After 40 years of chaos, grease, and unforgettable mishaps, it’s time to close the hood on my journey with Street Machine’s Dirty Stuff column. This isn’t just a farewell—it’s a reflection on decades of mechanical madness, human error, and the kind of automotive disasters that could only happen when passion outpaces prudence. But here’s where it gets controversial: sometimes, the real culprit wasn’t the machine… it was us. Let me explain.\n\nMy final column arrives in the February 2026 issue of Street Machine, a publication I’ve called home since 1985. Back then, Australian Consolidated Press had just acquired the magazine, and Phil Scott—its newly minted editor—asked me to revive my Wheels magazine column Dirty Wheels under a new name. Thus, Dirty Stuff was born. And trust me, the title wasn’t a metaphor.\n\nMy very first story? A fiery lesson in trusting the wrong tuner. Picture this: Barry Bromhall, a local gearhead, rolls up to my office in a brand-new Morris 850 Mini, insisting he’s built something revolutionary. Like a fool, I climbed in, only to find a 40mm DCOE Weber carburetor shoved through the dashboard where the speedometer should’ve been. Before I could protest, Barry stomped the gas. The engine backfired, shooting flames through the carburetor and igniting my hair—eyebrows included. I didn’t speak to him for a month. (And yes, this is the part most people miss: even experts get blindsided by overconfidence.)\n\nThen there was the Irishman with the cursed EH Holden Premier. Every time he revved the 179 engine, the distributor cap would explode off like a popcorn kernel. Desperate, he circled the car backward three times, muttering Hail Marys. Spoiler: it wasn’t demons. A clogged vacuum advance pipe had flooded the distributor with raw fuel, creating a literal powder keg. Turns out, faith isn’t the answer—basic engineering is.\n\nBut the real gem? The Ford Galaxie that nearly became a parts donor. During a dyno session, we’d just finished tuning its souped-up 427 engine—a beast with a roller cam, Holley carburetor, and enough compression to crush a soda can. As we powered down, a faint metallic rattle stopped me cold. We ripped off the intake manifold to find a broken follower link in the roller cam setup. One misaligned component had nearly destroyed the engine. And this is the part most people miss: perfection in theory doesn’t always survive reality.\n\nOver 40 years, these stories piled up like rusted project cars in a junkyard. My wife Jan endured my tantrums over typo-riddled drafts (thanks to my failing vision), and editors like Broads kept me honest with gentle deadlines. But here’s the truth: writing Dirty Stuff wasn’t just about cars. It was about the humans behind them—their brilliance, hubris, and occasional stupidity.\n\nSo, why quit now? At 86, my eyes can’t handle even a 30-inch monitor. But let’s be real: this column was never about me. It’s about the tuners, tinkerers, and madmen who kept dragging me into their chaos. Without you, I’d have retired to a quiet life of… well, barbecued bandicoot, I suppose.\n\nNow, a question for the comment section: Was Dirty Stuff a celebration of ingenuity—or a cautionary tale about overengineering? And if you’ve got a story about a mechanical disaster that defied logic, spill it. Just promise me one thing: if you try to install a carburetor in your dashboard, at least wear a fire extinguisher harness.
