The Motor Muppet

Unknown

2009-09-23T09:08:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I wish I could blink and wake up five years from now, other times I wish I could wake up yesterday

Warmer climates

2009-09-16T12:30:00.000-07:00

We're not so different you and I

Know how to love then say goodbye

Wearing layers a protective armour

Slowly melting with fervent ardour

A kiss, a touch, a warm embrace

A knowing smile lights up your face

Invest your heart, I'll give interest gladly

Returning kisses truly, madly

Perfect moments when you and me

Especially when you make me tea

Serious rhymes I cannot muster

Thoughts of you make me a fluster

Oh dear my direction has gone wrong

maybe should've tried a song

I think that what I'm trying to say

I'm glad that things turned out this way

Throwing caution to the wind

Fears I hope will soon rescind

I'm not one to assume tales of forever

but

I like you.

Good things happen when we're together.

Cold.

2009-05-05T12:02:00.000-07:00

What part of 'I love you' did you not understand?

No realisation you hold my heart in your hand

Your voice once it soothed spills words that chill

No warmth beside me, no butterfly thrill

I long to offer my caress, my embrace

Is it soley me to love your imperfect face?

A body of stone you've locked inside

Your heart from me - will it always hide?

love me, love my inanimate objects

2009-03-23T16:07:00.000-07:00

Just recently my mind has been wandering to that which I find attractive in a potential partner. I have a pretty definitive list as it happens, which in the grand scheme of things is a list of ideals. I'm certain many a girl has much the same detail stockpiled in their brain. The more attributes from my list a man has, the more likely it is that I will be swooning like a lovesick puppy dog...and as such all too often the specimen of manly perfection will seemingly think I'm interesting, cool and a rather good mate and ergo appear utterly sexless whilst they seek thrills and trysts with some young thing or other.

In some respects I look at men as I do my car and run through a similar selection process. The obvious first point is does it look good; and this includes days when the sky is grey and you're drudging through Waitrose car park laden with unexciting groceries on a Sunday morning. That said I don't want the same old model everyone else has got. I want something a bit different, less mainstream. Not too easy to drive but feels good and responsive. I want to walk away but on occasion turn around and give a lingering lustful look because there lies an object of distinctive beauty. Likewise not too many owners and a reasonable mileage.

Then there's sound, does it make all the right noises. Reliability is also a huge plus point, the odd niggle now and then is to be expected of course but for the most part you know you can have faith. Performance is very important from a long leisurely country drive to just getting you where you want to be or the ability to make your heart race and blood course through your veins with excitement and desire to drive all day long.

All of the former is an essential package in my book and only aides to maintain my interest on a daily basis.

However (and sometimes unfortunately) I know my car can't give me cuddles, make me tea, take me for cocktails or comfort me when I'm down; nor can it accompany me to to dinner, the cinema, share my interest in surrealism or alternative humour. I can gain perspective from spending time on a long drive or sitting overlooking a beautiful vista with a carefully selected soundtrack, and my trusty VW can make my heart skip a beat and give me a warm feeling of familiarity and comfort after a long day.

Unfortunately the closest thing to a people based Autotrader is a dating website and well I find a lot of those have been leafed through a bit too much. However in the grand car lot of life there are a couple of slightly differing specimens that seem to fit the bill. I owned one for a while, bit of a collectors item I have to say, ownership was very hard and maintenance high. After some use a few production line defects surfaced which need ironing out so back to the manufacturer for a while. The other well I'm not so sure it's up for sale, bit of a newer model I've had little exposure to, a rare and interesting little number not to everyone's taste but which I'd really like to test drive, although I'm not so sure the previous owner was a particularly good one.

hmm perhaps I should give up and date my Golf...now if only it came with blue eyes.

Tea

2009-01-19T11:35:00.000-08:00

There's a sense of satisfaction,
which a girl can deride.
It makes her feel familiar like
all warm and squiffsome inside.
There are but two things that cause this effect
and to choose between the two; I know which I'd select
I'm lost without both...now that is clear to me
but the truth is my lovely
I love YOU more than tea.

Fireworks

2009-01-19T11:28:00.001-08:00

It was just like a firework.
Full of the promise of things to come; colour, light and noise.
We lit the touch paper and we stand back...it fizzled and our stomach rises, then nothing.

It's gone out.

Was it a damp squib? No we know for sure it's lit - we prepared it to perfection, followed the instructions to the letter. Something maybe isn't quite right. There's a tension, anticipation that it could just go off, there's definitely something there ...we take a few steps back and we wait.

I'll wait.

I Wish I was a Love Ninja

2009-01-17T10:57:00.000-08:00

Unassuming in demeanour I'd disarm him with my smile, leaving him powerless to my lightning wit - then with a deft sweep of my enamoured samurai blade at his heart he would swoon and be forever besotted; but obviously in that stand-offish I'm not really an emotional guy I keep it all inside kind of a way...

Two years on

2009-01-12T14:57:00.001-08:00

I haven't written much at all for Motor Muppet in such a long time. Sometimes life overtakes art and all that! I decided to take a rest as everyone and their dog (literally) had blogs and I didn't have too much to say.

Much has changed in the world of Muppet since my last musings which has prompted me to change direction slightly. Everyone seems to have an opinion nowadays and the 'net is flooded with material to read. We are all our own published artistes. Much of what I will write will be questioning the world I live in, seeking points of view or discussing things of interest to me. I have also become a bit 'creative' and will post my odd poetry or quirk philosophies. I will more than likely at points revisit my love of motoring, which of course is ongoing and I am currently the owner of a mk 3 VW Golf Cabrio named Gretta.

Not dead yet!

2006-10-30T09:11:00.000-08:00

Motor Muppet seems to be gathering a fair bit of dust at the moment. I have been terribly negligent of my poor motoring blog.

House sales, changes in my personal life and a new job have all meant I have had precious little time to spend immersed in anything vaguely automotive these past few months.

I've missed commenting on new baby seat regulations (although I know very little about babies, let alone baby seats!!), the proposal for an increase in parking permit costs to park outside your own home and countless other gems from the motoring media.

Of course I kept the Alfa, she is still a labour of love and has been so very close to coming under the auctioneers hammer on many occassions but manages to melt my cynical heart time and again. As I type she is yet again in the capable hands of Adrian Jardine at Alfa Aid in Maidenhead for a replacement immobiliser. The old one being a tad over zealous about immobilising the Spider!

So sincere apologies and I hope I've been missed! I hope, once my house move is completed, to bring you some new material very soon.

Chelsea Tractors and other stories...

2006-06-14T03:18:00.000-07:00

Imagine being able to see the flow of traffic ahead of you; the mythical front of a traffic jam or hold up. You don’t have to be sat aloft the cab of a juggernaught to experience this; any old 4x4 should do the trick.

4x4? As I type the three characters I feel the sharp intake of breath from a certain percentage of the population, it’s as if I’ve written the coarsest of expletives amongst a nursery rhyme. There isn’t a single day goes by recently where I haven’t picked up a newspaper or cast my eye over a news site on the internet and 4x4’s are featured. Or more precisely 4x4’s and their dangerous polluting effects.

