A Tale of Two Juicers

This is a household of multiples. Things breed in it. There are at least two of everything, for which I am partly to blame, through trying to cram so many of my possessions alongside Mr Grumpy's, in his already packed cupboards. Open one and out spill packs of Drum tobacco (yes, he smokes roll-ups), builders' tape-measures, boxes containing puzzles made of bits of wood and plastic (Mr G taught his brain to build new connections with them, following his brain haemorrhage when he couldn't read or write), broken things for which there is no name (except broken things), dead spiders, manky tennis balls... need I go on? It's a man cupboard in a man house. Hoarding is a man thing, unless you're talking shoes.
The proliferation of juicers was my fault. Having spent £30 on a Kenwood one, I was fed up with the fact that it couldn't cope with beetroot and dripped juice all over the worktop. My last experiment ended up looking like a Hammer Horror set with gore everywhere (beetroot and carrot juice, actually). At Tesco I had spotted a vast heap of juicers for only £7 so I begged Mr G for a lift there.
"Oh no, you can't use those, they're blenders. They won't do the job," announced Mr G, disappearing round the aisles at a rapid shuffle, using his trolley as a zimmer. (He's had two strokes, remember? His balance is a bit wonky and I didn't want him tumbling face-down into the vast vat of boxes of chocs, much though I'm sure he'd have liked to.)
"Over here!" I heard his hoarse yell from way over yonder and found him standing by a shelf of... yes... juicers. "This one will do everything you want and it's only £20. Good value for money," announced Mr G. He wasn't offering to buy it for me. It was MY money he was talking about. Mr G and fruit are plagues apart. He treats every berry as if it hosted beri-beri.
Hauled it home, washed all washable parts as the booklet instructed, Mr G assembled it, I tried to do it myself but there was a metal locking bar that my arthritic fingers couldn't shift. Things weren't looking good and I cast a wistful glance at my tiny Kenwood, which could only produce one very small glassful of juice per go. This new machine was massive and promised juice by the bin-load if only I could get it working.
I put it to bed all ready to go. Now, the other purpose of this juicer, apart from making more juice, is that it said on the packaging that it took 'whole fruit' therefore, according to thoughtful Mr G, saving my hands from all that peeling and chopping Not so. I RTFM'd (Read The F-ing Manual) and discovered that peel, rind and pips had to be removed. Grrrr! This morning I got up and chopped lemons, mandarins, pears, apples, and threw in grapes and blueberries for good measure, and an extra good kick of Vit C. I pressed the button, it whirred, then... nothing. Not one drip of juice has come out.
Methinks Mr G has slipped up somewhere while assembling it, but he's not here to take his whipping like a good dog, he's at the butcher's, helping his mate, the owner, prepare sarnies for a buffet in return for something red and raw to cook for Sunday dinner. Here is a photograph of the sight that will greet him on his return. As you will see, there's not one tiny droplet of juice in the jug. That juicer is going straight back to Tesco, along with the 'Standard length' trousers I bought yesterday that are made for a seven foot Masai warrior. (Hmm, now there's an entertaining thought... !)