The Humer Unbeam Interesting Filling Stations Thread
Discussion
Ah, yes, being a petrol pump attendant. I had two spells as a pump hand, one when at Yateley Motors in Yateley (unsurprisingly) in 1970 to 71 after I left school and before I started my ill-fated apprenticeship, and one at Bourne & Thomas in Wokingham in 1975 after I had abandoned my apprenticeship and acquired a wife and a mortgage.
Bourne & Thomas was a sports car specialist owned by the Knight family who were successful newsagents. The garage seemed to be run to look after the family’s vehicular needs of petrol and servicing. While I was there the governor replaced his Silver Shadow with a De Tomaso Pantera, which seemed a bit of a leap. I was glad because the finish beneath the Roller’s filler cap was woeful, full of unfinished metal edges with burrs that would slice chunks out of you. Presumably most owners at that time were spared this indignity.
The workshop introduced me to the idea of losing things on customers’ bills. If a mechanic needed a set of plugs, a customer would probably pay. If a rogue entry was questioned they would ‘have a look at it,’ discover ‘an administrative error’ and put it straight - straight on to another customer’s bill. I have had a fairly jaundiced view of garage bills ever since.
It is worth pointing out how low in the scheme of things pump hands were judged to be by society. A young couple came in one evening for petrol in a Rover 2000 with an older couple in the back; presumably one set of parents. It was busy, we had the tanker in and cones around the forecourt. This did not suit the driver of the Rover. He started to manoeuvre around the cones to jump the queue and get to a pump. I was shouting, the other pump hand was shouting, the forecourt manager was shouting but the driver was having none of it. Yelled at by petrol pump attendants? The very idea! He drove into one of the manholes open for the tanker. He tried to reverse the car out but it was no good. As it was busy we just left him there to consider his position.
The Headmaster of my school drove in one day. I introduced myself. It can’t have been the career he had in mind for one of his boys but he took it well.
Yateley Motors was interesting. It had originally been a garage with a tiny filling station in a narrow part of the road through the village; exactly the sort of place we’ve been featuring here. When the road was straightened the owner bought part of the land marooned between the old and new roads to build a new, bigger and much more modern garage. The old garage was left to concentrate on servicing. When I arrived, the Matador tow truck was already rotting away behind the new car wash. I was soon promoted to deputy Storeman and because the garage and stores were open until ten at night seven days a week, folk came from all over to queue up for spares. I still did my turn on the pumps and one day the first Lotus 7 I had seen at close quarters came in. As I attended to it I asked to see under the bonnet. It was a 997cc Anglia engine with twin SUs, an unusual arrangement. I asked for a ride, the owner agreed and took me for a blast up to the roundabout and back. It was the fastest accelerating car I had ever been in and the lengthy b
king was well worth it.
There were several characters who came in regularly, most with petrol accounts. During Ascot week a gentleman farmer came by in his Rolls with his family in their finery and asked me if the boss was about. I went to fetch him and, as I filled the car, they conducted a brief, furtive conversation. The boss told me to stop at five pounds, put thirty pounds on the account and give the customer twenty five quid and make sure he signed his account. One old gent never got out of his car. He would park at a pump, you would fill his car, he would wave and you would enter the amount on his account. He was the only customer never to sign. His car was a Humber Super Snipe estate that seemed huge. The filler cap was one of the reflectors. Another old boy, a lovely chap, came in periodically in a pre-war Riley. Apparently he had been a member of the Schneider Trophy Team but I never asked him about it. Stupid really; he would probably have loved to tell me all about it.
The boss also owned another premises in the village run as a car body repair shop by Marvellous Mack. Mack’s life was car body repair, the Royal Oak and the Royal Oak tug-o-war team. While his son and son-in-law did the work, Mack looked after the estimating. This meant him standing on the pavement at the front of the workshop admiring the world going past. “See that man there? Eighty years old. Cycles by here every day. Marvellous.” Mack waved and called out, “Marvellous.” As lads we took cars there when they were in the wars. Mack prowled round my Frogeye after a slight coming together. “Yes. Yes. That’ll be twe.. twe… thir… thir… Insurance job, is it? Forty quid, marvellous.” The workshop cat was very liberal with her favours and Mack was always knee deep in kittens that drove him mad. One only had to rub against you for him to say, “Like cats? You can have it. I’ll spray it any colour you like.” Inside the workshop, in the corner referred to as ‘The Office’ was a desk piled high with papers covered in overspray and surrounded by post cards from grateful customers pinned to the wall. One of Mack's specialities was having cars ready in time for holidays. Most had the pictures on show but one was the other way round to reveal the address: Marvellous, Camberley, England.
