Getaway

Transmission Starts...

It's an undisclosed date, time and place.

The trees are still and the air heavy. A Renault Sport Clio Cup 172, driven by The Mechanic, bites hard on the English air. We overtake desperately...

"Let me take you round the lanes" he'd said.

I'd had a short go in the 172. I'd found it to be a revelation. I could actually feel the front axle moving around in my hands. The steering was brilliant, the engine, eager and sonorous. I'd feared an over rated, uncomfortable cardboard box. True, the Renault is no solid German but it's better then you think. True, the last Clio I'd driven had felt odd, somehow perching you on top of the car instead of inside it.

But the 172...

The 172 was comfortable, the ride wasn't too hard, the gearbox, although slightly vague didn't suffer from French pudding syndrome. In other words it didn't feel like I was stirring porridge. Even though it didn't have ABS or any sort of electronic aids I was sure we would be ok.

Thus;

Rule No. 002 - Safety Is Absolutely Coupled To Feel

After promised lanes an over eager exit from town had met a 330d in police livery coming the other way. After I'd sent my friend down a dead end drive way we'd exited and cooled off. We'd turned back and got on it again. We'd met the 330d again. The 172 providing the extension to his strength, The Mechanic had hurled us down the road towards lanes unclassified.

"We'll be fine" I'd assure.

"We'll be reported" I'd schizophrenically added.

Later, the Renault ticking at the side of the road, I'd asked the more mundane questions. The answers, 35-40 mpg, no major trouble, totally reliable, had told me all I needed to know. I want one. I want one badly. Perhaps not badly enough to get chased around though...

Transmission Ends....

Bank Job

Transmission Starts...

Of course you know that the thumpa-thumpa of those Imprezas that cruise around town and city centre one-way systems on this island Britain is artificial. It's all in the exhaust lengths you see. What's important though, what's important is that it is easily discernible.

When that thumpa-thumpa turned into a loud snarl then a popping on the overrun I knew what was being chased. Police sirens flooded the distant night but our man (or woman) in his (or her) Impreza was doing a good job of keeping the fuzz at bay. I could hear him (her) snarl down the Lansdown road, pop and crackle down the gears before screeching around the roundabout at the top of Montpelier.

Of course they'd get him in the end. Once the police became airborne he'd (she'd) be done for. That turbo flat-four would glow so fiercely that any old idiot with heat sensitive goggles would see him. Plod in a whirly-bird would have no trouble at all.

So we live in a world of CCTV and helicopters. So we live in a world of GPS. Putting all of that to one side though, imagining all of these things did not exist, that it was still driver -vs- driver,

What

Would

I

Choose?

something big of course. Something big enough to ram a police spec X-5 or Range Rover. Something fast, something high and 4WD. Something able to cross a field but shoot down a motorway.

I'm gonna rule out the police choice afore mentioned SUV's. The baddies never drive the same vehicle as the goodies. That is not how it is written. Porsche is out. I got drunk the other day and kicked one as hard as I could. No criminal damage. To solid. A case made you might think, but I hate the things. Case closed, I think.

That leaves the BMW X6 M. Almost as offensive as the Porsche, but not quite. The new bimmer has the guts and the glory. Imagine coming across a road block of 330d's and Volvo T-5's. Imagine putting your foot down and listening to the growl of a 547bhp twin turbo V8 marshaling near as damn it 2.4 tons of German battering ram. Imagine the patrol car's engine bay spread over the carriage-way as you roar off into the night. It's everything you need. Everything you need for a bank heist.

The man who lives at the tip of my home road, however, is not a bank robber. He does live in a world of GPS, CCTV and helicopters. He doesn't need a 2.4 ton four seater that does an average of 16 mpg. He simply trundles around in it, kids in the back.

Fool.

Transmission Ends...

Blurry Fantasies

Transmission Starts...

True, the last few days had been a blur. I couldn't work out what was real. I'd definitely been on the drink, I definitely had to make a quick exit from a pub when I'd been critical of the BNP, I'd definitely missed a meeting at work.

"Crap" I'd muttered on the phone.

"I guess I'll see you soon" I stammered to the Wolf. Crap.

Crap, crap, crap, crap.

On the plus side I'd found the missing radio code for the WolfSled.

On the plus side I'd managed to meet my bills this month.

Silly fantasising had led me to Autotrader.co.uk.

How about an E36 320i for £500?

How about a Ford Puma for £1500?

How about a Saab 9-5 3-litre V6 for £2000?

Further dreaming found a 1973 Alfa-Romeo GTV Voloce coupe in barn condition for £500. Imagine what a car looks like after it's been torched. Imagine that being done to the above.

Still, a minter can be worth 20,000 Sterling's or more. Shame I don't have a chassis jig spare,

or a garage going.

No matter,

oil checked in the Panzer Wagon and a distant sense that I really should spend some money on her had led me back to reality.

Money, it's all about the money...

Transmission Ends...

Abarth 500

Transmission Starts...

Right, here we go. Sometimes things just don't flow. No reflection on the car reviewed in this here entry, but, well.... I just couldn't get this one together.

Judge for yourself...

It's quite feasible that if I had 14 thousand or so sterling's I would march right now into a Fiat dealership and exchange them for an Abarth 500. I say Abarth, of course, because there isn't a single Fiat badge to be found on the little ball of fun.

Save the window stamps.

And possibly the engine.

But these are details. After all, if you were to peer underneath the bonnet of a Nissan 300ZX you would find Mitsubishi logo's all over the electronics.

Anyway;

Reservations first. I simply cannot get comfortable in the damn thing. The steering wheel is either too far away or the pedals are too close. Not great for easy town driving, then.

Out on the motorway the 500 is boisterous and beset with wind noise. Not great for long distances, then.

Out in the countryside, Y junctions will confuse and irritate, bikers will be invisible and surprising. The Fiat, ahem, Abarth may have a 5 star NCAP crash rating but you'll need it, the rear three quarter visibility simply doesn't exist. Not great for active safety, then.

Crap.

Things aren't looking good for the little (bugger it) Fiat, then.

