss filled abcess and the shoddy treatment I received in the hospital after it ruptured, I decided that should it ever happen again I would sort it out myself rather than waste mine and the overworked hospital staffs time
So thats why a while later I found myself holding a newly purchased sterile surgical scalpel, wiping the lump in saline solution and gritting my teeth.
One small cut later, followed by me crying my lungs out as I pressed on the raw hole in my breast to expel the nasty gunk that oozed out.
Cleaned it up, slapped on a surgical dressing and then went off to spend a week doing wilderness survival, cleaning and changing the dressing every day.
My bodged surgery had a satisfactory result in the end, the lump never came back, although i do have a small rather neat hole just by my nipple to show for it, even now after nearly 9 years.
A rather neat hole that far too many of my friends have seen when i regale them of this bodge job
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Wed 16 Mar 2011, 2:32, 17 replies)

(ɐǝpı ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ ʍoןǝq ʇsod s,ʎǝʞuoɯ uooɯ oʇ sʞuɐɥʇ)

˙ʍǝu sɐ poob 'ǝɹǝɥʇ

˙ʞɔɐq ʇı ʞɔıʇs ןן,ı 'ǝuıɟ s,ʇı
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Wed 16 Mar 2011, 2:22, 2 replies)

Bodge gone (expensively) wrong
Back in the days of yore (final year of sixth form), my girlfriend, my best mate and I decide to cut school for a day and see the sights of the local city. To get there, we borrow his dad's wheels.

Now, my mate's dad was a seriously anal bastard, and kept track of the exact mileage of his pride and joy. To get around this, once we'd returned the car to the garage (after the parking valets had ragged the shit out of it - another QOTW methinks), we put it up on jacks and ran it in reverse - a suitable attempt at a bodge, I think you'll agree.

When the bodge doesn't work, instead of letting me clock the car, my mate decides to kick the crap out of the car's bumper, causing it to come off the jacks, and, as it was still running in reverse, it shot out of the back of the garage, and down a rather steep hill, getting totalled in the process.

I'm just glad that I wasn't there when his dad got back!
(Vigilante Man weeps because you're stupid., Tue 15 Mar 2011, 23:23, 4 replies)

Nearly sunken yacht
Regularly going on sailing toerns and as it is the case with chartered yachts, they are often held together by bodge jobs. During season they are returned on Saturday morning by the last crew to clear the port by afternoon with the next crew for the next toern, so no time for big repairs in between or the charter company is loosing money.

During such a trip we often entertain ourselves with discovering such "repairs" or trying our own luck to keep the boat afloat - usually we return the yacht in a better shape than before. So the story:

We are leaving the beautiful port of Rab on the Croatian island Rab, which I can only recomend to everybody visiting this corner of the adriatic sea and reach open water just some miles southwest. On of my fellow sailors was eagerly waiting for this, as he had to use the toilet, which is only allowed at the open sea. On his return he pops up the hatchway and signals our skipper to come down with him, as there is "water poring in". Lots of yachts have been sunken by people forgetting to close seacocks (fnar!) or burst hoses from the installations going to the outside below the water level. We all get a little nervous as there is clearly a splashing noise from inside the boat, skipper commands us to turn the boat around and head for the port and bail water out of of the bilge, we can see already ourselves in the live raft gnawing each others limbs of in despair.

So our skipper goes down and has the honour of giving the water inside the boat a little taste test (yummie!) to give us the all-clear as it happens to be fresh water. We discover the the cold water hose under the sink in the bathroom disconnected from the faucet and as the water system is powered by a little compressor pumping the water out of the fresh water tank as long as there is no resistance (faucet open), it happily flooded our ship with water we already had abord. So the first bodge fix was to turn the compressor of - viola, no more water in the bilge.

At port I manufactured a plastic disk from a bottle cap with a pocket knife which fit into the fitting and closed the outlet, but as only the hot water was now connected to the faucet it would again start to pour from the now disconnected hose as soon as you turned the single handed tap from hot to cold. So the floating hose was bent 180 degrees like you do with a garden hose to quickly stop the water and wrapped to itself with some layers of duct tape. Held for the rest of the trip.

