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Gorby

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About Gorby

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    Coventry

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  1. I hope you're all keeping your pecker up (which is a saying that will probably confuse just as many Brits as you foreign chappies. What the hell does it mean? Always sounds a bit smutty to me). You will be relieved to know that I'm well (although I'll thank you not to sacrifice any critters to the gods), but I'm afraid my Perfect Plastic Putty is ailing and I'm not sure it'll survive the pandemic. It's always been a bit sickly after I squeezed it too tightly and it bust a gut (why do we always hurt the ones we love? (well, everyone needs a hobby )), which is why it's had to wear a surgical support ever since. We only celebrated it's fifth birthday a couple of weeks ago (it helped pass the time) and over the years it's become a member of the family. It's certainly less odd than some of my in-laws. It looks like it's soon to expire and it'll leave a huge hole in my life (in my models anyway). For the last year or so, when it's parched, I've gently drop a few drops of water into its tiny mouth, which revives it for a brief moment, but I fear the moment of it's expiry date is near. How will I ever be able to replace it ? What? Ebay or Amazon? Oh yes that's a good idea. We have been busy doing our bit to help rid the world of this damn virus. When I say “we”, I sort of mean Mrs Gorby, but I'm cheering her on from the sidelines (perhaps not exactly cheering. More like faint encouraging noises). She's currently cutting up bedsheets to make an infinite number of cotton drawstring bags for the doctors at Warwick hospital, so they can just chuck their kit in the wash wholesale without the need to touch it again. There's no need to feel inadequate – not everyone is cut out to be the saviours of the human race, like what we are. In the far distant future, when my potential imagined grandchild asks “Gwandad (because my potential imagined grandchild has a speech defect) what did you do during the Event”, I will chuckle and say “DON'T MENTION THE EVENT, AND SPEAK PROPERLY”. When the crying has died down, I will add “I wrote twaddle and played with plastic”. I can just imagine the pride shining in those young eyes. Not all superheroes wear capes (I must get Mrs Gorby to run me one up when she's finished messing around with that other stuff). Aaannnyyyyway, back to the build... Talking of 'super', I need to do more with the structure (see what I did there – super….structure (god that was painful )). After waiting for enough petrochemicals to be sucked out the ground for the plastic I'll need, I continued fiddling with the body. The TbloNeTUsDesc© states that all dimensions given are imperial, and then goes on to say that the armour plating required would be up to 75. If that was inches that would make it a tad cosy inside. They would certainly have to use the 'slim-line' steam engines. It would also make it denser than a black hole that's pinching all the Mars Bars. For some reason the blueprints of the first British tanks used imperial for the measurements - for everything except armour thickness, so it's assumed the yanks did the same. Even then – 75mm!!!!! What were they expecting the Mexicans to be armed with if they needed armour 29.5” thick? Those paying attention will remember that I mentioned 'open hatches', which meant that I'd have to do some interior stuff. I kept it basic because your not going to be able to see much and also because I can't be bothered. The bit that houses the BIG bangy things is the most awkward bit of the bodywork: The sheet bottom left is the rivety skin that I'll attach using double sided carpet tape (as in my A7V tank build). Eventually the whole of the whopper including the wheels will be skinned. That will be a long, long boring job. As there isn't any front view, this bit is entirely without historical basis (which is how I like it). It turns out that one of my turrets was 0.5mm too tall. Not a problem you'd think, but the copper and thick plastic base thought otherwise. It took half an hour of filing to sort out. As I said in the previous post, normally I'd line the bottom of the body with lead as I don't like tank models that are as light as a feather, but the size of this would necessitate a midnight visit to Coventry cathedral with a wheelbarrow and a very long ladder. In one of my more lucid moments, I did start to wonder what the scale weight would be. You may need to look away, cover your ears and loudly say “lalalalalalalalalalalal” if you have an education allergy (you can't just 'not like' something these days, it has to be an 'allergy' (okay, okay it may be an intolerance (or just a minor sensitivity (damn I'm nesting brackets again)))).