The NCT
By Primal Sneeze ~ July 23rd, 2008. Filed under: Driving, Men, Women.
Ladies and gentlemen of the brewery, I give you, the N-C-T. The National Car Test. Taaa daaa!
A test introduced in 2000 offering us safer, cleaner motoring. It appears from the NCT website it also offers whiter teeth and prettier children. That’s what we all want, right? To be able to drive our beautiful offspring around in safety, smiling confidently in the knowledge we’re not screwing up the planet?
It seems to be working. No more do you see clapped out wrecks chugging along our roads pumping out black smoke. Does she burn oil? Aye, she would, if she got it. You don’t hear that gag any more. The last time I heard it I fell off my dinosaur laughing.
You seldom see cars broken down at the roadside. Unless they’ve run out of petrol, which the Automobile Association cite as their main cause for call-outs.
And people born since the year 2000 have whiter teeth. Fact.
So it is working.
The garages love it. Hi. I’d like to book a service. Is your NCT due? Why does that matter? Well, we’d need to check extra things. So you mean if you give my car just a regular service it isn’t safe to drive? Eh, no, it, eh …
[On slow days I call garages at random just to have that conversation. It cheers me up no end.]
In the eight years since it was introduced there have been changes to the system. Some good. Some less so.
Some things remain the same. The garages are still making a killing.
The one thing that has never changed, and probably never will, is the marked difference between the sexes while their cars are being tested.
Men
Men arrive all hot and bothered. They fumble in their pockets for the paperwork, glancing down the hall trying to judge the length of the queue. Are yez busy today? Will it be long? Take a seat in the waiting room, sir. We’ll call you know when we’re done. Ah, right. Ok. Grand so.
And they make their way down the corridor. It’s painted a dirty green. The lights are dim. You can see them noting this. You can hear them mumble. Fekin Green Mile.
The waiting room is brighter. MacDonalds bright. With MacDonalds red and yellow plastic seats. The men don’t sit. They ramble about studying the drinks machine; the fire exit; the window; the cracks in the plaster. They seek out a new best friend. That your yoke I seen outside? The oh-five Mondeo? Yeah. That’s mine. Should be okay. Bit worried about the front shocks though. Ah, these fekers always find something. Here, reckon I’ve time for a smoke?
A group stand around the entrance puffing away. First go? No. Retest. Done her for emissions last time. I wouldn’t mind but she was fine otherwise. Christ! There’s yer man taking mine. I’d better go. Good luck anyway. Right. Good luck.
The waiting room has large widows looking out onto the test-floor. Men peer through at the cars. They point out theirs to the others. Like in the movies when new fathers pick out their babies through the glass of a hospital nursery.
Uh oh! Don’t like that. He’s putting mine back on that machine. Can’t be good. I’m shagged, lads. Ah shur, €49 is a cheap service. They’ll tell ya everything that’s wrong. Better than paying a fortune to a garage and ending up failing anyway. Yeah, I suppose. And they all laugh nervously. But briefly. No time for laughing. There’s staring through windows to be done.
The final test station checks the suspension. The cars are shook; vibrated; rocked. The men suck air through their bottom teeth and quiver. It’s like watching another’s scrotum being slowly clenched in a vise.
Then the hardest part. The wait while the cert is printed. Pass or fail. Nothing to look at. No more small talk. This is it. The moment of reckoning.
The tester calls out a name from half way down the corridor. The man nods his farewells and makes his way slowly forward. The others stare after him. They see his shoulders slump. They see the tester walk him to the car and point to something. They failed the poor feker. Those remaining get more nervous now. Fidgeting. Furtive glances. Only a belch or a fart will break the tension. Someone obliges.
Women
Women drop the car keys off at reception and sit down with a magazine.
Excellent observations, as always. Although in my case, it was a book instead of a magazine.
(Also, I like your little tabby set-up….very handy.)
Come over from the Dark Side, Ann. Come over and join us, and you too can have little tabby set-ups. Come, come, come into the Light.
Reading this helped me get over the loss of Toyota to the NCT. Rear shocks, brakes and high emmissions meant I had to send her away to the great big garage in the sky. It was hard at the time but the support group from the NCT centre have helped me over the dark times.
‘Women drop the car keys off at reception and sit down with a magazine.’
Not here mate! We get to stay with the car in the great big draughty hanger. You are told to arrive 10 mins before appointment at the pre determined bayand keep the engine running.
When the guys have had their 57th discussion of the day you are invited to drive forward to 2″ of the testers feet. Then it is a game of switch this or that on and then off, play with the washers, wipers, lights, break until at last you are invited to open the bonnet .