As we have a victory beer to soothe our nerves from the leak alarm in the nearest bar, I am awarded with the McGuyver medal with silver ribbon for saving us from a wet grave by a bodge job, crafted by my fellow crew from a beer mat and a stripe of duct tape, which I still have as a souvenir from this legendary toern. What was to follow, was fixing the binoculars, the dinghy, some drawers in the kitchen, the echo-lot and fixing us with lots of carlovacko beer which is sold in convenient 2 litre PET bottles with yacht-saving caps.

Ahoi!
(threeverse ultima ratio regum, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 22:53, 1 reply)

Nothing quite like working for a company where H+S is paramount to make you see danger in every corner.
Back in the day if there weren't seatbelts in the back of the car then no one worried, they just crammed three kids sitting on the laps of three other kids in the back. Now, this already sounds like a recipe for disaster but then again in the back of a 1.0 fiesta it's not like speed is going to be the major factor in the inevitable crash.

But what I saw which was worse than that was the woman who had 4 kids in the car, so three in the back and one sat on the lap of the passenger in the front, a 20-stone woman with a 4 year old on her lap. So JUST TO BE SAFE she put her seat belt around them both.

So if that car happened to have a front-end collision, or even just a heavy case of slamming the anchors on to avoid a cat/tramp/OAP on a scooter, that will result in the decellerating mass of the 20 stone passenger violently piling the kid against the static seat belt - probably more instantly deadly than flying through the windscreen and on to the road.

Safety first, safety second kids.
( Rotating Wobbly Hat That's not a banana. THIS is a banana., Tue 15 Mar 2011, 21:23, Reply)

Bodgers and Hammer-stein present...
I used a beer can to fry bacon in the woods one summer night,
A chisel as a hammer and a blowtorch as a light,
I've mended fanbelts on my Rover with my wifey's sheer black tights,
I'll never do it right again.

It took ten years to build the kitchen and six months to fix the loo,
My fam'ly had to use the garden when they needed a quick poo,
My wife would leave me but the door's been stuck since ninety-two,
There's always something to maintain.

I made a table from a chair and built a doll's house from a log,
I've flooded hallways and whole houses and once I nearly drowned the dog,
And when I'm thirsty I get hammered on my own homemade grog,
It helps with the constant pain.

I'm only really happy when I've started a small fire,
Correct technique is not a thing to which I ever will aspire,
Get it done and make it fun, why pay a man for hire?
One day I'll cut my jug'lar vein.
( Scrumper, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 17:52, 2 replies)

I am Scottish
and my attitude to fibre is not beyond reproach.
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 16:09, 2 replies)

Caveat emptor
I bought a wee house with my partner and we moved in towards the end of last year. We've found the evidence of numerous bodge jobs right through the house and garden - the whole place seems to be stuck together with No More Nails and silicone sealant and appears to have been painted by someone blind. So far we've covered over assorted holes in the walls and ceiling, painted over the badly drawn bums all over what was previously a kids' bedroom, taken down the pelmet stuck up with velcro that took half the plasterwork down with it, crow barred the washing machine out which had a whole fitted kitchen built round it and treated the porch which had got damp and been hastily painted over. We've still to fix the loft ladder which is so wobbly it gives you motion sickness, fix a two foot deep hole in the lawn that's been filled with broken roof tiles, remove chunks of 3/4 inch thick broken glass from the flower beds and paint over the mess that Ray Charles Painters and Decorators Ltd. left behind.

Still, it's our wee house and we do love it.
(new_dawn, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 15:29, Reply)

Last year I wanted bigger and better fireworks for Guy Fawkes' - so I made this:


It's not the best photo, snapped with a cheap camera phone before launch. What you can see is the biggest rocket I could find, bonded with epoxy resin to a half-full can of Mr Muscle Oven Cleaner.

Mr Muscle? Well experimentation beforehand (spraying the contents of various aerosols over a naked flame), proved that whatever the fuck is in Mr Muscle, burns longer and more violently than anything else I had lying around the house. Also, Mr Muscle makes much more of a 'liquid flame', and continues to burn on it's own for a good few minutes. Compare this to say, deodorant, which burns briefly and powerfully - but doesn't stay alight unless constantly in contact with fire.

The party was on the beach. Most people avoided me when I arrived with my contraption. But the host declared it 'worthy of the finale' - which meant Mr Flying Muscle was going to close the proceedings.

