This car is probably cited as the perfect example of what was wrong with the British motor industry in general, and British Leyland in particular, during the 1970s and 1980s. The much-maligned Allegro came in for tremendous criticism, but was it truly justified?

I once worked for West Midlands Police and we were issued the most basic form of the Allegro, two-doors and the transversely-mounted 1100 cc A-Series engine carried over from the old 1100/1300 range. Styling was controversial to say the least, the familiar two-box design of its much-loved predecessor being replaced by a rounded, egg-shaped body with contemporary wedge influences, if such a thing could be possible. Why the Allegro? Well, BL’s Longbridge plant was set in the middle of our force area, and we had to be seen to be supporting British industry by using BL’s products in our fleet. And so, it came to be.

I never owned one of these, but during my career as a police officer in the West Midlands I accumulated countless thousands of miles, and many hours, behind the wheel of various evolutions of this car. Let’s be honest, these little cars were thrashed on a regular basis. This abuse was both mechanical and in wear and tear, and considerably in excess of what they were originally designed to handle. The cars were driven twenty-four hours a day, year-round, and although most of the time they were driven fairly gently (it would not look good for a police officer to be seen driving like a hooligan for no good reason) there were regular occasions when an urgent call would necessitate dropping into a lower gear and accelerating for all the car was worth to get from where we were, to where we needed to be five minutes ago.

The MK1 Allegro was the car that had the infamous square steering wheel. Driving schools bought Allegros for that very reason, since the “quartic” steering wheel encouraged drivers to feed the wheel through their hands in approved fashion, as opposed to crossing their arms. People hated it! Such was the negative feedback that BL discontinued the quartic wheel when the second generation of the Allegro appeared in 1975.

The next 2 years was a busy time for my family. There were 2 terminal illnesses and bereavements, 2 weddings, 3 new babies. ​Poppy and I continued with our occasional forlorn visits of reassurance.

My eldest learned to drive and passed her test 1st time, passed her A-levels and got into the University of Westminster. My youngest continued to pursue her career in dance and studied for her GCSE’s. Mrs FB completed her Master’s degree and passed with Merit. She is now a Nurse Practitioner in a local GP surgery.

It is now January 2014. Talk in the Fatbloke house turned to my youngest daughters Prom which was due on 23rd May. (Coincidently, Poppy’s 44th Birthday!) I was banned from uttering the phrase “HOW MUCH?” under penalty of pain.
 
I have to say that the thought of having to take part in all the girly chats about dresses, shoes, hand bags, hairstyles, make-up, shoes, nails, shoes and everything else that women seem to need for these occasions (again) didn’t fill me with joy. So, I hatched a cunning plan!
 
“Erm…Would you like to use Poppy as your Prom transport in May?” I said to my Youngest. “Oh Wow! Yes please! That would be really cool.” She replied. I then gave my wife the sort of look that said, “Tell her we can’t do it and break her heart and ruin her Prom if you dare”. Mrs FB rolled her eyes and asked me if I thought I could do it? I paused and tried to look like I was pondering on the project before saying “Well, it will mean a lot of work, but I think I should be able to.” Mrs FB rolled her eyes again before giving me the sort of look that said “Don’t think I don’t know what you just did. Remember the callipers!” before saying “Well you’d better get on with it then”.

At this point, I tried to look nonchalant as I walked out of the house, down the street and round the corner out of sight before jumping up and down shouting with glee and dancing a jig. I then walked nonchalantly back to the house to plan my campaign.

I wanted to find out the scale of the task before me and decided that before I did anything else, I would see if I could get her started. Her reluctance to change lock ups suggested that the 14 year old battery had probably “expired”. A new one was sourced on line and collected from Europarts on my way home from work with another stop being made to collect a gallon (sorry 4.54L) of fresh unleaded. I then went straight to the lock up, opened the door and said “Here we go Girl. If you behave yourself we’ll soon be back on the road!” I’m sure I saw a shudder of excitement run through her frame!
 
I quickly drained the 2.27L or so of old fuel in the tank, connected the new battery topped up with the new fuel and primed the pump. I then had a passing thought that I should really change the oil before starting her, but as I didn’t have any fresh stuff or a new filter I thought “What the hell!!” I did pull the dipstick out which showed that the correct amount of very black stuff was in the sump.
 
I opened the driver’s door and saw that the under dash courtesy light was glowing excitedly. I lowered myself into the now pitifully padded driver’s seat and inserted the key into the ignition. I turned the key to the 1st position and all the dash lights were present and correct and glowing with anticipation. I pulled out the choke. Then, with much trepidation, I turned the key to the start position. The starter motor turned over vigorously and a surprisingly short time later…”HARK THE HERALD ANGEL SANG!!”…I whooped with joy, told Poppy what a wonderful, gorgeous, good girl she was and kissed her steering wheel… I was quite pleased.

After a couple of minutes I put the choke back in and she continued to tick over beautifully (even with a very rumbly water pump.) Feeling slightly light headed, possibly with jubilation but more probably from the build-up of carbon monoxide in my small lock up, I smoothly selected 1st and lifted the clutch. Poppy was moving under her own steam for the 1st time in 3 years!!
 
It was at this point that I realised I’d forgotten something rather important in all the excitement. There was no fluid in the brakes! Frantically reaching for the hand brake, I managed to pull her up in front of the lock up door opposite with mm to spare.

​Sheepishly and carefully, I reversed her back into my lock up, trying to position her so I had enough room to work each side at the front of the car. I told Poppy again, what a good girl she was and with a wink and a smile at her, I shut the garage door. I’m sure she winked and smiled back at me.
 
With a spring in my step and a smile on my face, I went home to give Mrs FB the news and order the parts I would need.
 
Here’s a gratuitous photo of oily bits.

The second Triumph that crossed my path had followed on the heels of my ill-fated Austin Maxi, and was bought in a hurry since we were without transport for a while. I wish that I could say that I had been looking for one of these for a while, but I confess that I was not. I should have been.

