Fezzer-phobic Petrolhead?

I am a terrible terrible woman, in fact I should probably be incarcerated as soon as you’ve finished reading this. I have killed many innocents, and all in the name of beauty.

I’m a rather proud gardener and have recently planted some sweet peas and violas for the summer season. Tactfully erecting a pyramid of canes for the sweet peas to delicately entwine themselves around and clamber up, only for them to be reduced to something resembling the finest victorian lacework by a team of merciless crack commando heavy artillery snails and their light infantry of slugs.

I couldn’t handle it. My usual demure demeanour transgressed into a sea of red. So I showered them with a lethal cocktail of slug pellets and out of date Stella Artois. It worked and now I have so many snail remnants in my garden it looks like the resulting snot of a massive silvery sneeze.

So to take my mind off things and alleviate my tremendous guilt and probably because I was given free entry, I went to Auto Italia Magazines’ Spring Italian Car Day at Brooklands Motor Museum.

To begin with there is a small detail I should clarify. I must be one of the few petrolheads on this Earth who does not quiver at the sight of a little prancing horse against highly waxed red patina. Ferrari-phobic I call it. Well to be more precise I like the sound but I don’t like the look, except for a small handful of models mainly of a bygone age such as the 246 GT Dino, which I think is very very sexy if only they made men that gorgeous, the 250 GTO and 250 GT and the 512 BB, other than that I find models such as the Testarossa far too, well…plastic looking if I’m really honest. Now to be clear I have been a passenger in a Ferrari so I’m no Fezzer-virgin, however I’ve never driven one of Modena’s finest so maybe that touch paper has just never been ignited. Who’s to say that once behind the wheel I will be elevated to driving epiphany? I’ll let you know when someone eventually lets me drive one.

Fezzer-phobic muppet? Who's brave enough to help me cure it?

So back to Brooklands it was very much a case of, ‘oh there’s a red Ferrari, oh look, there’s another red Ferrari’…you get the picture. So my attention was rapidly drawn away from the baying crowds to examine some of the other delicacies on offer. One particular morsel was the Martini racing liveried Lancia Delta Integrale, one of my favourite rally cars, 4 wheel drive short, squat and angular but oh so perfectly formed. The 1993 Evo 2 model had a very tidy 215bhp 16v turbo charged engine. The Delta was sparked to life and very sweet sounding she was too with a very delightful ‘pop pop’ of the exhaust. There were more than a fair few parked up along the famous Brooklands banking so a thorough mooch was had.

Delta-delicious

One of the Delta’s neighbours was a car I’d not yet seen in the ‘flesh’ so I was very pleased to get up close and personal with the ‘never fails to make me giggle at its name’ Lancia Fulvia Coupe. I’d always fancied buying one purely because of its name and from photographs it was a gorgeous looking thing. I’d read fairly decent reviews of it too. Today just made that temptation wriggle under my skin that bit more.

It's a Fulvia...don't snigger

Maserati Merak, sounds like a package holiday destination

There was also an impressive selection of Maserati’s, one of my companions seriously fell for the Masser Merak and is now as I type, hunting the interweb for a slighty shabby one.

I was fascinated by the inner workings and vast radiator of a naked Lamborghini Muira, probably one of the most beautiful cars ever made. There were three on show, all slightly differing but truly captivating. And the sound - that’s how a car should be.

Put some clothes on Muira!

a fully clothed Muira & Muppet

And who’s idea was it to build the ‘longest car in the world?’ That would be the Lamborghini Espada - it is colossal, I wouldn’t want to have to park that up in Sainsbury’s on a Saturday.

I also spied several none-Italian vehicles who had managed to sneak in. A Dodge Viper, a Subaru Impreza and an inconspicuous Aston Martin DB6 which was cunningly disguised in rosso paintwork.

Later in the day some of the exhibitors took their chances on the hill climb. I had to hand it to some of them because they gave it a bloody good try. I was sorely tempted but would probably spend the rest of the weekend reassembling my engine and cleaning high pressure oil stains from the interior of my bonnet if I’d given in. However there were others who really shouldn’t have bothered. For example the ‘every single item of Ferrari badged merchandise’ clad duo who pelted up the hill in their screaming Fezzer. They have the car – why do they need to stamp its name about their person in octuplicate?

