Discussion
LTEcactus said:
A1 Car Parts near Reading are good, you can walk around and retrieve the parts yourself. The prices are reasonable as well.
Looks a lot tidier now, 20 something years on, but A1 could have been the yard I found an FC RX7 in.Ill prepared I couldn't retrieve the heater control unit from it's dash without cutting some wiring so asked at the cabin. In a single smooth movement and without breaking eye contact with me, Big Vern reached down and withdrew a long serrated bread knife from out of sight under the counter....helpful chap and the part was cheap!
I think it was the sage Nelson Muntz who said "It never hurts to have another set of prints on a weapon"!
Good times!
Hainford Hall in Norfolk was the King of bootiful scrap yards in the 1970's and only about 500 yds from my house.
I was lucky enough to receive some very good amateur mechanical and electrical basic training at crap British Car fixing boot camp in my late father's workshop/garage as soon as I could grasp broken tools in my opposable thumbs without trying to eat them, didn't drink the old engine oil, and had stopped wearing Terry's nappies.
Many freezing cold hours and days were spent adjusting points, bleeding brakes, and passing monkey metal spanners and bent screwdrivers to a puffing middle aged bloke lying under a rusty hulk on a damp mud floor. If he lightly tapped the underneath of the latest moribund motorised patient with a featherweight mallet it was if someone had deployed Saddam Hussain's mother of all glitter bombs, as a deluge of rusty flakes and remnants of chassis members and floor pans rained down into our faces and eyes from the crumbling edifice.
It was almost his full time weekend job for twenty years keeping our family barely mobile in some real classic heaps that are worth a King's ransom now. We were fortunate in that at the dilapidated ruins of 'Hainford Hall' less than 500 yards away from our house in Norfolk was one of the biggest vehicle breakers in the country. Thousands of cars in meandering rows piled dangerously high in teetering leaning towers, all semi submerged in an ankle deep toxic sludge of carcinogenic sump oil and bodily fluids that must have poisoned the ground water for miles around.
In the days well before 'Elf' and safety I spent many unsupervised hours in shorts and a tee shirt scavenging the lethal razor sharp rusty bloating corpses of cars in that motoring graveyard. Stuffing my pockets with tasty looking knobs, switches and halogen bulbs while looking for a track rod end or starter motor for the latest MOT failure he was trying to resuscitate back at base camp.
I was lucky enough to receive some very good amateur mechanical and electrical basic training at crap British Car fixing boot camp in my late father's workshop/garage as soon as I could grasp broken tools in my opposable thumbs without trying to eat them, didn't drink the old engine oil, and had stopped wearing Terry's nappies.
Many freezing cold hours and days were spent adjusting points, bleeding brakes, and passing monkey metal spanners and bent screwdrivers to a puffing middle aged bloke lying under a rusty hulk on a damp mud floor. If he lightly tapped the underneath of the latest moribund motorised patient with a featherweight mallet it was if someone had deployed Saddam Hussain's mother of all glitter bombs, as a deluge of rusty flakes and remnants of chassis members and floor pans rained down into our faces and eyes from the crumbling edifice.
It was almost his full time weekend job for twenty years keeping our family barely mobile in some real classic heaps that are worth a King's ransom now. We were fortunate in that at the dilapidated ruins of 'Hainford Hall' less than 500 yards away from our house in Norfolk was one of the biggest vehicle breakers in the country. Thousands of cars in meandering rows piled dangerously high in teetering leaning towers, all semi submerged in an ankle deep toxic sludge of carcinogenic sump oil and bodily fluids that must have poisoned the ground water for miles around.
In the days well before 'Elf' and safety I spent many unsupervised hours in shorts and a tee shirt scavenging the lethal razor sharp rusty bloating corpses of cars in that motoring graveyard. Stuffing my pockets with tasty looking knobs, switches and halogen bulbs while looking for a track rod end or starter motor for the latest MOT failure he was trying to resuscitate back at base camp.
peterperkins said:
Hainford Hall in Norfolk was the King of bootiful scrap yards in the 1970's and only about 500 yds from my house.
I was lucky enough to receive some very good amateur mechanical and electrical basic training at crap British Car fixing boot camp in my late father's workshop/garage as soon as I could grasp broken tools in my opposable thumbs without trying to eat them, didn't drink the old engine oil, and had stopped wearing Terry's nappies.
Many freezing cold hours and days were spent adjusting points, bleeding brakes, and passing monkey metal spanners and bent screwdrivers to a puffing middle aged bloke lying under a rusty hulk on a damp mud floor. If he lightly tapped the underneath of the latest moribund motorised patient with a featherweight mallet it was if someone had deployed Saddam Hussain's mother of all glitter bombs, as a deluge of rusty flakes and remnants of chassis members and floor pans rained down into our faces and eyes from the crumbling edifice.
It was almost his full time weekend job for twenty years keeping our family barely mobile in some real classic heaps that are worth a King's ransom now. We were fortunate in that at the dilapidated ruins of 'Hainford Hall' less than 500 yards away from our house in Norfolk was one of the biggest vehicle breakers in the country. Thousands of cars in meandering rows piled dangerously high in teetering leaning towers, all semi submerged in an ankle deep toxic sludge of carcinogenic sump oil and bodily fluids that must have poisoned the ground water for miles around.
In the days well before 'Elf' and safety I spent many unsupervised hours in shorts and a tee shirt scavenging the lethal razor sharp rusty bloating corpses of cars in that motoring graveyard. Stuffing my pockets with tasty looking knobs, switches and halogen bulbs while looking for a track rod end or starter motor for the latest MOT failure he was trying to resuscitate back at base camp.
Great looking place. Haven't been to my local one now as he wants new prices for very much scrap junkI was lucky enough to receive some very good amateur mechanical and electrical basic training at crap British Car fixing boot camp in my late father's workshop/garage as soon as I could grasp broken tools in my opposable thumbs without trying to eat them, didn't drink the old engine oil, and had stopped wearing Terry's nappies.
Many freezing cold hours and days were spent adjusting points, bleeding brakes, and passing monkey metal spanners and bent screwdrivers to a puffing middle aged bloke lying under a rusty hulk on a damp mud floor. If he lightly tapped the underneath of the latest moribund motorised patient with a featherweight mallet it was if someone had deployed Saddam Hussain's mother of all glitter bombs, as a deluge of rusty flakes and remnants of chassis members and floor pans rained down into our faces and eyes from the crumbling edifice.
It was almost his full time weekend job for twenty years keeping our family barely mobile in some real classic heaps that are worth a King's ransom now. We were fortunate in that at the dilapidated ruins of 'Hainford Hall' less than 500 yards away from our house in Norfolk was one of the biggest vehicle breakers in the country. Thousands of cars in meandering rows piled dangerously high in teetering leaning towers, all semi submerged in an ankle deep toxic sludge of carcinogenic sump oil and bodily fluids that must have poisoned the ground water for miles around.
In the days well before 'Elf' and safety I spent many unsupervised hours in shorts and a tee shirt scavenging the lethal razor sharp rusty bloating corpses of cars in that motoring graveyard. Stuffing my pockets with tasty looking knobs, switches and halogen bulbs while looking for a track rod end or starter motor for the latest MOT failure he was trying to resuscitate back at base camp.
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