Right, so what of the positives? What can rescue this car, and more importantly this review from its monstrously large lack of continuity?

How about this;

I Love The Way It Feels.

It wants to be driven,

it wants to go fast, it wants to be appreciated.

It has soul, vim, it is fizzy, funny and light. If ever there was a car that deserves to be given a pet name or referred to as 'she', this is it. The steering (weird town mode aside) is communicative. Indeed, there is something about this car that I can't quite land a digit upon. This is something that I look for in all machines. It has something. Something alive about it.

Damn it!

That's not enough is it? The logical positivist in me hates things like this, but they exist. The Fiat/Abarth 500 has something extra, it contains passion. It is not without its faults but it has my heart and that counts for so much more than the crushing ability of an Audi S4, or the well built reliability of a Toyota. Passion is the very reason I write about machines. It is what gets me up in the morning. For that, despite the incoherence of the 500, I'll take one.

When I have the money to do such a thing, that is.

That is when passion starts paying the bills effectively.

yea.

Transmission Ends...

The Next Chapter

Transmission Starts...

And so, now to talk about that elephant in the room, that gorilla from (or in) the corner.

Yes indeed, we come around to Top Gear, that corner of entertainment on a Sunday, that reason for getting excited about the i-player, that reason why I get teary when I watch the Eurofighter take on the Veyron, why I get emotional when slow pans take in the form of a Pacific class locomotive or the curvy hip line of a Bentley Brooklands. For many it can do no wrong.

'Make Jeremy Clarkson Prime Minister!' shout the mob. Let him take us back to those dewy eyed days, those rose tinted times.

For Mr Clarkson lives in a world where transportation and indeed these vehicles that exceed transportation, those vehicles that hold dreams together, those cars that are woven with the passion of a nations culture or of a single minded engineers dreams, Mr Clarkson lives in a world where those dreams are under threat.

Under threat by road pricing, under threat by bureaucracy in Brussels, under threat from speed cameras, and satellite tracking, from limits and the relentless march of the climate change lobby. He can see no alternative but the end of passionate bellowing power to the people cars. Indeed he made this clear in his review of the Aston Martin Vantage V-12.

Usually a man of many words we were treated to a choral Autumn ending inspired soundtrack, a soundtrack that can and will bring a tear to the eye, a soundtrack that graced that visual master piece, Sunshine.

His review was quietly spoken, withdrawn, set on a road of thought, it was his lament. This is all going to end he says. No more will we see the like of these almost pointless pieces of automotive art.

Well?

What do you think?

Do you feel abandoned by this sentinel of car culture, this creative writer who brings joy in his words?

Well?

How about a different way?

How about an AutoEclectic way?

How about going to fill up your car but not feeling guilty about where the fuel has come from?

How about new forms of drama over the bark of a flat plane crank or 12 pistons dancing with 48 valves in a whirl of fire and old ideas. How about the dream of Bangle, how about the drama of entering a slip-road, accelerating for the Motorway and the whole car changing shape around you? How about having a car that doubles as a power station. How about going home and using your vehicle to make a meal for your family, to surf the Internet, to have a hot shower in the morning?

Of course, you could say that all of this could sound anodyne. Sure, there's drama in dynamics,sure there's hope in a more efficient, more socially responsible power network but what of fun? What of the sounds?

To this I retort, I cry from the seat of my vehicle, you have underestimated the consumer! You have underestimated the engineer! People will always want fun cars, people will always want an aspirational device to be seen in. Just look at the hum-drum hatchback market. Why would you ever bother to make a Clio or Focus less efficient, noisier or slightly impractical.

Why indeed does the Renault Sport Clio 197 or Focus RS exist? Why did Renault go a bit nuts and put a stripped Megane on the market with plastic windows? Why did it cost allot more for allot less? How did they sell them all strait away?

It is because, people, consumers, individuals and groups will always want fun, will always want drama and performance and elegance and status.

It has been said that the car is the marketing mans dream, that it represents the pinnacle of the consumer ideal. I believe it will carry on doing so. I believe that the Aston Martin of tomorrow will continue to be beautiful to behold, will continue to have great performance, will continue to have drama to its name. It doesn't matter what its powered by or how its limited. It is the dream of freedom that will not die.

No

Not here. Not now.

No.

Transmission Ends...

Japanese Dream

Transmission Starts...

Today, I write from Rockingham race track. We've been in the presence of real automotive passion. All of the cars that roll off of the particular production line in question are created equal. One of them was destined to receive special bespoke treatment from a special bespoke tuner. Today that vehicle was given to Car to play with.

The creator of the tuned, bespoke, semi-trackday special eyes up Car's long-term Focus RS.

"Good for the price" he sums up. Sort of says it all really...

Transmission Ends...

Love and Hate

Transmission Starts...

Of note, this last week, two things have raised their shiny little heads. One endeared me to the PanzerWagon, the other distanced me again.

It was a hot day this last Thursday and my folks had become embroiled in some sort of running race. With a head full of support the PanzerWagon was given the job of transporting myself and The Charity Worker to The Halfway in Box. As I climbed in and set the ventilation system to open and indeed cold I found that the electric windows had failed. Trying the sunroof (it's still not fixed, but it does at least make a noise) taught me that it must be part of the same circuit. A blown fuse I thought. We'll just have to sweat it I thought. Suffice to say we did.

Anyway, the race was run, Mum had a little happy cry and all was emotional. Upon climbing back in the PanzerWagon I had tried the window's for the 19th time (I like to make sure) and low, behold they worked. Irritating, yes, but also endearing. Sort of in the same way an Italian car/bike makes you feel. Sort of Damn! but arrr....

Now for that other thing. I was in a rush, it had rained and I was heading down a curved slip-road onto the M5. Suddenly the techni-colour view of the world from my seat of driving seemed to shift to the right.

Curious I thought.

Then, Woop!

The backend had stepped out. At 70mph. No warning, no feel. Through a small amount of beginners luck and a lot of experience of near missis on motorbikes I was able to apply the correct amount of, er, correction. The front wheels, once pointing in the right direction were able to pull the back end out of its little adventure. I wonder what would have happened had I been in a rear wheel drive car? Pissed me off, that did. Feel is absolutely coupled to safety.

