SZR660 headlight Modification.

This mod for the SZR660 headlight overcomes voltage drop from dirty switches which makes the lights very dim. It uses existing wires where they don't cause volt drop to make a neat solution. It requires reasonable soldering skill.
1- Trace the cable from the ignition switch to a connection block behind the headlight. Find the red wire leading to the other side of this con block and strip off a quarter inch of sleeve. (this should show as 12 v with ign off)
2- Buy 12 volt relay SP 8 amps (£5), 6 amp wire and spades, one that allows two wire to connect together.
3- Build as shown with 3 wires to light about 8" long and leave the other long. (solder and crimp spades)
4- Feed the 3 wires through rubber cover. (only do when you're sure it's working)
5- pull off brown earth wire and connect it to new coupling spade and reconnect to earth tab.
6- Pull off bulb wire and connect new spades to incoming wire and bulb.
7- Hold 4th new wire onto red wire and test that light works as it should.
8- Wrap relay and any bare wire and connectors in insulating tape as water tight as possible.
9- Cut 4th wire to length and solder to red wire.
10- Repeat for other light.

Gleeful Counselling.

 So this week’s Glee is attempting to counsel a nation’s issues by the magic of light musical entertainment. Nothing like a musical to find out you’re gay, which is nothing to be ashamed of by the way. It’s just like homophobia, racism, obesity, paedophilia and manslaughter, just own it and you’ll be able to feel good about yourself. Well they’re all in Glee for a start and that must take some owning. But they all have their own individual reasons for self-hate they need to get off their chest and onto their T-shirt. The ugly obese girl with a matching personality found this simple measure made her much happier with her high risk of diabetes, heart problems and early death. The OCD sufferer popped a pill and will be much better by next week and Mr Shooster, the teacher, overlooked his struggle with nonce-hood and plumped for his large chin, which I must admit I hadn’t noticed till he pointed it out. The Jewish girl, Rachael, struggled with a nose job and another, vaguely Asian, with being a bitch, which I must admit made her rather endearing to me. Ha-ho if we’re all en-route to bland perfection we can’t let personality stand in our way. So now with all their hang-ups out of the way they’re much closer friends in a sort of lying, cheating, backstabbing kind of way and progressing nicely towards facile PC adulthood. I only wish someone had had the foresight to get me to write, “Ugly, skinny, boring, shy with crap teeth” on my T-shirt when I was sixteen, I’d be a much more rounded individual by now. 

Sexual Thoughts.

It’s 3.30am; I decide a bowl of cereal in the garden is a good idea. In the kitchen Dave is growling. I close the door to the hall in case the mean black cat is in here and I might have a chance of scaring it shitless. No Dave has a mouse. I’m very dismissive of Dave’s mouse catches, I tent to assume one of the others has caught it and Dave’s just fielded it when they got bored and it was still a bit stunned, but as no one else is around it must be his. So well done Dave. Cereal on the swing seat in the company of Mothermouse’s plants in their pots humming their plant energy into the warm darkness in a sort of chorus of “Hello it’s me” way. They’re no good on specifics, no opinions on the AV referendum, just “Hello it’s me”, which is quite enough. I go back in. Dave is quiet; he’s lost his mouse. I think he must overdo the growling and open his mouth enough for the mouse to do a quick getaway. The others are pawing the door and troop in to see what’s going down. Britney’s up on the fridge pawing out morsels from the Cup of Plenty, Betty’s wandering round like a vague Essex girl lost in Chiswick as Dom sits needily hoping I’ll provide him with a winning Sheba lottery ticket. Buy your own! Dave is silently considering his loss and the mouse is somewhere considering his luck. And Osama Ben Laden is looking down or up on the scene from somewhere far far away. Oh yes, sexual thoughts. Two young Latvian women behind the bar in the Cheshire Cheese, Buxton. What is it with eastern European women, do they bathe in Links or something?! One briskly whisks the lemonade for my shandy, looks, “Now iss pweurfect.” She smiles and adds the beer. It becomes a pint cocktail made by the creatively massaging hands of a red light angel. “Would you like us now to go to bed ant do all za fierlty tings are racing through your mind?” I nod. She wonders why I’m nodding. “Three peounds tventy.” My genitals leap up on the bar and do a little dance. Why are they so sexy?!! It’s like they’re born with some knowing most English women go to their graves wondering about. When I die I’m going to Latvia. Oh and on that score the mouse is, I’m sorry to say, with Ben Laden. His mangled body was later found unarmed on the bathroom floor murdered by our elite core of Navy Seals, well cats. He was buried at bin.    

Bin Laden caught by estate agent.

On Sunday, May 1, 2011, U.S. President Barack Obama announced that al-Qaeda leader Osama bin Laden had been killed in a military operation by U.S. special forces in a compound near Abbottabad.

 Abbottabad is a city located in the Hazara region of the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province, in Pakistan. The city is situated in the Orash Valley, 50 km northeast of Islamabad at an altitude of 4,120 feet and is the capital of the Abbottabad District. It is well-known throughout Pakistan for its pleasant weather, high standard educational institutions and military establishments. It remains a major hub for tourism in the summer.

