I had the car tested the other day.
It’s a simple enough procedure. I only have to clean all the dog hairs out of the car [a full day’s work], get Spanner to do his magic on the emissions side of things [dunno what he puts in the tank but it works], find a car wash that is open and doesn’t strip off my wing mirrors and then get the car tested. Simples. Only takes a week or two of preparation.
I duly arrived at my appointed time and booked the car in. I then sat in the car. waiting for the tester to turn up. He did, after less than a minute. They have really squeezed their game together.
I should explain that the test centre is like an aircraft hanger with huge doors at each end. They bring the car in through the IN door, do the test and then drive it out through [you’ve guessed it] the OUT door.
My normal practice then is to loiter around the OUT door, sitting on a wall and enjoying a pipefull. I watched a Fine Thing go through the details with a tester on why she had failed – apparently something was intermittent and according to the tester it was pathetically trivial, never should be on the list of tests at all and how she could fix it with a drop of chewing gum. I wonder if he would have been so helpful and sympathetic if she had been an ugly old hag?
I began to get annoyed then because people were driving away who had arrived after me. Then it dawned on me – FUCK! They had found something wrong and were dismantling the entire car. This was worrying as I had forgotten to remove that large bag from under the back seat. I listened out for the drug squad to arrive but they didn’t.
And still I waited.
I got tired of waiting and wandered into the office and through to the waiting area. That place is like a maternity ward with all the anxious people peering through huge windows at their precious car being ripped asunder. I looked around, but no sign of my banger. Bollox! Someone had robbed it, or maybe a tester had decided to take the rest of the day off and had gone for a joy ride.
I approached the bloke on the reception desk. I was told he hadn’t a clue and I should go back to the checkout desk in the maternity area. I did but there was no one there. Blokes in overalls did wander by occsionally but were too fucking quick to collar. I eventually collared a slower bloke. Where’s me fuckin’ car I asked politely. He wandered off and came back with some paper. That was done ages ago he tells me. It seems the bastards must have known I was waiting as they had parked the car outside the IN door. Apart from that, everything is fine and dandy [so they didn’t look under the back seat!].
There was a caveat though.
Two of my tyres have to be replaced before the next test.
I asked what was wrong with them Were they bald? Was the sidewall cracked? Were they unevenly worn?
No. Everything was fine. Grand tyres. Plenty tread. Good and solid. Nothing at all wrong with them.
But they are over six years old.
Fucking EU and their fucking cunting regulations!