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A long time ago, Catterick to be precise, Malcolm Foreman gave me this story he had purloined from a womans magazine, I've been keeping it tucked away for the right moment and as this is Christmas I've decided this is the moment, it may even make quite a few of you lads out there stop and think a bit as to who caught who?????


THE (OTHER) MAN IN MY LIFE  by Judy Lindley

He's rugged rather than handsome. He's slow, noisy and he drinks a lot, but he's very obliging and almost indestructible. I've had him six years now, and couldn't live without him.

He answers to Plog and it's his twenty-first birthday next month. He's getting all excited about it, because he'll be one of the oldest Land Rovers around.

I'm not altogether sure why he's called Plog. He just looks a Plog, the way some people look Sydneys or Daphnes or Freds. It's a nice, aristocratic name which won't date. 

Although I can scarcely imagine my pre-Plog days, I remember his arrival vividly, because there was an ulterior motive for it. The most timeless, revered motive of all. Love.

You see, the Man In My Life (or, rather, the man I wanted in my life) adored what the experts call "off-road" vehicles. Trucks and jeeps and bulldozers and things.

I couldn't (and, believe me, I tried!) share this penchant for fourwheel drive, low ratio gears and colossal cross-country tyres. But I did rather like Land Rovers. And I fell for Plog at first sight.

He was sitting disconsolately in the middle of a turnip field. Alone, shabby and unwanted. The farmer who owned him was as delighted to part with him as I was to hand over that term's student grant to buy him.

I could, I thought, get all my books from the library. And who needs to eat, when they have the spiritual comfort of being a Land Rover Owner? I was soon to achieve even greater spiritual comfort in the form of a Husband.

Yes, it worked, my ulterior motive! Alone, I was, I'm sure, very nice, but quite dispensable. But allied with Plog—why, the two of us were an irresistible package! And we're still together, Husband, Plog and I, to prove it ... Plog came to the wedding, of course. In fact, we "went away" in him. He looked lovely, too. All hung about with ribbons and garlands and horseshoes.

Actually, Plog quite stole the show. He dominates the photographs, a dusky, gleaming creature in a sea of top hats and carnations. Our wedding album is more like a Land Rover Workshop Manual than a record of the most wonderful day in our lives.

I don't begrudge him his moments of glory, for he deserves every single one. He hardly ever lets us down. Not on purpose, anyway.

Oh, he'll get the odd cough or splutter, he'll run out of petrol, or burst a tyre, but these are minor ailments we all suffer from time to time.

When something does go wrong, he'll stop and fix us apologetically with his headlights, assuring us it's not his fault. And I'll pat him (looking around first to make sure nobody's looking!) and assure him he'll be right as rain in no time at all.

He took us thousands of miles across the continent, gorging himself happily on expensive foreign petrol, and suffered only a tiny leak in his radiator. The hole is still mended with French chewing gum.

He has been stripped to his rugged chassis by Italian customs officers in search of drugs and diamonds, and by M.O.T. officialdom, in search of rust.

He has spent winter days marooned in snow-drifts, spring days battling through torrential rain and summer days melting, topless, beneath the midday sun. And he never grumbles. Well, hardly ever. He doesn't like being taken for granted. I know, because he has a burst of temperament whenever he feels unappreciated.

He waits until he's alone with me. Preferably in a rainy country lane on the way to work, when I'm in a hurry. And then he stops. There's no fuss or bother, no bumps or groans or clonks. He simply stops. And he won't start again. I always have a go, just to make sure. I pet under the bonnet and poke about a bit. I never impress him with this false bravado. He knows I haven't a clue about Life Under The Bonnet.

I pat him, smile seductively into his headlights and whisper sweet nothings against his wing-mirrors, but all is inevitably in vain. By this time, I tend to be soaked to the skin, cold, cross and very late for work. The milkman usually gives me a lift to the bus-stop on his way back from the morning round.

