MG 4 ME

Every once in a while a young thing like me can learn a thing or two from an older chap and emerge all the better for it.

The chap in question is by no means perfect but more so quintessentially English, and ever so slightly shabby. Some wouldn’t even cast a second glance, but I have looked past the dishevelled exterior and admittedly I like what I see. Cheeky, full of eccentric character, and a mischievous beguiling glint that catches the eye.

I have this chap in the furthest recesses of my garage; a gold and black slightly shabby 1975 MGB GT, whom I have christened Roger. Bought on a whim a year or so ago, Roger is completely roadworthy, taxed, MOT’d and ever willing to serve. But I’ve hardly driven him – until now.

Because of my current sans-motorcycle and Alfa Spider situation and the fact that the Saab is rendezvousing with another who requires her load lugging services I needed another mode of transport to get to work, hence my foraging in the garage for something suitable.

So MGB it was.

On further investigation, it is my belief that the MGB was designed primarily as a pulling machine. Well it’d probably have pulled a girl like me had my paramour pulled up outside in a decent chrome bumpered one.

I’ve given this a lot of thought whilst meandering along the A-roads. Take a look at the evidence, the low-slung body means a ladies’ entrance and egress cannot be done with decorum nor can it really be done in a short skirt. The legs out in front seating position, again adds to the leg flashing appeal. The small close-seated cabin means a gear change can facilitate an illicit brush of an arm. Then there’s the heat. Driving the MG is akin to driving round in a sauna, not that I’ve driven a sauna because the handling is awful, but in an MG this is the norm. I thought I’d end up on the M4 in my underwear because I was stuck in traffic and the temptation to shed layers was ever present. Add to this the fabulous sound the MG makes, the curvaceous cutesy styling, the faux back seat, ideal for your handbag, the aeronautical dials on the dash giving your companion the steely resolve of a fighter pilot and the MG’s fun go kart style ‘feels like you’re doing 160 at 60 mph’ handling. If the MG could speak, its voice would be that of Bill Nighy. Let’s face it, if you’ve got one you’re onto a winner, and if it gets it’s top off Roadster style then I think I love you.

And I think this is why there are so many MG enthusiasts. Sure there are reliability problems, which luckily I’ve not had too many of, but this just adds to the charm, and frankly it’s a classic so you’d expect that an elderly motor will occasionally fail to proceed. The MG owners club is the largest classic car club in the country; there are an abundance of spares, new just like the factory body panels and not to mention the new styling tweeks, interior trim, décor and handling improvements. No wonder the MGB remains as popular as ever.

It is my sincere belief these little pulling machines are the perfect low budget, British Sports Car. An Aston on a shoestring, without having to foot the Aston sized bill, bit like buying a Ghost dress-a-like for a fiver from Primark. The MGB makes all the right noises, high fun factor mad as a nest of badgers, rather than the sledgehammer power of say an AMV8 Vantage my little MGB gives me more of a hard playground shove, but it really does the trick. Get your coat Roger, you’ve pulled.

Gondola...in 60 seconds

Earlier in these very pages you may have read my words singing the praises and heralding classic car ownership. Oh what it is to change your own spark plugs, the heady aromas of old engine old and Swarfega on a Sunday afternoon.

Why didn't someone shut me up?

I am now, yet again reeling from the cold slapped with a wet fish sting of reality. I am feeling decidedly light of wallet and probably devoid of Mini Cash ISA account, as I am yet again experiencing the cruel pain and resultant misery of an MOT failure. Only sweetened by the MOT tester saying my car 'was one of the best of it's age and model' he had seen in recent years and the almond croissant I had bought to keep me occupied as I gazed through the observation window of the MOT testing bay at my Alfa specialist. I sat back as the MOT tester began the sorry task of imparting the list of failures. And it was indeed a list.

To begin with, the Spider is in BIG trouble, as it would appear that she has been stealing away from the comfort of her garage in the wee small twilight hours to moonlight as a gondola on the Thames, or at least that is what the big rusty hole on her underside would have me believe. I'm not aware of Warner Bros auditioning automotive hopefuls for the part of Flintstone's Car in Italy, but at present my Spider would run away with that leading role.

Add to the list, the single numberplate light which for no apparent reason has like the floorpan been attacked by a bad case of metal worm, whilst it's neighbouring lights are as complete and untouched by the elements as the day they left Milan.

The suspension too has suffered, the blame for which I believe lies firmly with Mayor Ken and his penchance for speed restricting, spine jolting, suspension destroying speed humps.

Then there is the windscreen washer, which has to be tinkered with, pampered and cajouled to work as you can no longer purchase new jets. Several other electrical niggles later and the windscreen also requires replacement as it is resembling that of a UN Land Rovers' in the African desert. But this does bring about some benefit. The only screen available to me is a rather spanking tinted little number with built in radio ariel, which is fantastic and a bonus as I hadn't quite got round to buying a fiddly electronically telescopic rear wing mounted ariel for fear of having to spend far too long installing it.