I picked up a 1972 Triumph 2000 MK2 Estate, registered PCH 894L, finished in brown with tan interior, from an ad in the local paper. I forget how much I paid for her, but she was cheap enough, and what a contrast from the Maxi. Boasting a smooth, powerful inline six combined with a four-speed manual transmission with overdrive, this was the first car with overdrive that I had ever driven, and I was smitten! 

It looked like the car pictured above, except for being brown. I’ll try to find a photo of the car itself…

This vehicle was able to swallow adults, kids, a Labrador and all the junk that accompanies such cargo with ease, and did so in great comfort and style. The car was reliable, and was easy to work on when performing routine maintenance. It looked good, sounded good, drove well and was really posh when compared to some of the more proletarian transportation than I had been used to previously. All that wood on the dashboard and door caps, and nice cloth upholstery, instead of painted metal and vinyl, left an indelible impression on me and influenced my future buying habits for all time.
​
Despite my admiration and affection for this car, it wasn’t entirely without its issues. The ignition switch became increasingly reluctant to do its job, until one day it failed altogether. Well, a new switch wasn’t cheap, and so I took matters into my own hands.

​An hour’s work with a hacksaw and I was able to start the car with a screwdriver, and bodgery though it was, we were able to drive that car in this manner until the day that it was time to move on, and I traded it for welding work on another vehicle that I had.

​Would I have another? Without hesitation, yes. This was a lovely car, and they don’t make them that nice any more.

by Mike Peake

One winter night in 2016, I was driving out of London having dropped my daughter off at her Uni digs after a weekend at home and it reminded me that 27 years previously, I was regularly making the same Sunday night trip after spending the weekend with the future Mrs FB in the nurse’s home at Kings College Hospital.

​I started to wax lyrical in my head about how things have changed in this time and indeed, how they haven’t. I thought I would share these thoughts with you.

My conclusion ...wasn’t every drive back then an adventure?

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The Hillman Avenger. Intended by Rootes to be a competitor for the Ford Escort and Vauxhall Viva, the car was also marketed by Chrysler in the United States as the Plymouth Cricket. 

It never sold in the numbers that its competitors did however, and I think that I discovered why during the course of living with this example.

My car was identical to the one shown on the front of this period brochure, even down to the ‘ J’ suffix on the license plate. I remember being quite impressed with the styling of these cars as an impressionable youth, and I took the opportunity to see if the car lived up to that.

Finished in a brown metallic paint with beige plastic upholstery, my ownership of this car had been intended as only a temporary thing. Since my current, and much more modern, French car was undergoing repairs to the body at the time, (don’t ask…) I saw this car being advertised cheaply and, since I needed to get to work and back at odd hours another car seemed to be a must. 

I realise that the car was called “Avenger”, but quite whom, or what it was trying to Avenge, I don’t know and I certainly have no idea why it decided to enact that vengeance upon me. The one that I bought was terrible. It started and it ran, which I suppose was the main thing, but it felt gutless, even though it had a 1500cc engine. Acceleration could be measured in minutes rather than seconds, the seats were hard and felt as plastic as their covers, the ride was awful and the car had absolutely no redeeming quirks whatsoever. It had no “personality” to it, something that was unusual for a British car of the era.

A short while after buying the car, the rear suspension fell apart on me on trying to pull out of the car park at work one morning at 6am. I had it towed, and scrapped as it was not worth fixing. Besides, I was broke at the time…

Thus ended my one and only dalliance with a product of the Rootes Group, and of all the cars from the UK that I’ve owned, I would definitely NOT buy another. I still rather like the way that it looks, though.

The third British car that I owned was an altogether more sporting example, a 1976 Triumph Spitfire 1500, finished in the rather dashing (at least, to me…) colour of Tahiti Blue with black vinyl seats.

​My second day as an apprentice started with a surprise.  The normal routine was that my mother would call me at least three times before I’d actually manage to crawl out of bed, but, to her surprise I was up and about before she had got to the bottom of the stairs.  

​

I looked out on a typical Yorkshire spring day, yes, it was pouring down.  Normally that would have been my cue to invent some reason why I shouldn’t go to school , and yet I found myself eager to get to work.  This turned out to be a purely temporary aberration, normal service and waking habits returned within a week or two.  However this morning was different, I could still hear Dennis’s words in my head, “ Tomorrow we’re working on a Rover “.
 
So out into the rain, get soaked, catch the bus to town, get soaked walking to Atkinson’s, clock in, and like an over excited puppy await further orders.
 
“Which one are we working on Dennis, is it that one? “, pointing to a shiny Rover 105R parked just inside the doors.
 
“No, that one is Mr Atkinson’s, ours is over here”

I felt totally cheated. I didn’t expect for a moment that the old motor with the running boards would have the object of my fascination under it’s bonnet.  I was right too.  When Dennis opened the bonnet it revealed what to my eyes was just an ordinary engine.  If I’d known how  at that time ,I’d have described it as a 6cyl. OHV , not the work of art I was itching to get my hands on.  Anyway I soon got over my disappointment, watching attentively everything that Dennis did as he fitted new plugs and points, cleaned the fuel and air filters, all the while giving me a running commentary.  Then he took off the rocker cover and handed it to me.  My appreciation knew no bounds.  Joy of joys, back to the paraffin bath. To be fair, Dennis did show me how he set the tappet clearances and why .
 
That morning was also my introduction to that most important part of any apprentices education at that time – where and how to make the tea !
 
That afternoon I took the list that Dennis gave me and went to buy my first toolkit, to be paid for weekly from my wages.  ( I almost wrote pittance there.)  I’m not sure, but if I remember correctly it was just over £2 p.w.  The shop was an engineers supplier by the name of Gregory and Sutcliffe and very conveniently was right next door to and sharing the block with us.  I duly returned bearing a shiny new toolbox containing :- 1 set  each open ended WW/BSF  and  AF spanners, 1 set of each ring spanners, 2 or 3 screwdrivers, set of feeler gauges, normal and split pin pliers, and a dinky little set of magneto spanners which were riveted together in the form of a fan.  I also got a socket set in it’s own metal case.
 