In the evening, I lead Husband to the scene of the crime. Plog is generally looking rather sheepish, sitting there in the mud at the edge of the drive. Husband will thump him masterfully, hurl a few coarse but harmless expletives at the reddening wing-mirrors — and start him first go.

"How do you do it?" I wail.

"A touch of man-to-man understanding and the ignition switch," Husband replies and treats me to a withering look. He's good at withering looks. Practice, I. suppose ...

I have spoken to Plog about his fickle tendencies, but I daren't be too emphatic. It would only make him worse. A Land Rover which enjoys sporadic bouts of temperament is, with Husband's help, manageable. A thoroughly neurotic Land Rover is another matter altogether.

I also have an uncomfortable feeling that I am partly to blame for Plog's intermittent insecurity. I nearly sold him once, you see. He has many, many advantages, but no-one, not even his dearest friend, can deny his voracious appetite for petrol. And, petrol being a pricey substance, there are times when Plog's greediness drains my extremely limited resources.

It was at one of these times, when resources were more than usually limited, that I tried to sell him. I turned away all sorts of prospective buyers before I found one I thought would keep Plog in the manner to which he was accustomed. This was a man from the Forestry Commission. He seemed most taken with the rather impressive hook affair under Plog's tailgate. Visions of lofty sweet-smelling pine forests, lumberjacks in tartan coats — and Plog laying waste the undergrowth, effortlessly heaving pine trees about with his hook danced before my eyes.

The forestry man had his cheque book out before my senses finally returned to me.

"No!" I cried. "I didn't mean it. It's a mistake. He's not for sale at all!"

It took me ten gallons of five-star petrol to pacify Plog after this episode, but I still worry about the scar it must have left on his memory. He's safe now, I tell him. I'll never let him go. And I'm sure he believes me. He is, after all, the other half of a totally irresistible package!

Well lads, did she marry you for your looks or your Land Rover?

Mind you there has been quite a few Land Rovers cited in divorce cases I shouldn't wonder. A chap called Richard Sewell is a chap I can hardly ignore, not only is he a Pennine member, which is reason enough for me to take notice of him, hut he lives in Hartley House, Hartley, Kirby Stephen in Cumbria. Living in such noble surroundings the lad could hardly help being a literary type, so I will print his letter.

I would like to comment on the recent article in BB which dealt with the basic details of how to improve a standard Land Rover for competition use.

There are members who are scraping together enough pennies to uprate a Land Rover for Trials or other competitions. Such articles are therefore very useful, especially when giving information regarding other members, whose skills and contacts enable club members to obtain parts at reasonable prices. Paying full retail price at garages and tyre services can bankrupt the most affluent member, ie. Dunlop Trakgrip T29A tyres £50 each from National Tyres, new LWB rims over £40 each from Leyland parts centres. Further articles on such matters as sealing under seat tanks in Lightweights and comments regarding scrutineering regulations may prove useful as even regular competitors appear to have difficulty in satisfying scrutineers on simple matters such as carburettor linkage return springs and hand brakes (lack of in most cases). The following report may also be of interest.

At the Combe Forest stage of the RAC Rally near Keswick on 17th Jan there was a reported sighting of a Rochdale Mafia 'Battle Wagon' 2A Lightweight. Two theories put forward were that the occupants were either lost or on a secret mission to study the habits and habitat of the Cumbrian forest stage Marshall (one of whose habits is to aggravate tired and hungry spectators and competitors by cooking breakfast by the side of the course.

Be warned, marshalling at 1981 Pennine events could take on a whole new meaning!

Richard Sewell



Sunny Vale again! Time for Pennine's best drivers to display their skills and let themselves go and do real blow jobs on their motors, or at least re-shape the side panels. At twenty to ten Chris Simpson, Dicky Day, Alan Beaumont and Alan Panter were all locked out of the paddock area. The gate was padlocked and chained and it would have taken well over 15 mins to hacksaw through, so only just before it was time to open the gate with a bumper the key arrived and 'hey presto' the event slowly came to a start.

