The sudden and violent demise of the MK2 Escort and subsequent arrival of the very welcome insurance monies meant I could seek out my next used car. I don't think I have mentioned that we now had a wolf pack of three small humans, so car space was at a premium and that had to be factored into my thinking.

In 1983 BL had launched the Austin Maestro, a new car to replace the Allegro (I'd had an Allegro as a second car during my Vauxhall period in Birmingham) and I decided to investigate as I really couldnt face the idea of another Cortina, and the MK2 Cavalier just didnt appeal to me.

"Which" magazine said this about the Maestro:

Like many of us at the time, I was of course fully aware of BL's troubles but desperately wanted them to succeed - so if they really had produced a decent car that suited my needs, I was definitely open to giving them a chance. I decided to find one for sale and see how it went.

The first Maestro I found on offer at the right price point was some distance away from my home in Bristol - at a small used car dealership in Shepton Mallet, Somerset. Somebody kindly gave me a ride there and I inspected the Maestro. I was surprised by it's size; it was quite tall, wide and modern-looking. Inside, it was cavernous - a huge step up from the limited interior of the MK2 Escort - and it was also well appointed for its time and price point. 

It was a 1600; 1.6L I think - in dark blue. I took it for a test drive and was very pleasantly surprised - compared to the Escort, the Maestro was comfortable, quiet and powerful. I really enjoyed throwing it around the country lanes of Somerset and when I returned to the dealer, a deal was soon done.

​The dealer was a decent fellow in fact - when he heard my story of woe (the Escort being written off) he immediately offered me free use of his courtesy car for the few days he needed to prepare the Maestro for collection.

Naturally, I gratefully accepted and he disappeared for a short while to bring the courtesy car to me. After 10 minutes or so, he appeared driving the yellowest MK1 Fiesta I'd ever seen! It seemed to run OK, so I happily thanked him and drove it back to Bristol.

It was early Summer, and to begin with, I drove along with the driver's window open - but soon had a large bee in the car with me. I stopped and ushered it out (I'm not one for killing bees) and continued my journey - but very quickly had another bee joining me along with quite an assortment of other insects. Again, I stopped and cleared the car of wildlife, then closed the window before resuming my journey.

When I arrived home, my daughters came excitedly running out of the house to see "Daddy's new car" but soon ran screaming back inside when they were almost instantly surround by bees, wasps and various other bugs. Then it dawned on me - it was the car! The darn thing was such a bright yellow, the insects were seemingly mistaking it for a large flower - either it was the car or me and my money was on the car.

So it was with some relief a few days later that I returned the Fiesta to its owner and brought the Maestro home. All was well; the Maestro did exactly what it said on the tin and never let me down. Thanks BL - you did get it right sometimes, even if the haters won't admit it.

Next time - something catches my eye

To maximise my chances, I decided to look at private sellers as well as dealers. The first car I went to view was a gold 4-door Ford Escort 1.3L - a private sale. Surprisingly given my previous experiences, the owner was completely normal and so was the car. In fact, it was absolutely ... errmm .. OK... and the price was reasonable, so I bought it without any hint of hilarity or strange behaviour. (Bet that surprised you!)

Driving the Escort was unremarkable but acceptable. I don't remember much about it really, except that it was competent - a good, sensible solution at the time. Did I like it or enjoy driving it? The truth is, I didn't care about it enough to even consider that - it was no more than a means of getting from A to B, and the best I could afford at the time. Other priorities took charge at this time of my life.

The only trip in the Escort that stands out in my memory (for reasons you will come to appreciate) was a day trip we took as a family sometime after our relocation back to Bristol.

My daughters were growing and like all small humans they loved animals, so we settled on a day trip to Longleat Safari Park, which was around 45 mins drive from home on the outskirts of Bristol.

We arrived safely and as you may know, the system at Longleat is that you drive around the animal enclosures in your own car. We did so and the small humans made all the right noises as we saw each type of animal - until we stopped in the monkey enclosure.

​I must have been distracted, else I would have skipped the monkeys - but I didn't. The moment the car stopped, monkeys appeared from out of nowhere and leaped onto the Escort, clearly well aware that vinyl roofs were merely glued on and intent on ripping it off.

The children were by this time screaming in terror as the monkeys bounced around on the car, pulling on the vinyl roof, windscreen wipers, door mirrors and anything else they thought they could detach. It was like a madhouse inside the car - kids screaming and crying, wifey yelling at me over the noise to do something quickly - so I did.

I decided in a sudden indignant rage that those monkeys were NOT going to damage my car. What I did was to select 1st gear, rev the engine hard and execute a series of perfect learner driver-style kangaroo hops interspersed with 'ohmygodweareallgoingtodie' - force braking of steadily increasing violence until I had finally dislodged all the monkeys.

The moment we were clear of them, I raced toward the enclosure exit gates some 100 yards away which were already opening. Presumably the park rangers had been watching and were trying to help - and probably laughing themselves silly at our antics.

​Seconds later we were out of there, and gradually wife and kids began to calm down. She didn't even criticise, which was something of a surprise. Thank God we didn't have a Reggie Perrin moment - if you remember that episode, his grandchild did, "Ploopy-plops" whilst navigating Longleat Safari Park.

The remainder of the visit was uneventful although I think we were all slightly shaken by the monkey experience and no longer in the mood to make the most of the trip. Little did we know, the worst was still to come.

After a time and an ice-cream or two, wifey and I agreed to make our way home and left the park to head home along the pleasant winding country roads of Wiltshire.

Unfortunately, no more than 5 miles from Longleat, we were hit head-on by another car whilst stationary. I had pulled over and stopped because I saw the other car approaching at high speed on my side of the road quite some time before it collided with the Escort. It was one of those moments when time seems to go into slow-motion - I watched almost impassively as the car approached, impact inevitable.

The small humans were asleep in their child seats in the back and were woken by the violent impact, but unharmed. Wifey and I were both able to get out of the car - also unharmed.

The Escort however had taken a very severe impact to the offside front. It definitely wasn't drivable and was almost certainly destined for the crusher - it was declared a total loss by my insurance company a few days later. 

I suppose on reflection that is the closest I have come thus far to dying at the wheel. As it turned out, all it really meant was that yet again I now needed to source another used car.

​But what would it be this time? You will have to wait for the next episode to find out!

Since relocating to Tamworth, wifey and I had somehow acquired two of the small humans commonly known as children. These little creatures had a curious effect on the previously very unsentimental Mrs S, who suddenly became extremely homesick for Bristol.

We had been in the Midlands for some five years by then. All I really wanted was a quiet life and with no real objection to going back home, plans were made. I sought a job transfer back to Bristol with my employer CIS, but they had no suitable vacancies at the time, so I got a new position with National Westminster Insurance Services of Bristol instead.

