Life imitating art, parts 1 .. n/I can remember John Cusack wholesale for you.

So. Simply Saab, splendid spares suppliers, seem sorted. Sell self second-hand spark-box.

(That's quite enough of that. Although bonus points for commentary in similar vein.)

But... Sapristi nuckos! A migraine starts on just as I'm wheeling the bike out the door for the trek (haw! It's not. It's a Giant.) to Brislington.

Run to chemist, neck Imigran, wait in darkened room for nastiness to pass.

It doesn't. Although I can remember John Cusack now, so the worst must be past.

[FX: Swearing]

Some taxi-work, five minutes with a Torx bit and the 9k is running a lot better (ie - at all).

For entertainment value, I pull the ignition box to bits. The insides are somewhat scorched. (You can't quite see where the potting compound's gone carbonised and bubbly.)

Meanwhile, I now suspect that the smell of carbonised components works on electronic kit the same way that the smell of vom works on humans; when I go to wash the smell of circuit-death off my hands, the kettle starts to arc and emit smoke.

I should change my name to Neil.

Misanthropy, misanthropy. They've all got it Kenneth Williams, etc.

I suspect it's just my currently stuffed brain chemistry, but when I see the word 'bubbly' applied to either a carbonated wine product or someone's personality, I tend to cringe and move in the general direction of Away.

I'm sure there are others.