here is a dramactic version:
Let me tell you a story.
Not just any story — a saga of survival, grit, and two battle-scarred DC07s.
One lives the life of a commercial workhorse.
The other? A builder’s companion, forged in dust and duty.
We’ve all heard the Dyson horror stories —
“Oh, mine kept breaking,” they say. “It was rubbish.”
But today, we look to the other end of the spectrum.
Not the fragile, fickle machines of myth. No. These are SOLDIER DYSONS — machines that refuse to die.
For years, I’ve been the quiet caretaker of the church vacuums on our village green.
I’m not religious — not in the slightest. But I believe in service. In showing up. In fixing what others discard.
When I arrived, they had a DC01.
A machine so ill-suited to its task, it practically begged for mercy.
Filters every week. Wheels, brush rolls, base plates every three months. Cables. Switches. It was a mechanical tragedy.
So I stepped in. Sold them a nearly-new DC04 All Floors for a laughable £30.
The cleaning lady was ecstatic — no more endless part replacements.
That machine held strong for nearly five years.
Until someone annihilated the sole plate and stripped the brush roll bare.
At that point, I gave the verdict: it’s done. Time for a new warrior.
Enter the DC07 Animal.
Six years old. No major issues.
But at 4.5 years, it went eight months without a filter wash.
I assumed they were doing it. They assumed magical pixies were.
The result? The motor gave out. A quiet pop — the sound of neglect.
I took it home. Called Dyson.
The repairman, a legend in his own right, turned a blind eye to its clearly non-domestic use.
He gave it a new motor, a fresh HEPA filter, and a clutch to replace the slipping belts.
I replaced the sole plate myself.
It had been dropped down the stone stairs to the choir vestry — the cyclone assembly bears stress marks like battle scars.
The brush housing is worn from pivoting across uneven floors.
But it still runs.
It still fights.
This DC07 is no ordinary vacuum.
It’s a
veteran.
This wasn’t just a bargain. It was a
heist.
Found in the back of a major electrical retailer’s stockroom — handle cracked, dismissed as outdated.
They let it go for £9.97.
Nine pounds. Ninety-seven pence.
For that price, I didn’t just buy a vacuum. I claimed a legend.
I took it home. Registered it. Told Dyson about the broken handle.
They sent me a new one — no questions asked.
And just like that, I had a full 5-year Dyson warranty on a machine destined for war.
This DC07 wasn’t built for domestic bliss.
It was born for chaos.
- Cars.
- DIY carnage.
- Building sites.
- Church deep-cleans.
I bought it knowing full well it would face the worst — and it has.
It’s cleaned up
water,
wet plaster,
spilled paint.
It’s vacuumed
rubble from demolished walls,
roof debris,
chimney soot, and the ghosts of coal fires past.
The motor now sounds like
hell — cold starts resemble a cat being slowly fed into a blender.
But it still runs.
It still fights.
I’ve washed the post-motor filter more times than I can count.
The pre-motor filter clogs so badly, dust bypasses it like a jailbreak — choking the post-motor filter in retaliation.
I even extended the cable, because this beast doesn’t deserve to be tethered.
If it ever gives up, I’ll clean it down, slap on a halo, and cheekily try a warranty claim.
Dyson may never know the battlefield this machine has seen.
Look inside the hose — it’s blackened with soot.
The handle wears the scars of paint and plaster.
The brush roll soldiers on, though the sole plate looks like it’s been through a war zone.
And here it is — working away in the loft after the new roof, surrounded by rubble and grit.
When it’s not being abused, it rests in the garden shed like a retired gladiator.
These machines aren’t just vacuums.
They’re
survivors.
They’ve faced plaster storms, stone staircases, and the wrath of soot.
They’ve cleaned churches, cars, lofts, and lives.
The newer ball-style Dysons?
I doubt they’d last a week in these conditions.
But hey — I’d love someone to prove me wrong.
Until then, the DC07s stand tall.
Two machines. One mission. Zero surrender.