I was particularly impressed by the aforementioned Lancia Delta Integrale which managed a triumphant rally-style leap over the crest of the hill to a crescendo of cheers from the spectators.

However by far the show stealers for me and my duo of male companions were the Fiat 500s. From Arbarth engined tiny powerhouse to purely original to an estate model and a psychedelic marvel, which I actually required my sunglasses for viewing the interior. There really was something for everyone with the Cinquecento.

My eyes My eyes!

Funky 500

arrivederci - the other Italian job

And I even came away with a little present for myself. It certainly helped cheer my snail-culling mood. I went to an Italian car day and bought a replica model of the Aston Martin DBS as featured in the James Bond classic “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service”. Only a petrolhead eh?

spoils of the hunter

No Parking - No Cry

As of next week I am, for the most part, sans workplace parking. The parking space is no more, it is a former parking space. The parking space as we once knew it is deceased. Where there was once a parking space it is no longer accessible. Ladies and gentlemen my parking space has left the building.

Only it hasn’t really. The space I know and love so dearly still remains, cold, lonely and unused in the basement beneath my feet. I can go and visit it sometimes, so long as I’m on two feet and not four wheels.

Your writer has become a victim of the corporate line of ‘cost cutting’. Although reading the small print it probably transpires I’m not important enough to have a space and was bloody lucky to have it for the past 3 years, although on the days the important people (for whom the journey is a mere 5 miles) do not require their spaces I may enter the realm of the parked employee vehicle. Blessed indeed am I.

However, until I find the corporate ladder and climb it, I have to look at the alternatives. The most obvious being public transport.

The mere mention of those two words bestows upon a car snob such as myself a feeling of utter dread; the haunting smells of wet coat and sweaty commuter; the tinny drone of iPod music coming from almost-blown headphones, the mobile phones ringing incessantly their badly recorded novelty ring tones; it’s Chinese water torture. Not to mention the cost.

An average day’s commute from home to work and back would involve: driving to the local main line train station and parking in their ‘state of the art’ sodium lit glass strewn hard standing known as the station car park . The buses round my way are your typical ‘in the cuds’ line of transport of one vehicle per week - so that would count them out. Parking costs £6 per day, a return mainline ticket including London underground transfer for 2 zones costs £16.. Add roughly £10 per week petrol for the journey to the station from home and a total journey time of 1 ½ hours. That’s £120 per week or roughly £5760 per year and that’s deducting my holiday time.

The discount isn’t much either if I was to buy a weekly or monthly ticket as I rarely travel by public transport on a weekend. Compare that to my weekly fuel bill of £35 including weekends despite the fact petrol round my way at the moment is roughly 86 -89.9p/litre. Making annually including tax and insurance and an extra £1k for maintenance and maybe a bit more petrol £3600 - it’s a no brainer.

And the bureaucrats of this land we live in are trying to get us out of our cars and onto public transport. Sorry but my salary just doesn’t stretch that far and don’t get me started on reliability!

Therefore I am left with one rather promising solution. For work purposes and with no problems parking (as it’s in abundance for this mode of transport) I turn to two wheels.

No, I don’t intend on pedal pushing my 60 mile daily round trip. I’m going motorcycling.

I have a number of friends who are avid bikers and have encouraged me wholeheartedly. It’s a world I have more than dipped my toe into having been to several bike shows and ridden pillion on friends' bikes on numerous occasions squeezing them til they had my fingerprints imprinted on their waists whilst deafening them with my insane giggles of joy. I have also gingerly ‘shuffled’ along on friend’s machines as I do have a fear of dropping them and rendering their pride and joy a useless wreck. And I wouldn’t mind if I had to dress like a Power Ranger, get used to 'helmet hair' and have a bike that looked like a Harley and sounded like a hairdryer, it could be worse…I could be on a scooter!