If you believe everything you read every single feature of a 4x4 is wrong. Otherwise known as: the Chelsea Tractor; Satans schoolrun transport of choice and other demonised monikers; they’re too big; they consume gallon upon gallon of precious fuel; visibility is poor; if you’re hit by one your car will be reduced to mush; if you’re a pedestrian you want to never cross the road if one is coming in your direction – in fact just run away.

Now I’m not having a pop at the anti 4x4 brigade at all. I just don’t want it force fed to me every single time I pick up my paper or switch on my pc.

Believe it or not I do support some of the points that groups such as the Alliance Against Urban 4x4s stand for, but for the most part I’m sat firmly on the fence on this issue. I like 4x4’s, most of my primary school days I was dropped off at the school gate in a Mitsubishi Shogun and if someone offered me a Range Rover Sport tomorrow I’d snatch the keys out of their hands giggling. But I’m asthmatic and pollution is a factor in my illness, so maybe I should be apprehensive however I don’t blame every Range Rover or Touareg driver I see for that. That said I’d happily personally dispose of every single Hummer in the country, particularly the yellow and stretch 'limo' ones but that’s just because they’re rubbish, tiny on the inside therefore completely useless and ugly. They should be in the desert with Jake Gyllennhaal-a-likes doing army type things in them, not driving the highways and byways of our green and pleasant land.

I am concerned about the environment, but given that I now work for an oil company some people argue with me on that point alone. I believe in people’s right to choose what vehicle they drive. If I had children I’d want them to be as safe as possible, and if that meant driving them to school in a 4x4 then so be it.

A few years back I had my first car crash, nothing too serious but enough of my own blood to shake me up considerably. I was driving a brand new 2 door 1.2 Renault Clio. My first thought upon getting home was ‘I want a bigger car’. I simply no longer felt safe driving a little shopping car. I started to look at Freelanders. Obviously I got over that when the Peugeot 307 I eventually bought was a complete dog; but the fear factor played a huge part in my choice of car, not about making a fashion statement or whether it was contributory to global warming.

What I don’t agree with is the lack of clarity in the arguments put forward. They appear to me very London-centric. Some I think are merely scare mongering. I do not believe 4x4 drivers are going to mow down innocents in the street, which is what some of the messages appear to imply. I do not believe that they’re all middle class and posh with disregard for the environment. What about the rural family on a day trip to London? Are they evil too? I certainly don’t think my Kensington dwelling friend Alex and her series 2 land rover are evil, I think they’re positively charming.

I agree that 4x4s should have a higher level of tax and London congestion charge. But then I think larger luxury cars and the Ferraris of this land should too. I live near London, so this, by default is an issue to me personally however it is by far over arched by the bigger concern of inner city; surrounding A road and Motorway congestion which no one seems to bother about much.

As with many environmental concerns, facts, figures and statistics are often placed on the table. No one can argue with numbers right? As I examined some of the figures given, a lot of them are based upon American research. This can’t be taken into ac count for the UK no matter how much you kick and scream. Tables of C02 emissions are often proffered with masses of various off roader details however without the wider picture it can appear that the 4x4 is single handedly destroying the planet. Include a few more vehicles and although some 4x4s knock out some pretty hefty C02 emissions, but a good few cases they are by no means the worst. Again the luxury car market seems to get away scott free with a Porsche Boxster and Rolls Royce Phantom producing more C02 than a Land Rover discovery.

I’m not poo-pooing the 4x4 pressure groups, nor am I standing waving a flag for the 4x4 drivers. It is my opinion that the whole 4x4 thing should be shelved and the wider aspect of all vehicles and offering alternative fuels should be looked at. All cars are bad for the environment. Keep cars on the road, stop complaining and sort out the fuel and congestion. Simple eh?

Biking Barmy: Nuts on Bents hit down under!!

2006-05-10T15:04:00.000-07:00

You may recall I wrote some time ago about an aquaintance of mine, Nic and his girlfriend Sedef. They were obviously mad and decided to cycle using recumbent bicycles from London to Sydney.

Well I have news. They're in Australia, they're significantly ahead of schedule...and the lunatics have only gone and decided to do the round the world trip! From Sydney they will be flying to either Seattle or Vancouver and cycling across North America.

I'm absolutely awe-struck. I thought cycling to Sydney was an amazing feat but to decide 'oh let's just keep going' is absolutely amazing.

So here's where I do my bit to help. Nic and Sedef need more sponsorship; so why not take a look at their blog, read about their once in a lifetime trip and maybe drop them a line or sponsort them just that little bit further.

Visit the Nuts on Bents website and blog here

A Muppet in Need...Time for Pastures new?

2006-05-08T03:10:00.000-07:00

After a few months sabbatical I have returned afresh with..well a bit of a quandary actually.

I have, for some time reveled in the pleasures of owning a classic car. In fact I own three classic cars at present. It's on days like today, however that the pleasures are somewhat tainted by my wet feet and legs.

I've recently undergone a lot of changes. My relationship with the A40 ended - after 4 years of courting I'd had enough. I left my job at the BBC and moved into a different arena altogether; with albeit a somewhat tenuous link to motoring, - the oil marketing industry. It's made me think. I have more time at home, more time to write and pursue my high octane interests and spend less time going nowhere fast in the London traffic, my finances have improved and oh boy have I got car fever.

I've owned my Spider Quadrifoglio for almost two years, it hasn't been the smoothest of relationships, but the pleasure really did outweigh the huge repair bills, the devastation when someone damaged the bodywork and the high fuel costs. The repairs are now pretty much complete and it's ongoing day to day living with the thing that I'm now faced with. But there's trouble in paradise.

British Summertime in all it's glory reignited the love affair with the Spider once more last week; barreling down the green and pleasant lanes of Buckinghamshire; sun beating down, the smells of cut grass and flowers; my big shades on listening to the familiar Alfa growl of the twin cam engine - absolute perfection. Then came today's' monsoonical weather and my arrival at work with wet feet; a wet right arm and a wet satchel which had been sat on the passenger seat. The windows were misted up beyond all help, I felt like a blinkered racer in the stalls at the Grand National driving to work. Cut to my colourful language as the car park barrier didn't lift when I swiped my card and the subsequent soaking I got as I grumped to security to open the goddamn door for me.

Spiders just don't like the rain. I feel guilty. This lithe Latin lovely is used to better things. She needs a warm garage, to be kept for high days and dry days, something I just can't do. If I have a car I drive it come hell or high water. I just don't like getting wet.

So now I'm aimlessly leafing through the car magazines, or 'Muppet Porn' as my friends and family call my motoring literature. They couldn't be more correct. I feel like a dirty old man, as I'm actually looking at a younger model. I'm being seduced by the Momo steering wheels and red leather that is the Series 5 GTV based Alfa Spider. I'm even looking at the GTV itself, as now the Brera has been launched with the new Spider to follow I'm hedging that the prices will reduce. Oh the shame of it, my dutiful Spider awaiting me in the car park and all the while I'm window shopping for a replacement. How positively automotively adulterous of me.