This of course meant handing back my company Astra. My job in Birmingham had brought with it the right to park in the company parking facilities under our office building, and on my last day Head Office sent two skinny youths down from Manchester to collect the car. I blame the air 'up North' personally. 

The car park had numerous awkwardly-placed pillars dotted about - they were something to do with holding the building up apparently - and on that day I'd had to park the Astra against one of them. I knew that getting the car safely in and out of that particular space required no small degree of expertise and practice, so when the young guy demanded the car keys from me, I explained the issue and offered to back the car out for him so he could drive off safely and easily. ​

"No" he answered - a bit snappily, I thought. "Just give me the keys - I do know how to drive". "In that case, you will have to sign this paper confirming the car was received from me in A1 condition before I'm giving you the keys" I retorted (luckily I had typed it up beforehand precisely in case this scenario arose). He rolled his eyes, sighed but signed the statement, whereupon I handed him the keys.

No doubt keen to demonstrate his driving prowess, the lad practically leapt into the Astra, started her up and immediately reversed rapidly, rubbing the whole of the Astra's nearside along the pillar in the process. Did I mention that the pillars were painted with bright yellow and black stripes? Quite noticeable along the side of my dark red Astra, that yellow paint was - not to mention the dent in the rear wheel arch.

"Oh that was unfortunate" I called to him as I took photographs of the damaged car while it was still wedged against the pillar (I am a fully-trained insurance assessor, you know!). "You appear to have done some damage to the car, but it looks like the pillar is OK. Don't worry, I'll fax this (waving the statement I had made him sign) to Head Office while you are driving back to Manchester and follow up with the photos, so they know exactly what's happened."

He didn't answer. Instead he roared off out of the car park closely followed by his pal in the car they had arrived in, leaving me with an amused grin on my face. ​I never did hear from the company about it.

So with the Astra gone, I once again was in need of transport - cue my next used car search! I'd had two brand new cars but couldn't possibly afford that out of my own funds - so what would it be? Something old and familiar probably - simple, cheap to run and suitable for carrying a young family. That felt suspiciously like my old selection criteria of, "dull, British and thoroughly normal" to me, which was a tad depressing.

So would it be another Cortina? No - that was just too tiresome to contemplate. It would have to be something else - but what? Find out next time!
​

So the time had come to say goodbye to my little Nova; I'd never really been sorry to see a car go before, but this time I was. Still, another new car would be exciting and this one would be bigger, faster, better, right? Well no, as it turned out.

I arrived to collect the Astra and there it was, waiting ready for me on the dealer's forecourt. Shiny, brand new with that special smell only new cars have. I immediately took off for a spin. Compared to the Nova, it was bigger inside and out; it had four doors, a bigger engine and was a little better equipped. It was quiet and smooth as you'd expect of a new car .... and yet there was something missing. It wasn't fun.

​That initial disappointment grew deeper when I found old vans passing me on hills -surely there was something wrong? This Astra was at the time the European Car of the Year but it had no, "Get up and go".

​I took it unhappily to the main dealer, Wilnecote Motors of Tamworth to investigate and they quickly informed me there was nothing wrong with the car - and perhaps there wasn't. I'll never know, but what I do know is the sparkly, lively character I had enjoyed so much in the Nova was completely absent from the Astra.

I was disappointed, but there was nothing I could do about it; it was a company car and I just had to live with it until it was time to change again. At least I didn't need to do any maintenance on it, which left me more time for other jobs around the house.

One weekend I decided I couldnt put off mowing the front lawn any longer and pulled out my little Qualcast electric mower. It was the cylinder type and as I started mowing I noticed that all it was doing was flattening the grass, which sprang back up a few minutes later; it was barely cutting the grass at all!

I fetched my toolkit and patiently took the thing apart. I cleaned, oiled, adjusted and even sharpened the blades before carefully reassembling everything. I plugged it in, fired her up and .... it was even worse than before!

Muttering dark threats, I took it apart again; I must have missed something, so this time I even broke the Golden Rule of Blokedom - incredible as it may seem, I fetched the Owners' Instruction Booklet and did exactly what it said. Down to every last detail.

Reassembly complete, I eagerly plugged the power cord in once more and tried it on the front lawn. The result? No change. Well, not strictly true - it was as good as it had been before I tried to fix it the first time - meaning it still wasn't actually cutting the grass. 

I decided the bottom plate against which the revolving cylinder blades strike was bent, so I went to the local B&Q and bought a new one - that would fix it! It didn't - well, maybe a marginal improvement, but no more.

By this time I was getting a tad hot and bothered - and had pretty much lost interest in mowing the lawn until my dear wifey yelled from the living room window, "Are you still ******ing around with that ****ing mower?" in the sweet tones she seemed to reserve just for me. "I'm getting there", I lied gamely as I took the mower apart one more time.

This time, I disassembled the mower almost completely - I had a dozen or so odd-shaped bits of cheap metal lying around me. Again I checked, cleaned and re-fitted the entire thing, then spent quite a while adjusting the blade clearance to as near perfection as I could. This was it ... the moment of truth had come.

I plugged the power cord in again, pulled the '"start" lever and set off across the lawn once more. I got to the far end of the lawn and did a smart 180 degree turn, looking back expectantly to see the fruits of my labours - and saw a neat strip of flattened uncut grass already beginning to return to the vertical position. At that very moment, Mrs S yelled "Are you coming in or not?" (expletives omitted) and it was then that I finally cracked. 

I yanked on the power cord so hard the plug pinged out from the power point a few yards away, then I picked up the mower by it's handle and began circling it around my head wildly (think of a puny version of Geoff Capes throwing the hammer and you pretty much get the idea). After a few complete circuits accompanied by yours truly yelling I know not what, I let go of it. 

Now if I'm honest, I suppose I imagined the mower sailing majestically across our front garden, bouncing in slow motion as it hit the ground and exploding dramatically into a thousand pieces. What actually happened was the control lever caught in my sleeve which tore - and the mower along with half of my shirt landed pretty much at my feet, completely undamaged. 

My neighbours (for they were surely observing from their hide nearby) didn't say a word, coming as it did after the infamous Cortina-kicking incident, but I'm fairly sure I heard squeaking sounds remarkably like suppressed sniggering.

​Wifey meanwhile had watched the whole thing from the house, and to my surprise had a rare grin on her face that soon turned to a chuckle until it became a most unladylike guffaw. I had to admit, I must have looked pretty ridiculous and before long I was laughing too. I can't offhand recall any other time when we both laughed together like that, although I suppose it must have happened occasionally.

Next time - a new job results in another search for a used car! 

Work was changing at the Cooperative Insurance Society and I was being asked to spend 3 days a week out on the road investigating claims, which I rather enjoyed. However, I felt it was only a matter of time before my used Cortina would let me down, which would have been awkward - so I joined the company car scheme.

