A continuing parade of rusty heaps
Unsurprisingly, it seems I repeat myself.
So, where was I? Oh yes. The late 80s.
MUG 931V was a Renault 18 that had belonged to Pater. He sold it to me for £not much when the bloke that fixed it warned him it wouldn't pass another MOT. It, um, mostly worked. The gearbox was on the diagonal, had been comprehensively shagged by Small Brother learning to drive in it, and like the rest of the controls had a section of rubber between you and the bits that did the work. It was also much less crap to drive than SB's Sierra Cosworth. I'm sure the engine in those this is/was lovely, but the ride was utterly hopeless. There's a corner toward the top end of Tunnel Hill on the A40 into Cheltenham that in those days had some lumpy road-mending on the apex. You could pelt round it in the R18 under full sail and other than a vague wobble from the inside wheels not be troubled by the road surface. The S-C would leap sideways into the suicide lane, which was always disconcerting for the oncoming traffic.
For reasons that still escape me, I replaced that with a Hillman Avenger. Actually, I bought it off a mate who needed to buy his psycho hose beast g/f an engagement ring. The car was matt black.
(Does this vehicular saga sound like I'd be better suited to living somewhere I could keep cars up on bricks yet? Because it's sounding that way to me...)
A couple of months later, I was having a nervous beer with some Hereford Angels (blokey's psycho g/f had previously been married to one of their number) and they were regaling me with cheerful tales of fighting, shotguns and drug-dealing when one goes "You bought Titch's Avenger, right? We robbed the Bulmer's plant in that car. The crates are probably still in the boot. You want to get rid of them sharpish." Apart from that, it was the second-worst car I can remember driving. The brake master cylinder expired, leaving me to drive across Cheltenham (again) with no brakes. It pissed oil all the time, leading to complaints from the council about damage to the road. It got rear-ended in a three car accident which led to six months of insurance company malarkey and no actual money. Finally, the thing was stolen from round the back of Tesco's while I was in Copperfields. The polis were far more interested in knowing to whom I might have been speaking, since that place was the dodgiest boozer in town. Two days later, pater rings up with the news that he'd found the bloody thing abandoned outside Hartpury Church, which is the other side of Gloucester. I ring the polis with the news, and they helpfully dispatch a chap to 'disable' the thing. This involves ripping the HT lead off and taking it to Newent nick, which is even further away. We tow the thing back home in the dark, which was a jolly exciting ride, and when the insurance finally bother to turn up they offer me 25 quid to take it away.
Then there was the white, K-plate Mini van. By the time I'd spent a reasonable amount of money on getting the sills & subframes square and acceptably rust-free, I'd been offered some pretty random employment in London and it seemed 'sensible' to leave the thing in the 'care' of Small Brother and his dodgy mates. They comprehensively shagged it, sold it to some credulous oik in Ross and then refused to hand over the dollar because he complained about the state of the thing. No, I didn't understand the logic either.
There now followed a brief interregum when I was skint and mad.
So, where was I? Oh yes. The late 80s.
MUG 931V was a Renault 18 that had belonged to Pater. He sold it to me for £not much when the bloke that fixed it warned him it wouldn't pass another MOT. It, um, mostly worked. The gearbox was on the diagonal, had been comprehensively shagged by Small Brother learning to drive in it, and like the rest of the controls had a section of rubber between you and the bits that did the work. It was also much less crap to drive than SB's Sierra Cosworth. I'm sure the engine in those this is/was lovely, but the ride was utterly hopeless. There's a corner toward the top end of Tunnel Hill on the A40 into Cheltenham that in those days had some lumpy road-mending on the apex. You could pelt round it in the R18 under full sail and other than a vague wobble from the inside wheels not be troubled by the road surface. The S-C would leap sideways into the suicide lane, which was always disconcerting for the oncoming traffic.
For reasons that still escape me, I replaced that with a Hillman Avenger. Actually, I bought it off a mate who needed to buy his psycho hose beast g/f an engagement ring. The car was matt black.
(Does this vehicular saga sound like I'd be better suited to living somewhere I could keep cars up on bricks yet? Because it's sounding that way to me...)
A couple of months later, I was having a nervous beer with some Hereford Angels (blokey's psycho g/f had previously been married to one of their number) and they were regaling me with cheerful tales of fighting, shotguns and drug-dealing when one goes "You bought Titch's Avenger, right? We robbed the Bulmer's plant in that car. The crates are probably still in the boot. You want to get rid of them sharpish." Apart from that, it was the second-worst car I can remember driving. The brake master cylinder expired, leaving me to drive across Cheltenham (again) with no brakes. It pissed oil all the time, leading to complaints from the council about damage to the road. It got rear-ended in a three car accident which led to six months of insurance company malarkey and no actual money. Finally, the thing was stolen from round the back of Tesco's while I was in Copperfields. The polis were far more interested in knowing to whom I might have been speaking, since that place was the dodgiest boozer in town. Two days later, pater rings up with the news that he'd found the bloody thing abandoned outside Hartpury Church, which is the other side of Gloucester. I ring the polis with the news, and they helpfully dispatch a chap to 'disable' the thing. This involves ripping the HT lead off and taking it to Newent nick, which is even further away. We tow the thing back home in the dark, which was a jolly exciting ride, and when the insurance finally bother to turn up they offer me 25 quid to take it away.
Then there was the white, K-plate Mini van. By the time I'd spent a reasonable amount of money on getting the sills & subframes square and acceptably rust-free, I'd been offered some pretty random employment in London and it seemed 'sensible' to leave the thing in the 'care' of Small Brother and his dodgy mates. They comprehensively shagged it, sold it to some credulous oik in Ross and then refused to hand over the dollar because he complained about the state of the thing. No, I didn't understand the logic either.
There now followed a brief interregum when I was skint and mad.