That said, as with many aspects of life, I'm one of the great procrastinators. I find it difficult to make a decision on what breakfast cereal to have let alone the future of my own car fleet. I'm going to start with a list of pros and cons, then completely loose my nerve and turn to my friends for advice. This is where you come in. If you feel particularly strongly about my predicament let me know your feelings thus helping to sway me in one way or the other and then I'll report my findings here.

Either way there'll always be an Italian in my life.

Is Motoring Journalism the new Rock and Roll?

2006-05-05T08:09:00.000-07:00

...Muppet's findings on the changing face of the humble motoring journalist coming soon.

Like Minded Women

2006-01-30T07:26:00.000-08:00

Now you can divulge your online female motoring journalism even more!

Oversteer is written solely by female contributors and promises to provide the reader
with a veritable feast of motoring content each month.

Oh, and yours truly is in it too!

Happy 2006

2006-01-01T16:26:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year and happy motoring.

Muppet updates to follow shortly.

Amanda

Van Tastic!

2005-11-26T01:30:00.000-08:00

A few weekends ago I became an adult. I was missing an important seminal moment enabling the transgression into responsible adulthood, and it has finally occurred... I hired and drove my first ever transit van.

But why make such a fuss a van is a van is a van…right? A box on wheels, you put stuff in them you move it around the country and take it out at the other end, it's a simple enough concept and one that works terrifically well.

But just think for a minute how many people do you know have vans? Someone you can call upon to help you shift some antiques or move house or buy flat-pack furniture. And not just the ones adorned with the blue oval badge either. Immediately my mind springs to at least two people I know have vans that could be called upon in an urgent 'this bit of something needs taking to.....' scenario.

Vans have become an integral part of our society, they are available in so many guises with practically any concievable interior layout design you want. We’ve all been ‘touched’ by the presence of a van in one form or another and I think they're fantastic. I for one have a few fond van-related memories such as the familar story of a band on tour; a aged Ford transit high top christened 'The Green Pig' adorned with graffiti from 'adoring fans'. It was installed with bench seats and a cb radio to entertain it's occupants whilst taking the performers of indie-pop to the next nightclub; it ended it's days handpainted black with a collapsed axle wilting quietly by the side of the road. If that van could talk it'd be a regular Sun columnist.

You may think these days that all vans look the same, and in the case of the Renault Trafic, Nissan Primastar and Vauxhall Movano they actually are, assembled in the same production line, practically the only way to tell them apart are the badges, in fact I once sat eating cherry tomatos in the loadspace of a Renault at a bike show with a sort of hero of mine, thinking the cab was particularly plush for a van, very car like and the side sliding door was particularly handy, but I wasn't sure what van it was without looking at the branding.

Vans are wide ranging with an improbable diversity of design and endless interior spec possibilities.

Some however aren't so endearing, there’s the infamous Bedford Rascal minivan which because of the exploits of a handpuppet magician bear in a 1970’s children’s TV programme, to me it will always be a ‘Sooty van’, as drivers of such will know if they’ve ever been on the receiving end of my profanities on the road whilst being cut up or genrally annoyed by one. A friend of mine has an ex who owned such a beast - it was such a horror in the end that he left it by the side of the road one day. For all I know it's still there.

My friend Ade, a talented chap who's a guitarist in an upcoming band, owns a Fiat Doblo, it doesn't really sit well with the sexy rockstar image as it's a tiny little thing with as much street cred as wearing beer bottle tops on your shoes, it’s cutesy styling isn’t really one for pulling the ladies but does have a rally pedigree, but it's become a victim of many practical jokes, most recently a rain of ketchup and some of which have involved yours truly, but should my friend become a multi-platinum selling artist then his Doblo will become the stuff of legend I’m sure.

The Ford Transits however alone are the stuff of legend and I'm honored to have finally been able to experience one from behind the wheel. I was helping a friend move house and I have never quiet experienced the thrills that I had accellerating a fully loaded Transit down a dual carriageway and emergency stopping for fun to hear the boxes of Terry Pratchet books we were carrying at the time hit the hardboard load limiter with a gratifying drumming of dull thuds.

Now a story about vans cannot be complete without my views on white van man. The ethereal glow of grubby paintwork in my rearview mirror is a sight I’m often presented with. These challengers of the road intent on shunting you out of the way as if you're a flake of automotive snow that they must drive through with their virtual snow plough inches from your bumper, they always seem to drive at 1 million miles an hour in any traffic flow.

But where did this stereotype come from? The phrase was actually coined by BBC radio 2 presenter, Sarah Kennedy circa 1997 which to me doesn't seem so long ago, yet the white van man has been with us for seemingly an eternity.

I’m sure that every single man or woman who hires or drives a white van slips into the invisible veil of roadhog lane lover whenever they get behind the wheel. Is it an unwritten rule handed down from generation of drivers to another? Perhaps they don’t even realise they’re doing it? I have to admit with the commanding seating position, sheer size and quite frankly the fun of driving a box on wheels, I too was momentarily possessed by the white van demons. Up until stepping into the Transit driver's shoes I scoffed and swore at the van driver but now I feel I've made my peace and just avoid the damn things, as I know all to well what to expect!

White vans are of course great fun for writing in the muck that collects on the back doors, professions of love, football teams or witty slogans are transported up and down the nation’s arterial roads because of a lack of soap, sponge and bucket. My favourite being ‘I bet you wish your wife was this dirty’. And the classic ‘also available in white’.

Thankfully within a few days of my van experience my hankering for buying one finally subsided. I had tried to convince myself that it would actually be extremely practical to have one as a daily runabout, and as it would be diesel of course it would be economical. Who am I kidding? For a start I don't read the Sun and my jeans fit around my waist.

Sadly there won't be an ad near you for 'one helpful woman and van', well not for now anyway.

Are friends electric?

2005-10-17T22:45:00.000-07:00

Goodwood.

Whenever I think of the motor circuit, I smile. My mind drifts to images of grand prix cars of yesteryear, beautiful burbling Bugattis, melodious Maseratis, and the smell of oil, engines, fuel and rubber from burnouts on the track. Memories of the Festival of Speed and most recently, the Revival. Last weekend I witnessed a wholly different event at Goodwood. 75 entrants on the grid, a national title at stake, there were spins, tussles on the track, rivalry, unfettering comradery, car breakages and heaps of drama. But not the roar of an engine could be heard. This was a six hour endurance race, unlike anything I’d seen previously, it was truly compelling. The atmosphere was simply electric…literally.

I had been invited to attend the Greenpower 2005 national final by a motorsport friend of mine; it’s a race series with a very special difference. Greenpower is a not for profit company, funded by a number of sponsors, that is dedicated to promoting engineering and technology as careers in both secondary and primary schools in the UK. In recent years there has been a distinct demise in school leavers taking up engineering careers. To try to redress the balance and to capture the children’s imagination and enthusiasm for engineering Greenpower uses a unique medium in the form of electric car racing projects. It also promotes the importance electrically powered vehicles will have upon the future of motoring and focuses upon the environmental benefits.