Marvellous.
Bourne & Thomas was a sports car specialist owned by the Knight family who were successful newsagents. The garage seemed to be run to look after the family’s vehicular needs of petrol and servicing. While I was there the governor replaced his Silver Shadow with a De Tomaso Pantera, which seemed a bit of a leap. I was glad because the finish beneath the Roller’s filler cap was woeful, full of unfinished metal edges with burrs that would slice chunks out of you. Presumably most owners at that time were spared this indignity.
The workshop introduced me to the idea of losing things on customers’ bills. If a mechanic needed a set of plugs, a customer would probably pay. If a rogue entry was questioned they would ‘have a look at it,’ discover ‘an administrative error’ and put it straight - straight on to another customer’s bill. I have had a fairly jaundiced view of garage bills ever since.
It is worth pointing out how low in the scheme of things pump hands were judged to be by society. A young couple came in one evening for petrol in a Rover 2000 with an older couple in the back; presumably one set of parents. It was busy, we had the tanker in and cones around the forecourt. This did not suit the driver of the Rover. He started to manoeuvre around the cones to jump the queue and get to a pump. I was shouting, the other pump hand was shouting, the forecourt manager was shouting but the driver was having none of it. Yelled at by petrol pump attendants? The very idea! He drove into one of the manholes open for the tanker. He tried to reverse the car out but it was no good. As it was busy we just left him there to consider his position.
The Headmaster of my school drove in one day. I introduced myself. It can’t have been the career he had in mind for one of his boys but he took it well.
Yateley Motors was interesting. It had originally been a garage with a tiny filling station in a narrow part of the road through the village; exactly the sort of place we’ve been featuring here. When the road was straightened the owner bought part of the land marooned between the old and new roads to build a new, bigger and much more modern garage. The old garage was left to concentrate on servicing. When I arrived, the Matador tow truck was already rotting away behind the new car wash. I was soon promoted to deputy Storeman and because the garage and stores were open until ten at night seven days a week, folk came from all over to queue up for spares. I still did my turn on the pumps and one day the first Lotus 7 I had seen at close quarters came in. As I attended to it I asked to see under the bonnet. It was a 997cc Anglia engine with twin SUs, an unusual arrangement. I asked for a ride, the owner agreed and took me for a blast up to the roundabout and back. It was the fastest accelerating car I had ever been in and the lengthy b
king was well worth it.There were several characters who came in regularly, most with petrol accounts. During Ascot week a gentleman farmer came by in his Rolls with his family in their finery and asked me if the boss was about. I went to fetch him and, as I filled the car, they conducted a brief, furtive conversation. The boss told me to stop at five pounds, put thirty pounds on the account and give the customer twenty five quid and make sure he signed his account. One old gent never got out of his car. He would park at a pump, you would fill his car, he would wave and you would enter the amount on his account. He was the only customer never to sign. His car was a Humber Super Snipe estate that seemed huge. The filler cap was one of the reflectors. Another old boy, a lovely chap, came in periodically in a pre-war Riley. Apparently he had been a member of the Schneider Trophy Team but I never asked him about it. Stupid really; he would probably have loved to tell me all about it.
