Hamish McShanks

Ham Shanks Secret Diary – Slipidee Doo Dah

One definition of ‘addiction’ according to the t’interweb dictionary is: ‘The condition of being habitually or compulsively occupied with or involved in something’

Now that ‘something’ could be exercise, it could be illegal Dutch cigarettes, it could even be bedroom aerobics; if you’re not married of course – that all stops as soon as the rings on yer finger. However in the case of my elder brother this addiction is motor vehicles. Any kind of motor vehicle. Cars, vans, bikes, 4x4’s, buses there’s nothing he hasn’t owned at some time or other in the 22 years since he fluked his driving test. My evil twin and I sat down and worked out that he has owned well over 120 vehicles in that time. Although when you average it out it’s actually less than 6 cars a year, hardly one every other month, barely an addiction …

You see he’s a very good mechanic (self taught) and this allows him to buy MOT failures for thruppance halfpenny and get them back on the road for a fraction of the cost a ‘real’ garage would charge. This way he can feed his habit without spending too much cash. In fact he often makes a few quid in the process, selling these on to naïve members of his family for instance. New cars don’t really interest him. They don’t have any character apparently. Neilly likes’ classic’ cars i.e. old pieces of excrement that require ‘tweaks’ with screw drivers and hammers to get them started every time you actually need the fecker to move off it’s rusted wheels.

Neillys idea of character was having to remember that certain windows on the vehicle would wind down, but not up again. I don’t know about you but I would suggest that the window moving in both directions is a basic function for a driver or passenger side window is it not? The minimum you could reasonably expect from said objects? Or perhaps I’m being a tad fussy.

Doors were always a good laugh as well. It was a gimmie that you would have to lift and twist the door as if you were trying to draw an occult symbol in the air should you want to open or close the fecker properly. Doors don’t just hang on hinges and you pull them open; that’s crazy talk! Security was always very important though, ok sometimes doors would only lock from inside the vehicle, which is a minor drawback should you wish to leave the vehicle unattended. But occasionally they would lock from the outside on their own anyway. Many are the times I’ve had to enter a vehicle from the passenger door, or the back door. In one case the boot; burrowing under the back seat to emerge grimy and out of breath in the front footwell.

Fuelling the vehicle was often a trying experience. Sweating feverishly as cars blared their horns impatiently in the station forecourt as you wrestled with the reticent fuel cap for a full ten minutes. After you’d given up and pushed the thing home Neil would inform you they had to be opened with a ‘special’ tool stored in the glove box. I say special tool when of course I mean a carefully bent screwdriver or a fish slice liberated from mums cutlery drawer. Now that I think about it most of the caps had a thin coating of ruskoline and our fish & chips always had a hint of WD40?

Noises that would normally cause great consternation to the discerning motorist were just to be ‘ignored’ according to the boy blunder ‘oh aye dinnay worry about the scraping noise that’s nothing serious’ Which did always make me shudder at what he might deem to actually be serious. He would continue listing ‘features’ of the vehicle as you rolled up your left trouser leg and contorted your fingers into the appropriate Masonic handshake position required to start up the latest offering from Shanks Autos. ‘Oh and if ye hear a grinding type noise when you ease off the gas that’s just the diff at the back’, ‘it’s a bit noisy’, ‘wear these’ he would say as he handed you a pair of battered ear defenders.

It was therefore always a joy borrowing one of my brothers’ motor vehicles. When you wearily asked what’s wrong with it he’d reply ‘nothing its fine’ sometimes he’d even have the barefaced cheek to look affronted when you asked the question. Then just as you were pulling out of the driveway he would shout a stream of dire warnings and special instructions such as ‘remember third gear doesn’t exist’ and ‘the rear tyre needs blown up every day’ would be the last thing you’d hear as you kangarooed off down the street; vainly pressing the brake pedal as you rapidly approached something solid and unyielding.

So you can imagine my apprehension when he asked me to help ‘move’ a couple of vehicles this weekend. He obviously clocked the look of terror that spread quickly across my face ‘it’s okaaay you’re getting to drive the Landrover’ he muttered in a patronising voice. My hackles settled slightly at this news; after all its proven engineering is a Land Rover. Bullet proof technology.

Although my evil twin would disagree with my assessment of Landrover technology. He had a ‘bit of an off’ in one a few years back; a Shanks Auto obviously. It had a little bit of a steering issue i.e. it didn’t really have any. There was a ‘bit of play’ in the steering I think was how Neil described it. ‘F*cking Death Trap’ was my twins rather less sanguine assessment. Admittedly he was upside down in a field at the time and that’s going to colour any ones judgement. He was therefore not considered an option as designated driver for this particular mission.

After the usual pre journey lies I cut to the chase ‘Right c’mon then what is it really like?’ cue much practiced hurt expression from elder brother ‘what do you mean?’ he replied with customary nonchalance ‘I mean what doesn’t work?’, ‘Noth-‘, ‘Or only works a little bit’ I interrupted ‘Everything is f-‘, ‘or needs six warm-up presses and a quick prayer to actually function?’ I replied quickly. He leant his elbow on the door frame and looked me straight in the eye ‘look it’s nae fast but it’s a great runner’ he kept eye contact for a few seconds, with hindsight I think this was so I wouldn’t notice his crossed fingers.

Adjusting the Saint Christopher around my neck I hastily lit an incense stick and placed it in the Mikoshi Shrine I’d glued onto the dashboard. A quick pray towards Mecca and I felt I’d covered most of the bases. Handing over a last letter to loved ones I gingerly slipped the beast into first gear and trundled out of the driveway, counting in my head ‘five, four, three, two, on-‘, ‘mind the clutch is slipping a wee bitty and the brakes arnay too hot’ came the doppler’d cry as my elder brother sprinted in the opposite direction and I lumbered helplessly down the street., the brake pedal thumping uselessly to the floor.

So a great runner but a poor stopper it would seem. ‘Fnnbasstrd’ I mumbled through gritted teeth as the first tardy pensioner bounced off the bonnet …..