So I seized the moment (almost) and took my first steps into a couple of showrooms this weekend. I felt like a kid on the first day at school trepidated by the unknown

The first large dealership I entered, a man with a very unfortunate surname came to assist, immediately starting his sales patter to the chap I was with - typical! Upon finding out it was, in fact, a shopping quest for a lady, he started pointing out to me the dealerships range of scooters. Scooters? Hold on a second do I look like a scooter gal to you? Not bloody likely! In my opinion riding a scooter is like vegetarian sausages - pointless. If I wanted a scooter I wouldn’t be standing drooling next to the motorcycles. So I high tailed it out of the shop, taking several of the sales guys’ business cards for comedy reasons.

My second venture into a bike emporium was far more encouraging. It was a small local dealership with new and used motorcycles and with an opening line from the sales manager of “well the tag is £1199, but everything’s negotiable” I was hooked. This man should be running for Government. He described in great detail the offers I could take up with them and even offered to take me and my purchase to the CBT centre, coupled with the fact the little 125cc bike I was looking at does a staggering 100 mpg albeit with a top speed of 60mph. Ok so I’d be no Rossi but I didn’t care I was in learner legal heaven. Take me to your leader I have converted.

So once I have scraped together the necessary funding, (my kidney on a popular auction site near you soon) Muppet goes leather-clad and on two wheels.

Watch this space.

Defender & Conquer... Part 2

Irresistable?... What do you mean no?..Muppet tries it on in a Defender

Defender and Conquer

Just when a girl feels comfortable with herself along comes the latest fad and her best intentions fly effortlessly through the window whether it is open or not.

I’m a befuddled woman, it all started when I picked up a women’s glossy in the newsagents at work. I needed literary input and the shelves were somewhat lacking in motoring press that day. Whilst leafing through the bible that is the savvy gals guide to all that is fundamental in life (aka Cosmopolitan), I noted hidden away, a motoring page. Ignoring how to ‘love my figure’ , I quickly flicked through to the page to satisfy my car-crazed thirst, it was then my gaze fell upon a short article detailing a list of which cars are most effective to pull the chaps.

It all went horribly wrong from there on in.

Let me elaborate; as a woman of a certain age, I’ve gotten used to the conformist idealism of society; you know the sort of thing. "You’re too thin"... "put some weight on"..."you’re too fat lose some weight"... "you’ll never get a bloke if you keep wearing glasses"..." put some more make up on"... "bleach your hair"..." change your clothes" blah blah blah. But now it would appear that it’s not only our physical appearances we have to think about. Now we have to think about the cars we drive and how we look in them.

I have five cars and was mightily pleased to see my pride and joy Spider at number 3 on the list, complete with totally spot on description, and a past love of mine at number 2, the Renault Clio of which I’ve had two, the old Francophile boxy shape and also the ‘lets make it more like a girly’ curvy model; but with the cries of ‘Nicole!’…‘Papa!’ from my workmates it all got too much so they had to go.

My friend Alex was suitably jubilant to hear that the car she shares her life with - a well used 1960’s Series 2 Land Rover Defender (complete with detachable snow plough and double declutchable 2nd gear) was number 1 and “a man’s perfect girl car”.

However, Muppet’s cheery smile was clouded by the view from the man in the know that it was in fact “the woman that makes the car sexy….not the other way round”. But surely it’s a combination of the two? Is it not the car that grabs the attention first? Not to mention the fact I’m hankering after a motorcycle, where’s the line about that? There was no mention of husband snatching bikes for the girl about town

Faced with this evidence; do I have to dress in a Ghost ‘ready to wear’ to enhance the delicate curves of my VW Beetles? Must I never be seen without my aviator sunglasses and silk headscarf in my Spider for fear of her looking ‘a bit plain’? Or am I getting more confused? Maybe it’s more a case of choosing the right vehicle from my wardrobe dependant upon the chap I wish to ensnare?

