Another YTC nomination

A certain Bandit 1200 owner I share a house with has in the past week
or so bought 6 very shiny, very polished and very useful things for his
bike on eBay.

Well, 5 of them would be very useful, if they were useable on his
particular bike. This is because numpty-bollocks either didn't check
his bike for compatibilty, or didn't read the auction properly.

Out of 6 things purchased, only one is useable.

 

Using the patented Mavis Beacon "Hunt&Peck" Technique, Lozzo

I think these shiny things should be named.

--
Wicked Uncle Nigel - Manufacturer of the "Champion-105" range of rearsets
and Ducati Race Engineer.

WS* GHPOTHUF#24 APOSTLE#14 DLC#1 COFF#20 BOTAFOT#150 HYPO#0(KoTL) IbW#41
SBS#39 Enfield 500 Curry House Racer "The Basmati Rice Burner",
Honda GL1000K2 (On its hols) Kawasaki ZN1300 Voyager "Oh, Oh, It's so big"
Suzuki TS250 "The Africa Single" Yamaha GTS1000

 

Wicked Uncle Nigel says...

I think I'll leave it for the Bandit owner in question to give us some
form of justification for his acts.

 

Lozzo wrote

It is something inherent in owning a bandit. A syndrome or something.

 

*perk*

Details? One assumes these 5 are applicable to the K models?

 

DR says...

You'll have his mobile number filed under "ginger pixie"

 

Indeed.

Ta.

 

Heh. I remember a certain poster who bought a very expensive steering
damper for his H1 only to find it didn't have a damper mount.

 

Ooh, ooh, I know this one. Was it the same one who bought some stuff
from the US without realising the postage was 3 times the value ?

HTH

Paul.

 

Dunno, could be? Depends if this was the same bod who found the bike had
different jets and needles in each of its three carbs.

 

The Older Gentleman says...

Is he a rather rotund, yet jovial gentleman?

 

Always and sometimes.

 

I think we're getting close to an ID here.

 

You slippery Spicky Grass, you.

It was in complete innocence that I acquired the aforementioned
beerlooms - well, they would be beerlooms, but I was actually largely
sober at the time. Various other bits will fit, but these won't:

Half a set of levers - B6, they are: the B6 has a cable clutch. The
B12, err, doesn't. Thought the pivot point was in a strange place ...

Frame protectors - nice, CNC machined ally, made in Der Vaterland.
Quality items, they are - tragically, they mount on the same points as
the fucking bellypan.

Paddock stand bobbins - luurrvely polished ally, luurrvely mirror
finished allen bolts. Gorgeous, tiny things of incredible beauty -
and functional too ... well, they would be if there was a fucking
mounting point on the swinging arm for the fuckers. B12 has a
centrestand, doesn't it?

I felt a right ****, I did.


Anyway, I've got a Sunday evening Tale from The Memoirs for you, just
to demonstrate that I haven't always been so cautious and discerning.
It comes from my days in service to the Environmental Health
Department in North Devon, whence I moved from God's Own Country and
the Smell Of The Tyne for advancement and a post with a Special
Project. They didn't tell me at interview that funding for The
Project wasn't guaranteed, so I ended up doing all sorts of off the
wall stuff for the first year while the Powers That Bain't got the
bean counters to fund me.

A lot of the off the wall stuff consisted of out-of-hours stuff that
nobody else wanted to do: grist to the mill to me, when I was living
in a 12 foot caravan in Westward Ho! with only a black and white TV
for entertainment; especially at time-and-a-half. More of it was
unfinished jobs that nobody wanted to finish, or shitty jobs that
nobody wanted to start ... being Environmental Health, there were a
lot of particularly shitty jobs.
Really shitty, involving real shit - or worse ...


In the days before Euro Regulations, there were many little rural
abbatoirs. They'd kill the odd beast from the odd farmer,
consignments bought at market earlier that day, right up to three-day
killing frenzies for meat producers commiting genocide-by-proxy.

There was one particular shitty little slaughterhouse that always
reminded me of a distillery: built largely of corrugated iron
sheeting, perched at the landward end of a picturesque and
spectacularly rickety jetty on the tidal river at the end of a muddy
potholed track, it was the arse end of Nowheresville for decades -
until the property developers got hold of the flood plain.

Where do rising thrusting executive types with sharp suits and
forward-facing haircuts want to live? Somewhere unspoilt and rural,
with a river frontage and a view across the bay unobstructed by 20th
century appurtenances like pylons and roadways, of course. Somewhere
that they can have their 100-yard gravel driveways directly off the
main road artistically curving through 200-year-old oak trees, 40 of
which they have felled to accomodate their trendy low-rise mansions,
their pseudo-helipad and golf practice greens, their sheepdip-sized
swimming pools and the associated patios for their trophy wives to
stretch out their wrinkles and gain leathery skin lazing around.