A short history lesson here for our younger readers.  Up until about the mid 50’s all British cars used nuts and bolts with either Whitworth ( WW ) or British standard fine ( BSF ) threads.  These correspond to the UNC and UNF threads used up to the adoption of the metric threads found on todays cars and which AF or across flats spanners fit. The magneto spanners were small ( think BA sizes) and meant for small connections such as those on distributor points.  An interesting point about the socket sets at that time was that instead of the 1/2 inch square drive we know now the ones we used were hexagon drive and unlike most sets nowadays included a speed brace.
 
I now felt like a real mechanic, all those shiny tools, I couldn’t wait to use them.  I didn’t have to, I was soon busy removing and refitting various parts of the braking system of the Rover 16, (for that was what we were working on ), all under the constant education/supervision/ assistance and often amused eyes of Dennis.
 
One of my jobs was to go to the stores for any parts we needed and I soon learned an invaluable lesson ; DO NOT upset the stores staff.  They can make your life a living nightmare. As I mentioned previously the manager’s name was Arthur.  He was an ex R.E.M.E. Sgt. Major and looked it.   His presence was such that he demanded the respect due his rank although once you got to know him he was as nice a man as you could wish to meet.  While I was waiting behind him at the hatch one of the older apprentices who’s name if I remember correctly was Rodney made the mistake of complaining about how long it was taking to get his parts.  He was still waiting when I left with my parts.
 
Over the course of the next few days I at last got to see, in the flesh as it were, the thing that started it all.  THAT engine.  To me it really was a thing of beauty .  The graceful curves of the polished aluminium rocker cover, the SU carburettor, the exhaust manifold, the way it filled the engine bay. How to describe it ? Only one word sprang to mind. Sexy !!  Even now after seeing more shapes and sizes of engine than I care to remember I still think of it as beautiful.
 
It was to be a while before I actually got to see inside one but that and many more are tales for another day.

Time passed. My eldest was studying for A-Levels which seemed to require expensive school trips, including one to America. 

My youngest decided that she wanted to make a career out of dance and got into a national “gifted and talented” program. I thought that the dance school bills had been eye-watering enough before, but now I arranged to have my whole salary paid directly into the dance school account.
 
All this meant that the best I could do for Poppy was to wander up to the lock up, run my fingers gently along her bonnet and fins and promise that I had not forgotten her. And just maybe... once or twice... sit in the driver’s seat making brmm, brmm noises and remembering better days.
 
It was on one of these forlorn visits that I came across an even more forlorn sight. The toneau cover was sagging under the weight of a large pool of water. I know you are supposed to leave the hood up in storage but the frame had now broken on both sides after the prom and I found it difficult to get it up single handed (as the bishop said oooohh Missus!)
 
Anyway, my powers of deduction were firing on all cylinders and I was able to deduce immediately, that the garage had a leak! I called the council who sent out a man. The man sucked his teeth and pronounced the lock up roof beyond repair. The council then offered me another lock up about ¾ of a mile away from my house and as it was far better than my current lockup had ever been, I took it. The council then gave me just one week to move the car! Poppy hadn’t turned a wheel in 18 months and had no MOT or Insurance. What was I to do?
 
It was the depths of winter 2012 and Poppy refused to help. Even with jump leads to the modern, her starter motor refused to display any more energy than a slightly asthmatic snail with a limp and the leaking calliper had drained all the fluid out of the system. (Not that I was thinking about doing anything illegal you understand.)

I was reduced to trying to beg, borrow or steal some sort of car trailer. So an appeal on social networking was in order and I hit pay dirt immediately. An old school friend came back to say that her husband had a car dolly I could borrow. I picked the trailer up the following day on my way back from work. The trailer was a great big heavy duty thing with deep impressions for the front wheels of the car, two heavy ramps to aid the arrival of the front wheels at the depressions and a winch for the same purpose. School Friends Husband then gave me detailed instructions in the use of the trailer.
 
I collected Mrs Fatbloke and arrived at the lock up. Mrs FB is a beautiful and loving wife (she might read this) but is no shrinking violet and isn't the sort to worry overly about a broken nail. She will get stuck in to pretty much anything. Which was just as well!
 
The plan was to position the trailer in front of the garage and simply winch Poppy up onto the trailer. That was when we noticed that there was no handle for the winch. I phoned School Friends’ Husband to see if there was a cunningly hidden storage space on the trailer where the winch handle was kept. His response was " Ahh yes...well...you see, the last time I used it, which was quite some time ago, I might have forgotten to put it away properly and I think it fell off somewhere on the M4 between Swansea and Cardiff...can't you just drive it up?" I didn't use any bad words until after I'd hung up the phone.
 
Never mind I thought, I was a Prop Forward, Poppy is only a little car - I'll push it up the ramps myself. So with not a little difficulty, I managed to squeeze my ample frame between the car and the garage wall and was at last in position at the back of the car, ready to push.
 
With a good deal of grunting, heaving, snorting and sweating, I managed to get her half way up the ramps but no further. Mrs FB was sat under the tailgate of her VW Touran, laughing. So I politely asked for assistance, (No, really! Impoliteness can have severe consequences. See calliper incident earlier in my tale.)

​After another bout of grunting and heaving from the both of us, we'd managed to get her to the top of the ramp, but she absolutely refused to go over the lip and into the depressions. We relaxed and of course Poppy rolled back down the ramps and gently pinned us to the back of the garage. I now knew how John Mills must have felt in that scene from "Ice Cold in Alex" when the ambulance runs back down the sand dune!!

​In the end, I came up with the idea of chocking the back wheels of Poppy and reversing the ramps and trailer underneath her. It worked a treat and Poppy's front wheels were soon in the depressions on the trailer and all tied down securely.

