The Mechanic's Whistle

11th May 2009

The Mechanics Whistle
Danny Elbow

With the Celtic Tiger's funeral pyre long since drifted out the mouth of Cork Harbour the incoming shipping lanes that were once frequented by enormous bulk carriers rammed full of shiny new motorcars and fuel hungry SUVs are eerily quiet.

This is no place for soft-talking hawks, lady men and Protestants from Bandon

On a sunny winter's evening stroll near Camden Fort or taking a refreshing dip at Roches Point your attention would invariably be drawn to the giant steel hulls lurking at anchor outside the harbour like giant hippopotamuses biding time before their next meal.

In the early hours of Monday morning, with more favourable weekday docking rates awaiting, they could be seen silently cutting through the waters off the Spitbank in Cobh with Ringaskiddy in their sights or skirting stealth-like around the old Verlome Dockyard opposite the pier in Monkstown bound for a berth up river - the low frequency hum of their underwater propellers the only giveaway sound.

Now the river channels are a little quieter as Corkonians, like their fellow citizens in Northern Ireland and the Republic chose to get more out of their preferred mode of transport.

The widely pedalled salesman's law that you had to upgrade your car every two years to make sure you weren't losing value always seemed a bit self-beneficial. The banks weren't complaining though.

Ring up to check what the opening hours of your local branch were and there's a high chance you would be offered a car loan. Selling things to each other that we didn't really need seems to typify the reason the Irish economy nosedived.

Dessie from Dessie's Tyres in Blackpool

So now that people are hanging on to their cars and refusing to buy new ones at least somebody gains. Cork's mechanic fraternity, often bypassed by the Celtic Tiger as people abandoned their old cars for new ones because there was a chance it wouldn't pass the NCT, are finally getting plenty work.

The new approach makes more sense in the long run - not just to your pocket but in terms of sustainability. Filling dumps with functioning but unwanted cars is all a bit 20th century. Al Gore wouldn't be havin' that, feen.

So as more and more of us pick up the phone and make a booking for a service value-for-money and trust in mechanics has become one of the more popular barstool talking points around the county.

The last thing you want to hear when you bring your trusty 1999 wagon to your chosen mechanic for what you thought was going to be a routine service is that famous mechanic's whistle and the accompanying raising of the oily eyebrows, opening of the eyes and shaking of the head.

Despite hoping his reaction was just spotting the magazine full of pictures of scantily clad young ladies that "de brudder" left on the backseat the news is not good. When the details of your engine "disaster" are delivered your recession-conscious mind thinks about nothing but how much its going to cost.

If only it had a USB port

This distraction doesn't allow your brain to take in the specific technical mumbo-jumbo of what's actually wrong so that when you're out on Saturday night you can ask one of the boys down the pub who's handy with a spanner to see if you're being shafted.

Feens who ply their trade in perceptively less masculine industries like IT may find their inner alpha-male unwilling to question this hardened oil covered tough-talking sham. The logic is simple. Car engines are 'manly' things. Therefore if you don't know nothin' 'bout 'em you're manhood could be questioned.

So by the time you get to the pub on Saturday night some of the finer details of your 600 euro service bill have been lost in what we call Gurranabraher Whispers - the northside equivalent of Chinese whispers just with more drink and narrower streets - interfering with your recollection of exactly why you're forking out so much money.

When you get around to telling the lads in the pub about your trip to the mechanic your understanding of what's wrong with your vehicle may be a little skewed - especially if your mechanic insists on speaking down the phone with two cigarettes hanging out of his gob: the fiddly-cam main head gasket socket is apparently "in bits", the rotating blade belt twitter tops are "shod" and the double-head spring-back brake shoelaces "wouldn't see another four hundred yards". Something like that anyway.

Oh how Mandy wished she had secured the car jack properly

If car salesmen had the power of a mechanics' surprise phone call they'd be laughing all the way through the recession. Just when you thought your budget of €180 for a comprehensive service would be a shrewd move to offset any costly engine damage down the line, your phone rings.

Mechanics have an incredibly frank way of dealing with customers that comes from years of working with uncooperative engine parts that refuse to do as their masters demand unless brute force is exerted on them.

A vaguely familiar grunt down the line alerts you to who's calling. A list of incontestable extra tasks and parts that you will never see the true result of is mumbled or barked down the line followed by a rapid string of grumbled ex VAT prices.

You are left with little choice other than to cough up the dough or possibly face your next downhill sojourn with certain death even though you're suspicious that he fixed those "dodgy brake cables" last year.

Never ones for tending to the aesthetic sensibilities of a waiting room (lest it demote their manly status) you should enter every mechanic's shed or waiting area with extreme caution. Grease, oil and other mysterious liquids adorn every surface.

If you're lucky enough to get a bill and list of parts it will be appropriately soiled (for authenticity no doubt). Discerning the handwriting underneath the black streaks of miscellaneous filth could be challenging as random numbers, acronyms and other scrawlings that make Egyptian hieroglyphics look like a junior infants easy-reader adorn the docket.

Before you leave the yard always check that the extra little things you asked to be done have actually been sorted. You know those little gripes we all have with our pride and joys: Irritating wipers that screech no matter how many times you replace them. The faulty stereo speaker that only comes on when you're driving in Blackrock. The tracking bias on the steering wheel that always tries to make you go down the ramps to Douglas when driving on the South Link.

Just because there's a recession doesn't mean you can't demand quality and accountability!