Could that be rule No. 2?

Transmission Ends...

Salesman

Transmission Starts...

Full A type service including MOT - £209 - Cha-Ching!

Alloy refurb - £150 - Cha-Ching!

Body work scuffs removed - £150 - Cha-Ching!

Kompressor Badge - £25 - Cha-Ching!

Bonnet strut - £64 - Cha-Ching!

My goodness, this sales business is beginning to get rather expensive.

-THIS IS A WOLFSLED UPDATE-

With all the particulars done and only the private plate to sort out, the SLK is (at last) ready for market. Where to sell though? Ideas of sending our bar manager out with a sandwich board, or The Wolf's blond, blue eyed and gymed boyfriend out, naked, except for a price covering his genitals have long been laughed to death. A combination of Auto-trader, local papers and supermarket notice boards should do the trick, but with The Figures Mans' scrappage scheme tearing large holes in the second hand car market the book price has become null and void. Bugger.

What's that?

Oh yes!

Of course!

How did the service etc go?

Well, rather well. Robin Lamb was polite, friendly and efficient. The price was good and he was able to fit in (on the planned service day) an MOT with actually no notice. Only black mark involved a sticking roof which Mr Lamb insisted needed a cheap part that involved expensive labour. WD40 would Not do the trick insisted Mr Lamb. The Wolf dismissed it and had me do it anyway.

The Wolf was right. Roof fixed minus £200 labour.

Cheers.

Anyway, for the time being the WolfSled looks and feels good. All I have to do is convince somebody else of that fact.

Transmission Ends...

Ramblin' Man

Transmission Starts...

Indeed I had thought a lot about the GT ability of the PanzerWagon as we had shot from Manchester, through Birmingham and into the soft, warm lands of my everyday.

Indeed again, when she was new, nothing this side of £50,000 (in today's money) worth of car would have felt more quiet, more solid.

I had kept my right foot in roughly the same position on the accelerator. I had let the inclines, the declines do the talking. A 307 had dueled with us. For my part I had just kept my foot in the same place. Perhaps he was doing the same but he did seem to be taking more than a passing interest in toying with the big green German. Later a police rider joined via a slip road. I hung back a little. The 307 steamed ahead using the rider as a gauge to how fast he could go. He did get a little too close though. After the rider had left our company I had let the speed build slowly, no urgency. The 307 had again steamed off. 20 minutes later flashing lights on the hard shoulder came into focus as our friend the 307 was pulled over. A sign, I thought. Of course, I backed off a bit...

Today I was given an hour in an S4. The supercharged V6 would never feel underpowered. Never would you want for comfort or any type of a gadget. Never would you complain that it was a stressful car to drive. I found it so unstressed, in fact, that I could have easily driven it all day.

The inevitable run down the Slad Road produced no tom-foolery. I was happy to cruise in a low gear. The sequential semi-auto double clutch S-Tronic thing with paddles was semi-fun. Very quick changes, bit of blipping on the down changes.

Really though, at the bottom of everything, considering the mood, the soul of this car, I don't think I could justify spending the extra on tax/fuel/tyres over the 3 litre TDI...

Yea.

I'll stand by that.

Transmission Ends...

Bavarian Motor Works

Transmission Starts...

Shark nosed and big bonneted, the Z4 arrives, Morgan Man at the helm. We tip-toe down the street, park up out of the flow, have a look around, take in the shape, the purpose. I'm a bit nervous. This is a brand new optioned to the nines 50,000 pound car.

I climb in, I take the wheel. The bonnet seems to go on forever. I press the electronic hand (finger) brake and pull off. The transmission is heavy. So far, so masculine.

We leave Spa Cheltenham behind and climb out of the Severn flood plain and into the Cotswold hills. She pulls strongly, the smaller turbo warming the larger not giving any hint of lag. Later we spend 5 minutes trying to find them. Try bottom left, deep down next to the main block.

Back to the past though...

We head over the Air Balloon roundabout, I mash the pedal in 5th, again hoping to catch the 3 litre forced induction six out. It just pulls, builds power satisfyingly. That's the other thing. Having used various TDI's, having driven the supercharged SLK around I was afraid that the signature straight six would feel too linear. No show, all go. That's fine in the Starship Diesel, that's fine in a saloon or estate. Fine in something where drama is not the key component. Not fine in a sports car though. Not fine where you want bellow and interaction . Not fine with memories of hard drinking V8's, of hard driving pretty little things with bad attitudes.

That, of course, is a point within itself. Is the Z4 a sports car? It certainly looks like a sports car. It certainly goes like a sports car, but then so does a 330d estate, so does a Cayenne for that matter. Speed (as time) is relative. No one would argue that this car would give an F355 a damn good fight. No one could argue with BMW that the sport button was put there for those with a passion for track driving. In days of yore you could call a GT a sports car because men with oil on there faces and scarves around their necks would race across Italy and Sicily doing the ton through a thousand miles of wide eyed brilliance. In short they were taking part in a sport.

The Z4 would have done well at that. Apart from the heavy transmission it's very comfortable. That powerful, characterful engine need not be stretched to cover ground quickly. You need never be stressed to cover ground quickly. But those days are gone. This is not a sports car. It is a GT.

Anyway.

Where was I?

Ah yes...

We turn onto the Slad road and I get fleeting chances to use the engine properly. It bellows in the same way all BMW sixes have done for the last thirty years. I will never get tired of that. We head through traffic in Stroud, then up through Rodborough, across The Common, down the 'W' and into Nailsworth. As we leave the valley of my childhood home somebody in a beaten up Ka pulls out in front of us. The brakes work well. Morgan Man talks of the clever standby nature of the braking system. What it must be to be a mechanic these days...

The sun comes out and we pull over. You need to be stationary to lower the roof. The motors do the dance and I get a chance to poke and prod the interior plastics. All feels solid. All is let down by the door bin that feels so cheap I'm almost shocked.

Ha.

Shocked by plastic, now that's decadence.