So a week after this list of shame, I made the trek back to Alfa Aid this morning in glorious sunshine, berating the weather for the fact I was having to leave my Italian convertible in the garage for 'at least a week' by the end of which I'll have a wonderfully sound car, but probably monsoonical weather to drive it in.

I clambered into my trusty old shabby, solid, sales exec navy blue, air conditioned, velour seated Saab and pondered for a moment or two. It is right, classic cars are a very good investment...if you're an MOT tester or own a garage.

Formula Gone?

I really cannot believe the farce that Formula 1 has become. I am not a huge fan of motorsport in general, preferring to take part than be an armchair spectator. But I am sat, beer in hand jaw hung open agog at the debarcle before me, because I am watching 6 cars that is just 6 cars 'racing' in the American Grand Prix. 2 Ferraris, 2 Minardis and 2 Jordans.

It would appear that there are problems with the Michelin tyres that would prove potentially hazardous under race conditions, the walls of the tyres are compromised as was proven by Ralf Schumacher's accident earlier in the weekend. Several huddles, gossiping in the loo and a few meetings later it transpires that rather than allow either a change of tyres to those of a safer composition especially flown in from France by Michelin (which is of course against this year's rules), or build a chicane on the last banked corner of the Indianapolis circuit to enable lower speeds to 'nurse' the tyres, the Formula 1 powers that be have decided 'no'. Quite rightly the drivers decided not to race as it was a compromise to their own safety.

Is this the final nail in the coffin for the pinnacle of motorsport? Could be. I started watching this season because it seemed to be picking up in entertainment value as the previous years I'd rather have watched the oil drip from a DAF truck during a service it had gotten so boring. I found myself humming the Italian national anthem and knew it was because, like the sport I was being brainwashed by the big scarlet cars.

It is such a shame, as the technologies behind the cars is astounding and I honestly believe it can carry through to the development of the commercial market. When Renault had an turnaround in safety with the Megane, their F1 cars were also having a resurgence. The mechanical, design and scientific minds behind the sport are phenomenal. It is the business and marketing minds, which to my mind are also those most interested in the fiduciary benefits of the sport, that are ruining it.

I will be interested to watch the fallout from this weekend and I will be surprised to see an American Grand Prix next year that's for sure.The fans at Indanapolis were completely unaware of the situation unfolding before them, until they saw the the Michelin shod teams peel off into the pit lane after the parade lap. They are not happy bunnies and who can blame them?

So as an armchair fanatic if you have a thirst for some proper racing, may I suggest watching MotoGP?

MOT Misgivings

Owning a "classic" car can be a wonderful exhilarating experience; the sound of an all alloy carburetted engine, the 'proper car' mechanical smell, old leather and having a tinker on a Sunday, all adds to the pleasure of ownership.

As well as my modern Saab, I currently own four elderly motors, one I've had since I was 15 which I bought for £50. But recently I been having feelings that it would be wise to invest in a transporter to carry them round and paint 'help the aged' on the side.

It's MOT time in the Muppet household, my 30 year old Beetle appears to have been moonlighting as a boat so cannot go anywhere near the MOT test station's hammers just yet. So for now it's my daily driver 16 year old Alfa Romeo Spider Quadrifoglio, that is under scrutiny. I feel like I'm watching a penalty shoot-out...will it? won't it? I haven't felt this much tension since I was waiting for Ross and Rachel to get together on Friends. The Alfa has managed to get through 13 previous MOT's without my worried face at the observation window or my hand placed gently on her bonnet with coos of 'you'll be fine', but you see this is my first having only owned the Spider since September 2004.

"Hello I'm Amanda and I'm an Alfa Spider MOT virgin"... and I can clearly see that car at the ATM punching in my pin number, just as she did when I first bought her. She's the hooded teenager of the car world, waiting to catch me unawares and mug me.

Maybe I'm over-reacting.

When I first purchased the Spider I took her to my local specialist for a check up, the list of repairs that came back to me looked like the parts catalogue at Classic Alfa. I needed several strong cups of hodd carriers tea before I could hand over my Visa card.

Then there was the incident in Hammersmith just before Christmas. I parked the Spider up near a friends' house and went off for a wander, some shopping and a pint, it's a regular occurrence so I thought she'd be safe, on my return there was a note, "I am so sorry.....[insurance details, phone number, reg number]".

My little first-time proper Italian sports car owning heart sank and I sat on the kerb crying like a baby as I noted the huge dent in the Spider's driver's door, a few inches to the right and the Spider would have been written off. I was devastated.

And it got worse; the details were false, the police could find no witnesses and no CCTV footage, so I was left to claim malicious damage and lost £300 and 3 years no claims discount for good measure. The garage who replaced the door were rubbish and now I'm left with a driver's door you can't open from the outside and a wrangle with some unpleasant insurance bods to have it repaired properly. Although to the (mostly male) onlooker the sight of me lying flat on my back across the seats, legs dangling precariously out of the passenger door as I wrestle open the driver's door from the inside...is rather entertaining.

So you can probably guess why I'm so touchy and trepidated by the test before us. But don't be put off classic car ownership with my financially unviable tales, they are merely a minor glitch and I wouldn't change my cars for...well not much, unless you were willing to make me a very very good offer on an Aston Martin V8 Vantage.