A technical specification is issued to the schools along with the all important 24 volt electric motor and 4, 12 volt lead/acid batteries, just like those you'd find in your car. The children then get down to the nitty gritty of designing and building their cars with the help of teachers, parents and sponsors. The cars are then used to compete in Greenpower formula marathon and sprint events nationally at some of the country's most prestigious circuits.

Back at Goodwood, the race had reached the half way point and there was drama when the heavens opened to tip rain of monsoonical proportions on to the track turning it quickly into a skid pan. Cars spun off, there were near misses, the teams were running about to call their cars in. The drama continued throughout the race as cars that broke down were ferried back to the pits on the back of trailers for the children and their teams to commence all too urgent repairs to get their car back out on the track. Teams were connected up via tandems to dynamos to recharge batteries, pedalling for all their worth to get the batteries ready for the next pit stop, tactics were discussed and changed minute by minute. This was possibly the most exciting form of motorsport I'd witnessed all year.

There was a storming victory for the 2nd year running from the bubble like car entered by Furze Platt School in Maidenhead, 'Turbo Tortoise'. It can top speeds of 42mph and achieved the fastest lap time in the Greenpower formula last year. It's futuristic design proving aerodynamically efficient and their engineering design making suberb use of the motors provided.

If there had been an intiative like Greenpower around when I'd been at school I most certainly would have wanted to get involved. It's a fantastic opportunity for children and as well as the engineering experience there's a whole wealth of benefits from team working to just having a good old giggle.

I'll be following next year's series with great interest.

For more information visit: the Greenpower website

Beautiful Bugattis

2005-10-17T21:54:00.000-07:00

Upon a recent clean up of my laptop computer, I took the time to organise my photographs and those a friend took of this year's Goodwood Revival. I thought I'd share some here and these are by no means the entire collection but I have picked out a choice few. From those I have chosen there appears to be a somewhat worrying trend...it would appear that I'm obsessed with Bugatti's!

Bugatti 35T grille

There's a muppet in here somewhere

Take one shabby looking Bugatti and a muppet with a twitchy cheque book...

I'm sure it'll be fine on my daily London commute

all engine and its a big-un

my ideal garage

yet again an unrequited love - we make a good couple no?

but for now this is just fine

Click here for more information about events at Goodwood

Bye Bye Brunstrom

2005-10-03T22:00:00.000-07:00

Richard Brunstrom, Chief Constable of North Wales, will announce today at the Association of Chief Police Officers (Acpo) that he is standing down as head of roads policing.

Full story from The Times here

Be gone the nemisis of the motorist, and take those eyebrows with you.

But let's hope the next one is better

Glass on the Roadside

2005-10-02T20:50:00.000-07:00

Glass on the roadside; the hard shoulder of the motorway glittering in the piercing morning sunlight. A sea of red brake lights, some amber hazard lights; like vivid flowers in a sea of grey. The familiar slowing of traffic until it’s barely moving. In the distance a siren, blue lights, emergency services. Another life wasted.

It is an all too familiar experience for a London commuter.

I’m not usually a morbid character. I don’t dwell on death or any sort of life altering devastation, I’m a strong believer in fate. If you’re there when the sticky stuff hits the metal oscillating object, it was meant to be. That’s not to say I go about my life thinking what will happen will happen, I do err on the side of caution.

I once had a coffee with Louis Theroux and whilst chatting he said something which spurred me on to do, amongst other things, write this website. His advice to me was; if you want to do something, just give it a go, regardless of whether you screw it up or humiliate yourself or it all goes horribly wrong. It might not, and it may end up being the best decision you ever made. But if it does end up dropping on you from a great height, take it on the chin, dust yourself off and move on, start again.

I’m sure you’re wondering, well it’s not very much concerned with motoring. And you’d be right initially, however it was this caveat which was a contributory factor to me learning to ride a motorcycle. Actually getting out there and just doing it.

But following the events of the past few days, I’m scared. In fact I’m quite petrified.

Let me rewind slightly I have spent the past two weeks embroiled in a seething pit of frustration. Traffic jam after traffic jam after traffic jam ad infinitum.

Toward the end of the week I was unfortunate enough to witness two road traffic accidents and the aftermath of another. I’m a rather sensitive soul and have found that I always have the events of my journey branded on my conscience for the rest of the day if not longer, be it frustration from the delay or the poignant images of an accident.

The last accident I saw involved a motorcylist and a van. The motorcyclist didn't make it.

When I told colleagues and friends about my decisions to get a bike to commute to work to solve the financial burden and lack of parking issues, the majority were encouraging and supported my decision knowing that it also appealed to my petrolhead side. However there were a select few, my father included whom upon telling them of my decision retorted with a dismayed 'Oh dear'. I was then subjected to recounts of the most horrendous stories of motorcycle crashes leaving death and destruction in their wake. Not quite what a fledging biker wants to hear.

Now I'm fully aware being a car driver, just how vulnerable bikers are. When I do go out on my little bike I'm lit up like a christmas tree, I'm more lurid than Jordan's wedding dress. But the events of the past week have frightened me. The one thing I can't apply Louis' advice to is actually riding a motorcycle as a means of transport, all well and good thinking I'll give it a go to learn, but if I balls up my everyday riding, I probably wouldn't be around to dust myself off and go and do something else.

However, despite all this and my fear I have remained positive. I got back on my bike yesterday when it came back from receiving some much needed electrical repair. I ambled around for 1/2 hour or so and fell in love with the feeling of freedom all over again. I will remain undeterred.

Thoughts of biker's vulnerability led me to this site Sorry Mate I Didn't See You (or smidsy for short). It's called SMIDSY as this is often what the driver's of vehicles that have hit bikers say to the injured biker. This campaign has been set up encouraging car driver's to be more biker aware and reducing the amount of 'look but failed to see' collisions a contributory factor being the design of car A pillars . The site also campaigns for overall road safety and has some very interesting facts and figures relating to speed cameras . I urge you to go and take a look.

Back to SMIDSY, there is a video clip of a driver approaching a roundabout, it makes for shocking veiwing. There are a few seconds where the biker, already making his way around the roundabout is obscured from view by the windscreen pillar of the car. It's like the biker isn't even there. I'm sure the vast majority of car and van drivers don't even give this a second thought.

I'm 101% behind the sentiment of SMIDSY and hope that its message carries across to the main public arena, perhaps with 'celebrity ' endorsement as help, campaigns such as these which are increasingly important as the amount of traffic increases, but all too often fall by the wayside due to lack of funding or government support.

When I'm driving my car I will always adopt the 2nd look for bikes and scooters from now on, I hope you will too.

Small Things: Small Mind: An Amused Muppet and the Perils of Italian Car Ownership

2005-09-23T02:00:00.000-07:00

I can happily report that this week marks the occasion of my owning an Alfa Romeo for an entire year. During this period I have not gotten fed up, frustrated nor bored with the cantankerous little Italian car, which given my previous vehicle history is pretty much a record, with most vehicles being very lucky to see out the end of a year or so (my VW is a special case as it has been in my possession since I was 15).