After 25 minutes of dull as ditch water 'fireworks' - I was called to the firing range, positioned a few feet from the water's edge. The idea being that the pyrotechnics would safely explode over the sea.

I grabbed Mr Exploding Muscle and loaded him into a sturdy rocket tube. I set the angle at roughly 45 degrees, facing nicely across the water to France. Then, as per the instructions, I lit the fuse and retired.

Some things I hadn't considered:

1. How the weight of the attached can of oven cleaner might affect the height the rocket could achieve
2. How the weight of the attached can of oven cleaner might affect the trajectory of the rocket
3. How absurdly dangerous this could be

The fuse lit. It burned smoothly towards the base of the rocket where it hit the primer chemicals, and made a satisfying 'fizz' as the engines were engaged.

The thing took off! But in almost slow motion. It seemed to hover up to height of around 80ft. But then it began an immediate descent. Thrusters still burning, Mr Mother Fucking Muscle was coming straight back down towards us at full speed.

But it didn't hit the ground! Nope, the rocket did its exploding bit at around 10ft high, taking Mr Muscle with it.

Napalm! I had created perfect home-made Napalm. When the rocket exploded, pure liquid fire burst out in an evil mushroom of hell. Fire rained onto the beach. Children screamed. People ran. And there I stood, the centre of attention, cackling like a loon.

If ever the time comes that we have to man the barricades a la Libya. I will be there. Firing home-made Napalm rockets at any fucker that steps up.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 15:26, 159 replies)

Bodge Jobs
In the late 1970s we had to get together a scratch ceilidh band at short notice for a charity barn dance. Barn dances used to be held in real barns with bales of hay chucked around for 'atmosphere' whilst bands were put on a 'stage' made from a some kind rickety cart which was never large enough. On this particular occasion we were pleased to have with us a pleasant young man called Simon who was a good useful musician and an asset to the band. Unfortunately there weren't enough inputs on the amp so Simon said not to worry, he'd improvise, and stuck a couple of wires into one of the input sockets alongside the jack that was already in there.

You can see what's coming. can't you?

The first two dances went very well. Halfway through the third, I noticed a strange smell that seemed to be emanating from the amplification equipment. The others had also noticed it and at the end of the dance we could see that smoke was starting to emerge. "Not to worry" said Simon, who spoke with such authority and, given the nature of his day job, we assumed he knew about stuff like that. So we did not protest when he fiddled around with the wiring, stopping the smoke.

A little later we started to notice the distinctive aroma drifting our way once more. This time there was quite a lot more smoke. One of the organisers came and stopped the dance, and gave us an almighty bollocking about safety (no 'health and' in those days) and fire risks, and so on ad nauseam. The trouble was, we had difficulty keeping straight faces, especially when he started ranting about reporting us to fire safety officers.

Simon was a fireman.....
(grumpy old ratbag, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 15:16, Reply)

a6poq *
When I was doing up the house, I wanted to mount the electrical sockets on the skirting boards, but these were quite thin and it made them rather close to the ground. Some appliances would have been hard to plug in, because the cable emerges from the plug downwards.

So I mounted them upside down. And you know what? It's much more convenient that way, and where you have to reach down behind something to get to them, it's a damn sight easier to plug plugs in that way up.

I'm always going to mount them that way, in future...

* stand on your head and read it
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 14:03, 7 replies)

Another wreck of a car one
I once hitched a lift in a Morris Traveller that must have been the least roadworthy vehicle I've ever seen in motion. It had all the usuals: holes in the floor, wipers operated by a loop of string, exhaust held on by rubber bands and optimism, and so on.

But the true gem was that the driver had the seat-belt wrapped around his arm. I though at first that he was holding the door shut in this way, which would have been bad enough, but no: he was holding the entire side of the car on.

The wooden frame had rotted, and the metal had rusted, so that it was only attached at the front. He'd wound the belt around the door post so that he could hold it on, but it still flapped alarmingly as we drove along, like a broken wing.

Not surprisingly, I saw the car a few weeks later completely collapsed. In a lovely comedy touch, all four wheels had fallen outwards.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 13:55, 1 reply)

Funeral bodge
This has been mentioned before by another b3tan who was also a witness, so I'll be brutally brief.