We push on, head down the hill to Wotton-under-Edge, talk of past misdemeanors, dreams and regrets. As we peel onto the motorway for the run back to Spa Cheltenham I can report the cabin is quiet enough for talking (not shouting) and calm enough for me not to lose the feeling in my scalp.

As we cruise two small boys in a Zafira turn to get a better look, press against the window and point. In the end it was something similar that wins me over.

An overview?

The steering is communicative,the seats are comfy, the engine is marvelous and it handles well.

It does, however feel a little cheap in places, a little too expensive in others (£155 for cup holders!?). Later when we open the bonnet, take in the details, the design, that small boy me becomes enchanted. Although its head is clothed in the obligatory plastic the strait six is not hidden away completely. You can see the steering linkage, you can make out the various parts of the engine bay like some jewel. Like those small boys I'm excited by it.

BMW make cars. They make engines and gearboxes and diffs' and linkages and they are proud of it. Despite the huge numbers of vehicles the Bavarian Motor Works' push out these days they still have a passion for what they do. I admire that. I admire Bangle for the same reason.

I liked the Z4. If you want something a little more visceral try a Porsche Boxster. Although I rather suspect the majority of user-choosers won't be bothered by this...

Transmission Ends.........

London Express

Transmission Starts...

Climb in, turn on, wait for the cold warning sign to go out.

Reverse out, turn in, join the traffic.

Coast on, warm the clutch in the traffic, warm the gearbox on the short-section M5, warm the suspension on the long sweep that dips and undulates as it leaves the M5 and joins the 417.

Cruise up the hill, stretch out the revolutions past the Air Balloon, hold back for the dip past the Golden Heart.

Duel Carriegeway with angry Focus close up. Every so often I can show him who's boss by flooring the PanzerWagen. I tell myself to let it go, let it pass, let it breath...

I pull over, let him pass. He sprints off into the distance. Today is not for sprinting or getting into silly pitch battles with reps on a mission. Today I'm going to London.

417 skirting Ciren, up the hill to Swindon, join the 419, turn off to M4, settle back to low warp. Switch on In Our Time, sit back and cruise.

Stop outside Reading. Coffee in Burger King, spot an Elise in Gulf colours, press on. Flow into London, past the Glaxo building, past the Porsche dealership, join the press of traffic. I sit in Kensington at the lights opposite the Bristol dealership. Ben Fogal sits next to me in a Mini Cooper S convertible. His chocolate labrador rests its chin on the door, looking bored and hot in the muggy, close 30 degree heat.

Summer in the city and the girls are pretty. They line the streets, I almost crash here and there. The North Circular does its job and I reach the East End, parking in the shadow of The Guerkin. A Guinness fuelled night ensues. We paint a pub with the songs of our youth. All ends and sleep comes.

Transmission interrupted..............

Redirecting..................73032783t...vyownt893wnuw52u...otn295tn2v835ut80............

Junction 235 > 237

..................krtv37bt723ntvy3tnv7vt753n

..........

Transmission Resumes...

Wake up, breakfast in Brick lane, leave. About to join the North Circular but spot ClassicCarClub.com. Can't resist but to walk in. The creaking PanzerWagen barely fits in as two men manhandle a Cobra 427. It pops and gargles as a genuinely big man groans under the weight of moving that steering rack at low speed. I'm drunk on it. I walk in, ignored, touch the F355, the XJR, the GT3, the Mustang, the E-type(s), the Ferrari(s). Amongst all is a ZT180 estate.

Ha.

Told you they're brilliant.

No one bats an eyelid as I get right under a ramped and stripped E-type. I touch the sump of the glorious, cultured, legendary straight 6. The heart of one of the greatest sports cars ever made lies dormant above my head.

A Bentley Continental T sits big and proud dwarfing a P6. Always wanted both of those.

I stroll back out into the sunlight and engage in a 15 point turn in front of the mechanics. I'll bear they're grins better than putting a hole in a 360 Modena.

Pull out, join the circular, rush on, join the M4, spot an MR2 in Martini colours, cruise back in the heat. No air con, no matter. Worse things have happened at sea.

This is just one side of the story but for Auto Eclectic this is the whole side...

Transmission Ends...

Chatter

Transmission Starts...

Chatter, chatter, chatter.

All is talk.

You know when I said the Audi's steering is dead?

You know when I said it was non-communicative?

Well, here's a slice of my very own, home cooked humble tart.

There are two (so far) dimensions to good steering.

1st is resistance upon turn in. Does it weight up when you corner? Is that weight related to how hard and/or how fast you are cornering?

Or

Does it feel just the same?

The Audi doesn't have any of this.

Mute.

Dead.

Anyways,

2nd dimension.

this is 'chatter' through the steering column. Good tyres complemented by good suspension and a good (good) steering linkage can communicate the very slightest of tarmac imperfections. It can tell you what type of surface you are on and in turn how much grip is available. Together with a good 'seat of your pants' feel (I'll explain some other time) this is the essential difference between a Mk1 SLK and a Porsche Boxster.

Shocking really when I suddenly realised the Audi had been chatting away all along but I hadn't been listening.

oh well, it's done now, we understand each other a bit more.

Beyond the present tense there's a drive in the new Z4 on the horizon. Reviews have been positive, but how will it feel?

Transmission Ends...

The Whitler

Transmission Starts...

The Whittler whittles, but this is merely a detail in a much bigger picture.

Cryptic?

Me?

Yes.

Ok.

Ahem;

It was only a couple of evenings ago that I was sat in the Whittler's garden on a chair that he had made, surrounded by bits of yurt that he had worked on, in amongst an allotment that he and his friend Critical had planted. His first yurt had taken 18 months. His second, 3.

The point is that when you do something for the first time it always takes longer, involves more problems. Thankfully, so far, I haven't come up against any major problems with getting the WolfSled sorted for sale, but my goodness it's dragging.

Plus side?

I've made lots of new contacts and have had an SLK to drive about in on a roughly weekly basis. I suppose a road test should be in order...

Oh yes, I almost forgot. Someone new has started at the restaurant. He drives a Mini (BMW) Cooper. So that's another road test on the way.