Somewhere that land is cheap to start with really helps.

Somewhere downwind of a shitty little abbatoir, perhaps.


It is a strange feature of Public Health legislation that a Statutory
Nuisance, even though obvious, is not actually a Nuisance until action
is taken on it or it is complained of. There can be all sorts of evil
shit going on that society would abhor if it was but aware of it - but
until it affects someone enough for them to moan to the Council about
it, it can be happily ignored. Such was the situation with this
shitty little abbatoir.

OK, as a meat products plant it had been regularly inspected for
compliance with Slaughterhouse Regs and such - we even had a resident
Meat Inspector on the premises whenever killing was taking place.
There were known defects with the place, but they had been like that
for years and nobody had quite died yet.

Until The Executives moved in.

With their shiny BMWs and shinier Range Rovers, trophy wives,
squalling precocious brats, their flash jobs in Big City Exeter ...
and their well-developed, town-bred, senses of smell.

There were complaints. There were lots of complaints, actually.
Complaints from the residents direct, complaints from Parish, District
and County Councillors. Complaints from the Assistant Chief
Constable, the Mayor and even, I kid you not, the fucking Bishop. In
short, the entire Lodge was up in arms.

The Boss was concerned. He had reason to be, having been bearded in
his den by a bevy of bulky old birds from the WRVS. He promised an
investigation. He promised swift and savage action, he promised
imminent curtailment and abatement of the Nuisance. He would have
promised anything to get the shouty fat grannies out of his office.
He promised to put his Best Man on the job.

He sent me. The ****.

It turned out not to be the abbatoir itself that was the source of the
problem, as it happened. It turned out to be a couple of other little
things relating to the ... (sensitive readers may wish to turn away at
this point, or at least ensure proximity to a waste paper basket) ...
well, relating to the By-Products Plant wherein unspeakable things
were done to unmentionable parts of animals that were well beyond
caring by that point.

The BPP turned out Mechanically Recovered Meat, which is produced by
scraping bones, most successfully skulls, of all adhering muscle
tissue. It also provided intestine to the Sausage Skin Factory, which
had itself been the subject of a long-running battle with the Best Man
For The Job. It turned out all manner of disturbing products,
providing employment for local yokels who failed the entry exams for
Agricultural Employment and proving to be a real boon for those with
Olfactory Limitations.

Anyway, the problem confessed to me was to do with the air handling
plant - the whole place had to be (well, was supposed to be)
maintained at a lower air pressure than the Outside World. Thus, any
unpleasant odours would be wafted within, contained and then removed
by the scrubbers. No cheap jokes please, that's my job. The last
line of defence were the air filters, which removed the final traces
of any nostril-tickling niffs from the output air.

 

I always wondered what was meant by Mechanically Recovered Meat.

 

You slippery Spicky Grass, you.

It was in complete innocence that I acquired the aforementioned
beerlooms - well, they would be beerlooms, but I was actually largely
sober at the time. Various other bits will fit, but these won't:

Half a set of levers - B6, they are: the B6 has a cable clutch. The
B12, err, doesn't. Thought the pivot point was in a strange place ...

Frame protectors - nice, CNC machined ally, made in Der Vaterland.
Quality items, they are - tragically, they mount on the same points as
the fucking bellypan.

Paddock stand bobbins - luurrvely polished ally, luurrvely mirror
finished Allen bolts. Gorgeous, tiny things of incredible beauty -
and functional too ... well, they would be if there was a fucking
mounting point on the swinging arm for the fuckers. B12 has a
centrestand, doesn't it?

I felt a right ****, I did.

Just to make up for it, there's a voluminous Tale From The Memoirs
down below for your delectation (I use the word advisedly) and a
sideways application for YTCness, to boot.

 

Apparently, the only way to get admitted to the YTC club is to dump two
loads of chicken shit on your head.

Frankly, I think the whole thing needs to be rethought.

 

Hurr. Hurr fuckin' hurrr.

Or without thought, as the case may be ...

 

Well, yes. I think it should be judged on the funniness of being thick.

 

muddy wrote

This has been done to death a million times. The decision isn't one for
the committee to make. Bear is the Kotl, it is his list, he makes the
rules about what is and isn't right. All you can do is nominate.
Pretty much the same applies to most non attendance based lists dunnit?