Commitmentphobes would never even boil the water for my cup of tea, let alone get anything else boiling if they thought my regular transport was my family friendly Saab 900. Beach blonde student totty would be waxing their surfboards to take a trip in my Cal-look Beetle. And old chaps with a penchant for getting their hands dirty would adore me in my cosy cardis and basket-case 70’s MGB GT.

And what about the argument for the reverse? What cars do ladies like their boys to drive hmmm? I don’t intend on opening up that particular can of worms here, but I think we’re all aware of the assumptions that one can draw from the type of car driven by a certain type of man.

As the great feminist philosopher Christina Agulieria once said so eloquently; “You are beautiful. No matter what you drive”.

Love me… love my car(s) whatever our appearance.

Um…don’t want to sell your Defender do you Alex?

Dotty about Duxford

There’s something about the sight of a pert Italian rear skipping along the undulating roads of Hertfordshire with the windscreen framed vista of England’s green and pleasant land laid out before it - that fills every fibre of my very being with the delight and self-gratitude that I had the sense to learn to drive.

Add to this image the soundtrack, consisting the melodic purr of two 105 series Alfa Romeo twin cam engines breaking through the stillness of the early morning spring sunlight, you really couldn’t ask for a more perfect scene. I was headed to deepest Cambridgeshire to yet another airfield to my first single marque motoring event of the year; Spring Alfa Day at the Imperial War Museum, Duxford

Filled with enthusiasm of the promise of Italian automobile exotica ahead, I accepted the invitation from a fellow owner to take part in a classic A-road convoy. It would be a crime not to accept; surely this is just the type of activity these cars were bred for?

There was however, a minor technicality. There were in fact, just two cars in the convoy. My own, and Mario's 1972, 2000 GTV ahead.

So do two cars qualify as a convoy? I think evidence would confirm that we suitably fulfilled the criteria. We were both headed to same event and (most importantly) both myself and Mario were conversing with one another through walkie talkies, they're not CB radios but then where would we have put the ariels? Precisely, ten-four Rubber Duckie, we got ourselves a convoy.

Several questionable overtaking manoeuvres later we reached our destination.

I had offered myself as a sacrificial parking marshall for an hour or so, and took up my post. This was a stroke of cunning genius on my part to get a good eyeful of the cars as they arrived, thus saving my precious driving feet from pounding the car park as a voyeur. Set aside my questionable fashion accessory, and the fact most of the drivers thought I was waving to say "hello" and soon like Chinese terracotta soldiers at Xian, the Alfisti were on parade.

Parking marshall Muppet...um...nice jacket

Muppet's parking handiwork

My aforementioned flirtation with a BMW 1602 was cast aside as I leered over the candy coloured Berlina’s and Alfa’s aspiring 70’s V8 super car, the Montreal, complete with its louvre-a-rama headlight cowls, and who could resist the B17 bomber.

ciao bella

A yellow Guilia Super...what BMW???

"would you like me to seduce you?"

Chocs away boys....

What? A B17 Bomber? Oh yes, Spring Alfa Day encompassed not one but two of Muppets passions, cars and old planes. Duxford was a veritable engine wielding, propeller turning wing-fest for the likes of me.

The opportunity to get up close and marvel at aviation masterpieces such as the collosal Lockheed SR-71 aka Blackbird, the elegance of the 101 prototype Concorde (a machine especially close to my heart) and the spine tingling awe of the massively destructive B52-D bomber all in the home of possibly the most beautiful aeroplane of all time, the Spitfire, just sublime. Duxford is such a splendid venue.

A heady cocktail of high octane voyeurism, high flying action and clear azure skies a gurantee for a very contented Muppet. My only regret? I forgot to take my pilot’s licence.

"yes, yes leave me alone I'm very busy and important"

your very happy author takes her favourite position

http://duxford.iwm.org.uk/

Cupid's arrow

Spring is in the air and with it the emergence of something new and wonderful has hit the Muppet household. Yes dear friends I have fallen in love.