Transmission Ends...

A to B

Transmission Starts....

Lesson No. 001 - Always Shop Around.

With a metaphorical wad of cash with which to service the WolfSled (the boss is known as the Wolf - if you met her...) in preparation for the sale I thought I'd dip my toe into dealing with Mercedes dealers. First call was to Mike Grimsby Mercedes on the Bristol Road in Gloucester. I had touched base with the former official Mercedes dealer a couple of weeks ago. He seemed honest and laid back. He put in a call to his sister business - Robin Lamb Mercedes.

Mike does the sellin', Robin does the repairin' (sorry - couldn't resist that).

Anyways, I was promised a call back from Robin.

Next stop, the local official Mercedes dealer. Again a return call was promised.

Mercedes Benz Hanza (although they are also listed in the Pages Yellow as Audi, Nissan etc Hanza) answered promptly with a mist of unfamiliar terminology. All of my questions were eventually answered, but it did take a sort of journalistic bullying to get any sort of strait reply.

Turns out there are two types of Mercedes service. A's are minor services ranging from £115 to £200 depending on where you go. B's are a little more serious and drum your account to the beat of £250+.

Although the WolfSled has only done 7000ish miles since the last service, it's been two long years. As the return calls started coming in everyone was insisting on a B, with Mercedes C and G (the official girls and boys) telling me she would need a fuel filter thrown into the mix.

I can't quite remember what Mr Lamb from the Bristol Road dealership said when I informed him of his former colleagues recommendation but it was something along the lines of;

"Those rascals".

Indeed a fuel filter should be changed every 50,000 miles or so. It's clearly stated in the service history that the last service had included this. Further to me mentioning this to the professionally friendly lady on the other end of a couple of satellites it should also be said that it states in the vehicle history that the last service had included a new fuel filter and had taken place at C and G. She had even called all of these details up on the screen to tell me this.

That's a code aubergine stroke fail in my book.

That's a a complete triangulation of coordinates to no thanks land.

I don't think I'll be going there any time soon.

So that's a win to Robin Lamb, we'll see how the actual experience goes....

Peeeee Esssssss

An honorable mention should go to MANN in Tewksbury for a friendly and competitive "A" price. Only unfamiliarity and distance had them shown the door.

Transmission Ends...

Wolfsled

Transmission starts....

I'm convinced it's about noise.

Noise and feel.

And possibly the idea of internal combustion.

Either way, that's something for another day.

This week I 'ave been mostly trying to sell the bosses car. Anyone in the market for a Merc SLK in black for roughly 8k?

It's funny (or not), as soon as you become known as a car know it all people actually assume you know it 'all'. Those 'all' things include how to sell a premium sports car/convertible hardtop thingy with no experience of actually selling a premium sports car / convertible hardtop thingy.

So, where to start?

It's all about the Pee's.

The preparation, the prevents, the piss, the poor, the performance..

She (the car, not the boss) needs a valet, all four alloys renovated/reconditioned, a 65,000 mile service and a letter 'R' from the 'Kompressor' legend that seems to have gone for a little one way trip.

Probably to the back of a chav-mobile.

Sorry that's not fair is it?

Ok, how about; its probably masquerading as a 'racing' badge on a lowered washing machine?

Either way, project 001a is now underway.

Transmission ends....

Ministry Of Transport

Transmission starts...

Fail.

Fail on the rear fog-lights, fail on a tiny pin-prick hole on the front brake hose.

Bugger.

An afternoons mucking about might have found the fault with the lights but the process of draining, taking apart and refilling the reasonably complicated set of valves and hoses that make up the internals of a (relatively) (not really) modern  ABS system is very scary indeed.

So, I'm now almost £150 lighter (that's including the initial MOT) and just a little bit mechanically paranoid.

Silver lining?

This is the garage that (by proxy) I'd bought the Audi from. Upon purchase several things that were promised in the transaction simply never turned up. 

A working sunroof for starters. 

Or how about a service history for mains?

Anyway;

The parcel shelf was missing but I'd been promised it was knocking about somewhere. A couple of weeks of fruitless phone calls produced a verbal shrugging of shoulders. Today it miraculously turned up.

The best part?

"Lucky you came in, otherwise it would've been chucked away"

Brilliant.

Cheers.

Transmission ends...

Night Riding

Transmission starts...

Night driving. It's what I do when I cut loose. Cut loose from the hio polloi, hustle bustle of the everyday. 

The poet and I had been debating theology at the local Alpha course.

"Fancy going for a drive?" I'd asked. After dropping The Pipe Smoker off we'd filled up on fuel and set a course to nowhere. The Audi does this well. The mid-size V6 takes high speed cruising in its stride, it's only let down by a relatively large amount of wind noise. Amazing really. There is only one generation of R and D that separates this from the Starship Diesel, a car whose name comes from its lack of wind noise, unhurried nature, blue sci-fi instruments, in all; Its touring ability.

And yet.

The Starship was created by a non-premium manufacturer. It is a Peoples Car. Welcome to expected growth and the exponential rise of the microchip...

So;

From Spa Cheltenham to Big City Bristol with its Victorian riveted Iron, its revived city centre, its preserved Banksy, Portishead, Massive Attack heritage. We merely skirt all of this. 

On and out we dash up the long hill M4 to the A46 junction then a sharp acceleration and a long sweeper that shows the Audi to be grippy but non-communicative. We get stuck behind a C3. I drop the pace. We talk of past journeys, past relationships, past conversations and the relentless passage of achievement and failure, not wanting to get off of this pressured rat race, human race for fear of breaking a leg. 

I find an overtaking opportunity and we pour along the Cotswold pass occasionally slowing to impulse speeds for the odd village, before winding out the V6 to yowl at the night.

We enter the small town of my childhood, creep past my parents house, creep past my Mother's Mothers' house, creep into the green field of my childlike dreams. We climb out and watch the clouds race overhead, talk of beauty, luck and possible grace.

The Audi ticks in the orange street light, but not for long.

All aboard and we idle down the street my Mother and I shared our childhood but for time.