This meant sacrificing some of my salary (the CIS was not a generous employer), then the maximum price of the car was a multiple of the pre-sacrifice figure. We were allowed to negotiate our own price with the dealers. I soon realised this meant I could only stretch to a small car, but I didn't care - it would be new!

I eagerly researched prices of Ford Fiestas and Escorts - they were surprisingly expensive - and also for completeness the Austin Metro; but I just said a flat "No" to that one. There really wasn't much else on the market apart from the aging Renault 5 - but I'd still not forgiven Renault for the R12 - and some Japanese cars I regarded with suspicion (probably foolishly).

Then I discovered that Vauxhall had just launched a new 'Supermini' to replace the Chevette. With fond memories of my old Viva HB, I decided to look into this new Vauxhall Nova, as it was named.

Well, it all stacked up; the spec was pretty good for its time, the styling was modern and sharp and road tests were full of approving comments. Honest John's web site says this about the Nova:

"The Nova (unlike the Chevette) was a grown-up offering with as much practicality as any of its rivals. The Nova - or Corsa as it was known elsewhere - was available with 1.0-, 1.2- and 1.3-litre engines from launch but the range rapidly expanded over the coming years.
​
Five-door hatchback was useful, two- and four-door saloons were forgettable, while the 1989 1.6-litre GTE was easily capable of seeing off the Ford Fiesta XR2. And that was the main accomplishment of the Spanish-built  Nova - it beat the Ford Fiesta and Austin Metro on the road but never out of the showroom. But it paved the way for the phenomenally successful Corsa."

Not only did it seem to be a good little car, I wouldn't have to have the entry-level 1.0 model! I could afford to go for the 1.2 litre 3 door model - and that was enough to convince me. Next, I called a couple of local Vauxhall dealers and found one of them had two 1.2 hatches in stock in a choice of either brown or blue. Blue it was, then. The car looked exactly like this one apart from the colour:

I was in such a hurry to get my hands on the Nova, I didn't even take one for a test drive; I reasoned there was no point, since I had already decided I was having it! Just a few days later, I collected the car and she was - to all intents and purposes - mine.

It was an instant love affair with the Nova. Compared to the dreary old rot boxes I'd owned before she was light, modern, nippy, quiet and remarkably refined. It took me a while to get used to not being able to hear the engine at idle.

As mentioned in the last instalment of this tale, I have absolutely no idea what I did with my old Cortina. I just didn't care about it at all and never looked back.

So, I began driving the Nova for work - often racking up 250+ miles in one day - and it was an absolute delight. I had it for around 18 months and it never put a foot wrong. All I ever did was refill the fuel and put water in the screen washer.

As anyone who has had the misfortune to own property built this way will know, the bitumen/felt roof covering becomes brittle with age, when it cracks and allows rainwater to leak through into the chipboard beneath, which swells and finally collapses.

Normal life expectancy for one of these roofs was around 12 years back then. So, on arrival at the house, the friendly owner already had his extension ladder up against the garage so we could climb up for a look. The purpose was for me to look for evidence of damage caused by a storm - and I already had with me the weather report for the date it was claimed to have happened which was 'calm and overcast'.

As soon as I got up there, it was very clear to me that the roof was simply at the end of it's life and needed replacement. Put simply, this was not 'Storm damage' as covered by insurance policies, it was, "You have a mouldy old felt roof that leaks" time! I had learned from experience not to tell the guy the bad news while we were still standing on his garage roof, so I climbed carefully back down to terra firma and waited for him to join me.

Once he had done so, I gently and politely explained the above to him and told him that the insurance company would not be paying for his new roof. He quietly said, "OK" and we bid one another farewell. As I started walking towards the Nova parked about 50-75 yards away (I never parked too close just in case!), I heard a kind of strangled yelp and turned to see the man had grabbed his extension ladder and was starting to run towards me, twirling it like a huge baton above his head and screaming incoherently in my direction.

My search for a used car that was 'dull, British and thoroughly normal' continued despite some bizarre encounters (see part 2).  I found another car for sale that fit my criteria (a Ford Cortina 1.6L, naturally) and made an appointment with the seller to view the car.

To my dismay, the inner-city address that I found with the help of my trusty Birmingham A-Z book (satellite navigation devices were still the stuff of science fiction back in the 1980s) turned out to be one of the many high-rise tower blocks 'gracing' the Birmingham City skyline.

Well, I'd come quite a distance, so I wasnt going to turn around without at least viewing the car. I pressed the, "Call Lift" button and waited with low expectations for the lift to arrive. To my surprise it came after what seemed like mere days waiting in the heavily graffiti-ed entrance to the building.  

I stepped into the lift and was at once almost overcome by the strong acrid smell of urine - dear God, didn't these people have toilets indoors? The address was on the 19th floor and eventually the lift doors opened with an ear-splitting grinding sound. The landing was large and cold with a bare concrete floor, but I saw the door I needed opposite and walked across quickly to ring the doorbell before I changed my mind and got the hell out of there.

I heard a faint voice call from inside, "Just a minute" so I waited. I waited quite a while. Eventually, the door opened a crack and I was confronted by a lad of about 15 who was naked from the waist down. His nose was streaming green snot as he said, "Sorry, I've got the shits real bad. Do you want to see the car?"

​As I wondered how to respond and doing my best to play it cool and not look surprised by his appearance, I finally nodded and managed a feeble, "Yes please". He shuffled away (his trousers and underpants were still around his ankles), re-appearing a minute later with a car key in his grimy hand. I reluctantly took it and with no small amount of relief, retreated from the 19th floor horror show I had just witnessed to the lift doors. Luckily the other lift answered my call - the smell of urine wasn't quite so strong in this one. 

I followed the boy's directions and soon found the car parked outside the building. To my surprise, it looked quite presentable. I checked around it, then opened the driver's door expecting to encounter something ghastly inside - but no, it looked and smelled remarkably clean. Perhaps this was the one after all!

I started the engine and drove away from the flats into the busy Birmingham traffic - this was going quite well! I drove for 5 minutes or so - around 3 miles - when the engine began spluttering and finally stopped completely, allowing me just enough time to pull over to a lay-by. Some advanced technical investigation by yours truly (I checked the fuel gauge) revealed lack of the liquid gold to be the cause. 

So, I imagine you think I then called someone for help, right? Wrong .. no mobile phones in 1982 - or at least, those you could buy required a small mortgage and weighed more than your average house brick. So, I walked ... I walked every one of the 3 miles back to the High Rise Horror Show, having first carefully locked the car and taken note of the road where it had stopped.

