Hmm, I never did like stripy lawns. Always reminded me of the sort of thing you'd seen in an ATCO catalogue of the 'lashings of ginger beer' era of the 1950s, with Father (not 'Dad' in those days!) in his tweed suit puffing away on his pipe whilst mowing happily away. Mother in a deck chair in a sun dress with a glass of said ginger beer, with the rosy-cheeked son in his Viyella shirt, tie, sleeveless pullover and grey flannel shorts and pig-tailed daughter in a pinafore dress. The sort of kids you'd see in a Hornby Dublo catalogue - except, of course, for the girl. Girls had dolls, not train sets - such gender stereotyping was the norm in those days.
Petrol-powered motor mowers of those days all shared a traditional British characteristic - they were absolute buggers to start. Usually because they needed decoking, thanks to the wrong oil:fuel ratio in their diets. To keep you on your toes, they would often kick back if they had starting handles, or catch you on the shins if fitted with kick starts. Once underway they were reasonably reliable though and cylinder mowers could be persuaded to produce those infamous Wembley stripes.
But for sheer malevolent brutality, the daddy of them all was the infamous 'Allen Scythe', a device which can only have been designed by a psychopath. It resembled a small howitzer, but without the gun. It had 2 large wheels, only one of which was driven as a differential would only have been something else to go wrong and was powered by a 150cc Villiers 2-stroke, which incorporated the traditional British starting reluctance until the rope wrapped around the flywheel had been yanked sufficiently for the engine to tire of the game and start with clouds of blue smoke. A clutch disengaged the wheel, but the brute had a pair of scissor-action inter-meshing teeth on a 3 foot wide blade at the front - which were always driven whenever the engine was running....
The Allen Scythe was assembled by people to whom 'precision' was something of an unknown concept. To get round this, they recommended that the brutes should be serviced annually, advice which few owners would heed. With time, vibration and indifferent ownership would add an extra dimension of fun to Allen Scythe operation, entirely due to the clutch. A slot in the clutch lever was supposed to hold the thing out of drive by engaging on a short ratchet device which poked down through the slot. In theory you pulled up on the clutch lever and the ratchet held it in place. But the ratchet teeth soon became worn and the various joints in the linkage became sloppy. So often the vibration of the engine would cause the ratchet to let go when you were least expecting it and the device would charge forward to bury its fangs in whatever was in front of it! Lesson No.1 - never stand in front of an Allen Scythe if the engine is running! But even more fun was that the slop in the linkage was sufficient for the ratchet to move out of its slot, so that when you pulled the lever it would jam against the ratchet and you had to aim the brute at something safe before stopping it by the cut-off - which merely shorted the plug to earth.... Lesson No.2 - declutch early!
All this made the starting ritual most entertaining and it was guaranteed to attract a small crowd of spectators, who would wisely stand well clear. Turn on the petrol tap, tickle the carburettor, apply the choke, set the throttle on the left handle and heave away on the pull starter, whilst holding the clutch lever up. When it eventually fired, you had to release the choke with one hand, wiggle the throttle with the other to keep it going and hold the clutch lever with your third hand.... Wheel speed was directly proportional to throttle setting, so once it was going you aimed it in a safe direction and cautiously let out the clutch - which was somewhat binary 'all or nothing' in nature. Often it would set off at quite a surprisingly brisk pace, much to the amusement of the spectators, as the operator clung on for dear life!
Doubtless elf 'n safety would use the Allen Scythe as a classic example of 'How Not To' - whereas all I have to do with the Flymo is plug it in and avoid running over the cable. Much less terrifying than wrestling with an Allen Scythe possessed of diabolic intent!
But the sun is out; even though the weather-guessers have arranged for an unpleasantly cold easterly breeze, the Black Orb will be performing again this evening!