Can We Fix It?

 

 

No.
The sad truth is that, despite my legendary optimism, even I know this has gone 'beyond'.
However, I'm wondering if any of my readers can identify the vehicle, here are a few clues. Rolls-Royce engine. 4WD. Transfer box on rear axle, Torsion-bar suspension.
In Texas, I saw vehicles much older than this in retrievable condition. But what we see here is a result of fifty or so years on a headland, on the fierce Cape Wrath, the most north-westerly point of mainland Scotland, beautiful, but bleak. Salty air and sea-fogs, enemies of metal vehicles.

Update, Monday 7th January:  The Winner is......................... THE PIRATE!!!  
100% spot-on accurate identification. 
However, the Champ was only made from 1952-1956, it was discontinued long before BLMC took over the Rover car company in 1968. There was a civilian variant, but only about 500 vehicles were sold, the military, both U.K and Australian, bought almost all the champs ever built. 
The 'sealed unit' engine is a bit of a misnomer, the axles and gearboxes were sealed, as were the instruments, and you could drive the early ones in 2'6" of water without further modification. Later ones, only 1'3", if I recall. But, with a bit of effort, you could fit 'wading plugs' and a few other bits, including a snorkel, and the champ would drive along, fully submerged. For a while. Then you'd have a heap of maintenance before continuing. Why such a short life? Well, apart from offering a comfortable ride, the champ did little that a Land-Rover couldn't do, at half the price. The army found Land Rovers to be more versatile, so the Champ contract was cut short. When the army wanted no more, the champ production line stopped forever. 
Commended: This award goes to Relax-Max, for identifying the manufacturer. 
Lee: Hobbits? Ach, they're machine-phobic luddites! 

On the Road Again

Out on the road,engine shakedown, one little oil-leak fixed, over to a friend's house to collect a few more of my stored spare parts, fit a new alternator, eat toasted cheese sandwiches, drink tea, plan the woodburning stove fitment in the garage, and generally be social.

 

Detroit thrived on the concept of the 'model-year', where car styling changed rapidly, year upon year, and customers were mortified if their car was last year's model, but that concept never really caught on in Solihull. There's a fifty-year gap between the production years of these vehicles.

2013

One of those things that blogs which tell you how to blog will tell you, is 'never apologise for not posting, just pick up and carry on'.

So, I'm apologising for my lack of blogposting over the last whenever. I'm a contrary cuss, and, given that blogging is a self-defined anarchic activity, I reject outright any numpty who presumes to tell me how to do something I'm trying to figure out for myself.
What are the rules in blogging? Whatever rules each blogger chooses to invent and adopt, but none of us has the right to prescribe or proscribe another's posts.

I've been here, I've even commented here and there, but whatever spark I might have had for a post fizzled or sputzed out.
I've variously worked, loafed, and vegetated. I attended no parties and drank very little beer.

The engine works are ongoing. It's all back together, but a rummage in my pal's garage rooted out several boxes of vital stuff. So, a distributor swap, the Ducellier replaced by an old Lucas 25D, but with hall-effect contactless points, the overdrive's fitted back on the rear end of the gearbox, um, what else. Alternator diode pack replaced, so the charge-warning light's no longer glowing at speed.
But the 'new' as in, dodgy indian-made replica Zenith 36IV carburettor has to go. With all the other variables set to default, the carb is throwing fuel in in an erratic and uncontrolled manner.
I have an SU carb, but I'd have to invent a whole new throttle linkage, as it's all the opposite way round.  Will go search ebay for a genuine 36IV.....

 Head off, pushrod holes stuffed with tissue to keep scraped gasket debris out.

 shiny new, performance-tweaked cylinder-head.

 Zzzzip! Back together, and running!

 Pause to do a spot of welding on a new engine-cross-member on Ken's series one, 1956 project...

Back to work yesterday, and deep in the sh*t. Literally. Macerator toilet.
I could post a picture, but I'll spare you that. A tenant called the office to say the toilet was blocked. A macerator toilet is one that pumps its flush away, uphill, often through smallbore pipes, not the usual 110mm/4". In this case, it was an inch and a quarter pipe, and it runs 72 feet, in a ceiling void, until it can drop into a normal soil pipe, and thence to the sewer. Well, what exactly IS a macerator unit? It's usually a small white box that sits behind the toilet. You can, using one of these, site a bathroom or kitchen, or both in a basement, or other place below, or too far from a main drain for the usual gravity system to work.
How does it do it ?

Well, water's no problem, there's a pump in there, water from sink/basin/ washing machine/ shower etc, enters via a normal inch and a quarter or inch and a half pipe, via non-return valves, and a float-switch, sensing the rising level, switches on a pump. Out it all goes, via another non-return valve, pumped up, then along, until it reaches the main drain.
What about, um, 'not' water?
'Not' water? you mean... um....'solids'?
Well. Yes.