​We set off for the new garage where we reversed the chocking process and slowly drove the trailer out from underneath her before pushing her back into the snug, dry new garage.

The first car that I bought myself was a 1965 Austin Mini 850 Deluxe. The “Deluxe” upgrade had included corner over-riders on front and rear bumpers, two additional gauges, one each side of the speedometer which indicated coolant temperature and, I think, oil pressure, which meant nothing to me as a callow youth.

EBF486C, finished in Trafalgar Blue with grey vinyl interior, was surprisingly reliable, despite my well-meaning but still comparative neglect. It was reasonably quick, by virtue of the fact that it weighed next to nothing, and the wheel in each far corner of the car meant that it handled better than even its designer had ever imagined. Sliding windows in the front doors and cable pulls with which to open them were just a part of its undeniable charm. It carried me to and from police training college out Coventry way in the English Midlands, and never failed to get me to my destination, wherever that was.

One of the faults that I can remember was a dead water pump, which required removal of the radiator together with a number of other items just to reach the bolts (and which needed doing again after finding out that I had goofed something up). I had an early deadline the following morning and, thanks to my father and brother who burned the midnight oil to get the job done for me while I caught some sleep, I was able to make it on time.
​

The only other issue which I can remember, other than the never-ending battle with the dreaded tin-worm, was with an increasingly iffy fuel pump which always responded to a smart whack with something solid and heavy, and necessitated kneeling down, reaching underneath the rear subframe and administering the assault.

​
​Rewarded with the ticking that indicated renewed delivery of liquid dinosaur I would return to the driver’s seat, turn the key and continue my journey. ​

This tactic failed to work for me one wet morning when, on my way to perform another tour of duty as a British Bobby starting at 5.45 in the morning, the usual remedy of hitting the fuel pump finally failed to elicit as much as a token death rattle from the now thoroughly abused SU fuel pump.

Fortunately, I always carried a selection of basic hand tools with me wherever I went in this car and I also had a new replacement fuel pump in the boot. Deciding to carry out a roadside replacement, I eventually showed up for work 30 minutes late and received an almighty bollocking from my shift Inspector. This was before the cell phone was even thought of, and so a call to let them know was out of the question.

I eventually sold the car, as the offer of a much newer, larger and more exotic vehicle provided to be rather more tempting than my poor little Mini. Would I buy another? In a New York minute I would, which I suppose is the true test of how good a car really is.

It was a particularly bad winter the year of 2009/2010, so when the MOT came due in April, she hadn’t been out of the lockup for a couple of months and as you can probably guess, she had a sticking right calliper…and broken washer pump!  

​My eldest daughter wanted to use Poppy as her Prom transport in May the following year (2011) so if I delayed the MOT to June, it would still be in force for her Prom. (You have to plan ahead when you’re potless!)

​So Poppy stayed in the lockup for another few weeks. Budget was still non-existent and with the memories of my last adventure with callipers still etched firmly in mind (I now have a slight but permanent bow legged stance) I went in search of a very cheap 2nd hand replacement calliper and pump.

​These were found locally on the great bay of e so I didn’t even have to pay postage. Parts were fitted and Poppy came through for me with a clean bill of health from the ministry man and we spent a summer of short but frequent drives and a winter of short and less frequent drives. I didn’t really trust the calliper for longer drives.
 
As the date for the Prom approached, all discussion in the house turned to dresses, shoes, hand bags, hairstyles, make-up, shoes, nails, shoes and everything else that women seem to need for these occasions. After one too many exclamations of “HOW MUCH?” from me, I was banished from the house.

So I went to give the gilded carriage a bit of a check over and cleaned her to within an inch of her life. It was during this mammoth cleaning session that I learned 2 things:

1. I would never, ever enter a concourse competition as I didn’t particularly enjoy the cleaning process (who am I kidding? As if we’d stand a chance among those gleaming, pampered beauties anyway!) and ..
2. The 2nd hand calliper was leaking

I finished cleaning Poppy and nursed her through to the Prom keeping a very close eye on fluid levels and topping up when necessary.
​
The date of the Prom finally arrived, and as you can see from the picture, all the preparation and hard work were worth it. She looks absolutely stunning! Mind you, my daughter doesn’t scrub up too badly either!

Well the prom was a huge success and Poppy performed her duties perfectly with many positive comments to both my daughter and my car. I smiled politely at the comments about the car and tried very hard not to give my “Hard Stare of Death” or wave the cricket bat I keep for just such occasions at any boys that made comments to my daughter.
 
But the MOT ran out 2 weeks later so Poppy was parked up in the lockup with the promise of being sorted out soon. Although it was a pretty hollow promise as we’d spent all our money and all the in-laws money on the Prom.
​

I had the mixed fortune of owning a 1975 Austin Maxi back in 1984. I didn’t own it for long, and this little tale explains why...

MOE 920P was a Maxi 1500, with the dreaded cable gearbox linkage which was about as precise as stirring a bowl of custard once the car reached a certain age. Mine had reached that age... with a little practice and patience one would usually be able to select the desired gear ratio, but this was not always guaranteed.

To add insult to injury, the driver’s seat back would not lock in place, and so the driver was able to develop his or her abs wonderfully whilst driving, and should you want to recline you just had to lean back. Yes, that wasn’t safe but the car was purchased from a mate of mine from work, and it was cheap, so I really shouldn’t complain.

Finished in a shade of burgundy with a beige vinyl interior, the car was roomy and it was perfectly reliable in the short time that I had it, and with three children including a new baby it did what I needed it to do.

I had a few adventures with the car which I won’t go into here, but they involved a police dog and keeping observations waiting for bad guys. Otherwise, the vehicle was completely unremarkable with the one exception - how it met its demise.

One afternoon in early summer of 1984, I had the day off work, and my wife was going to drove over to her parents’ house for a visit. As luck would have it I was in the front garden digging out weeds in the rose beds, and I paused to lean on my spade and watch her reversing off the drive.