When the boy answered the door, I was relieved to see that this time he had his trousers on and had made at least a cursory attempt to clear his face of snot. "What is it?" he asked as if he'd never seen me before. "Your car has no petrol, so here's the key and the address where its parked" (I'd cunningly written it down by this time).

"Oh, I'll get you a petrol can so you can buy some more and bring the car back here" said the boy, thus managing his longest and clearest utterance since we first met. "No" I told him, "it's not my problem - just tell your Mum or whoever where it is. I'm leaving now".

He looked surprised but I left before he had a chance to reply; thankfully the lift was already on my floor and I was able to leave that ghastly place quite quickly. I felt an urgent need for a thorough shower; clearly I had thus far led a sheltered and relatively privileged life. On the way home I made a mental note to thank my parents for providing a clean, warm and decent home for my siblings and me to grow up in.

All of the above led me to a new conclusion: I had been wrong. Used car dealers probably were the best place to look for my next set of wheels after all! 

Next time - I finally manage to purchase a car that is dull, British and thoroughly normal - so that would be a Ford Cortina, obviously.

I was thinking about the cars I owned back in the 1980s and how I came to have them. I will start in 1982 ... I had moved with my (now ex) wife and young family from Bristol to Birmingham. "Be brave to get on in life" thought I. Yeah, right.

Anyway I had a pale blue M reg Renault 12TL at the time. Not a great choice as it turned out, since it rusted as badly if not worse than British cars of the time, and was also utterly hopeless at going around bends. Lovely in a straight line, but bends? Forget it!

I regularly drove slowly along, trying desperately to avoid a degree of body roll reminiscent of the Titanic's fatal voyage - all the while feeling hugely embarrassed as a long line of traffic built up behind me. 

I'm guessing there arent many R12s left, as I had quite a bit of trouble finding a photo of one in the same pale blue as mine; as you can see the car pictured is LHD and has weird wheels, but you get the idea.

One experience with the Renault is indelibly burned in my memory - driving home through central Birmingham on a 6-lane highway near an infamously busy junction called Five Ways, the gear lever suddenly stopped doing anything; I was in 3rd gear and no amount of knob wiggling was going to change it.

I happened to be in an underpass when this happened. The traffic was nose-to-tail, stop/start with no footpaths or hard shoulder and so I had to coax the weedy Renault into moving forward from a standstill in 3rd gear on an uphill incline - several times. The engine roared impotently and smoke billowed from the clutch, but eventually I made it with much cursing and sweating.

Not long afterwards, I decided my experiment with having a French car was a definite failure. I resolved to buy something more sensible, so I set off to the car dealers in the fair city of Birmingham, determined to change it for something dull, British and thoroughly normal - so that would be a Cortina, obviously!

More of that next time.

I'd had enough of private sellers and strange happenings so ventured out across 1980s West Midlands once more in search of used car dealers - and this time, I went looking for the smaller, "corner" dealers where I hoped prices might be lower.

I soon found a small car yard with a red Cortina for sale which looked to be in pretty good condition. However, it happened to be parked next to one of these:

I had never considered a Mirafiori before, but it looked somewhat more interesting than the Ford. It had a twin cam engine with an alloy head too and sounded rather tasty when the salesman started it. And it was a little cheaper than the Cortina.

​Very tempting indeed, a bit of Italian style. The legendary Triumph Harold was Italian-designed, so they couldn't be all bad, I reasoned. "Go on" urged the wicked voice in my head, "just take it for a little ride .. you know you want to". And I did want to ... but then the Ghost of Johnny Foreigners Past came into my mind ... the now hated Renault 12. That hadn't gone at all well ... and everyone knows all Italian cars are rubbish, right? Best stick with what I knew - the Cortina.

And so it came about that I bought the Cortina, telling myself it was the sensible buy. I had little excitement or enthusiasm for the car even while buying it, and that was to remain true throughout my ownership of the MK4.

Truth be told, I remember very little about it. I have no recollection whatsoever of driving it, but I do recall that I briefly used it for work. At the time, I worked as an insurance investigator and often had to make house calls to claimants.

One day I was to visit a large house on the outskirts of Coventry; the house had been burgled and I was sent to investigate. The home owners were wealthy scrap metal dealers; I drove through a pair of somewhat pretentious double gates onto a circular gravel drive in my red Cortina, which crunched its way pleasingly across the driveway. There was a Rolls-Royce of some sort (sorry but they all look the same to me) parked outside a garage to one side, and even a small roundabout directly outside the front door of the house. Not quite the Trevi Fountain, but you get the idea.

I parked at the side near the Rolls, considerately trying to make sure my car wasn't in anyone's way. I walked over and rang the doorbell, which was answered by the lady of the house, a well-dressed but very common woman smoking a cigarette from one of those silver holders reminiscent of Hollywood movie stars from the silent age. I introduced myself and asked if my car was alright where I had parked it (meaning was it out of the way?).

She looked across at my Ford and uttered the immortal words, "I don't think anyone will bother with that thing here, do you?" (meaning it wasn't a nice enough car to be stolen when her Roller was nearby). I may not have been particularly proud of my Cortina but that one snobby remark cost her dearly on her claim settlement - not that she ever knew it!

My only other memory of that car was when it failed the MOT test - the rear brakes needed new shoes. I was confident I could do it myself easily enough, and jacked the car up on the drive outside my house. More than two hours later, I was at the end of my tether, still trying to fit the new brake shoes. Eventually, I got so annoyed and frustrated that I jumped up and delivered a massive flying kick to the drivers door, yelling something ridiculous like, "Let that be a lesson to you, you absolute bast**d piece of cr*p!"

I kicked the Cortina so hard I dented the door and had in fact broken my big toe. I sat cross-legged on the front lawn nursing said toe (it was already starting to hurt) when I became aware of much giggling from next door - the neighbours had watched my entire hissy fit unfold, much to my embarrassment! "Oh Paul" they laughed, "you're so funny when you are cross!" "Hmmmm ... is that so?" I seethed silently.

Not long after this - early in 1984 - I had been using my car increasingly for business use, so decided to take up the offer of a company car from my employer. As a result, the Cortina was consigned to history. To this day and try as I might, I have absolutely no idea how I disposed of that car. It had made so little impression on me that I just didn't care about it at all.

I wonder what stories I would be telling now if I had instead bought the Mirafiori? Tales of terrifyingly fast corrosion and unreliable electrics, probably.

Next time - my very first new car...

So, the Renault had to go. I made my way into Birmingham and spent an entire day touring grim used car yards that mostly presented their cars amidst the same depressing vistas of stained, crumbling concrete, grey skies and high prices.

I concluded I wouldn't find anything decent that I could afford at a dealer, so turned my attention instead to the private used car ads. Yes, this was pre-internet and the only way was to buy a local newspaper and scan the classified ads - which were often mis-categorised. Many a 'find' could be had by looking in the wrong places!

