Mike Humble:

I suppose, if you think about it, there’s a great deal to be said for modern cars isn’t there? For starters, they don’t imitate a junior disprol in a glass of water, the life expectancy is a whole lot more, and excluding wet belt and eco-boom engines, they’re generally reliable. You can pretty much drive from one end of the country these days in any new car you choose, to the other, without having to stock the boot of your car with spare ignition components, gallons of engine oil and a tool kit that would put a R.E.M.E reconnaissance patrol to shame. In days when Thatcher meant more than just a brand of decent cider, things were much different, we tolerated, nay accepted, unreliable cars. The average British built motor be it a Ford Cortina or Vauxhall Viva was lucky to get to its tenth birthday unless it was treated with more love and care than your first born. I once travelled from Northampton to Darlington and back in a seven year old Morris Ital 1.7 and the journey saw it get a puncture, the choke cable snapped and after racing a Sierra on the M18, the nearside rear wheel bearing failed.

But of course, I never learned. Over the years (since 1989 in fact) I have driven and owned more than 100 cars and a huge number of them came from the B.L – Austin – Rover stable with many of those being less reliable than you’d have hoped. I’ve had a totally useless but gorgeous Mini 1100 Special, an MG Maestro that caught fire and brought the Bedfordshire stretch of the A1 to a standstill, oh, and of course, the aforementioned Ital estate that chewed its way through every driveline component – except the engine. My reason for suffering the proud products of Longbridge and Cowley? Perhaps it’s the underdog thing or maybe at the time, I had access to every spare part on offer thanks to my job in a huge  Rover dealership. All of us of a certain age look back in fondness at some of the B.L wrecks we have clung to or driven, in the trade we call it ‘wearing Rover tinted spectacles’. Yet some of them really get under our skin, but in this nostalgic journey down remembrance road, it was a car I didn’t even personally own.  

Thinking long and hard about ‘car crud’, the one motor that comes to mind was an ex-girlfriend’s 1984 red MG Metro. It was purely by coincidence that she ran a Metro with me working just up the road in a dealership. She’d owned it since passing her test in 1990 and was a present for doing so from a relative. Her Aunt Pat got it from her husband – it had been his former company car before being bought off the firm when it came up for renewal. To say the bloody thing was jinxed would be a mild understatement. Even before I came along, it had received a reconditioned gearbox and clutch, rear wheel bearings, had the sunroof replaced – twice (then finally bonded shut) owing to water leaks, a small number of batteries and a failed cylinder head gasket. Not only that but the front valance and wings had more scabs on them than Michael Gambon when he starred in the brilliant TV series ‘The Singing Detective’. Also, it got banned from her older sister’s new build driveway owing to it dropping oil wherever you parked it.

It was a raggy old saggy old clothcat, and rather like Emily in that Bagpus cartoon – the owner loved it. Stuff swinging from the interior mirror, lucky charms, magic tree air fresheners you name it along with a glovebox full of Wet Wet Wet and Depeche Mode cassettes were scattered around the interior. Though at the time, and more so looking back in hindsight, the car was an absolute shed of a thing that probably cost as much in annual running costs as a preserved AVRO Vulcan bomber. But the little red wreck had a plucky charm insofar as the little sod never refused to start, it had a nice growling exhaust note and the only limitations to the roadholding was dictated only by the quality tyres that were fitted. I had access to all manners of suitable replacement runabouts in the forms of various part exchange vehicles the sales lads brought in, but no, she wouldn’t have it, she’d rather keep the little Metro. I recall the chance of grabbing a silver Mk2 Fiesta XR2 that only needed a gearbox for literally loose change. I even managed to bring it home to the flat thinking she’d fall for the charms of a five speed gearbox and its almost immaculate vista – again, it was a flat no.

The Metro carried on until one day queuing in traffic en route to the supermarket, I was poked in the arm and advised the LED warning lamp on the temperature gauge had started blinking. Pulling into a bus stop it was severely overheating as the fan had failed to cut in. Using a paperclip as a bodge to the fan switch wiring, the motor whirred into life and after sitting for a while upsetting various Stagecoach drivers, I topped the water up by about a litre and we made it to Sainsbury’s. Sadly, that incident had clearly blown the head gasket as the three mile journey back found us leaving a whitish grey fog behind us making us look like an English version of the classic film ‘Uncle Buck’. And still she refused to give up with the car, it was kind of like it actually lived like a cat or loved elderly dog, it further strengthened her resilience with a will to fight for its very survival. The following weekend, armed with a Unipart head gasket set from work bought for cost price, I performed the surgery in a few hours and once again it immediately fired into life seemingly as if nothing had happened. Or so I thought.