She had reached the end of the driveway when I suddenly saw a flash of fire across the front of the car behind the grille, accompanied with the characteristic “whoomph” that always accompanies petrol igniting. I dropped the spade and ran towards the car, shouting for her to stop. Naturally looking behind whilst reversing, and having the radio on, my wife was unaware of anything being wrong, but luckily she glanced back, saw me and stopped. I opened her door, told her to get out of the car and why, then opened the rear door and unfastened our baby son.

Switching the engine off I then went inside and returned with our fire extinguisher from the house, as luck would have it, a dry-powder extinguisher. Without opening the bonnet (I remembered that was a bad thing to do) I emptied the extinguisher through the grille, and thankfully it put the fire out.

Of course the fire brigade show up a few minutes late and me being a copper, they thought the situation to be most amusing. They pry open the bonnet, cut the battery leads and douse the engine compartment just in case. There the poor Maxi sat until I could get it hauled away.
​
The insurance company wrote the car off, naturally, and with the proceeds I replaced it with a 1972 Triumph 2000 Mk2 Estate. In brown. But that’s another story.

It is now 2005 and we entered the period of the lean times. There were two reasons for this.

First, I decided I’d had enough of my stressful job and changed to my current more local job. We took a big hit in income as we were no longer getting the nice commission cheques every month. However, I could stop looking for tall buildings to jump off and my wife no longer needed to hide the knives and could stop scouring yellow pages for divorce lawyers! And, I actually got to see my family.

​Secondly, my daughters were growing up and starting to do ever more expensive activities. We had truly frightening bills from singing teachers and dance schools (and still do). Although I think the singing and dancing teachers may have been ripping us off as I still can’t sing a note or dance a step!
 
This lack of cash did make things difficult as even the slightest fault would mean her being off the road while we scraped together the cash for the parts/MOT/Insurance/servicing etc. and then just when I thought I had the money, there’d be a school trip or new tap/ballet shoes to buy (For the Girls…honest). On the whole though, Poppy behaved very well and nothing too serious came up.

Being a convertible and driven with the roof down mostly, the manual washer pump was not used from one MOT to the next. It inevitably dried out and split just as the MOT was due. A silly thing to take it off the road I know, but it took time to track down a replacement and come up with the £20 or so required on top of the MOT and insurance that had both run out. She failed that MOT on sticking front brakes and a minor welding requirement but the washer pump was ok!
 
Another couple of months passed while I saved for the welding. So, in the meantime, I decided that I would look at the brakes myself. How hard could it be??!! Obviously recon callipers were out of the question on my non-existent budget, so I bought the replacement seals and pistons and set about doing it myself. I researched the job and took advice from the experts on a classic car forum on the interweb thingy and then set to. I took the left calliper off the car but left it attached to the hose and put a thin bit of wood between the two pistons. Thin enough that the pistons would come almost all the way out but thick enough that they didn’t pop right out and drop the brake fluid all over the drive…in theory. So, with all this set up, I sat myself in the half padded driving seat and pressed the brake pedal. Nothing happened. I pressed a bit harder and there was a small pop. It had worked! Both pistons were almost all the way out ready for easy removal.
 
I had a celebratory cup of tea and a bacon butty that Mrs Fatbloke had very kindly made me. Still feeling very smug and self-satisfied, I set about repeating this procedure on the right hand calliper. I sat myself in the half padded driving seat and pressed the brake pedal. Nothing happened. I pressed a bit harder. Still nothing happened! I was now pressing so hard that my amply padded posterior had left the poorly padded driver’s seat. Then with a very loud pop, the brake pedal went to the floor.” Yes!” I thought. “Success!” So I proudly got out of the car only to find one piston fully out of the calliper, the piece of wood floating off on the pool of spilt fluid and the other piston still very much in the calliper. I said some very bad words. I then quickly cleaned up the pool of brake fluid before Mrs Fatbloke could see it and say some bad words of her own about staining her brick paved drive. I then stomped into the house, washed up and sulked until a bottle of Merlot had worked its magic.
 
Some days later, I returned to the task. I split the left calliper, removed all the old seals and cleaned the bores with wire wool before soaking it in some lovely solvent that I shouldn’t have had in the shed from my days in labs. I then split the right calliper and did the same to the half without the piston. It was now time to turn my attentions to removing the stuck piston. I took a pair of wide jawed grips to the piston and started to twist and pull…it didn’t work. I then tried gripping each side of the piston with pairs of pliers and pulling with all my might whilst standing on the calliper. This resulted in severe bruising in a rather sensitive area but did not remove the piston.
 
When I could walk straight again, I consulted my father in-law who is a retired engineer with a fully equipped workshop. (Fully equipped for his woodworking and wood turning hobby that is!) He came up with the idea of sticking a 3 foot bar to the piston with chemical weld and leaving for a few days to fully cure. We then clamped the calliper in his bench vice and with one of us on each end of the bar we twisted and pulled…and twisted and pulled…and twisted and pulled. Eventually, it came free. I was then able to repeat the cleaning process although the bore in this half of the calliper needed a lot more work with the wire wool.
 

So it’s April 1958 and I’ve decided I’m going to be a motor mechanic, much against my father’s wishes who wanted me - me who is so artistic that I cannot draw a straight line without a ruler - to be a textile designer.

As I told earlier, during my research prior to applying for an apprenticeship, I’d been seduced by a diagram and description of the unusual overhead inlet/ side exhaust engine made by Rover.

My plan to get an apprenticeship was well plotted in my mind. I would write a letter to all the major garages in the town, attend every interview offered, then choose from what I was sure would be multiple offers of a job.
 
Ah! the foolishness of youth.  This plan was scuppered before it even swung into action.  And all because of a bit of printed paper.  I couldn’t get that blasted engine out of my mind. I didn’t write to anyone except the Rover and Austin dealer, W.H.Atkinson & co.
 