It will alright though, Alfa Aid have informed me they have been to the suppliers and have a box of 100 Yorkshire Tea Bags in the First Aid cabinet.

to be continued....

Popping a V8 cherry

As a grown up adult woman it’s not often that you get to experience the spellbound captivated innocence and eye glazingly magical awestruck sparkle you have as a child. At the age of knowing most things deemed magical are a charade, and that it takes umpteen attempts to get lines in your favourite sitcom just right; it takes something very special to get Muppet grinning incessantly.

And so I have overindulged in the very best way I know how. I feel exceptionally spoiled. And, before you draw any conclusions, it did not involve chocolate, beer, or shopping, but more specifically the most wonderfully exquisite motorcar I have ever had the pleasure of encountering. It had been the sort of day when a girl like me requires several changes of underwear.

The Aston Martin V8 Vantage. Britain’s first bona fide supercar.

I had my rendezvous with Newport Pagnell’s finest on one of my ‘pub club’, Sunday car rallies. Along with a couple of friends, who between them own an impressive selection of lovely motors, we take our cars on an impromptu Sunday gallop to some wonderful country pub that the Good Pub Guide has flopped open at and with a vague idea of its location, have a hearty lunch, some quality conversation with more than little petrolhead hedonism and spend some quality time with our nuts and bolts.

I had been anticipating pub clubs’ recent jaunt for a good few weeks, revelling in the knowledge that my learned friend was bringing his 1980’s Vantage. We had set up meetings before but with Muppet being a tad eccentric, I had never as yet been able to attend. On arrival for the obligatory pre-expedition bacon sarnies, I first caught sight of the Vantage. Waiting patiently by the side of the busy West London street, gaining admiring glances from almost all who wandered by. It really dwarfed my little Spider.

Want to go out and play?

The Vantage to me has always been truly beautiful and my favourite Aston Martin. The V8 Vantage debuted in February 1977 (as did I in November of the same year). It was produced as a stand alone model (rather than being an Aston with a tweaked engine or a ‘vantage spec’ which was an optional extra privilege). The Vantage’s four twin-choked Weber carburetted V8 engine unit's power output was increased to 380bhp, the radiator grill was blanked off in favour of a vast air intake which forced air very efficiently upwards from underneath the front bumper, the suspension was upgraded and looks wise the Vantage was given a small rear ‘flipped up’ tail and distinctive bonnet aerodynamics.

In 1986, the Vantage was treated to the ‘X pack’ engine that had been produced for the Zagato. With 435bhp, speeds in excess of 170mph and a 0-60 time of 5.2 secs, the Vantage was indeed a Super Car force to be reckoned with in it’s day.

The patient perfect English gentleman

And for me, it was the latter X-pack treatment that graced my friends’ car. Not only did the car please me aesthetically, but the cabin evoked the senses, a glorious leathery aroma, wood veneer, sofa comfy seats, a shagpile carpet and everything in its place – even just sat in the passenger seat, engine turned off, this car felt special.

You can almost hear the engine

With the ignition on however, the sound from that engine and straight-through exhaust must’ve made the neighbours think Thor was having a bad hair day. This car even sounds like it should, the engine note reverberates from your feet to your head with a wonderful growling sensation resonating in your chest.

There is so much power – the torque in this car is astonishing, you barely make it up the gearbox, not that you need to. Barrelling along the country lanes the acceleration just keeps on going, it’s almost limitless. I’ve been in powerful cars before but this was like being rammed by rhino at full pelt, it’s a sledgehammer of a car. Driving behind in convoy with my little Spider I could still feel the vibrations, and felt slightly light-headed and giddy from the exhaust, or was that my infatuation?

But lo, this car is a schizophrenic, because when you ease off the throttle the Vantage becomes a well mannered gentleman, you could almost imagine your granny popping down the shops in one, if she could see over the expanse of bonnet.

I had always loved this car, but this was my first proper taste of a Vantage and it was every bit what I imagined and then some. I was like the little girl given the keys to her own sweet shop. I want one – badly, or I'd settle for a husband with one, I'm not fussy, as I could drive around in that car forever more, and it proved to me that I am indeed a full on British Aston girl at heart .

There is such a thing as a dream come true

Bashful road signs - an update

I have previously mentioned on Muppet a strange phenomenon that I have encountered on my way into work, the coy A40 road sign.

True to my word, I hadn't noticed that the wrappings had in fact come off until this morning, although that may have been something to do with the fact I was looking at a bloke in a Jensen Interceptor...ahem...I digress, the binbags have been removed and behold as they blinkingly enter the morning greyness for (possibly) the first time: three 50mph signs.

It was just as I thought. It's a travesty.

Although it would appear my fellow commuters didn't see the signs either as they zipped past at 70mph.

And I have to admit the signs don't appear to have made any difference to the flow of traffic but my prophecy of a speed camera or speed trap nearby has as yet, not come to fruition. Give it time.

I still would have much preferred a cheery morning greeting sign as I ambled past.