During the funeral of a family member, the coffin leaked gunge.
The gunge, presumably mainly composed of decomposing tissue fluids, was like watery gravy, and stank.

The gunge left a trail from the hearse along the pavement, up the church path and inside the church itself, and the bearers were smeared with it, some on their faces.

The vicar was seen comically gagging and clawing at the hearse window as the driver wound it up when they it pulled away from the church towards the crematorium. The gunge left another trail from the hearse to the catafalque and dribbled from the coffin during the committal while everyone was watching it.

The deceased had been dead for several days before being found, in early July, so should really have been contained in something more substantial than the usual plastic sheet inside the coffin.

When a couple of relations went to complain to the undertaker they were more or less told 'Well, we thought it'd be OK! Shit happens! Bad luck!' and offered no apology.

This funeral has become legendary among local undertakers, who refer to it in hushed tones as 'The Farce'.

To be honest, the dead bloke himself would have laughed his tits off, especially when the undertakers took the bearers round the back of the church to wash off the mess!
The family though were, and remain, Not Amused.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 13:30, 9 replies)

Me and an old mate....
....were on our way to a final interview for a TV show and we were well late. It was 94 and we we’re racing from Derby to Birmingham in my White XR2i. Proper boy racer....braaap ect. We got to the interview and did our thing. We we’re told there and then we’d be on the next series so we we’re chuffed and set off home. Whilst driving home the oil light came on and we pulled over. This was not a rare thing so I had a few litres of oil in the boot which I poured some into the engine. We set off again only for the oil light to come on again about 10 minutes later. We pulled over to find that I had left the oil cap off the last time we’d stopped and now oil was spread all over the engine. My mate came an ingenious idea of us taking our socks off and stuffing them in the cap-less hole. At the time it seemed the only logical option. Filled up with oil and socks we set off once again. Only moments later smoke plumed from the engine and I pulled over a final time. I opened the bonnet and the car immediately burst into flames. We ran like cowards and dived over an embankment for the car to explode, which in case you are wondering was cool. The car died there and then....the downside being the TV show got cancelled and they never made a 2nd series.
( The only Dave is pushing things forward, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 13:16, 1 reply)

When buying a house number for the front door we couldn't find any 9s
so instead we bought a 6 and put it on upside down!
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 12:34, 8 replies)

fixing? does a meal count?
This tale of genius stems back from my days learning how to make shiny lanterns be all shiny on silly actor types. We were the BTEC first group, the scum of the theatre, not even allowed to play with the nobs and slidey bits in the main auditorium. Relegated to the "back studio" for our performances, just to make sure we knew our place. Destined to spend a year feeling like retarded wannabes playing with the shitty equipment that you'd only normally find in a primary school drama club.

We were doing some shit that involved projecting silhouettes onto a shitty cobbled together piece of flat scenery and painting around them, trying to make it look as rubbish as possible, when my friend and comrade Ben, having already eaten his genoa cake ends that he bought from weigh and save, along with his 2 litre bottle of 26p cresta lemonade from sainsburys, he decided that he was still hungry, and thirsty. What better way to satisfy both hunger and thirst than with a cheap tin of soup.

But wait.

How does he cook such a meal with only the most basic of basic theatre equipment?

Well, first you pierce a hole in the top of the tin. No lighting technician worth his salt is ever without a nice sharp hard edge lurking within his penknife. So, hole pierced. Now what? To the average human being, game over. No microwave, no saucepan, no heat source... or was there...

Our hero took the half used roll of Gaffer tape, the tiny desk lamp that was positioned by the shitty travel lighting board and proceeded to become a legend in his own lifetime.
Step one. Tilt light back.
Step two. Tape the can to the light making sure the 40 watt bulb is in direct contact with the can.
Step three. Make sure the setup is stable.
Step four. Plug in and turn on light.
Step five. Wait for an hour or until there are bubbling noises coming from can.
Step six. Open can being careful not to burn yourself.
Step seven. Consume soup.

It took ages, but dammit, that S.O.B was eating soup while the rest of us starved.