Given my tender years it is not, as you may be imagining, an infatuation with a young and tidy lithe muscular type. No, the object of my as yet unnoticed ardour is somewhat older than me. He has a questionable appearance and to others may even be described as shabby, unkempt and obviously showing his age. However this does not taint my view or growing affection. To me I see maturity, history and I have no doubt he has experienced and observed far more of the multitude of Europe’s roads than I. He looks lonely to me and I have an overwhelming compulsion to look after him, but I fear he will never be mine.

moody, shabby...old, just what a girl like me is looking for

A 1976 lurid yellow BMW 1602, he is beautiful. The BMW 1602 entered the world in 1966 as the 1600-2, the 2 indicating nothing more than the simple fact that the car possessed two doors. It became one of BMW’s fastest sellers and was initially produced with an 85bhp 1.6 engine it progressed to a twin Solex carbed 105bhp unit in the 1970s later 2002 Turbo models boasted 150bhp and a top speed of 128mph. It was replaced in 1975 by the 3 series.

yellow peril? luscious lemon? you decide


nice arse...

My modest infatuation however is your run of the mill 1602, nothing too hairy. He entered my life about a week ago having been hidden away from the World in a neighbour’s garage. I know it’s wrong, I feel dirty. I’m an Alfa Romeo owner and the two marques in the era the 1602 was strutting his stuff were staunch competitors. Not to mention the statement I made to my nearest and dearest that ‘I would never buy a BMW….I don’t want to become one of them’. But my head is filled with trips out sharing bratwurst, beer and sauerkraut. I could call him Franz or Jens or Klaus or...something else German.

in his heyday...hey cutie!

And now I am a torn, broken woman. What should I do? What would become of us? My family would reject me as an outcast and my friends would disown me. I would have to travel to Bicester Designer Outlet Village to shop alone, wear a hat and Jackie ‘O’ sunglasses to my local petrol station. As for the Alfa Owners Club, well it doesn’t bear thinking about.

The matter of what to do if I became the owner of the lonely Bavarian unfortunately is just that - ‘IF’.

The current owner is at a loss as to what to do with the little car. He is pondering restoration, and has flirted with the idea of selling, but alas, can come to no solid conclusion. I have tried batting my eyelashes and talking about the car in a disparaging manner "oh no one would ever want that" but my cunning falls upon a stony silence.

So this evening I looked on as the 1602 entered his snug garage once again and accepted the fact that for now my amour with the beguiling yellow Bavarian will remain unrequited.

But then it is always nice to flirt.

http://www.bmw2002.co.uk/home.htm
http://pistonheads.com/doc.asp?c=103&i=8215

A few of my favourite things

Usually I am fairly unflappable and meander along the highways and byways of this great land with barely a second glace to unfavourable behaviour. However, there are some aspects of driving behaviour that have irked me somewhat of late, particularly over the last few days.

Now I know it’s not a pmt induced womanly hormone type thing, but I’m concerned that it could mean that young Muppet is getting hypersensitive to my road using comrades. Or is it merely the simple truth that there is an insurgence in road using idiots and lunatics?

Number one irritant of the lunatic driving minorities’ idiosyncrasies are actually the instrument of pedestrians. To be specific it’s pedestrian crossings of the zebra variant, found on a High Street near you. In my opinion they should be renamed ‘Pedestrian Roulette’. I tend to approach with extreme over caution as I’ve found through experience, the Great British Public see the humble zebra crossing as a huge detached external brake pedal by which they attempt to halt the unwitting approach of our little steel boxes. Stepping out into the path of my car as it is practically on top of the stripes is not a wise decision at all. In fact I could be the swiftest braker in the free world, with the most expensive high tech ceramic braking system known to man; but I still couldn’t stop in time given that distance. I would go so far as to suggest awarding a Darwin award to these people.

Now before I am subject of immense dislike, I know there are other creatures responsible for instigating this behaviour, which I believe is a defensive gesture resultant from the actions of another. You know who you are - drivers who blatantly have enough foresight and distance to stop but boot the gearbox down a notch and blatt on through, grinning manically.

Please, both of you get some common sense and teensy amount of courtesy wouldn’t go amiss.

