The washing machine in our flat is a pile of pap!
The man we contact when it relapses is a bigger pile of pap!
If we subtract the man from the machine, things are ok...but only if I add a shoe…
Imagine, if you will, a design centre, say, in Bracknell, where some beardy blokes gather with empty clip-boards and Parker ball point pens, chomping on ketchup sandwiches and bruised fruit, all the while dropping crumbs into their chin wigs. This is the kind of place where washing machines are taken from the conceptual drawing stage, through mock-up build stage, into trial and tribulation stage and finally into wrap in plastic and send to Rumbelows stage.
It would seem that, as used to be the case with cars (mainly Rovers), the "Monday morning/Friday afternoon" scenario has applied itself to the washing machine currently sat in our, rather aptly named, "room with the washing machine in".
Our washing machine, called Kevin for the duration of this scrawl, is, without a doubt, a Friday afternooner.
Load Kevin with clothing that needs a wash and he’ll gratefully receive all your fabric’n’threads, gratefully receive the washing powder, even go as far as gratefully receiving water from the mains…but then, upon the first drum revolution the whole process fails and he discards his belt drive. The speed controller immediately freaks out and sends the motor into a 230,000rpm screaming fit. I jump out of my skin, spill my tea down my Spiderman suit and lunge into the “room with the washing machine in” to cut the programme and save the flat from fire damage…or just fire, in general.
I’ve tried umpteen (does anyone actually know how many “umpteen” is? In Turkish it’s written “sayısız, pek çok”, which I find amusing) times to, firstly, contact the Plummer, then get the Plummer, Arsefeck, to agree to an appointment, then get Arsefeck to return my calls, then ask Arsefeck why he refuses to contact us when he’s unable to keep an appointment…
Anyway, Arsefeck’s away – so I’ve taken it upon myself to become the plummer. I figure the washing machine’s knackered anyway, so what harm can it do for me to have a go at fixing it? Besides I’ve grown a ‘tash especially and I’ve been working on my Dutch accent for weeks. Just need to get the camcorder set up and I reckon we’re all set for a career in modern journalism – fly on the wall style reality home movies, guv’nahh.
So, I removed the cover. I had a look inside. I went to fetch a torch from the other room and came back for another look. I went to the kitchen and dug out some batteries for the torch and went back to the “room with the washing machine in”. I peered inside the white cube’s innards:
Overall Assessment: drive belt missing, crap springs, me overloading the machine.
Recommendations: find belt and re-apply to drum rim and motor, leave springs alone, don’t overload the machine.
All of this should’ve taken a minute. But after locating the drive belt inside the casing, curled up on the floor of a sealed metal box containing a big drum, a set of bongos and a cymbal, I realised that reaching in to try to reach the bottom of the casing was something that was unlikely to happen in my lifetime without resulting in some kind of “kid falling into chest freezer” –esq nightmare.
I remember reading about such things a lot when I was younger. Quite a peril. When I was a kid you didn’t worry about pedder-ass pervs running about trying to grab you and take you away to do stuff to you and your friends, you simply worried about falling headlong into a chest freezer and the lid coming down on top of you – ‘cause we all know once that door closes it’s absolutely impossible to open from the inside. Oh yes. Remember those kids who were playing on a rubbish heap (let’s face it they were doomed from the start really) who randomly became locked inside a fridge?
Yeah, they were there for weeks before they were found…by an old man out walking his dog. Isn’t it a shame that all horrible things are discovered by old men walking their dogs? It’s tough being a bloke.
So anyway, I reached inside the casing and immediately electrocuted myself.
After rather enjoying that odd “shduff” sound effect that takes over your ears and then your head when you take volts, and the moonwalk airiness with which you take your next few post zap steps, I decided upon a new course of action.
Because the “room with the washing machine in” is the room where all manner of outdoor pursuit clothing and equipment is left, normally to go mouldy, it wasn’t long before I located a bungee.
Bungees are probably one of the best inventions ever to, um, have been invented. They can do all sorts, loads of stuff really; it’s just unbelievable how much stuff a bungee can do, considering they look so daft. I often can’t personally believe what I see when a bungee is involved. No really. Staggering.
Something they’re particularly good at is fishing for drive belts in the abyss that is the bottom of washing machine casings.
After no further electrocution and a little under-breath cursing, I scored a good bite and retrieved the belt.
