Not for nothing, but I miss working with Australians. Mandy with his beauteously flowing blonde locks and utility kilt. Reuben* with his charming smile and “Why would I carry tools when half my friends are people I met when they lent me a pump?” outlook. Murray** with his barefoot wheel-building process, aversion to opening warranty returns from Freedom Bike Shop, and the coppish way he used to tilt his head forward and then look up at a speaker incredulously when his bullshit detector was going off. Sigh, yep, Australians.
And if you’re thinking, “Wait, Drew, but aren’t they all descended from convicts?” Well, that might be true but remember before their ancestors could be exported they were the folks who were first caught and convicted. If you’ve ever boiled sea water, I think it’s a decent representation of why every British person I’ve worked with, whether their upbringing was posh or proletariat, has endless epic stories about their shit getting stolen!
Let’s face it, when sponsored riders want a fresh bike they just leave their current rig in the back of a van overnight anywhere in the United Kingdom, right?
*{The joke here is that Reuben was actually a New Zealander. It’s just that everyone thought he was from Aus.}
**{The joke here is the same as with Reuben and also that Murray did become a police officer.}
(Above Photo: Steve & Meg @Hardtail.Life)
In the many years since I last shifted in a shop with an Australian who wasn’t JacAttack*, I’ve worked with plenty of squawking Scots, irritable Irish folks, and even a particularly whingy Welshman (all, I’ll note, said with love). And if this reads like the start of a blatantly brackish send-up, we’re on the same trail. Yep, I’ve worked in bike shops along with great folks from every corner of Caledonia and Hibernia. But, it’s only recently that I’ve had the opportunity to discover what Britannia-proper has to offer in the form of a Mitchamite and a Scouser**.
The most obvious, universal, issue that comes from having too many British folkers working in your bike shop is that you never know if a part‘s description in the system will randomly be aluminum or aluminium. Just ask Stevil Knievel, even when in Rome they’ll claim they’re in the right. It’s amazing how often the issue comes up until you fully commit to just start searching both ways. And it doesn’t end there. “What do I weigh? Oh, about fourteen stone.”
*{I’m told she doesn’t count because she’s from the most backwaterish of Aussie outlands.}
**{I’m told this is the most proper, prim, and polite way to address a Merseyside-speaking Liverpudlian?!}
The boot, the bonnet, petrol, car parks, a lorry, biscuits, brown sauce, “Have you seen my jumper?,” and then just when you’re getting the hang of things, “Hey’o, does that need one Ugga Dugga or two Ugga Duggas?”
Now, I’ll note here, that my ignorance of the unit of measurement that is an Ugga Dugga was the cause for much mirth, but, for the likewise unenlightened, who don’t typically use an impact wrench in their job, it turns out that this is a trick question anyway. That’s because three (3x) Ugga Duggas is the minimum required to hold anything in place. And, while we’re learning together, I’ll note that seven (7x) Ugga Duggas is widely considered the absolute maximum before sh*t fails.
I’ve actually never turned wrenches with anyone from Tchermany, but extrapolating loosely, I think three Ugga Duggas is about one gütentight whereas a fükentight measures about six. The rest of the metric world, of course, uses the more precise ‘brrrrt’ scale, where the number of ‘r’s can be translated to Newton Meters such that every ‘r’ is worth roughly 10Nm.
If you’re thinking “Wow, bike mechanics will do anything to get out of using a torque wrench,” then I’ll counter that half the job is knowing which torque specs are absolutely crucial (anything made by Tune) and which ones will get someone killed (see the ‘Saved Your Life Surcharge,’ TT#17).
And look, if I seem a little more grumpty-dumpty than usual it’s because, thanks to the Britannia Boys – Jim and T.I.M. – I’ve had this horrendous version of Bohemian Rhapsody playing on repeat in my head for days. Love me some Freddy Mercury but this is too much:
“I see a little silhouetto of a man
Ugga Dugga, Ugga Dugga, will you do the Fandango?
Thunderbolts and lightning! Very, very frightening! Meeeeeee!
(Ugga Dugga) Ugga Dugga, (Ugga Dugga) Ugga Dugga, Ugga Dugga Figaro, magnificoooo…
But I’m just a poor wrench, nobody loves me
He’s just a poor wrench from a poor family
Spare him his life from this monstrosity…“
You are welcome.
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