I fucking love you Ben.
( Sweeplovesfisting Take all your footballs home and burst them., Tue 15 Mar 2011, 12:02, 3 replies)

I took
a taxi in Asuncion, Paraguay, that had a back seat made out of an old, threadbare, smelly floral print sofa. It looked like something Hyacinth Bucket would've had. It was attached inside the body of the taxi with large brackets and bolts. There were also holes in the floor big enough to do a Fred Flintstone. The taxi driver had roughly cut four foot holes in the back of the two front seats so you wouldn't lose a foot.

Having said that the road where I was staying was a bodge job too - just dump a few tons of more or less jagged shaped rocks on the road, then steamroller flat every so often.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 11:02, Reply)

This happened about 5 minutes ago ...
backstory [wibble wibble]

After many years of enjoyable travel, the husband and I bought a house and started populating it with furniture, children and a few guinea pigs. One of the most important things to purchase was a mighty bookcase as books are some of our favourite things.

Having a pair of adventurous climbing spronglings, we decided to secure it to the wall with an angle bracket and a well placed screw [fnar fnar]. Unfortunately, the sturdy wood of the bookcase and our cack-handedness resulted in a loosely affixed angle bracket that would probably just give us an audio cue if the one of the kids started to climb it. In the spirit of dodgy DIY everywhere, we looked at each other and thought, Fuck it.

Placement of the mighty and not too firmly attached bookcase was also poor. We left a gap between the bookcase and the nearest adjoining wall.

A gap about big enough for a small child to hide in.

Returning to the present moment ... I hear from the study: "AAAAH ... CHOO" Thump "WHAAAAAAA!!"

Upon entering the study, I find my three year old daughter rubbing a phillips head screw indent in her forehead.
(Que?, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 7:26, 14 replies)

My beloved Dalmatian
May he rest in piece, was scared of thunderstorms. VERY scared. So when I was out one day and a storm hit I rushed home because I knew he'd be freaking out. He was already inside, hiding on my bed, with a trail of wet footprints leading to the back door where he'd clawed his way through a panel then headbutted the wood aside, pretty much wrecking the door in the process. For a while we just left the gap as a makeshift dog door until it was time to go, then I went to the hardware store, bought a replacement panel and tacked it in place. That was fine, but he'd dug a HUGE trench out of the frame and ripped off part of the moulding, which I was unable to replace. So, I bought about three tubs of spakfilla, cut up an old credit card and got to work filling in all the gaps and rebuilding a replica of the moulding on the frame. In all I used about a kilo of filler before it was finished, then painted over the lot. It was utterly invisible unless you got up very close, so come the day of the house sale I just stood a pot plant in front of the door "to hold it open". The patch job will probably outlast the actual door.
( difficultchild, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 1:04, 2 replies)

The Netherlands Solution...
Two weeks back we had airconditioning installed and the tradies typically installed the runoff pipe so it would flood our balcony until it eventually flowed over onto the patio below. This is despite the fact here's a drain hole about 1 metre from where they had the pipe coming out, so a simple piece of plastic tube would have averted the problem,
I've complained and thgey're coming back to fix it, but in the meantime I built a small dam of blu-tack around the base of the pipe directing all water to the far edge of the balcony so it drips directly into the rainwater run-off gutter. It took about a minute to make and works perfectly!
( difficultchild, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 0:57, Reply)

Don't play golf in your bedroom
I was told about a fantastic bodger in the making, a friend of ours teenage son.

His parents were on holiday and he was enjoying his new golf club that he got for his birthday. A couple of swings later and there is a large hole in his freshly decorated bedroom.

A plan forms in his mind. Locating an A4 piece of paper and some sellotape he patches the hole. Looks a bit obvious though.....He goes to the garage and finds the paint that they recently used for painting his bedroom. Slap a bit of paint on there, no-one will ever know.......

Apart from the second the parent's get home and the sister grasses him up.
(soopahfly, Tue 15 Mar 2011, 0:15, 3 replies)

Duct Tape. A-whoo-oo. Tales of derring-do, bad and good luck tales, etc.
Men (and unfortunate women too) if a long winter evening tempts you to try a bit of kinky sex and you are about to use that ever-handy duct tape as an impromptu gag, here is a tip:

As it is applied, compress your lips together. Hard.