Those of a delicate disposition might leave the room now.
As the flushed contents of the toilet bowl enter the little white box, they go into a 'basket', with mesh sides, of quarter-inch holes. Toilet paper and. um, brown stuff won't pass through those holes. In their unmodified state, they'd block the pump. But in the bottom of the basket, there's a spinning, bladed contraption, just like in your kitchen blender. And it blends and chops very well, provided that it's only fed what it's designed for. Chops and dices and slices and blends. and once that's done, the flush can pass through the mesh, and is of sufficiently fluid nature that the pump can pump it up, up, and away.
But the unit I was called to look at, had obviously had some sort of unhappy day. Chocolate mousse? overflowing from under the seat.... across the floor...
And a very nasty smell.
Gak.

Gak!

But hey. Into each new year's first day back at work, a little rain must fall. I'd been planning an altogether gentler re-entry to the life of work.
But, out with the wet-vac, empty it as far as possible. rinse with disinfectant, repeat. repeat. Dismantle connections, run a rotating drain-snake through the clogged 72 ft of inch and a half discharge pipe, and use vac to check it's clear.
Dismantle macerator, wash all parts in disinfectant, clear cause of failure.
No1 cause of macerator failures? People who flush things that should not be flushed. Especially cotton fibre items.
There's a notice on the inside of the door, and by the flush handle.
Ladies, please.
I'll say no more.

Gak!

Reassemble, test.
Clean, bleach, de-spatter, and disinfect entire room. Clean out basin trap too.
Lift cast iron sewer manhole in car-park and tip contents of stinky vac into it. Wash out and disinfect wet vac.

Wash self.
Go home early for long shower. Wash wash wash and extra rinse rinse rinse all clothes.

gak!

Welcome to 2013.


Today was fractionally better.
Soon, with my savings, I shall buy my freedom, the village blacksmith will strike off my chains.
And I will set sail, to a different life, in a new-found land.

Here. Lighten the mood..... From my favourite Dylan Album, Live at Budokan:

Rudolph

 

What's the Engine Out Of?

I was asked, on the previous post, what's the engine out of? 

It's out of the geriatric land-rover, which I've owned since 1992.  Back a few years ago, after a few too many abuses, the poor old dear failed its test on a multiple of faults, and at the time I had no money to spare, so she went away into storage, for a while.  Which turned out to be several years.

 

In 2007, I hauled it out, and set to work on a ground-up rebuild. The biggest change was putting later style wings on, with outboard headlights.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Holiday Project..

Old cylinder head off, (worn valve-seats and guides), new one awaits.

Gas-flowed, ported, a bit more torque low-down, more flexible mid-range.
To some of my readers, I know this is all meaningless gobbledegook, but to others, it's rich, greasy poetry. Marvel if you will, at the retro concept of crude engineering, cast iron, holes not drilled or milled by CNC, and, even wilder, only two valves per cylinder!

Argleblart! The swine! The recon head had some helicoiled inserts. Now I've nothing against helicoils, if they're done right they're tougher than the original thread, but dammit, one exhaust stud was out of alignment.  Much filing ensued.

Ring Out

Ring Out Solstice Bells, Jethro Tull

Ring Out, Solstice Bells


Now is the solstice of the year,
  winter is the glad song that you hear.
Seven maids move in seven time.
Have the lads up ready in a line.

Ring out these bells.
Ring out, ring solstice bells.
Ring solstice bells.

Join together beneath the mistletoe.
  by the holy oak whereon it grows.
Seven druids dance in seven time.
Sing the song the bells call, loudly chiming.

Ring out these bells.
Ring out, ring solstice bells.
Ring solstice bells.

Praise be to the distant sister sun,
  joyful as the silver planets run.
Seven maids move in seven time.
Sing the song the bells call, loudly chiming.
Ring out those bells.
Ring out, ring solstice bells.
Ring solstice bells.
Ring on, ring out.
Ring on, ring out.

The Last Post

Well, maybe not.

I mean, I've got under two hours until the end of the world, so a lot of people are saying.
Not that anybody's quite sure as to the exact time. It might be the start of friday here... Or where the Mayans once carved a calendar.



Wait....................................................

But I have a calendar at work. And it goes as far as the 31st of january, next year. And it's from an insurance company. Those guys are number crunchers, surely they'd know at least as much as an ancient Mayan?

 Let's go see if that REALLY was the LAST post...

 Lotsa posts!

Boobies Ahead!

 Post with feet.

 Post-Hole Diggaz.

Oh. Sorry. 

Pot-Hole Fillaz.

 Milepost?

See.

There are plenty more posts to be found.

And if the Mayan apocalypse theorists should turn out to be right.... Well, it's unlikely you'll be criticising me afterwards.

Update: 07:00. Day the world ended.

Surrounded by broken pixels.
Outside looks strangely dark, but is slowly coalescing into something resembling the world.
My personal demons called in to say goodbye, just before the clock struck thirteen, they shook my hand and said it had been nice knowing me, during their deployment here, but they'd all had a sudden recall order. Hades, it appears, is moving to Mars.
My guardian angel?
No.
Well, I got a garbled phone call. I think the angels were in a pub. Very drunk.

Should be a bit more peaceful here without them all.
Though the demons warned me that angels with hangovers are nasty.