In the past I’ve always been itching to try something new, I’d lose interest in the regular day to day routine and lust after other vehicles. Upon first sight the Spider for me was like being with the object of an unrequited crush up close for the first time…and being able to touch.

I think I can credit Jeremy Clarkson with the quote that you’re never a true car enthusiast until you’ve owned an Alfa Romeo. This mainly bestows in the passion and tragedy brought about by owning such a beast. An Alfa is a Siren in car form and can shape your future automotive tastes against your will.

Jeremy was right.

From day one my Spider caused me heartbreak; an overheating problem that upon given too much effort she would refuse to proceed and sit seething on the roadside looking sultry. There were bizarre knocking noises from the engine bay; add to that refusal to start and a penchant for sliding her rear end on corners. All were tantamount to vast garage bills. But it didn't preclude my passion.

Two months of ownership under my belt and the future seemed rosy. I scoffed at my detractors who woefully sent me on my way to work each day expectant of the telephone call heralding my distress. But it never came. My Spider ferried me thrill-some mile after mile without not so much as a puncture. But there was further misfortune stirring.

A pre-Christmas drink in a Hammersmith pub and some late night shopping later I returned to my Spider with my spoils under cover of darkness. She was parked on a quiet garden square and it was a regular occurrence for me to leave her there; it felt safe and was relatively close to several friends’ abodes.

My festive cheer was shattered like a cheap bauble when I noticed a note on the windshield upon which the guilty party had professed regret and apologised for what they had done. My pretty proper Italian sports car was sullied and my fragile emotions in tatters. A careless driver had hit the driver's door leaving a deep dent and extensive paintwork damage. To my disgust the perpetrator had left falsified information which leads me to believe the sorry event was witnessed but the culprit was selfish and not forthcoming of their insurance details for fear of escalating bills.

I will always be first to readily admit I project far too much attachment to the inanimate objects known as my cars and this particular incident left me distraught. A loss of my (almost full entitlement) no claims discount and a £400 bill later and the Spider was looking pretty again. But alas the new door was ill fitting and several trips to the bodyshop and complaints to the insurance company later; I gave the Spider to my own specialist who put back the door correctly without so much as a penny from my pocket.

A couple of month’s back I was subjected to yet more horror as the MOT man said 'No'. The whole sorry event I recounted

here. I couldn't find the locking nut for my alloy wheels so had to pay for some ruffians to drill the bolts off, they couldn't and the rogue locking nut reappeared some weeks later in the most random part of my house. Would there be no end to my torture?

Then came the mystery of the disappearing brake lights. Not once but twice now I have had nil illumination upon my size 7s pirouetting on the middle pedal. The latest instance occurring just this week.

But I was ready for it. My seasoned Alfa ownership instincts kicked in, I neither fussed nor panicked and used my fog lights as a temporary solution to get me home. With no supervision I ran through the necessary checks and upon discovery it was yet again my brake switch I swung into action that would put Wonder Woman herself to shame. I whipped out the defective switch, stuck in the new one (again following some contortionist impressions as discussed at length

here) I replaced the under dash trim again feeling satisfied and accomplished. My rear end was lit up once more like a baboon in the mood for romance. I hopped into the driver's seat to go to Tesco for a celebratory grocery shop confident in the knowledge my fellow road users would be well aware of my intentions to cease travelling in a forward motion.

The bloody car wouldn't start.

Much expletives and gesticulation followed as I returned to the spaghetti like wires below my dashboard. There was a sole wire with a small metal loop hanging, lonely and looking mightily out of place. I guessed it must be my ancient immobiliser and searched for somewhere to stick it. Given the nature of my immobiliser requiring a completed circuit I calculated that there must be something metallic where this little wire and its attachment could live. I was right. Upon finding a home for the wire and re-tightening the screw which had come loose upon my initial under dash removal the immobiliser worked correctly and Tescos deli counter got my money that night.

It's all worth it though, for those roof off moments of blissfully balmy days, driving through wooded lanes sunlight dappling across my tousled blonde locks, coming home and fighting with the hairbrush. Scooting down crisp autumnal roads, the smell of bonfires, coal and peaty earth, cheeks flushed with the cold but head toasty in winter hat and superb heating. Or even just the commute to work. The mellifluous purr from my 105 twin cam engine never fails to bring cheer on my saddest of days it lifts me somewhat.

Of course I still have a distinct urge to try other things my high octane lust lingers just beneath the surface and needs little stimulation to rise; and occasionally I will indulge it with great fervour, my motorcycle is a prime example of this. I've even bought and sold cars in the time I've had the Spider, but I find I always return to my Milanese drop top with pride in my heart, doe eyed, utterly besotted and ever dutiful.

Until the next part falls off.

The object of my affection

CBT: Compulsory Basic Torture?

2005-09-21T23:50:00.000-07:00

And so two Saturdays ago I took the CBT plunge and validated my motorcycle L plate status and began to terrorise the local road-users on two wheels. It was bloody hot and being overtly safety conscious, or more certain of the likelihood I’d probably fall off; I'd decided to wear my leather jacket and already I was feeling like a Bernard Matthew's special come Christmas day.

I have mentioned before that I think it completely unbelievable that following just a single days' training and demonstration of competence that the learner motorcyclist or scooter rider can be unleashed upon the waiting world of lorries, queue jumping BMW's and buses. Now that I have completed my CBT I feel even more strongly about this.

I'm actually gravely concerned some of the young lads completing their scooter training won't make it to their 18th birthday.

CBT training is (usually) one day of intensive theory and practical motorcycle/scooter training. The vast majority takes place in the safe confines of the test centre facilities and upon the instructor feeling confident of your ability, at the end of the day you will be taken onto the public highway to demonstrate your skills in the real world. If you're not a complete liability then you will receive your CBT certification, which validates your learner status for a period of 2 years.

As with most tests I was more than a little trepidated when I arrived at my local motorcycle training centre. So much so the receptionist commented upon the fact I was shaking when I handed over my card to pay, although this could've been something more associated with the fact I'd downed two double espressos en route to the training centre.

My nerves were only exacerbated when I was introduced to my fellow students; my worst fears were realised; all were male and half were 16 wearing tracksuits, hoody tops and resembled Oxy advertisements 'before' photographs, they all had the same vacant expression which upon me entering the room fixated like a homing device to my bosom region and communicated in a series of grunts, it's been a long time since I'd been around teenage boys, thankfully it's a rarity. They were the scooter trainees, and a fine bunch of stereotype of scooter rider that I despise, a mere gene pool error away from Neanderthal. Thankfully the other half were a more normal but a mixed bunch; a builder who looked like a teenager on a toddlers pre school bike - he was far too big for the Honda CG125, it was more than comical, there was a research scientist and a fairly normal bloke who'd already bought his bike.

Following brief introductions, my first mug of tea and grunts from the 16 year olds; I found myself in a 1970s time warp as we watched a DSA video about the fact that drivers rarely see motorcyclists so visibility is tantamount to successful riding. It was coupled with an irritatingly catchy soundtrack, which stuck in my head for days afterwards, I'm guessing this technique of musical brainwashing and wooden acting was intentional.