Eventually after much circling of increasingly unlikely 'possibles' and after discarding all the cars I actually found appealing (Rovers, Jaguars etc) on the grounds they would cost too much to run (the ghost of my Dad at work there!) I found an ad for a MK4 Cortina 1.6L - dull, British and thoroughly normal. Perfect!

​So I dialled the number and the call was answered by a pleasant-sounding woman who said her husband was out of town but she would happily show me the car.

So off I went to (I think) somewhere along the A5 towards Walsall ... and found the car parked outside a fairly tidy semi-detached house. Quite promising - so I rang the doorbell. The woman answered and said I could test drive the car but she would reverse it off the drive for me as "It's a bit tricky". I wasn't going to argue as that would give me a chance to check the exhaust for smoke (I was alone so couldnt do that and drive too). All was well when she started the engine, then I stepped aside as she revved the engine then suddenly shot backwards off the drive.

Unfortunately, she continued backward straight across the road, stopping only when the car collided quite forcibly with a brick wall on the opposite side. There was damage. She drove forward again, parking neatly on the correct side of the road then got out, asking, "Do you want to take her for a spin now?" as if nothing had happened. Stifling a giggle, I replied "Actually I don't think I will, thank you" and got out of there as fast as I could! I've often wondered what she told her husband.

My next attempt to acquire a Cortina was similarly unsuccessful. Again a housewife showed me the car (housewives - remember those? That dates these stories - this was back in the days when Grandparents were allowed to enjoy their retirement in peace rather than being seen as free childcare providers).

After a visual inspection and starting the engine, I was satisfied that the car was worth a test drive. So, I got settled behind the wheel, checked the gearbox and moved away..... all of 250 yards down the street, when an almighty CLANG stopped me in my tracks. I pulled over to the side of the road and became aware of small children pointing and laughing from their front gardens .... and what the blue blistering blazes was that noise? Fortunately it stopped when I took the key out of the ignition to investigate what was causing such merriment in the streets of not-even-slightly- sunny Birmingham.

I stepped away from the car to see the entire Cortina exhaust system (all but the manifold) lying some yards behind the car in the street. The damn thing had fallen off, complete!

I made my way on foot the 250 yards or so to the seller's front door. She must have seen me approaching, because she opened the door as I walked up the garden path. She looked extremely embarrassed, so without exchanging a single word, I placed the Cortina keys in her hand, smiled weakly, turned and walked away.

Having had such an eventful and really quite amusing time I wasn't about to give up, so my car search continued - but that's for next time....

For those of our members who don’t yet know me, allow me to introduce myself. I emigrated to the United States some twenty-eight years ago now, after retiring from the West Midlands Police on disability. It’s a long story…

Having owned a succession of British and European machinery, plus the occasional Japanese motorcycle in the UK, I had naturally hoped to continue my habit of buying cheap, interesting vehicles that I could tinker with and use as regular transportation as well. After all, the majority of British sports car production had made its way across the pond ahead of me, had it not?

Ah, how the best laid plans of mice and men grind to a messy halt.

I quickly found that there is really no such thing as a cheap car over here. Whereas you can find a decently reliable, not to mention desirable, older car for less than a grand over in the old country, here in the US of A, all you can find for that princely sum is a heap with a heater (if you’re lucky) that requires constant maintenance and most likely several repairs to make it safe.

​You see, whilst in the UK we have had the MOT test that has helped ensure that most vehicles on the road are fit for the purpose, at least in theory, over here most states do not require any roadworthiness or safety inspections.

You will see vehicles with body panels held on by zip ties or duct tape, if not missing altogether, and all being driven perfectly legally.

There are certain states that have long winters, with a lot of snow, and salt being ever-present on the roads from late October until May, so if you have something nice you can’t really use it as your daily driver as you would in the UK which entails the purchase of another vehicle that you can use for this purpose, making you a three-car family for only two drivers because you each need a car. Did I mention that public transport is pitifully bad?.

Another factor is choice, or rather the lack thereof. British cars are rare up north here, simply because most didn’t survive, and the majority of those that did survive are to be found in warmer, southern states, spread over a vast area. Add to this the fact that certain manufacturers dropped out of the USA market due to poor sales, etcetera, and their products were scarce here even when new.

• Series Land Rovers are prohibitively expensive over here, thanks to having achieved cult-vehicle status, as are the humble
• Minis, even base cars being sold as “Mini Coopers” to an unsuspecting customer base
• Citroens are like hens’ teeth, of course and mundane saloons such as the
• Hillman Avenger (marketed here as the Plymouth Cricket) have long ago rusted into oblivion
• The Rover P6 and SD1 were sold here, but in such small numbers as to make it next to impossible to find a nice one.
• The ubiquitous MGB is, I shall admit, reasonably easy to find but once again, values are heading upwards and finding a condition 1 or 2 car, even with rubber bumpers, will cost you some serious money.

There are of course some personal imports that can be found, however these are not cheap either.
​
All is not yet lost, however. Thanks to some advice and a handy guide provided by a wonderful gentleman out in Michigan, I now have information that would make it possible for me to source a vehicle over in the UK and have it shipped over here for around $1,200, or £800 or so, depending upon the exchange rate. Even so, I used to be able to buy a decent car for that much back in England.

When the time comes (when I can afford it) the search for the right car should provide material for several future articles, shouldn’t it?

So, why do we do it?

Saving old and decrepit vehicles, and rebuilding and refurbishing them when we can just to prevent their continued decay can become something of an obsession with some. Hours spent in a cramped, damp and chilly garage (if we’re lucky) might be good for the soul, but it won’t do your arthritis any favours.

Last time if you remember I'd just bought a genuine WW2 staff car. No, not really but the attention the camouflage painted Vitesse attracted would have been hard to beat even if I had. It never failed to elicit comments wherever I went in it, one or two that could be repeated in polite company but far more that couldn't. Being blessed with skin that matched my head these usually ran of me like water off a duck.
 
Apart from the comments I found the whole Vitesse experience really satisfying. With the 2lr.engine in fine form it had a very respectable turn of speed, was pretty comfortable ride wise and had the usual Triumph wood dash to admire when not making forward progress. All in all not a bad place to be at all. Bit like a Ford Scorpio really, you can't see the outside when you're inside. I did have a few hairy moments finding out just how far you could push the back end before it cried enough, but apart from that it handled pretty well.
 
One unfortunate and to my mind unwarranted effect of the paintjob was the attention it attracted from the boys in blue. For a car that was supposedly meant to blend into the background it did the exact opposite with them. If I wasn't pulled at least once a week it was a rare thing.A typical exchange would be along the lines of.
 " This your car Sir?. "Yes.", "Name and address please Sir.", "Brian Allison etc.", "On official business are we Sir?", "Pardon?", "Just wondered where the war was that you were in such a rush to get to." or another favourite, "Suppose you thought I wouldn't see you". Everyone a gem!