I spent the next few days worrying what I would do if my developing fetish went unsatisfied, until I received a letter inviting me to go for an interview.  Then I started worrying about the interview.  What to wear, should I get a haircut,were my shoes shiny enough.  And most of all I worried about being rejected, and having to seek a place with somewhere  like the Ford or Vauxhall agents.

Came the day and I was as nervous as I had been when waiting outside the headmaster’s office wondering which misdemeanour, out of plenty to choose from, had been discovered, and what the punishment would be.  In the event I was worrying needlessly.  First I met the workshop manager, a rather pompous, ex officer type, who’s name I’ll not give to save his family possible embarrassment.
He obviously thought it was beneath him to waste his precious time talking to a scruffy little Herbert like me and swiftly passed me on to the workshop foreman, Norman Mellor.
 
Norman seemed a decent enough bloke and proceeded to show me around the shop while asking me various questions, chief of which appeared to be “ What makes you want to be a mechanic ?” I wasn’t falling for that trap !  Tell him I first wanted to be an electrician and I might as well walk out now.  So I did what any well brought up young chap would do, I lied through my teeth.

“ Well I’ve always been fascinated by cars, wanted to be a mechanic for as long as I can remember, etc.”  This was obviously just what he wanted to hear, and set my strategy for all future job interviews. Tell them what they want to hear, not what they want to know.

Anyway, I digress. Norman seemed more than happy with my flannel and pointed out where everything was, the lubrication bay with the only ramp in the shop, the long pit at the top with it’s wall of windows and benches under them, and an area I was to become very familiar with, the tyre and wash bay.  He then introduced me to one of the mechanics, Dennis Roberts, a really friendly type of chap.  I did not know it at the time but this was someone who was going to be a friend, teacher, father figure, and protector all in one.  He left me talking to Dennis while he went off, presumably to talk to the manager, because when he returned it was to ask, “ Do you want to work here then ?.”  Did I !!  And apart from when I was talking to Dennis I’d never even mentioned that engine.
 
The following Monday at 8.00 am. I presented myself, complete with a brand new boiler suit, for the first day of my working life.  I was greeted by Norman, shown how to clock in, and introduced to the store’s staff.  Arthur Ramsden , manager. Colin Firth, assistant and another assistant who’s last name I can’t for the life of me remember but was known to everyone as old Fred.  Then back into the workshop where I was delighted to be informed that I was to be Dennis’s apprentice and promptly handed over to him. 

We didn’t immediately go to work but stood at his bench while he laid down a few ground rules: 

• Rule 1 – I was his apprentice, and no matter who it was, if anyone asked me to do anything I was to refer them to him, no exceptions allowed. ( father figure ). 
• Rule 2 – Watch and listen carefully. If I didn’t understand anything I was to ask, and he would explain it again. ( Teacher ). 
• Rule 3 – When he asked me to do something I did it.  It was not an invitation to a debate. ( Father). 
• Rule 4 – never argue with anyone, simply tell him and he’d sort it out.
  ( protector). 
• Rule 5 – I was not too old for a clip round the ear if I didn’t do as I was told.
  ( Father again ).

I was liking him more by the minute. Looking back on all the mechanics I’ve known he was simply the best person to groom an apprentice I’ve ever met.

After our pep talk we went over to the car that he was presently working on, which I was informed was an A125 or more commonly known as a Sheerline.   This was a great beast of a thing to my eyes. Bear in mind the only car I’d really seen under the bonnet of was my brother’s Austin 7.  

Dennis told me  that he had already removed the cylinder head to de-coke it, and then went on to explain how the burning petrol produced carbon deposits that build up and caused loss of power and damage to the valves.  I listened carefully with what I’m sure must have been a look of amazement.  The pistons in this engine were bloody massive compared with the Austin 7. 

Dennis said he was going to finish grinding the valves in, explained what he meant by that then told me to pick up the rocker box , which was full of parts I couldn’t start to identify, and follow him.  This was my introduction to parts washing.  A large bath of Paraffin with a mesh tray at one end containing a stiff bristled brush.  I dutifully cleaned all the parts from the rocker box, put them on the mesh to drain, and feeling pleased with myself, went off to tell Dennis the good news, his parts were all cleaned. 

He came over to have a look and told me of another rule.  When he said he wanted something cleaned, he meant cleaned, not rinsed.  “Do them again, properly this time.”, which I did, by which time my hands were almost numb from the cold paraffin.  During my cleaning duties, about 10 o’clock another apprentice called Mick came round with a tray of mugs of tea and told me he would show me where to make it etc. so that I , as the youngest apprentice could do it in future.

Dennis explained that we were not supposed to stop for a tea break but were to drink it while working.  Then he sat on his bench, opened his lunchbox, offered me a sandwich and chatted whilst we drank our tea.  Some rules it appeared were better ignored.
 
The rest of the day was spent rebuilding the Sheerline engine and giving it a general check over which raised more questions from this eager pupil.  What were points? How did he know when he’d adjusted the carb. correctly?  What did this thing here do?  

​By 5 o’clock I think he was ready to give his ears a rest.  I for my part felt more than ready for getting home, eating and going to bed. My mother was right in one respect.  I wasn’t what you’d call a fan of being on the go all day.  But I was eager to learn, and still looking forward to tomorrow when Dennis had told me we were going to be working on a Rover.

TO BE CONTINUED ...

The start of the adventure.
 
Having joined this fantastic group early in 2015 and enjoyed myself here immensely, I felt the need to contribute more than the odd post. I hope you enjoy it and don’t lose the will to live whilst reading! 

​Inspired by Daniels great blog and other good tales on here,  I foolishly decided to inflict upon you … er … I mean write a blog about my 15 year and counting ownership of a lovely little car named Poppy.

​WARNING:- some post ‘85 and Johnnie Foreigner cars may be mentioned in passing and I apologise for any distress this may cause. 