I found that repetitive clutch control using your hands is pretty tiring, and so to my annoyance I kept stalling my little learner Suzuki that I found incredibly frustrating but after a while I was doing figure of eights like a dressage pony. Although an Achilles heel I bore as initially it really didn't help me that one of the instructors reminded me both in looks and voice far too much of someone who makes my own little engine rev a little faster and upon his instructions to "look at me" only made me loose concentration and wobble about a fair bit.

After lunch when I took the opportunity to take my jacket off as the vest I was wearing was literally soaked and once the 16 year olds came back from the loos we had a brief discussion about the highway code and defensive riding. Once it was established the scooter boys didn’t know you could buy books let alone one about the rules of the road, they were sent off for further training.

The instructors paced between the motorcyclists remaining to pick who were ready enough to go on the open road. One of the group had to leave early so naturally he was to go first, the instructor turned, my heart quickened (nerves, obviously and nothing to do with his pretty eyes and leather trousers), and motioned for me to prepare to go out into the real world. I collected my helmet intercom system and off I went.

Cars have not appeared this big to me since I was a toddler, I was overtaken by a Land Rover and felt like one of the Borrowers. A Ford Fiesta diminutive in size resembled a bungalow on wheels in my tiny rear-view mirrors. Bernard, my fellow student took the lead but I was quick on his tail as he was struggling with speeding up, so I took over and had the open road before me, with my instructors kindly voice in my ear; onwards I toiled, remembering to increase my speed (30mph feels so much much quicker on a bike) and not stand around head bobbing like a spectator at Wimbledon at junctions.

To my absolute joy I even managed a nice slight lean of the little Suzuki around a huge roundabout near White Waltham, girl and motorcycle working together as one taking sweeping bends and curving around the best of what Maidenhead's roundabouts had to offer; that was until I felt queasy because the centre of balance shifted and on the way round as the bike righted itself I decided it was wise to put my foot down at 40 mph coming off said roundabout. Not the best decision I made that day, but commonsense took over and I scooped up my right foot back onto the peg.

A long stretch back to the test centre and it was all over and done, my instructor signed my certificate and made me promise to take my ‘big bike’ test soon.

Ok, so my romanticised image of myself like some Marianne Faithfull clone bike-a-like in Girl on a Motorcycle (that is before she crashes and goes through the window of a car) was and still is very far away.

Marianne as Rebecca, she looked rather splendid

And Suzi Perry in my leathers I may not be, but at long last I'm on my way and quite frankly sweating so much I hope to have a slimmer honed figure in no time.

Lovely Suzi, every girl should look like this in leathers

Who needs yoga when you can have a motorcycle? I'm rather smitten.

Just have to get further than the end of my road now.

ok so not a photo of me, but my cat Busby looks so much cuter on the bike,
and probably has more sense than the scooter-boys

Ok, so there is no easy solution...

2005-09-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

Ok so if you did try and order some petrol from the internet, it won't arrive. Of course the site is a joke site. Interesting concept though and I wouldn't put it past someone to attempt to do it.

I would love to know how many hits that site has had in the past week or so.

Speaking of alternative forms of transport...

2005-09-13T23:34:00.000-07:00

Recumbent bicycles to Sydney: Nic and Sedef - the intrepid duo have finally reached Italia!

To keep track of their diary detailing their progress to Sydney on recumbent bicycles or to sponsor them on their epic journey check out their website

Details of my alternative transport in the form of my motorcycle to follow soon.

Stop Queuing Already!

2005-09-13T22:02:00.000-07:00

I got up to go out late last night for cold remedy. I have a virulent horrid cold that is causing me to sweat like a menopausal woman. I decided it easier and closer to go to my village petrol station. It was like a scene from War of the Worlds, I queued for half an hour; confused and sniffling, yet couldn't be bothered to get out of the car to go and investigate so awaited my turn.

Upon finally reaching the shop to pay for my fuel which I decided to get whilst I was there and get cold remedy along with the chocolate, bag of wine gums and copy of Auto Trader that had mysteriously appeared in my clutches I pumped my local petrol attendant (a 60 year old semi retired chap) for information. He thought I must have been in a coma for the past 24 hours (I almost was - it was duvet induced) and filled me in on the proposed oil refinery blockades this coming Wednesday.

It's the good ole British public panic buying, next we'll have no bread on the supermarket shelves or milk in our fridges.

It was bound to happen with prices per litre creeping over the £1 mark for high octane brands.

So Gordon Brown says it's a supply problem and not taxes that's driving petrol prices up. They're even blaming Hurricane Katrina, but that happened long after prices per litre began to creep up and the wholesale price for petrol is now back down after a peak because of supply problems with the Katrina aftermath.

Would the Government cut fuel tax? Not bloody likely, it's currently 47p per litre, where else would they get the money from so easily. Suppliers are making huge profits and they're not willing to budge.

The motorist is an easy target.

I remember the petrol crisis last time round, I was working in construction at the time and went through 3 pool cars as along with colleagues we car shared until there was little else to do but stay at home (which sadly came far later than we had envisioned). The longest I queued for petrol was 3 hours.

I even know people who are resorting to companies like this http://www.petroldirect.com
who are selling petrol over the internet at 60 p per litre. An acquaintence of mine got 60 litres of super unleaded in plastic return to be reused bottles for the grand sum of £45.67 delivered to his door.

My LPG running friends are happy, but it's an expensive thing to convert your car to run on it, and guess what? There's no longer a Government subsidy incentive to do it. What happened to encouraging alternative fuels and forms of transport?

So, is this what we're going to be reduced to? Moonshine petrol from the interweb? I surely hope not, for one I don't have anywhere to store the stuff. Something's got to give and I really hope it's not us, the humble motorist.

Farewell

2005-09-09T20:00:00.000-07:00

Leonard John Kensell Setright

Driving gloves, hats, a Gandalf like professorial appearance, an overwhelming knowledge of all things automotive. Some of the things that spring to my mind of LJK Setright,one of the world's foremost and most distinguished motoring journalists who passed away this week on 7th September aged 74.

Regrettably I never met Mr Setright, as it is primarily through reading his writings over the years, ever since picking up an issue of 'Car' in the 1990's whilst studying Linguistics at College the seed was planted to record my motoring enthusiasm via written word.

He was far more than a motoring journalist, an erudite scholar, lawyer and musician; he had a style of writing that is so rare in motoring journalism and there was little, if anything to which he was not a learned authority.

I am certain he will be greatly missed.

Interview with LJK Setright: Helen Gordon

Obiturary taken from the Car Connection "He came to prominence in the field of cars with the mold-breaking British magazine Car in the 1960's. His articles appeared under the by-line of L.J.K. Setright, and it was only later in his life that Leonard John Kensell Setright dropped the initials in favor of his given name.

Setright's erudite and sometimes wordy style fitted in well with the style of Car, which at the time was unique in automobile journalism. His columns, road tests, and technical articles were a major element in the magazine's success. Car influenced automobile magazines across the world, and as the recognition of Car spread so did Setright's reputation.

Although he had not trained as an engineer, he was able to discuss technology with engineers at the highest levels in the industry, and his knowledge of tyre design made tyre industry executives hold him in awe.