Must admit though that after many roadside MOT's they seemed to finally realise that everything about the car was totally legal and ceased to harass me on anything like a regular basis.

​During this period the firm opened two new readymix depots, one in Manchester close to Belle Vue, the other in Preston. Brighouse being the nearest group garage we took on the responsibility for these two as well. The workings of corporate minds has often led to much head scratching on my part, and this was just one such occasion. Even with the new motorways Manchester is about a 30 mile trip, and Preston about another 20 or so miles further. So a breakdown in Preston meant it was hardly going to be attended to very quickly. However, as they say, ours not to reason why.
 
The mixer trucks we had were all fitted with Ford 4D donkey engines that drove the actual mixer drum and these and their drive accounted for the majority of call outs we got. A common occurrence would be a call saying a driver had got on site with a load and the donkey engine would not start or had suddenly stopped. Now a lot of the time this would be a genuine problem caused by the starter motor or wiring faults, but on more than one occasion I arrived to find the donkey engine completely seized. First check  was to dip the oil. In every case the oil level was near enough correct, but unlike any diesel engine I've ever worked on the oil would be a lovely translucent coating on the dip stick. Of course the driver checked the oil according to his check list that morning.
 
In a case such as that the drum was totally immovable and the main priority was to get the concrete out of the drum before it set. This was achieved by removing the inspection hatches on the drum and calling the local fire brigade to find out where we could go for them to wash the concrete out with their power hoses. A messy, expensive business and all for the sake of five minutes. The usual punishment for the drivers was to have to get into the drum with a needle gun and clean away any concrete still stuck in there, it must have been hell for them with the dust and noise but I bet they never failed to check their oil levels again.
 
What the hell has that got to do with Cortina's?, you may well be asking. I'm coming to that.

About a couple of months after the theft of my Cortina I was called out to a breakdown at the Manchester plant. Exiting the plant and stopped at the T junction I spotted a really good looking Mk2 Cortina in the approaching traffic, same red as mine had been. Looking on enviously as it got nearer and passed by I was amazed to see it was identical, right down to the number plate. Unable to follow it due to the busy main road traffic I drove instead to the nearest phone box, called the police and reported that I'd seen a stolen car and where.

Not hearing anything after a couple of days I called the insurance co., told them the tale, asked if they'd been caught, and if they had could I buy the car back. It turned out that they had recovered, undamaged in Manchester a few days after they issued me with the cheque, and rather than offer me the chance to buy it back they'd put it in the auction. I'll refrain from saying what I called them bit it certainly wasn't complimentary. They say every cloud has a silver lining and that was certainly true about my cloud. Unfortunately the silver lining was to the benefit of the lucky sod who bought a  pristine Cortina at auction.
 
The only Cortina I got to drive for a while after that was the MK 3 company car of Jack, the manager. The first time I drove it on the motorway I was appalled at the handling. At speed it developed a motion on the front suspension rather like a corkscrew, almost as if it wanted to turn over on alternate sides. Jack reckoned it had always been like that from new and that the agents reckoned it was nothing to worry about and quite normal.

Whilst on a trip to Thomson's, the mixer manufacturer, in  Bilston Wolverhampton to pick up spares the gear lever came off in my hand and had to temporarily refitted with a piece of wire tying it into the gearbox turret, which did nothing to improve my rating of it. It also suffered from paint peeling from the front wing noses that had to be repainted under warranty. All in all I thought they'd have been better sticking with the MK 2.

Another strange fault that occurred on a Ford was the case of the Area Managers MK1 Granada. This was a V6, 2.5ltr model. He rang the garage and told us that he'd been driving along when he heard a bang and the car stopped dead. When we looked at it the engine was seized solid so we decided to strip  it and see what had happened, and here comes the weird bit which we never got a satisfactory explanation from Fords for although they did provide an exchange engine free of charge which to our minds spoke volumes.
 
The cause of the abrupt seizing was a cylinder liner that had fallen down and fouled the crankshaft. Which was rather strange because as far as  we could find out the Essex engine didn't have liners but was bored directly in the block. Strange but I assure you totally true. We could only assume that a liner had been fitted to salvage a block that had some fault when initially bored.
 
As I mentioned earlier in this series we also had two Ford D1000 tippers and I'm afraid that they also did nothing to enamour me to the post MK2 Cortina Fords. I'm sorry if that offends any fans of the blue oval but it is my honest assessment of that period, although I did have a Mk4 Cortina for a short while and found that perfectly adequate if a little uninspiring.
 

Another aside. Why I HATE newer cars! Actually I don’t. They definitely have their place but I do hate them when they go wrong.

I thought you might like to hear of a recent saga with Mrs FB’s very, very late 2000 VW Touran. Oh OK! It’s 2004 and doesn’t fit the criteria of either group. I‘ve already put myself on the naughty step just for thinking about writing it. However, this episode does bring home what a joy pre 85 classics really are in comparison and I hope you can enjoy it all the same. 

​So, are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.

The Touran had been misbehaving over the winter, especially on really cold mornings. The Starter motor would occasionally turn over very slowly but still start the car. I hadn't changed the battery since we bought the car new, so assumed that was the problem and thought "I'll change that soon"

Anyway, soon never turned up and one day I got a phone call from Mrs FB to say car was completely dead and nothing happened when she turned the key.

Time to get the new battery says I and visit the local battery stockist on way home from work armed with model year and registration details. I purchase the recommended shiny new battery.

I spent half an hour removing all the covers (Including air filter box) to expose the old battery and fixing brackets. I spent 3 minutes removing the battery to discover that it is somewhat smaller than the shiny new one sat on the drive.

So I went back to local battery stockist with old battery under one arm and the new, too large, battery under the other. I explained, fairly politely, to the spotty Herbert behind the counter that perhaps he'd misread read the data on his computer and please supply me with the correct battery for Mrs FB’s car. which he did fairly quickly and with only minimal under breath mutterings.

I returned home and spent 3 minutes fitting the new battery and half an hour replacing all the covers (Including air filter box). I jumped into car feeling pleased with myself and turned the key to be treated to........complete silence! I jumped out of car, slammed the door and stormed into the house to sulk with a bottle of Merlot.

​I thought about the problem overnight and decided it must be the starter motor at fault. Still cross with the car I decided to phone my local VW dealer for confirmation of my diagnosis and quote for doing the job. They confirmed that my diagnosis could be correct and then, with great delight, informed me that they would gladly change the starter motor in exchange for 320 of my hard earned pounds.

