10 May 04
DB2 - pure bargain exotica
To paraphrase the famous George Best anecdote (you know, the one where he's in a five-star hotel with Miss World and a bottle of champagne etc.): where did it all go wrong? I don't know how many cars have passed through my hands over the last twenty years - fifty? sixty? - but I often reflect on the money I've wasted or on how much more rounded I might be as a human being if only the bug had not bitten at such an early age. I've tried to make a clean break, find other interests but I've long since given up fighting it and instead count my blessings as one of the rare individuals whose passion is basically his job. To be honest, with a dad like mine I never stood a chance.
Mk2 Escort - most 19-year-old's choice...
I was exposed to a high turnover of bargain exotica from the earliest possible age, beginning with an Aston Martin DB2 via a variety of Jaguars and Rovers. It all seemed to be leading up to a defining moment in the late '70s when something truly captivating arrived as a runabout for Mum in the low, wide, thrusting form of a BMW Coupe. Instantly we joined some kind of cut-price jet set and I was hooked on the glamour: the car looked, felt and sounded expensive and, best of all, enjoyed the unimaginable luxury of electric windows. We had truly arrived.
...except for Martin
Reel forward to the mid-'80s. I've got my license and have somehow managed to sidestep all the ordinary crap cars you're supposed to drive as a youth - and ended up with a Jaguar S-Type, 3.8 manual. Most 19-year-olds were running Escorts while I tipped my dole money into the Jaguar's never-satisfied fuel tank. I didn't resent a penny of it because the car was a joy until the afternoon the rubbers in the brake master cylinder stopped doing their thing and the car crumpled sickeningly into a wooden post. The only thing I broke was my heart - God, I loved that car.