In addition to his contributions to newspapers and magazines, Setright was the author of many books, including those on his preferred brand, the British Bristol. In conversation he was as informed, self-assured, and eloquent as he was on the page, but he was better behind the pen than behind the wheel, where he always showed a tendency to examine the outer limits of a car's performance with little respect for his passengers' peace of mind.

A strange combination of aloofness and good company, he will be missed by those who knew him and by the many more who knew him only through his writing. "

-Ian Norris

Born to be Mild?

2005-09-01T11:13:00.000-07:00

And so I've made my first foray and dipped my leather-shod toes into the motorcycling world proper. My little battle-scarred Yamaha was delivered to me under cover of darkness by a decidedly official and somewhat stereotypical heavily Essex accented, moustached, tattoo bedecked, bald, colossally tall but enthusiastically friendly biker delivery chap called Richard.

No-one could fit me in for a CBT over the Bank Holiday weekend, and the Girls Angel school is booked up days in advance, so I have spent the majority of the past week sat on the bike in my back garden starting it up and making the little single pot engine brum and sing for me before reluctantly switching it off and rather unceremoniously practising heaving it on and off the centre stand.

To make up for my lack of learner entitlement certificate I fulfilled my two-wheeled lust by going to purchase the rest of my gear. I began with a helmet, or 'lid' as my biker friends keeping telling me is the correct nomenclature. After getting over my initial sniggering upon the proclamation 'Sir, I need a shiny helmet!' upon entering the bike gear emporium, the seemingly erudite and rather good looking Kiwi sales chap spouted forth about the baffling array of multi-coloured headgear.

I have always been told to spend as much as you can possibly afford on a crash helmet, so decided against the £50 selection. I think this was a wise decision; as the sales chap gave me a quick practical lesson in cheaper plastic helmets. Although they meet the same basic safety requirements as the more expensive choices, they use far more materials to do so.

On the sales chaps' recommendation, I tried the plastic based helmet and felt as though my swan-like neck would shear clean off my shoulders with the merest hint of movement, there was so much weight. As there's not too much substance in this head of mine to begin with, the extra poundage felt extreme, this weight would certainly take a lot of time to get used to by which point I'd end up with a neck like an F1 driver, nay too fetching on a nubile young lady.

I swapped for the more expensive fibreglass composed model and noted the significant difference immediately, there was less pressure on my neck and the weight was a lot more bearable for my noggin. After too-ing and fro-ing between the various fibreglass models I opted for the aggressively named Suomy Gunfighter in a sparkly silver combo, as my choice of Belisha Beacon yellow was not available, I had been hankering for the luminous orange of the Roof Diversion helmet but this was ever so slightly too pricey for my rapidly emptying bank account, particularly as I had boots and gloves to procure.

It was then onto my local Hein Gerike store where I was intercepted by yet another erudite friendly Kiwi sales chap, who steered me to some reasonably comfy waterproof boots that fitted the bill nicely. Again I was dumbfounded by the vast selection to choose from and in the end came away with some Bulson Peak boots which boasts a reinforced steel shaft (again more sniggering ensued) which prevents your foot from bending the wrong way in the event of an impact, my boots also have protection at the ankle bone and shin, the latter was tested at length with my old hockey stick in my garden later that evening. I selected some suitably luscious smelling gloves with a reinforced palm, since if I do come off I'm most likely to put my hands out to break my fall, something both Kiwi sales chaps brought to my attention.

So now I’m kitted out. There is so much for me to learn and master. The common assumption is ‘well I can drive a car’, but how wrong I was to even ponder that fact. My impatience got the better of me and after drilling my number plate and affixing L plates - something I haven't sported on a vehicle for over 10 years; I took the bike to a small quiet private road this evening to practice slow starts, stopping and clutch control and promptly planted the both of us into an understanding neighbours’ fence. An important lesson I think.

I'm astounded that, and forgive me as I'm not that old just yet, but the youngsters or hood-rats as I tend to call them, on their whining scooters and baby race replicas just expecting to hop on and away they go, don't see what's coming, I’m surprised they manage to make it much past CBT day.

Up until now I've been preoccupied with getting my CBT done in the day, which is pretty reasonable, but if I have the slightest hesitation or falter I will not think twice about going back for more practice under the watchful eye of an expert.

T minus 1 day to go.

The washing line and laundry isn't deemed essential

to a successful motorcycling career

Fancy a chat?

2005-08-26T17:41:00.000-07:00

Want to tell me about something motoring related or an event that you think I'd be interested in? Maybe you just want to tell me a joke?

Either way, now you can, avert your eyes to the left hand side of my site click on the Email Muppet tab and drop me a line.

Pick Me!

2005-08-22T20:03:00.000-07:00

Recently the time spent with my old Saab 900 is decreasing, the requirement for a cavernous load space to fetch parts for broken VW’s, take musical equipment to gigs or fledgling rock bands to press launches is far greater than my ambling around and so my large marshmallow suspensioned Swede is an absent friend.

Therefore this past couple of weeks I have been forced to find an alternative, with the prospect of having to make an epic school holiday schlep fulfilling my role as the ‘young, eccentric aunt’ to my pre-pubescent niece and the paraphernalia associated with said hormone timebomb, I needed something a tad more practical than my Spider (much to the 11 year old’s dismay) and the MGB frankly would never make the 200 miles to my sisters’ house and the subsequent 70 miles to the Northern Welsh coast where we had chosen to spend a week on vacation.

I turned to the automotive pimp. The hire car centre.

The life of a hire car is a thankless existence. The public convenience of the automotive world, merely present to fulfil a need, a requirement; so long as they’re clean, smell ok and a look half decent – it’ll do.

It is an unwritten law in this country that ‘those who shall grace the driving seat of a hired vehicle must henceforth thrash the engine within an inch of it’s rev limiter and not give care or attention to kerbing hub cabs nor the interior and especially not spare the rubber of the tyres'.

Hire cars are used and abused by all who grace the driver’s seat. They’re the beasts of burden, carrying loads, relatives, separated partners and their pet fish to new abodes; taking belongings up and down the land. I think they’re great. I fought the compelling masochistic urge within me to sample the wares of the appropriately named ‘Hire a Banger’ after seeing one of their banger fleet hazard lights a-flashing on an M40 slip road recently and so managed to cram an immense amount of female unnecessary baggage into the teeniest almost new hire fleet shopping car I could find.

The Ford KA...stuff it!

A 1.1 engined, so basic opening windows are probably an optional extra, Ford Ka. It was devoid of CD player, it housed a cassette player, had wind up windows, fairly useless cubby holes and odd set within the carpet not particularly deep cup holders, my Tom Tom Satnav I installed for the week was probably worth more than the Ka.

It felt like something you could make with easy instruction from a Blue Peter presenter using washing up liquid bottles and sticky backed plastic with an adult to supervise battery connection and petrol usage. But for £99 unlimited mileage for a week’s hire and an engine that runs on the smell of an oily rag (with petrol at 92p per litre), I sure as hell wasn’t complaining.