Secondly getting my goat are the ‘motorway meanies’: please explain to me what greater good you have to gain from not giving way or moving over to allow me to proceed from the slip road on to the motorway? It is a bizarre and ludicrous practice that slows the rest of the motoring-world down. I am sorry that I was blind to the realisation that the particular stretch of motorway at the end of the slip road of Jct 2 of the M40 meant so much to you. I'm sure you'll both be blissfully happy together.

I’m guessing that they may be the same unfortunates cursed with ‘lane-drifter affliction' that is the inability to drive in a straight line; recognise the width of their own vehicle and keep said vehicle within the lane in which it is being driven. Sufferers of this scourge are also blighted with 'mirror-adversity', 'indicator allergy' and ‘Ididn’tseeyouthere-itis’.

It’s not that I abhor the behaviour of other motorists, just the few whose behaviour I have detailed above.

Now those motorists have really made me grumpy.

Accidents Happen

And indeed they do. I was mightily shaken up on my journey back to the South on Wednesday. I’d just passed Cherwell Valley Services on the M40 regretting the fact I hadn’t gone in for something reminiscent of a sandwich, when on the horizon I saw a huge dust cloud. It was like there was a stampede of Wildebeeste headed towards me on the other side of the carriageway.

It was then I caught sight of a Rover 216 as it hit the central reservation, spun and careered backwards across three lanes, narrowly missing being T-boned by a lorry and disappeared out of sight, presumably down the embankment. It was an horrific spectacle. I don’t yet know the fate of the driver involved.

Just last night I was speaking to a friend about accidents, he’s a bit younger than me and took some pride in letting me know the crash he had a couple of weeks ago wrote off his car. Thankfully he was ok which could explain his bravado but all of this got me thinking. Why do people slow down to look at accidents?

On many occasions I’ve driven into work to be faced with a sea of traffic only to be told by the voice on the radio that the traffic build up is due to ‘rubber-necking’. This is something I’ve never understood. I’m sure there’s some in depth intellectually scientific psychological study explaining the whys and where for but I haven’t got time to read that. However this web site: http://encyclopedia.laborlawtalk.com/ has given me some interesting facts about accidents and why they’re not always called accidents but most importantly a definition of ‘rubbernecking’:

”Rubbernecking is where drivers slow down to look at accidents or anything out of the ordinary on the highway. Events ranging from gruesome car accidents to a police car stopped on the shoulder can cause traffic jams on both sides of the road, even if the roadway has been cleared.

Although caution is advised when there is unexpected activity on the side of a road, a car with a flat tire on the side of a highway often causes as much slow down as a real accident would due to rubbernecking. The slowdown in traffic persists even after the accident scene has been cleared if traffic is dense. Traffic experts called this phenomenon a phantom accident. Often this behavior causes additional and sometimes more serious accidents among the rubberneckers.”

Is it just that we’re all voyeurs? Personally I never look, I wouldn’t want to see it. Surely you don’t want to see your fellow road users in a heap of twisted metal? I know I wouldn’t.

Whilst looking into this I was reminded of an ‘erotic’ and controversial film ‘Crash’ an adaptation of JG Ballard’s novel by David Cronenberg http://www.channel4.com/film/reviews/film.jsp?id=102374 about people who get so turned on by car accidents as a result of being involved in one it instigates a torrid affair fuelled by the crashes in which the participants get all carnal and lusty in the wreckage. My interpretation of that is the whole ‘realising one’s own mortality’ argument so the ‘breeding’ adrenaline kicks in. But still that wouldn’t be my cup of tea.

Seeing the accident on Wednesday did make me realise my own mortality but if anything drove home my argument to prevent rubbernecking, I think there should be a road safety campaign highlighting it. I’d be more than happy to be involved in that.

Starting as I mean to go on, as a Motor Muppet road safety aside if you must get lusty in your jalopy I’d prefer the vehicle was in one piece and definitely stationary

The road to nowhere...

Today I bore witness to possibly the height of lunacy and also intelligence on a level that quite honestly astounded me.