That’s right Osama bun Laden was caught by the deductions of a real-estate agent. The CIA, after ten years of looking in murky dank caves, finally co-opted Prime Punjab Properties. “Well sir to be honest caves are shit to live in, especially with a growing family. This guy has spent time in England, he would need somewhere near a good school, golf course, local shops, nice weather etc. Here look, here’s a nice spot. Just south of Lady Garden Park (true), walking distance of Government Post Graduate College No: 1 and Gammi Adda shops, and ten minutes from Abbottabad Golf Club. High walls and instant access to military information from all the surrounding army bases.”

Basically anyone with Google and Wikipedia and watched ‘Location, location, location’ could have worked this out years ago.

The Royal Toilet Wedding.

Well it’s 29^th April, that fateful date when I really must renew my tax disc on line. It’s 7.30am and I scan the sports channels for MotoGP and find the Royal Wedding. BBC coverage has already started! A weather woman is predicting there will be the possibility of sunshine or cloud and that if it’s not dry it’ll be raining. Now maybe it’s just me but UK weather women should not have big tits. OK for Berlusconi’s Italy but not here. So this woman, with her bumper pair, a smile verging on insanity and confident prediction that anything could happen except perhaps a tornado, outside Buckingham Palace is a climatic calamity to start with. Her banter with her male presenter resembles two over excited preschoolers moments before they have a joint toilet accident. It seems all the excitement is just too much for a disposable nappy to contain. So they go over to a reporter at a street party at a holiday camp in Lowestoft or somewhere to presumably avoid showing grown men and women peeing their pants with euphoria on national TV. But this guy is little more than a demented chimpanzee as well. Between rows of windswept caravans in Norfolk are two rows of trestle tables (def: a table supported by trestles. So what the hell is a trestle?!) decked out with paper plates, red, white and blue cakes and an assortment of grannies waving flags. This must surely be an end of the war re-enactment society. But no, these too are off their tits with happiness and will be racing to the toilet as soon as the cameras are off. It’s likely, given all this glee-ing and peeing, that one unforeseen consequence of this wedding will be a water shortage. Now I’m all for royalty coming down a peg and joining the vacuous upper class and for national celebrations like ‘Punch a Cleric Day’ but I’m worried about our media coverage. Their constant need to ramp up our euphoria has gone way past credibility and is now heading for derangement. Soon we’ll be shitting in the street just to show how ecstatic we are for hosting the Olympic Games or our grief for our loss of the queen when Charles finally gets his wish.

Alexandra’s Horses.

We’ve just spent the afternoon with Alexandra’s six gypsy cob horses, all mares and un-ridden. They’re like free range spending their days in their field eating grass and doing what takes their fancy; one chocolate brown, the others brown or black and white, with long uncut mains and tails. They’re friendly and gentle; but then how to say the rest? Imagine you have forgotten thoughts, how to have them. Imagine the mechanisms of thought and all the talk and anxieties and perplexities that stem from them have become lost to you. You become in the hands of something deeper, a virile un-muted responsiveness, the essence of being. This is what the horses have and will share should you wish to. But it’s not easy to lose thought, it permeates the flawed godliness of our human existence, it brings primal uneasiness, a vacuum so eager to be filled. Yet should you with some effort of will maintain this vacuous-ness you will find yourself being with the horses, being with being. This is how they are and they will teach you. The effect is sublime. Not the crass ‘sublime’ of something being really, really nice but the sublime of transcendence into a purer state of being. Think back to the time some mutated gene lost our hair, left us bald victims of heat and cold, striving to stay alive by problem solving. It set our compass a million years ago that has stayed and grown into this thoughtful awful complexity. But the horses taught me our previous state, being with being, hunter with pray, player with play.

Keep the Koran Safe.

So a Koran was burnt and seven people were murdered and two beheaded after a protest call by an Islamic cleric. And I thought the Catholics were strict. How terrible a sin it must be to burn one copy of a book you can buy on Amazon for £4.47 (£0.71 Kindle edition) That’s less than 70p a life. I mean what if you bought one and didn’t like it and threw it in the trash? There must be millions out there and a lot chewed up by cows or dropped in the canal or something. What if the bookshop wrapped one up by mistake and you got home and it wasn’t The History of the BSA, it was a Koran. You’d be saddled with it for the rest of your life knowing if anything happened to it you’d be responsible for the multiple deaths of non Muslims. And if your house caught fire you’d have to rush back in, past the kids to save the Koran you bought in a charity shop to see what all the fuss was about with Salman Rushdie. But how can we save people from committing this terrible, terrible sin? I have an idea. What if we gathered up all the Korans in the world and placed them in a very safe place, a concrete bunker with thick steel doors and locked them away for a thousand years; that would do it. It’s a small price to pay to avoid all that murder and beheading in the name of Allah. I think Allah would like that, it would appeal to his sense of irony.