Most people were well on time, the last one arriving at 5 past 11, but by then most people had been through Steve Parker's and Nick Samples' scrutineering. Competitors do bring it on themselves, surely everyone knows that you must have a card, return spring and a crash helmet to enter. You've got to sign on as well, it's just as daft not to get your Landie prepared for scrutineering as it is to get it done and then not sign on! So, at 11 o'clock there were 25 motors scrutineered and only 18 or so signed on. The drivers had cleared their motors from scrutineering but talking was more important than entering!!

It was Chris Simpson's turn to get the headaches then, trying to get some sort of class separation between the two major classes the committee had decided to run. He did it of course, but with only just over half the drivers signed on it was a problem. The other novelty at signing on was giving your name and address, not for any 'Big Brother' purposes, but simply because there was a commercial, professional motor sport type camera man on site who wants to photograph YOU being silly and then sell you pictures of yourself in full living colour! What a great job!!

After Chris's problems came Dicky Day's with the P.A. system cream crackered. It sounded as though it just wanted new batteries, but it doesn't it wants burying! A very complicated way was worked out of trying to get each heat-loser to win their next round so they could get through to the final and this put the organisers under pressure. The system eventually worked with some of the losers getting two, three or more runs in, not just the one eliminator like we've had before. Some of the winners didn't like this too much, but they had forgotten that they would be going on to the afternoon session and not being forced to drop out in the early rounds.

So at the Standards quarter final a dinner break was called by a rather hoarse Dicky Day.

Bowing to competitor pressure the Specials started after dinner under the same 'pis aller' (that's French, not the apres lurch) system and being a little more professional in their driving they soon got under way. It was then that Ron Whitham with his stop watch came into his own, proving to himself (and others) that Standards rule and the 'pis aller' system began to work. Again everyone got two runs in and even if one round was lost you still didn't lose the game, in the losers run off there was still a chance (OH YEA!) of getting through.

With the fairly small entry (Pennine Standards) the Specials quarter final stage arose fairly quickly and it was the turn for the Standards to have another go. Times were no quicker than the morning session, even though the track was drying up slightly. It was enough for the Diesels though and for the first time in Pennine's history of Sunny Vale a diesel failed to get through to the final.

The Specials story was very similar with the afternoon times being marginally slower and the final was eventually between David Harrison in his Range Rover against John Lister in his V8 Flying Lightweight. Both Standard and Specials finals were run over 10 laps instead of the 5 lap eliminators and with a time of 5min 32sec John Lister beat the Range Rover by 9 sees. In the Standards the times were 9 sees apart as well with a great battle between two Lightweights piloted by Carl Amos and Richard Bradshaw battling it out to give Carl a clear win with a time of 5min 26secs (You see - Standards do rule!)

If more time had been available then a run off between the Standard and Specials winners would have been a good one, but the winter evening was drawing closer and there was still the Donkey Derby to run. There were 7 Standards and 11 Specials to make up the free for all that we call the Donkey Derby, how people enter and walk away is a miracle, (how they drive away is another one as well) and it seemed the obvious thing to do to get the Standards and Specials to run off in their own heats and then combine the winners. With a 2 litre Pinto Ford engine making up the Standards class their event became a fiasco, counting who was the winner wasn't too bad but the places were something else, real awkward. The Specials fired off and after a minor (!!!!) track blockage when one of the side scrapers levelled the tarmac at the paddock end they eventually finish

It was going dark as the combined final set off and experience soon began to tell with Dave Simmonite holding the lead with what appeared to be consummate ease. (All you could see was a mud plastered body but it looked to be smiling all the way). At the end Dave was the winner by a fair margin.

Prizegiving came and went and once again there was the unpleasant job of loading dirty motors onto trailers and cleaning up the road motors before going home. Overall it was certainly worth it, with the weather being in our favour for once and this made it into an event which finished off with most people wanting more.

