I don't do denim dungarees

You may recall I mentioned articles? What do you mean no?! Gosh less than a month and you're not listening already. Here's the first of many inspired by my recent Ally Pally jaunt.

Do men have the monopoly on the high-octane motoring chatter familiar to those frequenting hostelries throughout Christendom? Here is a subject that I hold dear to my heart, yet it is constantly met with distinct disdain.

I own five cars, only one of which could be deemed as sensible family motoring, the rest being complete classic basket cases needing constant attention, but even in 2005 us ladies just aren’t allowed to revel in conversations about horsepower, torque, ‘blipping the throttle’ of a V8 Aston Martin and sleek lines. That’s probably because, after kittens and knitting all we’re interested in are how many boxes of shoes will fit in the capacious boot space; how many cubby holes there are and whether we can scrub the seats clean after little Tommy pukes up his milkybar on the back seat whilst our café latte comes tumbling out of the take-away cup because the barista didn’t put the damn lid on properly.

Throughout history there’s been loads of gorgeous women who could thrash the balls off many a bloke in the same racing class but were never really given the opportunity. You only have to look to Helle Nice the Bugatti driving exotic dancer of the 1930’s and her peers and the countless women’s motor racing and motorcycle series of the present. They just never got the press or media attention like the chaps.

Well, fortunately this is not an article for the Woman’s Weekly or The Lady brigade and I think it’s about time women of a certain age rose up and professed our undying passion for thrills of the internal combustion engined variety without having to be 20 stones and dressed in denim dungarees, but know when to bail out before it all becomes a bit too…well… hairy.

As women we’re not just there to make the cars look pretty at the myriad of motor shows and press launches and frankly I’ve never seen the point in having a skinny blonde (as they all inevitably are) stood next to a Ferrari Enzo who knows bugger all about it other than the fact that “it’s red innit?” surely this detracts from the actual car?

Motor manufacturers are missing out on a huge marketing potential using attractive upwardly mobile financially independent young ladies who actually know what they’re talking about on stands at motor shows; two birds one stone ring any bells? Case in point occurred to me this weekend when I was immersed into the somewhat unchartered waters of the classic vehicle exhibition.

I was helping out on a stand for the motoring club I belong to and for the most part many bearded chaps smiled graciously at me in my full skirt, make up and pretty nails and preceded to question the gents who were my colleagues about the highly coveted and successful 1966 Alfa Romeo GTA we were exhibiting.

I felt I had to protest and spent the rest of the weekend forcefully imparting my limited yet thoroughly researched information that only 500 of these vehicles had been made and this was in fact specifically modified and was successful in the European Touring Car Championship of 1967 upon any male that happened to pass, confessing my love of ‘the oily bits’. This was met by shock, surprise and then bizarrely respect; a respect unlike any I had ever experienced before. I was bought beer, doughnuts and involved in the jocularities of the day’s events, I even shared a pie over lunch with some chaps whilst discussing the finer points of a BMW Isetta bubble car. Motor manufacturers could tap into this untold mine of information and use like minded ladies to help promote their wares to the world at large, I think it would prove fruitful.

It was whilst on this crusade however that it dawned on me. I had become an honourary chap. Beneath my make-up and Chanel they saw me as the same salt of the earth oily rag-wielding creature as they - and I didn’t like it, not one bit. No more could I draw their eye by flicking my fair locks or flashing a wry smile, it was like I had been welcomed into an unusual drip-tray blinkered cult. What could I do to revert back to my womanly self?

I spent time whilst discussing the price of a stainless steel exhaust for a Ferrari 250 (probably the price of a decent Tiffany necklace/ear-ring combo) pondering how, if at all I could regain my feminine prowess. It hit me like a bolt from the blue or in this case pink. On a wander round to stretch the legs I saw it sitting in front of me, a Jensen in two tone salmon pink, “it’s so pretty!” I squealed with girly delight at the kitsch car before me, the eyes of my male counterparts rose skyward “Amanda, you are such a girl”. The penny had dropped; bingo! I’d found the ejector seat.

We ladies have a unique power that should not be wasted, we can have our automotive cake and eat it too, use our techy talk to become accepted and then when it all gets too much use the break glass of motor speak; colour, no chap will ever hold interest once we become embroiled in the motoring equivalent of getting ready for a night out. Use this skill wisely and you too can chat with the chaps being able to jump ship when it all gets a bit too, well manly. I never did like dungarees anyway.