​I’ll start by introducing myself properly.  My name is Mike and I live in a very nice small town in the UK called Royal Wootton Bassett. I’m 47 years old and an ex grass roots Prop Forward Rugby player who is working successfully to turn all that 1st team muscle into fat. I’m a sales manager for an automotive wiring harness manufacturer supplying a well-known Japanese car/bike manufacturer in the UK, Turkey and Italy. I’m married to Anita with 2, now grown, daughters.

My Spannering CV prior to classic ownership is as follows.
 
1985
17 years old. My Dad made me “help” replace  the engine in My Mum’s Talbot Horizon after I’d wrecked it in a flat out thrash coming back from a camping trip in Tenby. It was very much a case of the blind leading the blind and I don’t think my Mum ever worked out who was Laurel and who was Hardy! We got there in the end though with the help of a school friend of mine who was a bit handy with a spanner.
 
Late 1985 
Bought my 1st car, a Marina, and learnt how to service it.
 
1986
The poor little engine in the Marina would lose all its oil if driven any distance over 55MPH so I decided to rebuild the engine. Well, watch my future father in law rebuild my engine. W replaced big end and little end bearings, new rings and valves, the lot. It still lost all its oil over 55MPH. so sold it and bought the viceroy for velour enveloped effortless motorway cruise to London to see my future Wife. With the experience I have now maybe I should have rebalanced the crankshaft too. Hindsight eh?
 
1988
I Got a Job in Reading and commuted from Swindon. The Viceroy was too expensive to run so bought the Stellar. Also bought my future wife’s 1st Car (1st of 2 “proper” Minis) and learned to service them.
 
1990
Replaced gearbox on the Stellar as 5th was incredibly noisy after all the motorway miles. This was done on the road outside our 2 bed terrace over a weekend as I needed to drive it to work on the Monday. (Be impressed please. I was!!)
 
1992
Mini failed MOT in style. One of my Dad’s mates knew of a car with a sound shell but bad mechanically, so I acted as dogsbody to him and built one good car from the two bad ones. Gave it to my wife as a wedding present.
 
1993
Replaced gearbox again on the Stellar as 5th was incredibly noisy after all the motorway miles. Car now done 210K and I only ever serviced engine which I think is really rather impressive, (and changed GB (Twice) not so impressive) but decided to buy my father in-law’s Citroen.
 
1995
Got my 1st company car and could now afford to pay someone to do any work on my wife’s cars. Sold the Mini and gave her the Citroen as she was expecting our 1st born. Moved to a house with a garage but promptly converted it into a downstairs WC and an office (I Know! What was I thinking?) I put my weapons of car destruction beyond use. (Hung up my spanners)

It is now 2001. I was in a very bad and stressful place at work and badly injured my knee playing rugby which ended my playing days (Well mostly). My Wife decided I needed a hobby and suggested I buy a classic car to help relieve the stress. And the rest, as they say, is history!!
 
Well, at my wife’s suggestion, images of shiny TR6’s and E-types came to mind but I soon realised that these were:-
A.            Way beyond my budget.
B.            Way beyond my budget.
C.            Way beyond my spanner skills.
D.            Only had 2 seats. Which would be a problem as we now had 2 young daughters (6&3) (That’s their ages at the time, not their names.)
 
So, good sense prevailed for a change, and I started doing some research which involved endless hours looking wistfully through issues of Practical Classics, Classic car weekly etc.
 
I’d decided that it had to be a convertible and had to have 4 seats (and it had to be red!). It also had to be fully useable and not require restoration. Mercedes and Triumph Stags came to mind but also had to be dismissed for reasons A to C above. 
​

Practical Classics then ran an article on “cheap convertibles for summer fun” which included a Herald and I was smitten!! PC said it was “as cool as a refrigerated class a cucumber, really easy to work on with plenty of spares availability”. It was also within my budget. It was ideal.
 
After reading various horror stories, I was determined to do this properly and not rush out and buy the 1st car I saw. So I got a copy of Practical Classics’ Buyers guide, joined the Triumph Sport Six Club and got a copy of their buyers guide too. Then I rushed out and bought the 1st car I saw!! Which was in Birmingham.
 
I lucked out though. She was in good condition having been restored in the early 90’s with photographic evidence and ran/drove really well.  Although she hadn’t been used in “a year or so” the owner volunteered to put her through the MOT and carry out any work required. A deal was struck and I went back a week later to pick her up with the fresh MOT. I’d hired a trailer to bring her home as it was quite a long drive for our 1st time out and I didn’t want my first experience of classic car ownership to be soured by breakdowns.
 
The Girls were waiting excitedly, and my wife not so excitedly, when I pulled up. We immediately drove her off the trailer, opened the hood and all piled in for some top down classic motoring and all fell immediately and hopelessly in love with “Poppy” as the girls insisted on christening her.
 
Thus began our long and happy relationship with “Poppy”.
​

Becoming part of the family: Poppy is a Triumph Herald 13/60 convertible built 23rd May 1970 but not registered until 9th March 1971, according to the Heritage certificate I’d sent off for.

She was bought new by Mrs Norah C. of Solihull from Archers Ltd, Shirley, Warks. she was then sold to Mrs Rosalind H. of Great Barr, Birmingham in May 1979 and swapped between her and her husband, Mr Reginald H, a couple of times, making 4 previous owners on the V5 before me but I like to think of it as just 2 really. It was this couple that had her restored in 1993. I bought her 21st July 2001.
 
After our “honeymoon” drive and a night’s sleep I decided that she ought to have a full service. 1 month later (I’d been enjoying driving her too much) I ordered the parts required and did the service. I quite enjoyed myself. I discovered that working on cars can be quite good fun when you aren’t up against a deadline because you need to drive the car to work!
 