If you didn't win, the reason could have only been that you didn't bribe Alan and Anise Seed enough, they were the ones who, at every Sur Vale, are  brave/foolish/silly etc enough to sort out just who came second and were also responsible for ensuring that the Donkey Derby heats and final came up with winners.


Thanks to all who made it work.

Dicky Day


For those of you who don't know, that stands for the Pennine Land Rover Club Dinner Dance which was attended by 140 rather smart Pennine members and me! Dave Hoskins, who had organised the event, was living up to his new found image with .... oh forget it, I won't go into details! I knew we had got the right room the moment Russell Ridley sat down, leaned his 6 foot frame back into the chair and promptly measured his length on the floor as the chair gave up the unequal struggle and disintegrated to the amusement of all around .... Pennine had landed! Big Norman from Harrogate found his dancing greatly improved with the use of crutches, he broke his ankle at the other sport in his life. Karate, and they say Motor Sport is dangerous! President elect Millington was straight in after the fodder with the speechifying and also to present the Annual Awards. The JR Close trophy for member of the year was as always a close finish with over 120 people in the running for it, the winner being Joy Holland from Mirfield. JR Close trophy points are awarded on a standard basis after every Pennine event to members who have marshalled or in any way helped the event, scrutineering, obtaining land etc. The one with the most points wins, but that shouldn't detract from the fact that there were 120 people, who at various times over the past year had helped in some way to keep the Pennine events running smoothly, so it's congrats to Joy and well done all the rest of you.

Next was the Weblo Trophy which is awarded to the most consistent competitor in Pennine events ie. a mixture of winning and regular attendance. It is worked out using a formula so complicated its secrets are known only to Comp Sec known as Dickymouse, but the secret formula will be passed down to any subsequent Comp Sec I am assured. The winner of this trophy was Mrs Keith Schofield (actually it was Keith Schofield, but he wasn't there and his wife was, she's better looking too, so Neil had no hesitation in handing her the trophy ... if only Harry hadn't mislaid it!) Well done Keith, he entered every Pennine event last year as well as many other clubs' and did his fair share of winning with his trusty Series 2.

The Champion Driver Trophy, donated by Dicky Day, was next to be awarded. This is easier to explain, thems as wins most gets it! This was awarded to Carl Amos who, although he hadn't been to every event, he usually won something at the events he entered. Out of interest Mick  Moore was runner up for that particular trophy (both standard Lightweights).

The George Cooke Trophy for the top woman driver in the Novice Trial  went to Marjorie Hughes of L&C. The Piccy of the Year Award, donated by yours truly to encourage people to send me photos for BB, was won by Philip Hooker for his ace, all action photo of the mighty John Lister coming a cropper at Audley and bumping his bonce into the bargain. (Ed 29)

The PLRC trophies for the National were awarded as follows:

The John Lister trophy for highest placed member in the Comp Safari went to Dave Simmonite. The Brian Pickup Trophy for the highest Series 1 at the National Trial went to George Carruthers. The Albert Farnell Trophy for the highest Series 2 at the National Trial went to Mick Henney and last but not least the Arnold G Wilson Trophy for the best placed member in the Gymkhana went to Melonie Simmonite.

Well deserved congratulations to you all. With the presentations and speeches over, Brian the barmy DJ took over and proceeded to discover what Pennine were good at in these sort of surroundings ie. drinking and being silly, and they are very good at both. I mean how many club Dinner Dances have you been to where the Editor ends up carrying the Treasurer round on his shoulder? Or where the President could be seen on his knees proposing to a winsome member. Join the Pennine and see how the other half live, that's what I say! There were plenty of other sights to be seen, I can tell you, but I dare not describe them here for fear of jealous husbands and boyfriends!

A highly entertaining evening, I can tell you, very reminiscent of Pennine-do's of  old (as uall us old codgers agreed) and what ever else it may be, it certainly seems to suit the Pennine spirit!     Thanks are due to Brian ? for the Disco and Dave Hoskins for the aRrangements ...... roll on next Christmas!     