On we press, then up the hill, up Coopers Hill to Minchinhampton/Rodborough Common. Tugging at the wheel reminds me that for some reason this car doesn't like a cross wind. I think back to a couple of hairy high speed moments on the French Alps Auto Route in driving rain. 

We press on across the common and down the hill into Stroud. We enter a lake of lights, the orange glow washes over us. We rejoin the A46, through chocolate box Painswick, turn off the A46, up the hill to the beacon, as far as the track takes us where we climb out and march up the hill, wind flickering my shirt and making The Poets hair dance. We stand and survey the glow of Glevum, the dark River Severn, the defined edge of the Cotswold Hills, perhaps, where 12,000 years ago the ice sheet had ground to a halt, pushing the skin of the land to make this wrinkled, hilly green paradise in this United Kingdom. We race back down the hill, stumbling, shaking in the cold. The Audi welcomes us back, protects us from the wind, the coming rain, as we drop down from the lofty heights back into Cheltenham. One last winding out of 5th gear reveals the theoretical maximum cruising speed .

"I like this car. It's comfortable" says The Poet.

I agree.

I drop The Poet off and creep home. As I climb out I take the time to look the Audi over. She ticks in the wind . I think I may be beginning to like her;

"There is playful element to the character of this car"

Funny, I thought she was too serious. 

Maybe I was wrong....

Transmission ends....

Washing Machine

Transmission starts.....

"Do you ever get the feeling you're just moving the dirt around?"

"Yea, that's why I stopped doing it."

I was about 3/4 through washing the Audi when Jimbo Baggins had made me jump with a phone based SURPRISE! prank.

Yea.

That's what we're like.

Anyway, after I'd almost thrown a bucket of dirty hot soapy water at his smug face we'd had the above exchange. He went on to say he preferred car washes. They are indeed quicker and easier. But (never start a sentence with 'but') they are definitely not cheaper and I always feel a little guilty about the amount of energy/water I've just consumed for my convenience. What I was doing was clearly not the best way as the Audi almost looked a bit dirtier so I went and had a chat with my old (not really) friend Google.

Results ranged from the usual adverts that somehow redirect me to MySpace through to some soul sold American recommending products on video.

Anyway;

E-how gave the simplest answer with a 10 step guide. OK for most, but for my particular brand of anal retentiveness it wasn't quite enough. Besides, they talked about something called a 'Terry Cloth". Riiiiight. (As far as I can make out it's some sort of generic term for a cotton rag or cloth).

So;

I retyped the search but made sure that it was specifically restricted to this United Kingdom. The best result was by something or someone called 'Video Jug' on the website 'Desperate Sellers'. Sounds almost like it could be porn? Well yes actually. But no, unfortunately, Ahem, sorry fortunately NO. That's EN OH.

Sorry.

Where was I?

Ah yes, the video 'Jug'.

The video outlines no less than 17 steps to a washed car. That satisfied me.....

Here's the link:

http://www.desperateseller.co.uk/motoringvideos/how-to-wash-a-car.asp

Oh, and by the way; DON'T USE WASHING UP LIQUID.

Transmission ends......

Private Parts

Transmission starts...

My attitude is;

If he (or indeed she) can do it then so can I.

It is with this attitude that I've broken the sunroof on the Audi a bit more. Still, at least it helped me sort a broken lock the other day. Half an hour of fiddling, poking, opening and closing the other doors to find out how the mechanical action of the perennial locking latch on the motor car found success and a broken spring.

Even though I did check First Choice Parts (a breakers network) none of the answers I received were that much cheaper than buying new. Parklands Audi had the part in within 2 days of asking. Wow. Welcome to the world of proper mass parts production. No waiting around for 4 months for piston rings for a Cagiva Mito...

Anyways 2 days of driving around with the main central locking system holding the door in place (rather poorly), half expecting it to pop open in a corner to take out an unsuspecting something or other led to finally fitting a shiny new lock on a sunny Saturday morning.

So, the door lock was a sort of reasonable £36.46.

Hang on.

When I say reasonable, what I mean to say is How Much Does It Cost For A Factory To Push Such A Small Part Out, The Effing Robbers.

Oh well. At least I fitted it myself. Mechanics rates are higher than solicitors.

FACT.

Transmission ends...

Driving passion

Transmission starts...

I think it says something that upon climbing aboard the Starship Diesel (A car, for all of its capability I've been struggling to write a review about for the last two years) I found myself hankering for a drive. At least there's a vague idea of what might, possibly be going on with the front tyres communicated in some sort of small way.

And yet...

I do often get home in the early hours of the morning having waited on Joe and Jane public and long to sit in the Audi's bubble of glass and steel and just drive. Drive till dawn.

One day I will do this.

One day soon.

I'll let you know when I do.

You can come along if you like...

Transmission ends...

First Impressions

Transmission starts...

Yes, I did buy the 80.

Yes, I did drive it to Geneva and back.

Yes, a full driving story and video is on the way.

So, putting all of that to one side for now, what's it like, this 15 -year-old Audi? Well, for starters, it is in no way, shape or even form fun to drive. The steering is rubbish, the damping is too hard and it feels immediately nose heavy. Nothing new there then. Absolutely nothing to add to the collective motoring consciousness.

I do, however like the way it looks, and I do (damping aside) find it comfortable. I like the build quality and I like the little auxiliary dials at the bottom of the centre console that tell me what the oil pressure is and how much electricity the engine is generating and something else I can't quite remember.

Unsurprisingly it does need a few little jobs doing to it. the sunroof doesn't work, the dash does not quite glow with the brightness that it surely did when it left the factory and the front, left speaker has lost the ability to articulate itself clearly. Getting carried away with some nice alloys and RS2 style front lamps is tempting, but really, I'm afraid she just isn't worth it....

Transmission ends....

Kings Cruise

Transmission starts....

It's the first day of summer on this island Britain. A Peugeot 205 sits next to me snarling and rasping, headbutting it's limiter. All around are Escorts and Corsas and Puntos and Saxos and all manner of street furniture. Amongst the humdrum a few hints of homework hit my ears. An unbadged, lowered Rover 200 rips past with a whistle and the characteristic sneeze of air that is a dump-valve. What lies beneath? A Mark 2 Escort with small, shiny, dished alloys whistles and sneezes, a true labour of love.

