Would You Buy a Used Car ...? Part 1

All this recent talk about the cars at work and the problems that usually occur with them has prompted memories of my own personal vehicles, so I thought it would be an interesting exercise to trawl back through the mists of time and draw up a Grumpy History of Motoring – a sort of used car CV detailing the many vehicles that I’ve owned, loved but mostly despaired of over the years. I should say whilst I’m an avid fan of Jeremy Clarkson as a presenter and writer, I do not share his passion for cars – they are simply there to do a job, or if they’re French, sit on your drive and give a Gallic shrug when you turn the key. So you won’t find a Bugatti Veyron or Maserati Quattroporte on my list; my cars are to the motoring world what beige cardigans are to haute couture. The cheapest and most practical transport I’ve ever owned was my British Rail Student Railcard, which says it all. You won’t hear that from Clarkson.

I was a late developer in driving terms, and didn’t hit the roads of Sunderland on my 17th birthday. Therefore the boy racer phase rather passed me by, although I did fantasise about getting my hands on an Opel Manta GTE. What a car! Indeed it was 1985 before I had enough cash to start driving lessons, while my Gran put up the readies for my first car to learn in – this magnificent 1972 Ford Cortina XL that was mine for £240 of Gran’s pension.

Who remembers cobbled back lanes? And dustbins?
And Councils who would actually empty them?

It was in great condition as can be seen, and featured such luxuries as the obligatory vinyl roof, four gears and a whopping 1.6 litre engine. It was a heavy car to drive, having the turning circle of Tesco and needed three people to turn the wheel. But it drove nicely and could pull off the lights in fourth gear, which as a learner was something that happened quite regularly. Sadly, after a couple of months, I was offered a job that required moving away to Stratford Upon Avon within a week. It wasn’t practical to keep the car as I hadn’t got my licence, so it was quickly sold – yes, of course I regret it!

And that was my motoring for a while – I worked in a variety of hotels in Stratford, followed by Windsor and then London. There was no opportunity, or any real need, for driving in those days as Britain still boasted affordable public transport. Hotels often provided live-in accommodation for full time staff because of the hours worked, and as such, every night was party night. Consequently there was little need for a car, and to be honest, I was rarely in a fit state to drive one anyway. Indeed after one particularly raucous party I spent an entire night on London’s Night Bus network, desperately trying to get home but equally desperately trying to remember where the hell I lived. But all that is an article – perhaps even a book – in itself, so I’ll leave it parked up for the moment.

It wasn’t until 1988 when I was living in London that vehicles became important again. My brother and I came up with a half-baked idea of buying cheap cars in the recession hit North East, and selling them at a premium to the cash rich Londoners. We were inspired by Minder, which rather indicates the level of research that we carried out. The first run was with a ‘V’ reg 2.8 litre Ford Granada Mk3 in metallic gold, a popular colour at the time, rather similar to this one (ours didn’t last long enough for a photo).

Elegance, style and luxury ... it said in the brochure.

Of course, we had no idea what we were doing. The car was purchased in Ryhope, and I would drive, with my brother who actually held a licence, to London. Unfortunately, somewhere in the Luton area, the automatic transmission developed a fault. Gear changes became rather lumpy, and then when the car was slowed to a halt, it would die. Entering London like this was madness, so we stopped at Toddington Services for several hours and spent as much on coffee as we had on the car (2 cups each) before setting off under the cover of darkness to lurch and limp home. By now the car would only start by revving the engine like mad while holding down the brake pedal, then releasing it quickly so that the car shot forward. Put the brakes on, slow to less than 20 mph and the engine died. This wasn’t the easiest way of negotiating the streets of North London, and needless to say, we got hopelessly lost. The car was deteriorating by the minute, so eventually we did the only thing possible – abandoned it in a bus stop in … I don’t know. We hailed a cab, and confused the cabbie by asking where we where, instead of where we wished to travel to. This turned out to be in Edgware. As I lived in Islington (this was long before Tony Blair had been invented and made it fashionable and unaffordable) it was a long and expensive ride home in said cab.

The following day, Brian returned up north the sensible way – by Inter City 125. This left me with the Inner City 125 bus route to Edgware. Despite having abandoned the Granny at a bus stop in North London without locking it, not one petty crook had had the inventiveness to nick it. In daylight, everything became much clearer, and it turned out that the Granada’s journey had ended not 100 yards from a Ford dealership! I went and explained my plight to the service department, who, it has to be said, were remarkably helpful. A Rastafarian mechanic walked over for a look, and once he’d stopped laughing, said maybe he could do something. Back to the Ford dealers, and a long wait followed until he emerged with his boss. They offered a deal – they’d recover the car (couple of £ hundred) and fix it (sell a couple of limbs) and I could have it back. In a week or so. If they weren’t busy. And if they could get the parts. Oh, great. Or … option 2. The mechanic quite fancied the car for himself, and had the means to fix it. So, if I gave him the documents and keys, I could walk away right there and then and never have to see the beast again. Well, what would you do? It was a no brainer, of course. If I didn’t accept the deal, I’d be responsible for recovery one way or another, plus the repair and then still have to sort out a sale. Far better to get rid of it there and then, quickly and cleanly. I readily accepted the deal; the mechanic saw me right and I was on the bus home before you could say, “Would you buy a used car from this man?”

Unfortunately from my bank’s point of view, but fortunately for the sake of creative writing, I rarely learn from mistakes and this incident was merely the tip of the iceberg. More to follow in a slow news week…