* I recently learnt that to work out the scale weight you need to divide by the scale three times. In this case, a US ton is 2000lbs, multiply that by the estimated total weight of 150 tons, to give the full weight in pounds = 300,000lbs, then /48, /48, /48 = 2.7lbs. If you’re having difficulty visualising 2.7lbs then erm, apparently it's this: You just know that the wolves are out there somewhere shaking their heads in dismay. * Grammar is a menace and is banned throughout Gorbyopolis. When I have to venture into the 'real' world I have to make some minor effort to avoid persecution from the ever vigilant 'Punctuation Police', who press for prosecution of serious crimes every time my literary efforts roll of the press (or clicking 'Save' button - more accurate but less snappy). My usual plea, that punctuation and grammar is a bourgeoisie conspiracy contrived to embarrass ill-educated plebs like me. Whilst at the same time claiming to be an anarchist fighting against the fascist concept of semi-colons, is rarely accepted by the court. Try though they might, they will never part me from my beloved brackets. I know that I over use brackets (A friend once said "it's like reading algebra", by which I assume he means that it makes little or no sense to ninety-five percent of the population) but I tend to write in the same way that I think (with little cohesion and lengthy lunch-breaks) and the only alternative would be to use footnotes that would have to stretch so far up the page they would have to be called ankle, knee and thigh notes (incidentally, yes I do know that this sentence is too long). Fortunately not everyone is out to persecute me for my literary efforts. I've had people tell me that I should write a book. Those people are institutionalised now for their own safety. PS. We were supposed to be in Edinburgh at the moment. Not happening now, so we won't get to point and laugh at the large hairy men dressed in skirts doing unspeakable things to tartan clad octopuses. What do they do to make them scream so appallingly? Obviously being stuck in a house in Coventry is just as good. It is. Really. At least there's no bloody bagpipes – there's a hammer action drill going a couple of doors down and that's definitely more harmonious. Why would I want to visit Edinburgh castle what I could walk to the equally impressive Allesley castle ruins: Okay it may need a bit of a tidy up and a few more bricks, but we won't need to queue with all those run-of-the-mill tourists. Being a modeller, I have a severe intolerance to people, so probably just as well really. Where on earth are we going to get our Scottish themed tea-towels and assorted Nessi tat now?
  2. Finally I get the chance to say “This town aint big enough for the both of us”. So I hope you won't be having any more ideas about moving to Cov.* * (Because it's a s***hole). Very nice work so far Andy.
  3. Spit! Spit! Spit! Spit!
  4. I'll vote Spit. (Because I'm really, really annoying).
  5. Your model, your rules. You can do it any colour you want, and call it a what-if. Go on, be a rebel.
  6. Bloody hell that's enormous! That isn't a ship that's the fifty-first state.
  7. I nearly replied in the GB gallery. Very nice job on your whirlywhatsit Darren!
  8. I thought the real one was a tiny bit bigger? Nice tonal variation on the green Darren!
  9. It's going to be pretty painful pinning my medal to my nightwear. I don't wear pyjamas.
  10. Thanks maties. You should be sorry for inflicting them on a poor unsuspecting world @dixieflyer – feel guilt! I've not watched more than 10 minutes of any one of them but I still feel sullied. I'm not great at recognising faces and my memory isn't great, but even I noticed that they all have the same 'actors' (a word I'm using against my better judgement) ….. and the same 'plot'…… and pretty much the same script. Are these things mass produced in factories, because they really need some more spare parts to appear in them? And I forgot to mention, all the children are perfectly behaved and are so sickly sweet it makes you want to vomit.
  11. Thanks very much for the comments & 'likes' mateypoos – made my day. Now if I could only cut the amount of waffle I write, I would probably have finished it by now.