Next you vacate the car and are directed to sit on a moulded metal bench behind a barrier while watching with full sound effects, your precious little car being bounced about, twisted, turned and then hoisted in the air. At this stage the guys require a rest and further chat!
Thankfully so far My car has returned to ground level and to me having passed with flying colours.
Next time I will wear a Ski suit or bring a hot water bottle
@PheasantFukker - I’m sorry to hear of your loss. What can I say? Keep your bonnet up.
@Grannymar - Different ball game altogether here: Drop off the keys. They go get the car. Do all the tests. Park it back up for you. Then bring you the keys and the cert. No chatting - busy, busy, busy. Quite professional and customer orientated actually.
That said, can you provide pics of yourself in a ski suit next time?
There is a lot to be said for having only a bicycle, and the excellent bike paths here mean you can even read that magazine while cycling if you wish.
Just be sure your timing belt’s in good nick, before they race your engine. That’s it.
the one and only time i brought a car for NCT… i brought the wrong one. the notice was for my old (scrapped) car but i sent it back anyway (unaware) and then got my new one serviced, cleaned it, dickied with the lights etc. and brought it along only to be made a plank of in front of all and sundry when my mistake was realised.
oh, how they laughed.
i didn’t.
Cool tabby things, Sneezy! Your features are cool, but are they craggy?
You’re right on the men v women observations.
But I have noticed a few 96 bangers on the road of late. Now they don’t compare to the bright lime green lada we had when I was younger and pre-2000 but they are not of the standard I have come to expect since the introduction of the NCT. Or have I just been living in Greystones too long?
@Conortje - But would you pass the NBT? Or would you get done for drink-reading?
@Conan Drumm - I check mine every
morningtime it breaks. Lie! I never know until a grease-monkey tells me it needs replacing. i.e. When said grease-monkey needs beer money.@Rosie - Yeah, I know. They were still telling the story last time I was there.
@problemchildbride - W00t! Craggy? As in island?
@Lottie - Yes. Living in Greystones too long.
Mine is a ‘98. Impeccable. In two years it will be a ‘96 in today’s money, but will still be impeccable, though small in comparison to normal cars.
Didn’t your mammy never tell you about size that, ’tis neither the length nor the breadth of it that matters, but the educated arse behind it. There’s an educated arse under the bonnet of my ‘98. (Bit of an eejit behind the wheel, but the NCT don’t test for that).
So glad I use public transport.
Like the new bells n’ whistles!
I leave the NCT worries to my many CIE chauffeurs.
Got to say though, I have a feeling some Dublin buses just aren’t up to scratch. Choking on exhaust fumes while sitting in the back seat was my first inkling.
@Quickroute - To be honest, my car sails through the NCT for the simple reason I seldom use it. Public transport isn’t available where I live, but my legs are.
@Little Miss - I know the NCT is being extended soon to the likes of Garda cars. I wonder if that will include Bus Éireann and Dublin Bus.
Not like island craggy; like Kris Kristofferson craggy.
The Italian once broke down while taking his vintage Fiat 500 for the NCT. He pushed it some of the way, had a quick fidget under the bonnet, managed to drive it for long enough to actually get it to the test centre and they passed it.
Being a grease-monkey can be useful sometimes, specially when you’re mates with the testers.
Book, this woman brings a book.
@problemchildbride - That’s okay then. I think.
@Caro - Sweet! I had a remould on one time and didn’t know tyres have to have a speed rating. The guy told me to go down the road, swap it for the spare, bring it back to show him, and he’d give me the cert. And no, no back-hander - he rushed away in case I’d think that.
@fatmammycat - I tried bringing a book once, but there’s just too much man-stuff going on to concentrate.
Recommenting - your spam filter is really aggressive…
I guess I’ll be sending the missus next time
That was if I had a car.
Or a missus…
@TheChrisD - Sorry about the filter but I had to do it. I was spending more time clearing junk than writing it.
I’m down to an average of just 1 spam message slipping through every two months.
As I suspected I’m a woman. At least I was when I drove.
@Eolaí gan Fhéile - Was it an SUV you drove? Only women (with blonde hair) drive SUVs. They don’t know what S-U-V means, but they drive them (and pedestrians like me off the road).
So, if you were blonde, drove a Supra-Urban-Van and ran me off the road, then yes, you were a woman.
I really hope this is true.
@flirty - Every last bit. Well most of it. Well some of it. Well none of it.
I have added it to my favourites, greetings. Many thanks