Driving and my Dad

As I get older, I feel modern cars are just crap. I mean, they look dull, sound dull and make you seem like a dull person. At least, this is my rationalisation of trying to console myself that I have to use public transport these days. Trams can be sexy, right?

All the same, cars seemed more exciting when I was a child. I used to love long journeys down to visit family in Milton Keynes (English viewers may be raising an eyebrow here at the idea of anyone being excited about going to that place) for the reason that I would see lots of cars on the M6 and M1. Credit to my pop to keeping his patience when we were stuck in a 15 mile tailback at Birmingham and I was bopping around in excitement at having seen a BMW 2002.

In the years before I was arrived, Dad had owned a couple of VW Beetles, the second of which had to go as you couldn't fit a pram in the front boot. Therefore, he made the insane decision to ignore further dabblings in German engineering and buy British. Only weeks before my birth, he picked up one of these (pics nicked from Wiki):

Check out the curves on that baby. Wow.

Yes, a Vauxhall Astra. Except he chose one in brown, and we all know the connotations of that colour. My principle memory of it was during a holiday down to Torquay. Along with my recently arrived brother and my parents, my older cousin accompanied us on what seemed like a 15 hour drive down to the English Rivera, where we met my aunty, uncle and their three daughters, who had entrusted British Rail to get them there. At one point, all of us managed to squeeze into the Astra. That's four adults, and six children, aged from 12 to one. If anything had happened, the social would have had a field day.

At some point, I think dad realised the British generally knew fuck all about making a half decent family car. I can recall the day at some point in the late 1980s where we went up to some garage near Maryport to pick up a new set of wheels - a Fiat Uno.

Compact Italian quality. Or something.

To this day, I'm unsure why he traded in for a smaller car. 1000cc of raw power got us from 0-60mph in around the same time it took me to get out of bed on a schoolday. In hindsight, I wonder if my dad was having a bad time at work, which makes me feel bad for all the times I hectored for a new set of football boots. Still, it cannot be said it was a nice car to look at. Or hear, as on the rare events it seemed to get to some kind of "top" speed, it screamed like a bunch of woodland creatures trapped in a blender, to which it's somewhat dubious "stereo" system would fail to drown out.

Luckily, needs eventually necessitated a bigger car - that being my brother and I had inherited some "tall" genes and were growing to the point that being crammed in the back of the Uno was going to result in some kind of bone deformations not seen in this country since the Victorian era. And so, the Ford Mondeo entered our lives.

Made in Genk, Belgium. What a great name for a city.

Now, this was more like it. Sure, it looks fairly functional, but it was comfortable enough to have two lanky teenage lads in the back, with enough room for them to swing a few digs at each other and our mother to turn round and whack us both for misbehaving. My dad said it was the best car he'd ever had up to that time and actually kept it going for a decade with no major problems - in fact, it was offered down to me after I'd just moved to Manchester, but I couldn't afford the insurance.

Nowadays, my ma and pa scoot around in a Ford Focus diesel, which is very pleasant and efficient, but I find myself unable to give it a personality the way I did 20 years ago.

So - readers, did any of your folks own a particularly dreadful set of wheels that made you cringe when they stopped by to pick you up when you were out with your mates?

Behind the Wheel

Contributing to a No Ripcord 'Top 100 Debut Albums' feature, I wrote a short piece about Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures (I’m sure it’s not a major spoiler that it features) and commented that it was a great album to soundtrack driving around a city very late at night.

Driving just for the sake of it is a dying pastime, and for good reason. Petrol prices aren't going to stop rising and the death of the motorcar as we know it surely can’t be far away. It won’t be until a new method of shifting lumps of metal and plastic at a decent speed is discovered that we’ll be able to just head out for a drive.

Thinking of this not only reminded me how much I miss both my car (sob) and driving (cursed health issues), but also how much I used to like going out at 3am for a spin. Bouts of insomnia do have some good points.

Manchester is a particularly good city for this kind of thing. Though extensive renovation and redesign has taken a lot of the grime out of the city, there’s still enough bleak greyness in the flyovers to create a certain atmosphere as you speed through with Shadowplay in the background. Driving down an empty motorway can have a similar effect - it’s almost like you’re living in the front cover of the Comsat Angels’ Waiting For a Miracle album. Hypnotic to the point you need to constantly be aware of what you’re doing and not slip into some kind of trance state.

In contrast, driving out in the countryside on a sunny day offers a totally different experience, though no less pleasing. You swap the Chameleons for Teenage Fanclub, open the windows and put your shades on, if you’re feeling brave. I found the Peak District to be most enjoyable for moments like these, especially when you get off the main roads. There’s something exciting about making it round a corner when one mistake can send you shooting down a somewhat major drop.

But of course, there’s always the bigger risk that you get stuck behind some old git toddling along at 30mph in some piece of crap. “Flat Cap Brigade” was what my dad always called them, and the only plus point is getting a cheap laugh from spotting the inevitable tartan blanket in the back when you finally get past.

As a 17-year-old in West Cumbria, getting a driving license was a must, if only to enable you to get out of town to more exciting vistas. Even though the only wheels I had access to were my mother’s Vauxhall Corsa, it still meant I could go tear-arsing round the numerous country back roads only minutes from home.