Next job was to reacquaint it to the place from whence it came, herein and thus.
Having previously built up a few thousand hours flying time in a Mk 1 Ford Fiesta (X reg), I felt fully qualified to replace this drive belt. A couple of grazed knuckles and perhaps a few expletives later all appeared to be back in order. I span the drum to make sure, then I spun the dram. Then I drank it and then had a sleep.
There came a sound from deep within the washing machine casing…it was the sound of something rubber landing on the inner floor of a metal box. It wasn’t a jumping gimp; we don’t have one anymore. No, the drive belt was off again.
This process repeated itself until I was dry in the throat and sought liquid refreshment – it was during that tea-break that I was able to see clearly what was wrong. Alignment.
I discovered, having never previously devoted any time to pondering the inner workings of a washing machine, that because of the sheer might of the wobble undertaken by the drum as it spins, the motor had literally shaken itself off its housing and now sat on the drum clamps in a fashion most commonly referred to as “on the piss”.
This is why my girlfriend and I pay rent instead of buying our own. If it was our flat and our washing machine….well for starters I’d have used Calgon and we’d never be in this mess.
Actually – if washing machines were installed in walls, instead of just being placed in a box and plonked in the “room with the washing machine in”, none of this would happen. Things in walls don’t go wrong. Yes, that’s why we have tombs. Ever see one of them go wrong? Aha no you haven’t. I win.
I forcibly persuaded the motor to become realigned with the drum rim, re-attached the belt and prepared for a test run. Everything appeared to be fine. The belt stayed in place on the manual run through. Just a quick click of the on/off switch and soon some washing can actually take place….oh no it can’t. Because there’s no power coming through the device anymore. Oh no!
I couldn’t work it out and tried all manner of tweaking, tilting and tapping. Then I left my girlfriend alone and went back to the washing machine.
Because our Hotpoint (not-point, rather) was seized by bailiffs from The Ark shortly after Noah declared himself up to his eyeballs in debt to several zoos and finally agreed to accept bankruptcy, the connections which were once considered sound are now more likeable to those connections often missed when travelling by rail in the UK, or indeed by tube on the Piccadilly Line when it gets a bit windy in the winter months. You would’ve thought…”win”ter….”win”dy…. I don’t know how they missed that one.
Anyway – I belted (with open palm, not fist nor in fact belt) the front door of the machine, which in turn responded exactly as the Millennium Falcon does when they really need light speed. Everything lit up (a lone LED) and ran perfectly – hoorah!
No it didn’t.
The wash never completed….no because at about 92% through the programme, the belt came off again. I cried and spent four days at the Priory clinic with severe depression.
When I returned, my beloved had managed only to wash one sock – for her stresses had been almost intolerable too. But not quite so, because she is indeed a fine woman and made of stern stuff, more sterner than the stern beams that support bridges, more sterner than indeed the huge girders that line cargo ships, even more sternerer than a sweet smile from John Prescott (the MP not the man who “goes the distance” in my links section).
I gathered myself, like a sheep dog would gather its thoughts before settling down to sleep…yes that’s how I gathered myself, not wanting to be defeated by a Hotpoint Aquarius 1400LX, ABS, SIPS, ESP, DOHC turbo.
The problem, it would seem, was down to the level of “wobble” experienced every time the max rpm was hit on the spin cycle. So to solve this I came up with an ingenious plan. I’d use an old shoe.
Incorporating the lid of the machine’s casing as a stay, I managed to wedge an old trainer inside the housing of the machine, between the edge of the casing and the motor. The shoe was then bent against it’s own natural flex, and fastened in place by the lid of the machine. This fastening then forces the shoe to press firmly against the motor, countering its natural lunge under the pressure from the spin cycle, thus holding it on the right line to keep the belt from slipping off the rim of the drum, and also to counter the violence of the spin when it’s going for it at the end of a programme. Utter brilliance.
So all we have to do now is find a way to fix the fact that the water comes straight from the mains supply, runs hot off the gas water heater we have, and then remains bloody cold throughout the duration of a wash. I’m sure, as a child, I remember the glass feeling at least warm after a wash had completed. Or is 40 degrees really quite cold? No it can’t be, can it?
Or, we simply wait for Arsefeck the Plummer to return from his holidays to fit us a new machine.
I wonder if I’ve damaged it?
Well written article.
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