Christmas Eve, and Pete shivered as another icy blast blew a flurry of snow under the garage doors, making him pull his sagging jeans back up to try and meet his shrunken woolly jumper and close the draughty gap.

His ancient Series 2 deposited another lump of slush on the concrete floor, and the pool of water in the driver's footwell finally found release through a hole that had once held a captive nut and bolt in the days before the dreaded rust.

Pete's jumper sailed up his back again, revealing another 7 inches of solid goose lumps, as he bent to try once again to replace the wheel stud that was resisting all his attempts to put it back where it belonged. Of the 5 studs only one remained in place, 2 were missing and 2 came out of the hub complete, and it was the last one of these that Pete was now trying to replace. At last he got the thread started and he tightened the last of the 3 wheel fixings, he straightened his back, pulled his jeans up, his jumper down and wiped the drip from his nose with the dangling chin strap of his old leather flying helmet.

The snow had stopped coming under the garage door, as it was now piled deep against it, then Pete rubbed the frosted pane of glass and shivered as he looked out at the desolate white snowscape, lit only by the yellow orbs of the street lamps 200 yards away, on what was usually a busy main road, but now even the gritters had gone home and given up the struggle.

Another lonely Christmas, thought Pete, just him and Plonker to play in the snow. He shivered again as he thought of the day he'd gone to a Pennine Land Rover Club Trial at Tunshill, the humiliation when the strange man with a funny bobble hat had told him he couldn't enter in a heap like that, pointing to Plonker, who was so mad his radiator was bubbling. 

Missing wheel studs, no handbrake, worn track rod ends, no fuel cap, no roll bar, no towing rings on the front, NO CHANCE!! Pete had taken Plonker away before he flipped his top and savaged the scrutineer with his fan and dejectedly parked him up in the corner of the field. It had cost him his whole savings to join the Pennine and now this, he couldn't even play with them. He watched as the others slithered, bumped and splashed their way round the sticks and ached to be able to join them. He'd gone home slowly, avoiding the bumps so the doors wouldn't fly open and wondering if he'd ever be allowed to play with the others.

His misty eyes cleared suddenly as he heard the whistle of air brakes on the road, he cleared the frost from the window again and looked out. Slewed across the road was a huge articulated box wagon which had ob- viously given up the attempt to crest the brow of the road and had now slid back to where it was, obviously going to spend the night. The driving snow blurred the vehicle, but Pete could just make out the words 'Toytown  Transport' down the side of the brightly painted trailer. The tractor unit being the very latest Swedish model from Reindeer, the driver got out of his cab, pulled the collar of his Donkey Jacket further up round his ears and slammed the door in disgust. He looked up and down the road as if expecting to find the council gritter trundling towards him, despite the frost they had been garaged hours ago, and then in desperation he looked  round to see if help was at hand. The only sign of life through the driving snow was a small square window illuminated by a 60 watt bulb, with the outline of some outlandish cartoon Pluto character framed in it. With a sigh he stamped his boots and made towards the feeble light.

Pete was ecstatic, here was his great chance to let Plonker show what he was made of. He brought out the nylon rope that he had plaited together from bits of broken tow rope he had found at Tunshill, and almost before the Driver had opened the garage door, Pete leapt out. I'll tow you out mate, me and Plonker, no problem!' The driver looked at Pete, with his bare middle and flying helmet straps with little icicles dropping of the end as they flew around in the breeze, then he looked at the battered, Land Rover with its re-cut tyres, sagging roof and doors, he thought of his multi-thousand pound rig and the thousand mile journey he'd already had, he couldn't let this lunatic loose with his Land Rover. Then he thought of the full load of toys he had, and the 'Children in Need' distribution centre just 3 miles up the road waiting for him, he made his mind up and looking at Pete's expectant face and foolish grin, he threw away his no claims bonus and climbed into the Land Rover.

The engine gasped into life tike an asthmatic organ and then settled down into a rythmic thumping. With a clash of hardened steel, reverse gear was selected, and with a flourish like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat.