During this month I’d also discovered that it is indeed great fun driving around in an old car with the roof down. Children point at you and other drivers wave or give the thumbs up. I discovered that you can’t go anywhere in a hurry. Partly because a Triumph Herald doesn’t really do “hurry”, but mostly because so many people want to stop and chat about how they learnt to drive in a Herald, had one those a while ago, didn’t see many of those around today etc. All rather nice, jolly, and sociable stuff.

Of course there were also a very few who wanted to tell me how the Vitesse was a much better car, what a lot of low life Trotsky scum the BL workers were that built it and idiots in brand new BMW’s who considered it a personal affront that I was taking up the bit of road that they wanted and because I was in an old car assumed that I would be travelling very slowly, which I don’t! These people, I tried very hard not to biff on the nose.
 
I knew, that with an old car there would always be a few jobs that needed to be done and I wasn’t disappointed. I noticed that she became slightly incontinent in the oil department and that the original foam padding in the front seats was disintegrating and redistributing itself around the somewhat tatty interior of the car.
 
So I immediately set about the far more pressing task of taking out the  period radio to send it away to be converted to FM and have a headphone plug added so I could play a Discman through the radio too. This was done by The Vintage Wireless Company of Salford. They told me that the radio was a 1968 Motorola so actually older than my car. They also told me that the “below dash” console and speaker housing were also period and original dealer fittings for Triumph and other British cars were really quite rare and valuable. Feeling smug about this, I fitted it all back in and now enjoyed playing period music on my period radio (via my Disc man) in its period housing in my period car. (I use an MP3 player now. I can move with the times!).
 
The seat belts fitted in the rear by the previous owners were 3 point ones with the shoulder strap coming up from the wheel arch and over the top of the rear seat. Having lived with the car for a bit, this didn’t seem that safe to me. The back of the seats in the convertible don’t seem strong enough for this. I felt that if we were in an accident, the force of the passenger going forward in the belt would cause the belt to buckle/tear the back seat frame which would then impale said passenger as they went back again! As I was carrying my children in it, I thought this would be bad so I had them changed to static lap belts which I deemed, in this instance, to be safer than the 3 point ones fitted. I also had the front original statics replaced with new inertia belts…..and then, rather embarrassingly, had to fit extensions to these belts!
 
This was the time of the demise of leaded fuel in the UK. Classic “EXPERTS”  were banging on about the evils of using unleaded and how it would destroy our engines without the copious use of additives or going the whole hog and getting a full head conversion. It was whilst reading one of these articles of doom that I realised that the unleaded conversion that the previous owner told me had already been done was in fact nothing more than a “magic tube” fitted into the fuel line that somehow “miraculously” converted unleaded fuel into “safe” fuel. So I went the whole hog and ordered a new unleaded head and got my local garage to fit it. I was still in my very stressful job working very long hours and travelling a lot so didn’t really have the time to do it myself and didn’t want to waste valuable driving time. That was my excuse and I stuck with it! (The “EXPERTS” now seem to think it was all a storm in a float chamber and not to bother unless you’re doing high motorway mileage! Hmmmm!)
 
Over the next 3 years or so, we enjoyed visiting many car shows and driving around the countryside. I continued to do the routine maintenance myself but got professionals to replace the tatty carpets with a nice new moulded set. Replace the under dash mill boards with new Vitesse items (I liked the additional map pocket on them!). Had the steering column replaced as well as the front vertical links and trunnions. (Well no-one told me you were supposed to oil them!) I also traced the oil incontinence to the gearbox. I topped it up and vowed that I would do something about it. So I bought a drip tray to protect our newly brick paved drive.

The one job I did do myself during this time was the hydraulic side of the clutch. The circlip in the end of the master cylinder broke meaning the link bar between the head of the pedal and the piston in the cylinder was flapping about.

So I fitted a seal kit to the master cylinder, removed the gearbox tunnel and fitted new pipe and slave cylinder before bleeding it through from the dubious comfort of the half padded driver’s seat. All without any dramas at all….until my youngest daughter came out to watch and sat on the old (Cardboard?) gearbox tunnel.

I thought it was rather cute and touching that she wanted to be with her Dad. She then decided she couldn’t really see, so stood on and then jumped up and down on the old tunnel which decided enough was enough and collapsed under her. This wasn’t quite so cute and touching, but I managed to resist saying bad words and ordered a new plastic tunnel and decided to replace the worn gear stick springs and bushes etc while the tunnel was off.

I also decided that being on my drive in all weathers wasn’t doing her any good even with a good outdoor car cover fitted. So I rented a lockup from the council a five minute walk from my house.

To be continued

Starting at a new company is always a scary thing to do; Keith and I both started at M.J. Green’s on the 2nd January in the mid-80s.

Working in the stores at Mann Egerton’s, when I look back, was a very light-hearted way to earn a living. At the time I had little to worry about, the wife was working full time, we lived in a nice little one bed room flat and for me I found the work easy. 

We had noticed that we were not very busy for long periods of time and rumours had started. We had a direct rival in town called Henley’s who were also a BL main dealer, plus Unipart who had a large stores and a massive body shop in Ipswich. Their whole setup was much more modern than ours. 
They had the advantage of a better site than us too, on the outskirts of the town. 

The biggest shock came with the news that the CBR floor was closing down completely. For many years it was the heart of the Majors Corner site and it was such a shame to see it die. The whole floor found work easily - as they should, they were very highly skilled craftsmen. The very same day I started my apprenticeship another lad called Paul started as an apprentice panel beater. He worked with our most skilled guy and as such became a highly skilled beater himself. 

We attended college together but he was and is more academic than me. He was top of the class and student of the year. He also married my niece and to this day I consider him not only my mate but my nephew. As the CBR floor started to fold up Paul was approached by an ex-employee called Michael. He was a brilliant panel beater and now had his own body shop on a disused WW2 airfield just outside the town in a place called Martlesham. He asked Paul to go and work for him and his very successful business, he also asked Keith to join him as with success more and more trimming work was being undertaken. Keith was a lifer at Mann Egertons and with some trepidation he agreed to go too. 
​