This is the Kingsditch end of the Cheltenham cruise. Whilst some other boys and girls are lapping the Cheltenham one-way, dodging police cars and racing each other at the lights, these boys and girls are doing the best they can to show off and fit in.

The atmosphere is tense, but only for me and the photographer who has come along for the ride. So far one cruiser (the 205 mentioned earlier) has parked head-on in front of where I am sitting, his aftermarket angel eyes on full beam to try to intimidate me. I carry on scribbling. A little later another lad gets in his Celica and smokes his front tyres whilst staring at me, all angry eyes and gurned face. I carry on scribbling. He gets out of his car and marches over to me.

"Why are you writing down number plates?" he asks me. I can smell the green on his clothes. Paranoia should always be met head on, no hesitation. I turn my pad around to show him.

"Does this look like number plates to you? Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to write down number plates in a place like this?"

His manner relaxes. He seems embarrassed. He laughs it off, tries to explain himself before walking away. He returns later to ask us what we're doing. By that time We're taking photos of a Sapphire Cosworth doing Doughnuts that fills the car park with scratchy smoke that a few of the lads cough and choke on.

Think hot-rodding died in the sixties? Think again.

Transmission ends....

Pipe Dream

Transmission Starts...

It's a step up, a possible short cut to the next level. Since the age of 11 I have wanted to write for Car. Since 2 years ago I have put a target on a staff chair at Car. Last week I was chosen along with another to report alongside the Car team at the Geneva show.

There are 3 major motor shows on this planet. Geneva is one of those three. It is where the best of Europe show what has been, what is and what will be. It is where the eccentric Frank M. Rinderknecht of Rinspeed shows the world whatever has been knocking about his head at 4 in the morning.

Booking flights and hotels should have been the next step but something kept stopping me. A comment left on the Car Magazine web site sorted me. I'm gonna drive there. And back. I'm gonna write a full length feature and put together a short film. I think I may have a camera man but the car is the major missing component. Will Toyota lend me an IQ? What about Citroen? Will I have to buy something at the last minute?

Watch this space.

I mean screen.

I mean your screen.

Yea.

Transmission ends....

Strong Characters

Transmission Starts...

Peering over the hedges from inside the A or indeed the the D at the cars parked in the business park car parks 2 cars always stand out. They are often parked together, each totally confident within there particular type of existence.

The first is the pragmatic, the functional, the solid, the thoroughly Germanic Volkswagen Phaeton. It has a confident face set on those broad shoulders. One that speaks of great ability and an innate confidence. Of course you could buy the better looking, the more brutal Bentley Continental GT or the Phaetons true brother in brief; the Flying Spur, but really, if you are as confident as the underpinnings, the soul of this car, then you take the VW body-shell. You save 40k and gain a vehicle with the ability to be parked almost anywhere yet not attract any unwanted attention. It will almost certainly never go wrong and will look as good in ten years time as it does now with minimum of molly-coddling.

But for all of its great ability there is one glaring problem with the Phaeton. It feels nothing. It is passionless. It won't ever coax you into taking it out for a quickie. It will always be the automotive equivalent of an Intercity train; Big powerful, impressive yet there for a purpose not a whim.

The second of the duo is also big, powerful and limo-like. Only this one is beautiful, feline, passionate, moody and fragile. It is the Maserati Quattroporte. Where the wise money goes on a strong, pragmatic diesel heart in the Phaeton, you have only one choice in the QP. A Ferrari V8. Nothing signifies passion in a motor vehicle than to know a Ferrari heart is pumping those wheels along. Invariably it will live hard and fast before imploding roughly half way through its expected life span. It is also likely that sometimes (though not always) the electrical systems of the QP will simply refuse to work. If the technology existed for a diagnostic device similar to the Star Trek Tricorder to be used it would quickly find that the laws of physics have been bent on some unknown whim of the collection of metals and polymers that sit before you.

"Sir, it appears that there is a tear in the space-time continuum in the ECU".

Both of these cars are great, not because they fulfill an expectation of what a good luxury car is, but because they fulfill what it is to be who they are. They have been worked hard on being strong within the confines of there identities. This, really is what defines a brand. It is why an LS430, impressive though it is, is, for now at least, the automotive equivalent of an expensive fridge. It won't be until Lexus finds its particular face that a little soul will be injected.

So, the inevitable question is which of the two would I have? I'd probably (with the right size pockets) take the QP until it drove me so far up the wall that I'd chop it in for something practical for the week and something balls out for the weekend. What would those be?

Well, that's another story.

Transmission Ends...

SportKa's Drive

Transmission starts...

We're running at a fair pace now. Not quite where I feel most comfortable for this particular road but close enough. I spot another car in the distance, it's not long until we are almost on top of it. My passengers body language closes up. We carry on conversing but her change in position is duly noted and lends an edge to the previously relaxed banter. An overtaking opportunity presents itself and I stir, no, hang on, that's the wrong word. You might stir the porridge in a Gallic gearbox but in this, the Ford SportKa you snick or slot the gears into the place. It has one of the best feeling gearbox's on any car from any point in the price spectrum. Not bad from a supermini that cost the best part of 12 grands when new.

Anyway I slot down a couple of ratios and the little 1600 spins harder, lending me the power of 100 excited little ponies with which to overtake this perennial Rover driver. My passengers body language relaxes. Then it hits me, I was too close to the Rover. I laugh, the tension released. She queries.

"It was because I was up that car's arse. That's why your body language closed up"

She laughs a laugh of agreement and surprise. The tension is released.

A couple of hours ago we met outside of her flat, the morning sun making us scrunch our eyes. She hands me the keys to her daily run around and makes the standard jokey (but serious) remarks about not crashing. I've been looking forward to this. I love the standard Ka. I love the way it feels, I love the way it makes you feel. I climb in, note the cheap seats, trim, and horrible plastics. No matter, that's not where the money's been spent on this car. I start the engine and find Ford didn't spend any money on sound deadening either. Again, no matter. This is a 4 year old car based on a 10 year old design stuck to 15 year old mechanics. At least it doesn't have the 40 year old engine from the old Ka. If you want things like sound deadening (and perhaps a little soul lost) then pick up a copy of Ford's latest Fiat Ka.

