Here in my car I feel safest of all. Until the sump falls out.
Yep, was enjoying the luxury of a Blokebrek a little while back; this is for the unitiated, everything the medico's say is bad for you; double eggs with steak, sausages, bacon, beans. Hmmm, manfeast. Not as if I have it often. Washed down with black coffee and Top Gear repeats, then came Clarkson on Cars. Yay! A special on the British Motor Industry, who actually killed it.
A bit of a freaky show actually. Very much a return to youth, especially when they ran down the list of dead British manufacturer's. The Wolseley. Childhood memories of two of those lumps sitting permanently parked under the telegraph pole, on the green, the other side of the road from my single glazed bedroom window, upon which the man next door but two, Mr Kennedy would always work on but somehow never actually drive. The Austin Allegro, my grandad had one.... what, do you mean that vomit coloured abortion was actually *deliberately* styled that way to be outstanding? The Ital.... I never knew it was supposed to be STYLISH, I thought it was designed as crap, a Marina with bells on! Amusing that the Italian styling house responsible has actually scoured it from the company history book. A shame they missed out some of the other motorised sins of the time that I remember like the Vauxhall Viva, my uncle's rusty green horrid rustbucket, slightly less horrible than the horrid white and rust thing it replaced and immortalised by the Macc Lads as their pulling car (rusty Vauxhall Viva wi' viynl roof, a'reeeeet!); and the Maxi (oh why, why, WHY).
Lets face it, the cars of the era were horrible, and when you look at the insane way the industry worked, or rather didn't, is it a suprise? Hmmm, funky contemporary plastic trim, yum. But I find myself strangely nostalgic for them or at least the times they represent. They were proper cars. If they didn't work, which they normally didn't you hit them with a hammer until they did. The sun still set over the Gipping Valley everynight watched by me from my room; black kids had afro's, jeans, sweatshirts and smiles, not hoodies, menace and guns; you didn't suspect the imperfectly groomed newsreader of actually being an Auton, a professional nothing straight out of journalist school and straight into my brain; at least you understood your enemy and you still thought the country might be going somewhere, not under... never mind, can't turn the clock back. And yeah, I'm nostalgising (is that a word? It is now) an era where I was skint, we were skint, we were all skint, but you know what, I was happier. I'll still drool over a restored Capri ,Cortina or Triumph Spitfire, even though they're dreadful. They smell different. They smell like cars, damnit. Not the things you get these days. Not sure what they smell of, but it's not MY youth. On with the rose tinted specs, laddo.
And if my life wasn't the mad long distance, mile eating thing it has become, I'd buy another (original) Mini tomorrow. A'reeeet?
A bit of a freaky show actually. Very much a return to youth, especially when they ran down the list of dead British manufacturer's. The Wolseley. Childhood memories of two of those lumps sitting permanently parked under the telegraph pole, on the green, the other side of the road from my single glazed bedroom window, upon which the man next door but two, Mr Kennedy would always work on but somehow never actually drive. The Austin Allegro, my grandad had one.... what, do you mean that vomit coloured abortion was actually *deliberately* styled that way to be outstanding? The Ital.... I never knew it was supposed to be STYLISH, I thought it was designed as crap, a Marina with bells on! Amusing that the Italian styling house responsible has actually scoured it from the company history book. A shame they missed out some of the other motorised sins of the time that I remember like the Vauxhall Viva, my uncle's rusty green horrid rustbucket, slightly less horrible than the horrid white and rust thing it replaced and immortalised by the Macc Lads as their pulling car (rusty Vauxhall Viva wi' viynl roof, a'reeeeet!); and the Maxi (oh why, why, WHY).
Lets face it, the cars of the era were horrible, and when you look at the insane way the industry worked, or rather didn't, is it a suprise? Hmmm, funky contemporary plastic trim, yum. But I find myself strangely nostalgic for them or at least the times they represent. They were proper cars. If they didn't work, which they normally didn't you hit them with a hammer until they did. The sun still set over the Gipping Valley everynight watched by me from my room; black kids had afro's, jeans, sweatshirts and smiles, not hoodies, menace and guns; you didn't suspect the imperfectly groomed newsreader of actually being an Auton, a professional nothing straight out of journalist school and straight into my brain; at least you understood your enemy and you still thought the country might be going somewhere, not under... never mind, can't turn the clock back. And yeah, I'm nostalgising (is that a word? It is now) an era where I was skint, we were skint, we were all skint, but you know what, I was happier. I'll still drool over a restored Capri ,Cortina or Triumph Spitfire, even though they're dreadful. They smell different. They smell like cars, damnit. Not the things you get these days. Not sure what they smell of, but it's not MY youth. On with the rose tinted specs, laddo.
And if my life wasn't the mad long distance, mile eating thing it has become, I'd buy another (original) Mini tomorrow. A'reeeet?
posted by Fred the Singing Bandit at 10:51 am
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