It then developed a thirst for engine oil so severe that you’d almost mistake it for being a two-stroke. It liked a drop regularly before but she stupidly decided to visit her Nan in Dumbarton rather than use my car or go by train. The 500 odd mile journey there and back saw me add no less than 5 litres of oil, in layman’s terms, by driving to Scotland we had given the car a complete oil change. Apart from us having to stop at every other service station, the knackered red rot box behaved perfectly, but the faint puffs of blue smoke at high speed were both worrying, and for me, amusing at the same time. Used 1275 engines in MG tune were plentiful and for pennies back then but eventually she came round to my thinking after I begged her dad to talk some sense into her. The car was getting really rusty, especially around the front and in the boot and it was agreed that when the MOT was getting near, I would find something car wise from work and the Metro would be sent off to be reincarnated into beer tins and razor blades. That sad and fateful day came sooner than was first imagined.

 

That particular summer in the early ‘90s had been a scorcher, for reasons which time eradicates my memory, the MG was our chariot for a weekend in east Anglia. We picked up friends in Suffolk and made our annual pilgrimage to the Las Vegas of Norfolk – Gt Yarmouth. After a fun packed day that contained various japes like visiting the pleasure beach, fish and chips at the Britannia (they’re still there dishing it up too) rounded off with a couple of hours in the pub, it was time to head back. By this time everyone except muggins here was well ‘lubricated’ the girls clambered into the back while us lads operated as captain and first officer. For those who don’t know, the main trunk road from Yarmouth to Norwich is the A47, and for a considerable distance is straight as an arrow and flatter than a billiard table. These days it’s well policed by unmarked traffic cars and average speed camera’s, back then however, it was little different scenes from ‘Mad Max’ or ‘Death Race 2000’. Being quite late in the evening with little traffic about and egged on by my mate, I jabbed the volume pedal into the carpet and the speedometer rose.

The speed climbed to a level comfortably over the limit when all of a sudden there was an enormous bang, followed by a tornado like wind in the car with plenty of sparks and pyrotechnics behind us. Despite being no lay-by or hard shoulder, I slewed the car half onto the grass verge almost in an emergency stop situation. Everyone by now was wide awake, mildly distressed and very sober as we all got out of the car to take stock of what the hell had gone wrong. Arriving at the tailgate, there seemed nothing untoward, that was, until I popped open the hatch to look inside, everything had disappeared. The spare wheel, wheelbrace, jack and various other goods and chattels had simply fallen through the rotten floor of the boot, they’d even managed to pull the rear silencer from the mounting too as they exited. After a good half hour of searching, we came to the conclusion the wheel must have bounced or rolled into a field, but we did find most of the other clutter and removed it from the carriageway. How the hell nobody got injured or killed remains a mystery that turns my stomach to this day when thought about. A steady drive at 50 mph followed back to Suffolk and then home to Bedfordshire. The following day, which was a Sunday, we both went to the Rover dealer I worked with for a chat with Frank, the friendly and resourceful used car sales manager to see what was available or due to come in.

Suffice to say, the tired old B reg MG Metro went to the breakers after I had removed the newish stereo and monster speakers in the parcel shelf. It was replaced with a Vauxhall Nova 1.3 SR which was dirt cheap but required brakes all round and had a clutch that’s life expectancy could be measured with an hourglass. The Nova was in lovely condition but the driving position was awful – they were known for that, and lacked any real soul. For me though, it failed to possess the Metro’s ability to scream round a bend like a full size Scalextric car and I missed the charismatic whine of the intermediate gears and the rorty exhaust, it also seemed like it lived and simply refused to keel over. The moment we walked out of the scrap yard with £35 in hand, there was genuine remorse. It felt like we had reluctantly euthanised a family pet.

Funny how inanimate objects can get right under your skin eh?