Anyway, clutch in, first selected. I remark on the great feeling change, my companion giggles. The next thing I notice is how close the pedals are placed together. One day I'm gonna learn to heel and toe but in the mean time this set up first gives me a little clue to the spirit of this car and second makes me thankful I'm not wearing some wide skater style shoes.

We rush out of Regency Cheltenham and head up into the Cotswold hills. Here lies great roads. The little Ford loves a good B-road. It's feels, sorted, sure footed. Shame its brakes are lacking power and initial bite, feel is merely okay. Hmmm disappointing. The other shortcoming and perhaps the biggest surprise of this car/Ka is the engine. It's not bad, in fact it's quite good, it's just you really need to work it hard, and... well... it could just do with a bit more power. About 30 extra ponies maybe. The excellent chassis could certainly handle it.

We drop down through Slad and head out to the M-5. Here, the Ka is bearable. Again it's the sorted chassis that shines. Where other superminis bounce or feel floughty (try sitting in the back of a previous generation clio on a motorway - it's a little unnerving) the Ka feels planted and is unruffled by ripples or surface scars. It's the gearbox that lets the show down here. 5th feels too short, setting the engine up to be boomy at 70. It only really settles down when you head into the power band at about 80 where it feels rushed. Still, this is no starship, it's a shuttle with talent.

As we head into the city sprawl and the traffic surrounds us the little Ford shines again. A darty, fun and easy character makes for stress free city driving. I laugh out loud a couple of times. Surely the mark of a great vehicle.

And so, back to the A road, the Rover and released tension. This, the A46 is the home run. A nice wide A road that has been the stage for many a late night Superbike/Starship Diesel run. We drop into pretty Nailsworth, through eccentric Stroud and on by way of the twisting smooth artery that runs along the edge of the Cotswold hills. Okay, so here it is: The interior quality is suspect and the brakes are disappointing but the SportKa is a genuinely soulful machine. One that laughs and jokes with you, it's always up for the craic. I would happily spend my own cash on one of these, sod the girls car jokes.

A few weeks later on a miserable Wednesday morning after the night before I pick the Ka up from busy town. I'm as miserable as the weather. Bloody rain. I start the little Ford up and trundle down the road to a junction. As I pull out I'm little too abrupt with the throttle. The front wheels spin and I chuckle the first laugh of the day. I pat the dashboard, a big grin on my face. Thank you Ford.

Transmission ends...

Moving Audi

Transmission starts...

1 bedroom flat? £425? How about 12:30. Yep, be there, out front. See you there.

Yes. It is that time again. Housemates off to live with his girlfriend (the turncoat) leaving me to look around over-priced, decrepit, Georgian, hard to heat but characterful flats for one. Love it. Hate it.

Anyways it all means the car hunt has ground to a halt. Except that is, late night browsing, perving on potential good deals placed on the usual suspects sites. How about an Audi 80 estate, SE pack with a 2.6 V6 in green for a grand. Yes and yes. One problem. I'm a student. Putting petrol in that thing would be financially disastrous. 

So back to the light banger concept....

Transmission ends...

The Search

Transmission starts...

The search for the 75 continues. Looked at a 99' blue manual CDTI sat on a dealers forecourt for £5 short of 2K. No goer. She was chipped, scratched and dinked all over. Numerous suspected key scratches around the lock entry points (boot, drivers door) suggested the previous owner enjoyed a jug or two before struggling to get in and driving home in a semi-stupor. 

That's a negatory captain.

A newish Renault Clio 1.6 with a too good to be true private price was blocked from view by what seemed to be divine intervention. Every time I rang BT's Lady Penelope voice would gracefully tell me "There is an error - please try again".

I haven't looked at any light bangers. They are as ubiquitous as they are cheap. I could pick one up tomorrow so for that reason I feel I need to look just a bit harder for the other two concepts. Going to a few auctions would seem to be the next step...

Transmission ends...

Rover Dilemma

Transmission starts...

So;

I've had a few different motorbikes, driven a few different cars, vans and the odd light truck (in circles, in a yard) but I've never actually owned what could be defined as a motorcar. What to do?

Well, as it happens, with a bit of money and a dream of mobility beyond the bounds of a push bike, public transport and the odd jaunt in the Starship Diesel I'm ready to join the four wheeled masses. 

So;

What to buy?

Well, it's between three concepts. The light banger, the newish shuttle car and the middling diesel saloon.. A Rover Diesel Saloon no less. Before I try to explain my Rover fetish I'll sort the first two.

The light banger. Think AX, 205, Cinquecento, Uno (if there's any left). Think small, simple, light, chuckable, simple learnable mechanics. Think my God it's cheap but please don't let me have a crash. Think 500 Sterling's or so. Think sneezing on a cheque to pay the insurance. 

Right, enough thinking.

Now the middle sensible option. A tidy Ford Ka, Renault Clio, 106 or some such. A Corsa is completely out of the question. Staid, rubbish gearbox, and not even remotely entertaining. Bloody washing machine on wheels. What I really want is the Ka. Love the way those things drive. All cheeky and pointy. Might even get a reasonable one for 1500 quids. 

Ok, that's that.

Now. 

The Rover.

I want a 75. I think it's good looking, reasonably well engineered and my goodness it's British! Except for one detail: The engine. I believe the only engine that can be trusted is the 2 litre diesel. Underneath the Rover branded plastic covering sits the heart of that perennial motorway bruiser, the 320d. Also, aside from the typical Rover engine gasket problems any of the petrol's really are gonna drink in a way I can't afford. That makes the diesel the most attractive option on two fronts. £2000 advertised might translate to £1600 handed over. There is a chance I could have a sort of tidy compact exec sat somewhere near on a tightish budget.

Decisions, decisions, what to do? Watch this space or let me know what you think.

Transmission ends...