Pete pushed the yellow 4 WD lever down. Now he could conquer Everest!

The driver immediately regretted his moment of weakness as he bounced around on the meagre seat cushions which slid sideways like a type- writer carriage at regular intervals, leaving nothing but bare metal for his bum to land on. Within seconds of entering the swirling snow-scene, his only vision was through a tiny, mandarin orange segment of glass as the wiper struggled to shovel the snow aside to smells of burning carbon from the motor.

Pete was so chuffed at his present role of Knight Errant that he'd just discovered the driver's name was Nick, and Nick was still wondering whether or not Pete was human, dressed only in a jumper, jeans and a silly helmet, the only outward sign of his being cold was the regular dragging his chin strap across his dripping nose.

The snow stopped as the rope was attached, and the stars and the moon re-appeared as Nick fired the huge diesel, selected his gear, and flicked the handbrake off with a whistle of compressed air. Pete's smile had long since disappeared as he looked at the huge vehicle towering over old Plonker, attached by the bits of plaited rope, too late now, he thought, as he jumped back in, with words of encouragement to Plonker, he pulled his final ace red lever back into low range, selected second somewhat quieter than re-verse, took up the slack and set off ..... for all of three inches. He tried again with the same result, plenty of wheel spin but no movement. His mind raced back to the Team Recovery he had watched at Tunshill, and the way he'd ducked every time a Land Rover had 'snatched' at a stuck one, but nothing had ever broken!?? Gritting his teeth he backed up until he was nearly touching the Reigndeer's bumper, clutch out, plenty of revs, and off he went with both Nick and Pete gritting their teeth and holding their breath.

Three seconds later Pete's flying helmet made contact with the windscreen as the rope snatched, and it was a while before he realised that the stars going past his eyes were real ones! They were moving painfully slowly, wheels spinning and sliding, engines revving, dying, then growing and dying as Nick and Pete struggled to find some grip as they climbed up the slope.

Pete got a pain in his chest and realised that he hadn't let his breath out since before the rope had tightened, his breath whistled out through his clenched teeth and promptly froze on the windscreen. That still didn't remove his lopsided grin. He'd done it, nothing could stop them now!, and for the next 2 miles nothing did, as Pete bashed through the occasional snow drift to be followed 15 foot later by Nick's artic flinging snow high up in the air.

Suddenly Pete's mouth dropped, and goose lumps appeared at the back of his neck, he saw in the distance a ribbon of white reaching up to where the night sky met the white landscape. Soft Knott Hill I Why hadn't he remembered? A half mile straight hill of 1 in 7 that made Plonker cough at the best of times, and was now covered in 4 inches of snow. If determination helped traction he was OK, he remembered a phrase that  he'd picked up at Tunshill that had been yelled by powerful Northern lungs, that made it echo from every hillside for miles around, 'Give it some Wellyl' Pete's adams apple almost went into orbit as he swallowed what was left of his fear and waved out of the window indicating to Nick to speed up. Nick, who had been lulled into a false sense of security by the beautiful snow- scape, ease of travel and powerful heater, thought Pete had taken leave of his senses as he gave the '"Wagons Ho' sign with his arm. He looked  forward and saw Soft Knott Hill. He'd just mentally retrieved his no claims bonus and now saw write off stamped indelibly on his mind, just the  tightening of the rope told him Plonker was straining to be let off his lead. With an enormous sigh he gunned the willing diesel and the turbo started its high pitched whine as the revs slowly climbed through the green band. Nick tried crossing his toes, failed, and white knuckled abandoned himself to his fate.

Plonker was fairly rattling along, clouds of snow bursting in all directions, and Pete was light headed as the speedo gyrated madly between 40 and  0, he'd reckoned without the Reigndeer's power though and he looked into the mirror to see the big wagon bearing down on him fast. Pete's foot trembled with the effort of pressing the accelerator to the floor, the scene outside just a blur of white, an unearthly quietness as the snow damped down any noise, all he was conscious of was the deep throated bellow getting closer all the time.