I think this side of me can only have been borne from playing games like Out Run when I was an impressionable youth. The image of motoring along in a Ferrari with the ocean by your side remains one I want to live out before my time is up, though I’m a bit flexible on the type of car. I mean, I’d settle for a Porsche 911 or a Lamborghini.

Four Wheels to Heaven

Cars. I have to admit I love them. Well, the good ones at least. When I was a youth, I had loads of Matchbox toy cars, which I would use on my lovingly created Motorway layouts. I had books about sports cars next to my Asterix comics. My mother once stated that she was never worried about me getting into a car with a stranger "unless it was a Porsche. Then he’d want to look". Thankfully, the closest we got to a sports car on our estate was a Ford Capri belonging to the boy racer round the corner.

It seemed back in the mid/late 80s, that television decided that for a show to be a hit, you needed wheels. Magnum had his Ferrari, the A-Team their van (and Face’s Corvette) and one show, Street Hawk, tried to put the vehicle (some souped up motorbike) as the star of the show. Which kind of worked, as it took me about 30 minutes to remember the name of the guy riding it (Jessie Mach, for anyone interested). However, none of them fit into my favourites, which are listed thus:

Gene Hunt’s Audi Quattro
Wee bit of cheating here, as Ashes to Ashes clearly wasn’t on the box when I was young. However, the Quattro was one of the top cars of the 80s, and would often win open-mouthed looks of wonder from the young me.

Which is still the case, actually. I used to live round the corner from a guy who owned one, and I’d still feel a slight buzz when I saw it, partially from jealously. I did look into perhaps buying one a couple of years ago, but a decent one will set you back the best part of ten grand. Still, the digital dashboard alone was enough to make me seriously think about it – just the idea of seeing the numbers flash by as you put the foot on the floor brought back a kind of giddiness I’d not felt since I was seven.

The General Lee
Wins the Muscle Car contest with the Starsky and Hutch car as that show wasn’t on TV when I was young. The Dukes of Hazzard, on the other hand, was a staple on my Sunday afternoons. Being a bit too young to appreciate Daisy Duke’s charms, it was all about the car chases, of which you got at least one per episode.

I kind of blame this show for my subsequent infatuation with American muscle cars – hence why Vanishing Point is in my top three films – though I’m not sure I could ever jump into any car via the window without sustaining at least one broken limb. Full marks to Bo and Luke for that trick.

Number Six’s Lotus 7
Yes, yes, I know it only appeared in the opening credits and briefly in another episode, but it was in the Prisoner! Driven by Patrick McGoohan! How much cooler do you want? Helped that the car looked the part – I mean, it wouldn’t have worked quite as well if he’d been speeding down a runway in a Ford Popular.

Batmobile
From the 60s TV series, natch, which was a staple in my house on a Saturday morn. So, alright, the show itself was camp beyond belief, which made little sense as I got older and worked out just what a dark character the Batman actually was – but of every incarnation, Adam West got to drive the best car.

So: a convertible with top styling (love the fins) and capable of blowing out flames when Bruce puts the foot down. Cool enough to still look the part when ferrying around two guys wearing very dubious costumes. Oh, and brilliant theme tune too.

KITT
From the best programme of the 80s, bar none. The A-Team may have had Mr T and more bullets fired per series than the entire Vietnam War, but Knight Rider had KITT and a kick-arse moody theme tune to boot. After all, this was about "a man who does not exist", though whether that meant Michael Knight was having some kind of existential crisis was never made clear.

At the time, I just saw a great car that always had a Gadget of the Week to solve any problem. KITT looked great, sounded great and went around 300mph. Just a shame the computer game that I had for the faithful old Spectrum was complete tosh. With time, I reckoned KITT’s best use would be to allow you to drive to the pub, get totally hammered and then have a safe drive home while you had a kip.

Bonus points for both the car and the driver having evil twins – if only KARR had had a moustache, it would have won the Speedboat.

Honourable Mention
Edward Woodward’s Jaguar from The Equalizer. It may have made the list, if it hadn’t been for the fact my mother didn’t let me watch it at the time for being a bit too violent.

Velocity

Of course, it wasn't always so. I've had exciting moments in my life: I've gazed out over the Pacific Ocean, climbed on stage and played music I wrote, I've been in love and loved in return. Highlights of my life. And I'm sure that's how it is for most of us: we cherish such memories as the peaks amongst the boredom and tedium that makes up 99% of our time on earth.

Currently, I'm trying to find some of these from the last 12 months, but it seems to be a haze of static and grey. There may be something tangible in there somewhere if I look hard enough. Then again, I never was any good at those magic eye puzzles.

Something that does eventually emerge is a moment last summer. I bought a car. A really beautiful car that gave me a buzz just sitting in it and shallow as it is, I liked the attention it got me. I liked it when strangers would nod in approval and say "nice car". Of course, for every one of them, another would have said "twat", but I'm used to that already.

Driving on the M6 between Lancaster and Carlisle last summer, I saw no cars ahead and none behind. Temptation struck me hard and I pressed my right foot down. As I recall it, I got to about 110 mph before my nerve finally gave way. The burst of giggles that followed, with the adrenaline still working it's magic, was probably more dangerous than the speed.

A couple of months ago, the cam belt went. Currently, she's sat in a brick coffin, waiting for the decision of whether repairs are plausible or not. I miss her. Part of me thinks I should spend whatever it takes to get her back on the road, the other thinks I should give it up and use the cash to try to shake my life up, somehow.