En route from my favourite Ooop North hair emporium sporting a far more suitably styled barnet and having tunnel vision ‘tea-blindness’ as I was on my way to Betty’s Ye Olde Tea Shoppe for some choice afternoon Earl Grey and delicacies of the distinctly cake variety with the excellent company of my mother; I happened upon a large roundabout.

My lightened mood was momentarily darkened by a lady in a little green Renault 5 travelling on the roundabout from the opposite direction, who obviously wasn’t doing anything to further the reputation of the fairer sex being the more superior road user. She was ambling round the roundabout at approximately 1.5 mph, so as I drove up apprehensively to give way, time seemed to hang in just the same way as when probably the best cup of tea you’ve ever made is tumbling haplessly toward the earth.

It wasn’t the fact that she was driving so slowly that had concerned me, oh no. It was the fact that she was halfway around the roundabout in reverse that had concerned me.

Normal play resumed to the sound of my fellow drivers’ airing their disapproval in a vociferous manner. It became apparent that said lady had missed her turning so rather than do what your or I would, given that we’ve obviously taken driving lessons and leafed through the Highway Code, that is drive round again, taking the correct turning as it presented itself. But no. She had missed and using all her intelligence decided it was the logical thing to do to reverse back to take the turning.

Unfortunately as I had since driven on my merry way I didn’t see the resultant heckling the lady received as she ambled her way up the dual carriageway, at 2.5mph... in the outside lane.

It's...Grand...Oop North

I always know when I’m home. That would be home in the place of my birth sense, not where I’ve purchased property, attempted to forge a career, make friends and influence people.

I’m from the North West of England and moved to the Home Counties when I was a mere 19 years old, so I visit home fairly frequently. Knowing I’m homeward bound is not gathered by the road signs telling me so nor is it the simple changes in lingo from southern drawl through brummie drone to northern patter but most noticeably by the change in volume of traffic, increase in motorcyclists and the sight of certain models of vehicle.

As I approach Cheshire on the M6 there is an almost comedy upturn in the frequency of practically new Bentley Continental GT’s, Porsche Cayenne’s, BMW X5’s, Jaguar XKR’s and Porsche 911’s. Every second or third car I saw yesterday had behind the wheel a freshly coiffured, designer outfit clad, bedecked with sunglasses driver, usually male and of a ‘sporting’ orientation.

I honestly expect one day to venture home to be greeted by a sign stating ‘you are now entering footballer country – Cheshire welcomes rich drivers’.

My old Saab shuddered in disgrace as I brought her Ooop North yesterday. I honestly believe this is why she has sprung an oil leak that has since soiled my mother’s freshly laid driveway.

My dishevelled Swedish chariot and I found ourselves choked by the familiar perfume of ‘new leather interior’, blinded by the patina autoglymmed within an inch of it’s life and were left in their wake with a swoosh as the posh automotive glitterati youth shot past us with barely a second look.

However these creatures aside the Saab and I are used to battling with the London traffic and M4 elevated section jams and found ourselves utterly bewildered by the courtesy shown when wanting to overtake the umpteenth caravan uphill on the M6 near Stoke, joining back onto the carriageway after a swift coffee stop or by the scooter rider moving to the left to enable us to pass by on the B road home from a typically northern birthday party last night (think Peter Kay monologue and you’re pretty much there, the image of my mother doing ‘oops upside your head’ and the ‘ymca’ will stay with me for some time).

Generally the pace of life in this part of the country to me seems so much slower and a little more idyllic. Natives of my hinterland seem to enjoy and take pride in driving their cars, love riding through the green vistas resplendent in leather on their motorcycles and drinking tea. The speeds on the roads seem more realistic, there are less Gatso’s, speed humps and the whole driving experience seems far less of a race.