There was a faint nudge as the Reigndeer's bumper connected with Plonker's rear cross member, and all Pete could see in his mirror was a lattice work of radiator grill and a large, shiny black badge that somehow reminded him of a nose. Nick was by this time enjoying himself. Having cast caution aside he'd given the Reigndeer its head and the rev needle was stuck firmly in the red, and the bumper firmly in Pete's Landy.

They rocketed into the bottom of the hill doing 75, the snow billowing over the top of the hedges on either side and Pete's eyes stuck out like Plonker's headlamps. As they started on the hill proper the big diesel's scream softened to a roar and then to a muted throb as the revs fell and the torque piled in, praying he wouldn't miss a gear Nick started to drop the gears half a ratio at a time, keeping the 280 horse power engine at optimum power, by the time the top was in sight he'd dropped 7 gears and had 5 left, but the diff locked wheels were beginning to slip as he dropped to 4th.

Pete by this time had released his dead man's grip on the steering wheel and with a quick wipe of his nose on the back of his sleeve he braced himself for the shock of the rope tightening, his head still throbbed where he had cracked the windscreen last time and he wasn't getting caught out again. Pete's wheels had just reached the flat when he felt the tug of the rope as it tightened up. Nick was in second and only feet from the top, but the wheels were scrabbling at loose snow and the outfit had all but come to a stop, he could see from the smoke and snow billowing out from Pete's me that the lad was giving it all he had, but was it enough?

Plonker had dug through to tarmac and it was just the traction it needed, blue smoke from the tyres mingled with all the other smoke fouling the air as inch by inch Plonker dragged Nick's outfit over the top. Within seconds they were in the yard of the kid's home that Nick had travelled 1,000 miles to reach, with a blast of enormous air horns and a whistle of air brakes Nick pulled up. "Made it", he breathed. With a hiss of boiling water and a metallic clang Plonker came to a stop also. "Had it" sighed Pete, realising his old motor had finally given up the ghost and expired. With a heavy heart he got out to be clapped on the back by a jubilant Nick. 'Never seen anything like it' he enthused. 'Bloody incredible I call it, I thought I'd breathed my last once or twice' he said laughing. By this time there were literally hundreds of kids swarming into the back of the trailer, unloading the toys they'd all given up hope of seeing this Christmas. 'Never mind' thought Pete, it was worth it really as he looked at the happy faces.

Pete and Nick stayed at the kids home over Christmas as the weather still didn't clear and, on the day after Boxing Day, Pete was called to the window by some of the kids. His jaw dropped as he looked out. There we’re twenty or thirty Land Rovers of all shapes and sizes outside, all with Pennine Land Rover Club stickers on, but where was Plonker? Nowhere in the crowd of motors could Pete see Plonker, panic stricken he ran outside into the snow and was immediately taken to the garage at the side of the house. There looking resplendent with a Pennine Badge on the Grille and Team Pennine stickers down the side was Plonker all repaired and in A1 fettle. 'How, I mean what, who, where' stammered Pete, Nick, who had been stood behind him clapped him on the shoulder 'It was me' he said hap pily 'I listened to what you said 'about this club, so I rang them up and told them what you've done, and here's what they've done for you in appreciation'.

There was a nice new roll bar from Burnley, new Trak grip tyres from Harrogate, a. new tow rope from Leeds, a better Flying helmet left over from the Flying Circus days from Bradford, a new pullover from Rochdale with Pennine Pete embroidered on the back and last of all from Mirfield this true story of how Pete became Pennine Pete, hero of the Pennine Land Rover Club and most popular member.

And now the clock has struck 12 so I shall change back into a pumpkin,  wish you all a Successful and Happy New Year. and leave you with a little thought.

I drink only occasionally to steady myself, sometimes I steady myself so much I can't move!

Brian Hartley


MSA and ARC club members are welcome to come along and join our events. Phone Mark on 07866 506521 / 01282 703718



Pennine Land Rover Club, Pennine LRC