The boss also owned another premises in the village run as a car body repair shop by Marvellous Mack. Mack’s life was car body repair, the Royal Oak and the Royal Oak tug-o-war team. While his son and son-in-law did the work, Mack looked after the estimating. This meant him standing on the pavement at the front of the workshop admiring the world going past. “See that man there? Eighty years old. Cycles by here every day. Marvellous.” Mack waved and called out, “Marvellous.” As lads we took cars there when they were in the wars. Mack prowled round my Frogeye after a slight coming together. “Yes. Yes. That’ll be twe.. twe… thir… thir… Insurance job, is it? Forty quid, marvellous.” The workshop cat was very liberal with her favours and Mack was always knee deep in kittens that drove him mad. One only had to rub against you for him to say, “Like cats? You can have it. I’ll spray it any colour you like.” Inside the workshop, in the corner referred to as ‘The Office’ was a desk piled high with papers covered in overspray and surrounded by post cards from grateful customers pinned to the wall. One of Mack's specialities was having cars ready in time for holidays. Most had the pictures on show but one was the other way round to reveal the address: Marvellous, Camberley, England.
Marvellous.
Edited by DickyC on Monday 11th May 13:12
r129sl said:
Surprised we have not had the Applecross community filling station:
And then there is the first of two in Lochcarron. Until recently this one was attended and you had to wait for the shop girl in the Spa to be free and to come across the road to serve you.
The Lochcarron garage is a more regular sort of place:
I've used all of them And then there is the first of two in Lochcarron. Until recently this one was attended and you had to wait for the shop girl in the Spa to be free and to come across the road to serve you.
The Lochcarron garage is a more regular sort of place:
Might take the dog for a walk later and get an up to date photo.
http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/2829129
http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/2829129
Marvellous stories, Dicky C
Yep the Jet garage died a couple of years back. I'm just down the road from there. In the underground car park behind and underneath it is one of the main hives for all the annoying rickshaws that block London streets- there's loads of the bloody things, but you also get some very serious cars down there as well - various hedge funds and a lot of the top ad companies in the locale.
Yep the Jet garage died a couple of years back. I'm just down the road from there. In the underground car park behind and underneath it is one of the main hives for all the annoying rickshaws that block London streets- there's loads of the bloody things, but you also get some very serious cars down there as well - various hedge funds and a lot of the top ad companies in the locale.
A few functioning oddities from St Helier that I thought of whilst reading this thread earlier...
Double day garage, between two residential houses, complete with turntable.
And two doors down to the left from this is a Rubis filling station where the pump is actually inside the building, accessed through those archways. Not many around like that anymore!
Across the pavement pump down near the harbour...
Double day garage, between two residential houses, complete with turntable.
And two doors down to the left from this is a Rubis filling station where the pump is actually inside the building, accessed through those archways. Not many around like that anymore!
Across the pavement pump down near the harbour...
FiF said:
Might take the dog for a walk later and get an up to date photo.
http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/2829129
One dog walk later, aaargh depressing. Pumps still there but up for sale, Andrew Grant Commercial Hartlebury 385k guide price for residential development.http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/2829129
It's on right move
Still a Morgan parked outside this afternoon
Update, just being doing a bit of research. Bit of an environmental problem it seems. A previous owner, not the current one, spent years disposing of old engine / gearbox oil etc by just pouring it onto the 'back garden'.
Edited by FiF on Thursday 14th May 11:14
|http://thumbsnap.com/UjhQuuDb[/url]
Johnnytheboy said:
There used to be a really random one buried in between Park lane and Bond Street that all the black cabs went to, but I'm damned if I can find it on street view now.
Waverton Street perhaps (old Street View image):
Not a petrol station, but this place on Agar Grove still fits tyres out in the street:
NomduJour said:
Johnnytheboy said:
There used to be a really random one buried in between Park lane and Bond Street that all the black cabs went to, but I'm damned if I can find it on street view now.
Waverton Street perhaps (old Street View image):An oddity I have always enjoyed in Mayfair is the wonderful address of Farm House, Farm Street W1. The original house dated from the time when there were farms all around but it was rebuilt in the early 1900s. I've just looked it up; it has four bedrooms, a right of way through the house for sheep and is on the market for £25,000,000. But you would have to park in the road on a permit.
Last time I was that way I went for a drink in the Red Lion only to find it was now a des res with only the old facade to say it had ever been a pub. It was on the market for £40,000,000. So I went to The Punchbowl. It wasn't an edifying experience. Once a pub has acquired a celebrity-based notoriety can it ever shake it off?
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