After I'd finished crying and mopped up all the coffee I had spluttered over my computer, I thought "How hard can it be? I’d worked on a couple of cars before (pre 1985 ones, granted) I'll give it a whack myself." "being terminally skint, I'll save myself a bit of cash too." I thought.

So I head out onto the drive and lift the bonnet again to have a look. A quick glance did not reveal the location of the starter motor. So, I sent out a search party provisioned for 2 days and equipped with mirrors, periscopes and rubber arms. I finally located the starter motor hidden behind many more layers of plastic covers both on top and underneath the engine compartment. (Are they really all necessary?)

Another hour was required to carefully remove all the said covers and lumps of unidentifiable plastic, and I can now see, and have access to, my recalcitrant starter. 5 Minutes was then spent removing the 2 electrical wires and a connector and the 2 securing bolts and the starter was out, tested and confirmed to be broken.

Back to the computer to search for a cheap replacement starter. However, I now consider that the vendors of VW starters must all be highway robbing nasty people trying to rip me off. They all wanted me to part with rather more of my money than I really had available.

I sit back and have a mug of coffee and another think "I bet it's just the brushes. I've changed the brushes on the washing machine motor. How hard can it be?"

So I decide to strip down the starter to see what the fault was and as I took the cover off lots of dust and springs and fragments of carbon fell out. “Haha! I was right” thinks I, and I decided that I would continue to strip and clean the rest of the starter ready for the shiny new brushes that I will source that evening.

With that, the loving Mrs FB, feeling sorry for me having to slave over her car for so long, bought me a cup of tea....and then proceeded to get very cross. Apparently, the coffee table in the sitting room ...well you know the rest... Anyway, Katie at A&E (Yes, we’re on 1st name terms now) was very understanding and gave me back the spindle and offered me a season ticket for the car park.

Back home again and who'd have thought that it would be so difficult to find a brush holder set? Everyone kept telling me that they don't sell those but could sell me the complete starter motor. I did find someone in China that would sell it to me, unfortunately he could only supply them in batches of 5000.

Finally, I tracked down a very nice chap on the great bay of E who would sell me just one brush holder set for £10. Now that's more like it!

3 days later it arrived and I fitted it to the lovingly cleaned (Twice) and re assembled starter motor, tested it (It worked) and refitted it to the car all in about 15 minutes! I jumped into the car, turned the key and to my very great surprise, it actually roared into life.

Feeling rather smug with myself, another hour was spent carefully refitting all the covers and unidentifiable bits of plastic. And I was able to present the loving Mrs FB with a fully operational car and we all lived happily ever after and feel very smug at being able to stick two fingers up to VW and their £320 quote. I have also written to VW to tell them that they miss-named the model and should, in fact, have called it the VW Tourette’s after all the bad words it made me use.

​I will now try and reflect on this experience and next time I feel the need to swear at my Triumph, I shall simply remember this experience and smile instead. ...yeah right!

....of my last featured vehicle, the gorgeous Lagonda with the perfect combination of elegance and engineering, to the ridiculous, this one. All the aesthetic qualities of a house brick, with the aerodynamics to match. 

Those among you who are not in the UK will not have much idea about what this is, and even the Brits may not actually have seen one. You are looking at a Green Goddess! A military fire tender based on a four-wheel-drive Bedford (General Motors) truck chassis.

I spotted this wonderful vehicle at the Vintage Sports Car Drivers Association's Vintage Festival at Road America in September of 2008. The owner, whose name I forgot to write down, bought the vehicle in the UK as they were being sold off as being surplus to requirements. He collected the truck from the docks on the east coast and drove the thing all the way to the Midwest! With a maximum speed of 65mph and a comfortable cruising speed of 45mph it must have been a leisurely journey to say the least.....

Originally conceived as being an emergency response vehicle in the aftermath of a nuclear war, these trucks spent most of their days confined to military bases dotted around the UK. During the Fire Service strike in the early eighties they were sent out to municipalities around the country together with their military crews, to take the places of firefighters who were on strike.

​They would be based at Territorial Army (the British equivalent of the National Guard) halls and similar buildings, always accompanied by police officers, usually on motorcycles, on a 24/7 basis as the soldiers didn't know their way around and had to be escorted to the scene of a fire or similar emergency. More than one police vehicle ended up being rear-ended by one of these, as the brakes on the trucks were marginal, at best! I did a couple of stints on these escort duties myself, and would often stop by for a cuppa tea with the squaddies.

The truck that I spotted (and photographed) still had its original equipment intact (with the exception of the ladder!) but the owners was considering converting it into a race car transporter. The tent was custom-made, with a colour scheme to complement that of the Bedford. 

Inside was very roomy, but spartan to say the least. 

I can’t say whether or not there is another one of these in the United States, but I seriously doubt it, and I'll guarantee that it's the only one that anyone is likely to see over here. A number of them were sold to Nigeria, for use by the Lagos Fire Service, and are still in use by them today.

​Basic, easy to maintain and repair, completely reliable and rugged, what they lack in style and speed, they more than make up for in charm and that all-important fun factor.

​Seeing it certainly made me smile! 

Firstly apologies to anyone who read part 5 of this tale of an impoverished, overworked apprentice in the 50's and found yourself wondering about the trailer at the end - Next time 1989 and the launch of THAT car - you may be racking your brains trying to deduce which car was launched in '89 that warranted the description.

Relax, it was a typo, should have been '59, which means quite a few of you can easily guess which car I meant. So, to the story.

1959 started with yet another new model for us to ooh! and aah! over. This was the second of the Farina Austin's, the A55 Cambridge Mark 2. What a departure from the previous A55 model, longer , wider, much more spacious and FINS!, something I'd only ever associated with big yank tanks. When the mechanics had finished poring over it I got a chance to have a good look and sit in it myself, which confirmed my first impression.

​Big comfy seats, big windscreen, big everything compared to the old one. Apart from one thing, the engine! This turned out to be the same 1.5 B series as the Mark 1 but now fitted with a SU carb to wring another 3 or 4 Horsepower out of it. The unanimous verdict was that this car was a winner, the salesmen were almost wetting themselves. So a good start to the year.
 
And it got better. In March we took delivery of the first of the replacement for the A95, another unmistakably Farina design, the new A99 Westminster. Although mechanically very similar to the old Westminster it was an impressive looking thing, especially as the first one we got was finished in black, quite ministerial looking. This was where I first heard courtesy of our Granadian friend Mick, the phrase, " Big, black and beautiful". In later years I often used the same phrase to describe my P5B. Again the new model was greeted with all round approval and all seemed set fair for a very happy year sales wise.