  12. The whopper has advanced a great deal since last we met. I'm playing catch up with the WIP as normal because I've been in more of a modelly mood. Mrs Gorby's way of passing time of late is by attempting blight my lockdown days with 'tasks'. She even suggested that this would be a perfect opportunity to decorate the house. If it's the end of civilisation as we know it, I'm not painting the [please insert the the fruitiest swear word of your choosing] house. If the four minute warning sounded, you're no going to do the washing up are you? So that's an emphatic 'NO' then. Be honest, your impressed by the size of its weapon. It's a all question of proportion you see. On a battleship, where it's supposed to be, you think “Aaarrr, teeny-weeny pop guns”, on an armoured pram, you think “BLOODY HELL!!!!” and cross yourself even if you aren't catholic. I barely considered the big guns at the start. Easy I thought. A rummage through my drawers was enjoyable, but fruitless. I had to resort to browsing the bay of evilness. Even buying myself out of trouble would mean having to perfectly taper each section. I managed to find plastic for the largest section (9mm) fortunately Mrs. Gorby hasn't notice that a couple of her blouses are sharing the same clothes hanger yet. Faced with the full horror of paying £12 for the other sizes, my brain clicked into 'Emergency, Money at Risk' mode and I came up with a completely free option within five minutes. Panic averted. Not only was if free, it meant doing a lot less work. That's what I call a plan. It may seem as foolish as wearing flip-flops up Everest. It really does make sense. In the five years I've had the set of brushes, the BIG ones have been used once or twice at most; Santa got me a new set recently and we ascertained in my last build, I'm no bloody good with the things anyway. It doesn't mean that I can't use the resulting brush wreckage, it just means that they're are a little stumpy. I've got stubby screwdrivers, why not stubby brushes – it'll catch on, it's the future. It's vitally important for national security……. Sorry, sorry, my brain just slipped into 'Drama Queen' mode. Every since I went to 'Emergency, Money at Risk' mode I'm having trouble getting back to, for the sake of argument we'll call 'Normal'. I never really did find the 'Normal' position (I didn't look that hard to be honest). I think it's located somewhere between psychosis and accountant. Back to the point. It's reasonably important to cut the handles so they aren't skew-wiff (pause while the non Brits find out what I'm on about). It isn't often I manage to dredge two plans out of my head in a single day. It involved these: The result of my experiment was obviously a staggering success. There's really no need to try and replicate my stunning results – just put my name forward for the Nobel prize for modelling – again. I'll budge up the other awards on the mantelpiece to make room. I'll probably use the same acceptance speech as the last seven times, it won't matter, no one was awake at the end anyway. To be honest it gets a bit boring really. What's that you're saying? You wouldn't know? How insensitive of me. The result was perfectly straight sections…... just not in the right bloody place. Putting the brush in a drill and holding a saw to the line was quicker and turned out just as straight. It also proved to be the easiest and most accurate way of sawing the sections off – but needed a more heavy duty saw. Not easy getting the holes perfectly central, but its an excellent way to extend your weapon – you can ignore those emails now. At first I wasn't sure if both the big bangy things were in the same turret. The TbloNeTUsDesc© mentions '…..a pair of gun mounts with cylindrical movable masks.' Not having a clue what 'gun masks' are, I made the mistake of doing a Google image search. There are some exceptionally odd people in the world . Right or wrong, I've christened these masks. For various reasons I went for two turrets and obviously felt the need to make things more difficult by making the guns have full movement. This is private Heinz Plastik admiring his impressive weapon. That's an odd shape you're probably thinking (how the hell can see me?). Of course the blueprints for the gun base were revealed to me in their perfect completeness by divine inspiration. Sometimes perfection needs the odd tweak so lets compromise by calling it divine evolution (thereby annoying both points of view). I told him what would happen if he played with it. Dirty boy! The thing in rubber bondage wear is one of the turrets. It wasn't easy wrapping it so tightly, so over a few days, it got bound to objects of reducing diameters. Eventually it was quite easy to get to 22.5 mm. I put a surprising amount of time into turret production, only to find that it was virtually impossible to get the guns to sit in the correct place in them. Damn! Plan 'B': After fifteen minutes pretending to be a plumber; ten minutes with a Dremel and half a lifetime filing, two plan 'B' turrets were ready with the nagging thought “Why wasn't this plan 'A'? The fit is as tight as a Scotsmans grip on a fiver. Nearly done. They just need a bit of a tidy up and some pimply skin, which fortuitously, will get them to the exact diameter. Temporarily in situ. This far in the build I've used plastic, wood, brass, copper, sarcasm and I'm hoping to use porcelain in the on-suites, glass on the balustrade and maybe velvet for the curtains. Stay healthy mates, and don't mention the event. (Damn, I mentioned the event…. Noooo I did it again. I said to myself, “the last thing you should do is mention the even, and the last thing I did mas mention the event. I can't seem to stop mentioning the event, I must have 'event Tourettes'. I can't even blame the lockdown as I haven't noticed much different with my life so far.)
