PETROL-HEADS

OMG, he’s not going to write about cars is he?  John Betjeman’s caustic 1937 lines, referring to clerks, in Slough summed up the social stigma involved with devastating accuracy.

It’s not their fault that they don’t know

The bird-song from the radio

It’s not their fault they often go

To Maidenhead, and talk of sport and makes of cars

In various bogus-Tudor bars

And daren’t look up and see the stars

But belch instead.

Accordingly I hesitate to talk of makes of car as I know I will stray into the territory of the vulgar and the banal; but the fact remains that the car often exerts a powerful, almost intoxicating, spell over our family and no doubt many other families in the land.

I totted up the grand totals; in my time I have run 24 cars (although 10 were generously provided by my grateful employer) and my 3 sons have had a further 16 cars financed by me. Although I began with a Mini and end currently with a Smart, in between there has been a glittering parade including Rovers, BMWs, a Range Rover and a selection of Jeeps. The high-spot was my two swish Bentleys from which I traded down (sic!) to an Aston Martin Virage. My sons have had Fiats and Golfs but a clutch of glamorous TVRs and Jaguars too. The family is gently divided into the petrol-head group comprising my lovely wife and my two car-mad younger sons ranged against dourly rational me (though I had a rush of blood with the Bentleys!) and my supremely sensible eldest son. I freely acknowledge that owning cars is a matchless way to waste money.

A Bentley Brooklands - my pride and joy

But let’s talk of the pleasures of motoring. Observe the sleek lines of the impeccable machine: smell the dizzying aroma of the polished leather: enjoy the satisfying click as the door closes true: hear the warming-up ritual, sometimes a fearsome roar but better a quiet purr like that of an alert panther. Then we are off! 0 to 60 in 5 seconds, passing dodderers in their jalopies, cutting up Sunday drivers, tooting the horn aggressively, taking on the boy-racers, terrorising pedestrians, arch-enemies of adrenalin-saturated motorists! We may indeed have a prang, we may do a ton on the M1, but for sure we get our kicks on Route 66. I may exaggerate a tad but what a wonderful macho experience!

There are also profound psychological factors at work. You are not just keeping up with, but effortlessly eclipsing, the Joneses: I recall driving through Hyde Park in my first Bentley and receiving yearning and admiring glances: yes, a fine car is a penis extension, a honey-pot, a statement of rampant masculinity. Vanity is flattered too: how ready was the Savoy Hotel in London to allow my sparkling, bright red, white-wall-tired Bentley to park in front of their main entrance as we patronised the Oyster Bar, and how easy it was to park for polo at Windsor and racing at Ascot. Swollen self-esteem is the delightful product of all this. I fear I may be a late re-incarnation of Peter Simple’s J. Bonnington Jagworth, leader of the Motorists’ Liberation Front, driving his Boggs Super-Oaf at alarming speed and quaffing champagne from his gold-plated hub-cap!

All good things come to an end and my current car is as modest as they come. I see that single car ownership is rather anti-social, putting pressure on global resources, polluting the environment and that I really ought just to take a bus. Maybe after my time “Beam me up, Scottie” will become a reality and motorways, traffic lights and street furniture will be a distant memory. Until that day dawns, discreetly enjoy a reliable, functional, comfortable and economical car and do not allow the manifold excitements to tempt you over the top. Good motoring!

My modest but trusty Smart

SMD

7.12.15

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2015