Forget this tip, and when your snog-hungry partner rips that gag off, the following shall occur: a bodged up hair removal attempt on your upper lip PLUS a pair of chaffed lips torn forcibly off your very face.

A bodged waxing might be bearable, but let me be clear: also having your lips torn off is not. You will scream, you will convulse, you will knee your partner right in the claggies and you will spend the rest of the evening in chilly silence while you slowly bleed.

Just sayin'.
(IChewCandlewax, Mon 14 Mar 2011, 23:47, 10 replies)

If it moves and it shouldn't:
Grab it's nose and squeeze.
If it doesn't move and it should: shove ginger up it's arse.
(stolen from QI)
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Mon 14 Mar 2011, 20:52, 3 replies)

My first Tranny van was an old diesel minibus, which came in very useful for a family of 6.
It came with all sorts of built-in bodges including a specially-built metal shelf to hold an aircraft battery. (When this battery, which needed two men to lift it, failed I left it on the doorstep and it was stolen, presumably by two chavvies with their own trusses.)

The ancient battery contacts were tightened to the maximum. They used to loosen and fly off under the pressure of the vibrations from the mighty York engine at startup. When this happened I'd send the kids to the nearest shop to buy Kitkats, which they'd eat while I wrapped the foil round the battery contacts for a snug fit.

Soon after I met the current Mr Quar, he bought his first diesel vehicle - a satisfyingly battered Bluebird. One night, as he started it, it did The Thing that they do and stopped dead.
I said 'Oh, that'll be the battery contact - I'll just pop back in for some kitchen foil so we can fix it!'

Sceptical at first, he was amazed when he lifted the bonnet and saw that I was right. When I bodged it with the foil he thought it must be ye witche crafte.

A couple of years ago I was in a multi-storey car park, about to pull out, when a car opposite mine suddenly stopped as it pulled out. Aha! I thought, and strolled over.

The young driver tried a few times to restart, then got out. Yes, it was a diesel - a newish, still shiny one - and yes, when we popped the bonnet we found a battery contact swinging loose. I sent him off to purchase foil-wrapped confectionery and went on my way. Haven't lost my touch!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Mon 14 Mar 2011, 19:07, 14 replies)

My Dad did a number...
...well, rather the house numbers were agley on the front of the house. Not wanting to drill new holes and screw them into the wall, he wadded up some BluTack™ and fixed them with that, purely as a temporary measure.

Years later after all that Nottingham's climate could throw at them, the numbers were still there. Dad was so impressed he wrote to the company, who thanked him by sending a whole batch of fresh BluTack.

Genius, my Dad.
(wertperch is losing his hair, marbles and patience., Mon 14 Mar 2011, 18:47, 2 replies)

Dodgy Suzuki Electrics
My old Suzi GSX550 was a lovely example of the model when I bought it. However, after my many bodges over the years it became a total rat.

My 'fixes' included:

Replacing many blown fuses by wrapping them in the foil you used to get in the old Yorkie bars.
Replacing the blown regulator/rectifier with one from a 250 SuperDream (they have magical properties and work with most old Jap bikes).
Rebuilding the seat with an oven tray, old sofa foam and bodge tape after the replacement regulator caused a small fire in the middle of Cardiff.
Brush painting the whole bike with Hammerite and adding stripes of yellow/black hazard tape, to make it look cool.
Welding up the split link on a brand new chain after the spring clip sproinged of into the depths of the garage.
Adding a ghetto ScotOiler fashined from a fairy liquid bottle, brake hose and tiewraps to keep said chain running.

In its final days, it needed 1/2 a can of EasyStart to get any sort of life out of it unless it had been run in the last 24 hours. It was finally put out of its misery by some scrotes who nicked it and torched it when they couldn't get it started.

However, the insurance (which only had a week left to go) paid out the original value of the bike, £2200! Result.

Length? About 3 years.
(Bad Monkey hasn't had an abusive gaz since, Mon 14 Mar 2011, 17:08, 4 replies)

Sage advice...
If it moves and screams and you don't want it to, use gaffer tape. Or duck tape. (Yes, it's duck tape - it quacks when you rip it fast)

If it stops moving and you want it to, use a CPR machine. Or a saw.
(MrOli is ugly, but in the morning you will be sober, Mon 14 Mar 2011, 17:07, Reply)