  13. WARNING: Waffle ahead (the model related content of the following post has been independently measured at 0.072%). I seem to have ended up with half hundred weight of second-hand words that are starting to go a bit pongy. You don't mind if I back up the van and dump them on you? Thought you would, just as well I didn't take any notice. I decided that dying would hamper further progress on my whopper, so didn't. I'd strongly advise you to do the same as it would also seriously affect your enjoyment of this thread. To show Covid who's boss, I laughed in its face by getting even older. It doesn't feel like it, but it seems I've aged another year since my last update. Time flies (I tried to, but they move too fast). For my annual getting older day, we all gathered around an imaginary grand piano (because we imagine we're posh) and sang “Crappy birthday to me/you, crappy birthday to me/you…..”. When I say 'all', it was just me, Mrs Gorby, the voices in my head and the dog (obviously the dog didn't sing, she doesn't know the lyrics). We did observe social distancing (except the dog. If you know anything about Golden Retrievers you'd know that social distancing is a total impossibility for them (I think they spontaneously combust or something – it's never happened in the entire history of Golden Retrievers so no one knows)) Mrs Gorby was at home, the voices were having a short holiday in some other blokes head, and I was at the park with the dog. It was just me really wasn't it? How sad. At long last, the world has realised that a global holiday to honour my birthday is in order. It's the least they can do. Twelve weeks is a little more than I was expecting though – eleven weeks would easily have been enough. We've also sort of gained a full time dog since I last annoyed you. She was previously our part time dog (by which I don't mean she was a cat at the weekends). Let me explain. She used to stay here 8 till 5 during the week, but my American daughter-in-law (to protect the innocent we'll call her Kristy – which is a remarkable coincidence because that's her name) was convinced that Ella was a bat-plague carrier and was attempting to socially distance herself from her. In order to prevent a potential devastating conflagration, we did the decent thing. Which is fine with Ella as she thinks she lives here anyway, and never seemed to understand why I sent her away every evening. No offence, but it is a tad embarrassing admitting that my daughter-in-law is American. On the plus side, she is doing rather well in her 'being utterly, spiffingly British' lessons. She's even mastered using a knife and fork at the same time! She's also come on leaps and bounds with her apologising. Perhaps one day she'll reach the prestigious, 'I'm most terribly, terribly sorry' standard that most Brits are innately born with. The more British Kristy gets, the more American Mrs Gorby gets. It's the fault of those crappy made for TV 'movies' (in the brief snippets I've seen of these things, there isn't any people who are over-weight, ugly, poor, armed or harbouring ill will against others. What a wondrous country America must be). Imagine my horror a few days ago when she used the word “Trash”. I shook my head in dismay and gave her a look like she'd made a social faux pas on par with doing a silent but deadly in the presence of the queen and then using the 'who smelt it dealt it' rule, whilst continually addressing her as 'Liz'. Which of course it is. Yesterday we had the credit card bill come though which included the bill for an Italian meal to celebrate my stepsons 30th birthday a few weeks ago (christ how did I get so old so soon, it only seems like yesterday that I was young and foolish. At least I still have one of those qualities). My first thought was 'how things have changed in such a short time', but it was followed quite quickly with my shock over the price. I wondered why Mrs Gorby grabbed the bill at the time. Admittedly there were six of us at the posh nosh shop, but £257 still seems steep. Don't get me wrong, it was a nice do, and it was nice grub, but I inherited my granddads stomach and I'd be equally happy to have eaten cheese on toast at the local greasy spoon. My nan was a bloody awful cook, I mean like world standard awful. She was of an era where food had to be beaten into submission and all possible nutritional value destroyed, long before it was allowed to leave the kitchen. She didn't hold with vitamins. Having said that, after EVERY meal my granddad heroically endured, he would sit back and say “Bloody lovely!” Even with provocation he managed it (although most meals she produced were tantamount to a declaration of war). On Sunday he would promise to be back in time for tea, but as a man of steel, the pub had a more magnetic pull. When he finally arrived home, many, many hours after the designated time, he would find his food still in the oven looking like something you'd use to cook your barby, but he would STILL eat every last blackened lump and STILL sit back and say “Bloody lovely”. Nothing could wind my nan up more than him saying “Bloody lovely” after he was supposed to have broken down in tears at the mere sight of his intended inedible nemesis. My hero. They don't make em like that any more. What I could have bought with £257. What the hell has this to do with modelling? Erm, nothing really. I'm most terribly, terribly sorry old chap, I do tend to blather on a bit. Just think of it as me helping you though the lockdown buy using all of your time. Okay, be like that then. If feel like that you may need to go and view someone else’s whopper. Alternately, if you are insistent that mine is the most irresistible whopper you've ever laid eyes on, you could just look at the pictures. At least it'll save having to move your lips and drag your finger across the screen. Aaaannyway. I need to offload that. Like the old saying, “a problem shared is a problem doubled” - not strictly historically accurate, but I updated it to make it more factually accurate. Mind you, don't think your safe, that's just the first van load of purifying prose. 'Normal' service will shortly be resumed. Next up – the whopper gets arms (but, much like me, usually tends to be legless).
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