Surely it can’t just be me, but the southern roads surrounding our capital and outlying counties are hellish. I don’t believe it’s purely down to the road traffic radio reports favourite excuse for jams of ‘sheer weight of traffic’. Coming home has become a holiday away from every single aspect of living in the south and I believe it’s all reliant upon attitudes. I’m not saying we should embrace our fellow road users in a 60’s love-in sense, but merely to take a leaf from the northerners’ books. Show some courtesy, put the competitive edge to good use and take up a sport if you must or enter a pub quiz. Don’t loiter in front of someone trying to get past you; seriously even if he only gets one car’s length in front of you – so what, I’m not going to loose any sleep over it. But on the whole and most importantly, relax and actually enjoy yourself, even going to work or dropping the kids off. It’s not going to make you go any faster maybe, but it might just decrease the points on your blood pressure, and your driving licence.

There's no Sugar on my Doughnuts!!

In case you were thinking I was about to launch into a complaint about Homer Simpson’s favourite sustenance, I’m not talking Krispy Kreme, good heavens no, for today I made the 30 mile schlep round the M25 to sunny Surrey, home of Dunsfold Aerodrome and the venue for Motor Muppet’s first play in a Caterham.

Bought as a Christmas present for yours truly I was anticipating April 1st 2005 since, well December 25th 2004!

I had a taster of the little bug-eyed cars at the Motor Show last year where I parted with my hard earned cash for a quickie with a roguish young chap round the Comma Caterham doughnut course. As with most things, it was over all too soon, but it did leaving me wanting more.

So back to today’s antics. On arrival as Dunsfold I was pointed up to the top end of the runway where the course had already been laid out. After a safety briefing and some technical pointers there followed a couple of demonstration laps in the unadulterated 1.6 Caterham 7’s by Suds (the safety chap) and Sam (a fellow girlie). And then it was my turn.

Muppet gets expert advice from Suds

I’ve never actually really been a ‘drive like I’ve left the gas on’ sort of a girl, I like a bit of speed but generally I’m pretty laid back so being told by Suds to “give it some welly”…”don’t worry you won’t break it”….”show some aggression”….and…”don’t worry it’s not yours” was a little out of character. But who am I to argue with such a knowledgeable and influential Caterham employee hmmm?

Sampling the excellent hospitality (oddly there were no doughnuts but lots of tea!)

I did show a promising start, and got some really nice powerslides round the cones, lots of comedy armfuls of steering and heaps of acceleration; but could I get a doughnut? The trick with a Caterham is to turn the wheel to full lock; give it a lot of power, about 3,700rpm and then whip your left foot off the clutch, drop the revs to 3,000, and switch between this and the 3,700 rpm until you get round the cone. Sounds simple doesn’t it? I was even witness to some spectacularly good car patisserie from my fellow course mates, but I couldn’t get the damn thing to do it. I was so close every time and had so much fun spinning around, I came over a bit Kylie.

Muppet coaxing the Caterham to dance - oddly it didn't respond to swearing

back to the garage...with a smile

After a fantastic time spent on the ever changing course and being timed against my course mates, despite my best efforts I couldn’t get a rise from the Caterham I just couldn’t get it to go all the way. Then came the results, against 14 other competitors I came a resoundingly triumphant last place. How fantastically English of me. What can I say at least I was consistently last place all afternoon. I was rather pleased by this as I gave it my all. I ended the session with a trip as a passenger with Suds who showed me how it should be done.

Undeterred by abysmal time keeping however I did come away with a spot of the Cheshire cramps, that is smiling so much my face hurt! I have pledged to book up another session in the not too distant future on the assurance from Suds that he’ll get me pirouetting the Caterham like a prima ballerina….and I can’t wait!

And now I’m unwinding Caterham induced aches reflecting on the day with The Living Daylights in the background on the gogglebox, even though Timothy Dalton is not my idea of James Bond (Sean Connery all the way). I do get to covet ever so slightly my favourite Aston Martins featured in the flick. The beautiful DBS V8 Volante, and the car I yearn for the V8 Vantage with more tricks than Harry Potter’s school assembly, anguishing over the scene just after Bond skis away into Austria with his obligatory Eastern Bloc Blonde when the Vantage gets the Self Destruct treatment.

But I’m still in love with the raffish googly eyed Caterham.
http://www.caterham.co.uk/