Atkinsons had two operations, one was the car workshop where I worked and the other was a body and commercial works at the other end of town, coincidentally much nearer to my home. I made what I considered a very well reasoned request that I be transferred to the commercial operation to allow me to gain experience on both diesels and commercials. Seemed reasonable enough to me but not unfortunately to our Mr.P. Request refused and back to square one. I still found the actual work enjoyable but had a growing sense of discontent.
 
By now it had rolled round to August and still no answer to my driving lesson dilemma, but the mood was lightened somewhat by the launch of yet another new model, which although we did not realise it at the time was to change the face of motors as we knew them. The new Austin 7 or as it quickly became known,  Mini, had arrived!

It is November 2015 and the date for our groups much anticipated Coventry meet was fast approaching. I had been keeping an eye on the weather forecast praying to the classic car gods that it would be one of those bright frosty winter days, but it didn’t look like my prayers would be answered.
 
So the Friday before the meet found me back at the lockup struggling manfully to erect the hood. “But Herald hoods are easy to put up” I hear you cry. Well not so with Poppy. You see, as some of you may remember from previous chapters, Poppy’s hood frame has suffered the tests of time and is broken above the driver’s door and where it joins the header rail on the passenger side. All this means that I need to have a compliment of arms commensurate with a Hindu goddess in order to successfully erect my sad hood.
 
Some hours later and the hood was up and I was ready for any inclement weather. Or so I thought. Walking back round the car I discovered this:

What was I to do? Well, go back home in a huff to start with, but a quick interrogation of Mr Google turned up a local boat chandler that could furnish me with the necessary clear vinyl and glue to effect a repair. (Well I do live in Royal Wootton Bassett don’t you know and Chaps do need to go boating on the local River Thames)
 
I was soon back at the lockup cutting out the old window and measuring up for the new one. 

• My 1st attempt at cutting out a new window failed due to knife slippage.
• My 2nd attempt turned out to be too small. 
• My 3rd attempt was still be a bit small on one edge due to the window not actually being triangular. Apparently, it should have a wibbly wobbly bit at the bottom. (Yes. Technical term.)
• My 4th attempt was aborted as I had already turned my stock of clear vinyl into useless scraps.

There was nothing else for it; I would have to resort to bodgery. The best fitting scrap of clear vinyl was offered up to the window hole, and stuck on with copious amounts of duct tape.
 
Well the day of the Coventry meet dawned and it happened to coincide with the arrival of Armageddon.  Horizontal rain was lashing in on force 18 gales. Leaves and litter were being blown all over the place along with fence panels, half a tree, the odd shed and small children. (OK, maybe some slight exaggeration here, but the weather really was bloody awful!) The thought of abandoning my trip never even entered my head though. I’m a proper tough guy ex prop forward.
 
So with a boot full of tools and spares I set off to Cricklade where Poppy would meet her travelling companion for the day. This was a red MGB MK1/2 christened Johnny (after the Johnny Cash song “one Piece at a time”) and piloted by Chris Ball, a friend and colleague from work. I know Chris and his MG quite well having shown him how to service the car when he 1st had it and changed his clutch for him. Obviously this was before he’d read any of my blogs and realised what an incompetent bumbling fool I really am.
 
Anyway, with the MG leading because Chris had a sat nav, we set off up the A429 dodging floods and low flying trees along the way. (I’m fairly certain I saw Dorothy’s house spin by too.) It was as we were approaching Morton in the Marsh, our epic expedition took another turn. The MG suddenly emitted showers of golden sparks from underneath. “Oh that’s pretty” I thought “and how appropriate so close to bonfire night”. I was just starting to think that I ought to draw Chris’s attention to the fact that his car was on fire and had started beeping my horn and flashing my lights when he pulled into a petrol station. He’d realised he had a problem as his electrics were “doing funny things” but then cleared at about the same time I’d noticed the sparks had stopped. Of course, I then proceeded to scare him a bit more with tales of the firework display I’d been treated to before we decided that we had better assess the damage.
 
We accosted two strapping passers-by to hold onto the open bonnet and anchored ourselves to a handy concrete bollard so we weren’t blown away. We then peered into the depths of the engine bay and saw…absolutely nothing amiss! “Oh well, let’s crack on then” we decided. So Chris jumped back in and turned the key. We were greeted with silence. “Your starter’s had it” I shouted. “I’ll get my tools” he shouted back. He appeared back at the front of the car clutching a large hammer. (You can tell he’d been learning from me can’t you?) I let him give his starter a good beating, partly to let him work off his frustration, but mostly for the entertainment value it gave me. You see, I’d already cleverly worked out that the starter hadn’t returned to rest after starting the car at Cricklade and had been “driven” ever since, destroying the brushes which was the cause of the firework display.
 
When Chris had finished beating his starter, I regaled him with my expert diagnosis. The 2 strapping passers-by and I bump started the MG and we continued our intrepid voyage with nothing else to bother us except the weather.
 
I have to admit that I was starting to worry that Poppy and the MG would be the only cars to turn up given that the end of the world was in full swing. However, as we approached Coventry, we fell in behind a rather nice blue Vauxhall FE and decided to follow him in. I was just starting to have visions of pulling up onto Vauxhall chaps drive and being arrested for stalking when it turned out that he was actually going the meet after all. 

You can imagine our relief when the museum frontage hove into view and there was Gar Cole doing his best Fat Controller impression and herding us into formation amongst the plethora of shining, windswept, rain beaten beauties already present. (Some of the cars looked a bit forlorn in that weather too.)
​
More and more cars just kept turning up, the weather cleared somewhat and the event was buzzing. It was without doubt the friendliest car show I have ever been to and the museum is a great venue. Best of all? There was free CAKE. Thanks again, of course, to Gar and all those who helped make this show so good.

After a great day and bump starting Chris’s MG again, a trouble free cruise back home ensued and Poppy was snuggled up in the garage for the winter again. Save for those mythical bright and frosty days.
 
Oh, and the reason I had noticed that the cabin was a bit draftier than normal with the roof up? My bodged window repair fell out after driving less than 30 yds!
 
Chris did eventually fix his starting problem. Whether I tell you about his efforts or not in a future blog, depends entirely on how much he is willing to pay me to keep quiet.
 
And that pretty much brings us up to date so what better way to finish it off in this group than with a cake my daughters made me back in 2008 for my Birthday. (When they were very young.)

​Thanks to all of you who have taken the time to read about my journey through life with Poppy. I hope you have enjoyed and not lost the will to live too often.
 
Also, a big "Thank you" to Paul Sweeney to for his support and patient editing.
 
I shall continue my tale as and when material is provided by my incompetence in dealing with the jobs still on my to do list (roof repairs, paintwork, etc) or anything else that crops up.
 
I am really looking forward to attending all four of our real world group meets in 2016 with Poppy, so see you there. I’m rather hoping that these meets will provide more material too.
 
See you soon
 
Fatbloke and Poppy