Well I was actually. I didn’t get on with the dashboard, the centre console was too intrusive for a long legged thing like me and the arcing plastic of the dash itself was styling trying a bit too hard, all of which condescended the simplest of instrument panels. The glove box ‘pod’ which reminded me of the little orange plastic wrappers you get lunchbox size jaffa cakes in, refused to close despite gentle coercion and a heavy clout from my Mother, I was scared to press any harder for fear of breakage. The cloth trim and plastic backing to the seats was easy to clean – essential for any hire car, but the finish I found to be fairly shoddy with bits of unfinished cloth left hanging. Either this car had already been seriously abused by its casual driving inhabitants; or this particular hire Ka happened to be a Friday afternoon car.

It had a frugal little engine with a decent gear change and a fairly balanced ride given all my crap in the back. I’m sure that would change given a gust of wind or two, the long winding A roads were gobbled up quite pleasantly albeit with a hint of understeer but the hills and valleys of Snowdonia became Everest to the little Ka, sheep were progressing up roads quicker than I was at some points, the engine wailing in pain at the punishment of the merest hint of gradient. 0 – 60 seemed to take longer than a decent French manicure.

If you fancy a change from your everyday car and don’t have the money to buy a new one, why not take out a hire car for the day, you get to try something new and the car gets to go on a good old fashioned road trip. Overly affectionate toward inanimate objects? Who me? I decided to take the Ka to some interesting places as it doesn’t get out of the city much, so included a trip for the car with the shortest name, to a place with a rather long name.

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch and er..a Ka

In hindsight a Ka is best suited for town and city driving with the occasional motorway hop. It’s ideal for this and designed just so. I really didn’t think I’d like it and my Mother, upon calling her to tell her what I’d be collecting her in vehemently refused to travel in it. The little Ka won us over though, it’s a very functional little thing, great as a cheap hire car and just the sort of vehicle my Mother would need for popping to work and the shops, if I could persuade her back behind the wheel. But for me, I’ll probably be hunting down something a big larger, with 4 wheel drive and a dvd player to keep my niece amused should I make the same trip again.

Testing, Testing, One, Two

2005-08-21T20:21:00.000-07:00

So after a couple of weeks' radio silence whilst I've been on holiday sunning myself in far flung exotic locations (Wales), I'm back to my wittering with some exciting news. I have both my kidneys and other vital organs intact but have managed to finally procure a motorcycle!

As with most things I'm fond of; my little bike is far from shiny and has long since forgotten what it is to be new. Some might say it's rather rough round the edges, but quite frankly I love it.

My little Yamaha SR 125 is 12 years old so barely a teenager, the side panels don't quite match the tank and the seat is torn but has an MOT. I take delivery of it on Wednesday and plan to set to work improving upon it's slightly dishevelled appearance, but not too much.

I am undertaking my CBT this weekend and of course will divulge my exploits in full detail here. I am planning to use the services of a unique motorcycle training centre in West London, they wear pink tabards rather than the usual yellow and their classes are made up entirely of ladies. Girls Angels offers training by women, for women, so if like me you don't want to be laughed at by a load of scooter-mad 17 year old pimply boys, this is the place to go. I'm really rather looking forward to it.

So, if you see a 5ft 7 wobbly blonde on a learner bike in the West London area this Saturday please be gentle with me. I'm the one in the pink tabard.

To be continued....

'Back' in Business

2005-08-02T15:42:00.000-07:00

Your back is a precious thing you take for granted. But when it goes, my god do you know about it.

There has been some silence on the Muppet keyboard the past few days as my recurring back problem meant an inability to sit for long periods at my laptop.

I squished my spine a few years ago when I used to compete in 3 day event horse trials, it was not, as some of my friends have suggested, the fact that I'm old and going rusty through lack of use. I came off my horse at a static cross country jump and lets just say it hurt alot. I few years later I had a car crash which exacerbated the problem so now I have a dodgy back which decides every now and then to make my life a misery, but my osteopath's life joyful.

So a few days of sheer agony (with no nursemaid, offers gratefully accepted), walking like the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz and driving in very very flat shoes. My spine has been manipulated (read: cracked within an inch of its life) by my osteopath and I'm on the road to recovery...until next time.

It's not often I write anything overtly personal like this but I think it's important. The number of back related absences from work are on the increase and it's the most common form of work related illness. I hurt mine participating in a nutty high speed sport, but even just sat reading this, are you slouching? Also in your car you have to consider posture and ergonomics. This is something I'm going to explore in more detail but not all cars have your bog standard wheel, driving seat, pedal alignment. I had to sell a Seat I used to own and enjoyed driving because long journeys were crippling.

So, a plea from a mobile Muppet, as well as undertaking some research of my own, I'd like to know if you have any information about motoring ergononmics, or even just experiences of car-comfort. If you've anything of interest leave me a commment.

On Yer Bike Mate

2005-07-26T22:00:00.000-07:00

A few months back I found myself at Brooklands Motor Museum. Despite its name, I was in a room filled with all things pedal powered. As I made my way past Bone Shakers and Penny Farthings, a flash of yellow caught my eye and suddenly I was transported back to being 6 years old zipping along on my blue and yellow Raleigh Striker. It amazed me that already something from my childhood was a museum exhibit.

my Raleigh Striker (nice dress)

After the Striker, I had a BMX and then my Dad actually made me a bicycle, he shot blasted the frame and painted it with the bright yellow paint that was used for the inside of aeroplane engines, no surprise I turned out the way I did really. It was a sturdy thing, and was guaranteed never to rust; I think its still knocking around somewhere refusing to die. It would be an understatement to say bicycles remind me of my childhood, I spent most of the time on mine.

Fast forward 19 years and I think the last time I was on a bicycle was in the New Forest on holiday 5 years ago. I don’t even own one anymore. I almost bought a tandem last year, but that was meant for my Dad and stepmother, they’re tandem kind of people, I still might get them one. I’ve hankered after a Brompton folding bike for some time as I think this would be most useful for pootling around from outer city car parks, up to the shops or in the cycle routes through Burnham Beeches, the Thames pathway or Windsor Great Park. But yet they are astoundingly expensive for a tiny wheeled bike that would spend 90% of its life in the boot of my car. It’s a sad fact that the next bike I buy will involve an accelerator and clutch attached to its handlebars, and a pounding engine between my legs.

My bicycle repertoire has, however been widened slightly of late. My attention was drawn to a couple planning an epic cycle ride for charity, Nicolei Zuraw and Sedef Imer otherwise known as Nuts on Bents. They are planning to use recumbent bicycles to cycle from London to Sydney. That’s Sydney, Australia, land of Neighbours, odd manners, Rolf Harris and the Holden Monaro.

Recumbent bicycle for the uninitiated

“Recumbent bikes have a laid-back riding position, with you reclining in a padded seat instead of sitting on a saddle. Your feet are higher up as well. Recumbents are more comfortable than standard (“upright”) bikes, because there is no strain on you neck, back or wrists. You also have more of your body in contact with the bike, so painful pressure points are reduced. Recumbents are also faster - your legs are in front of you instead of below you, so the aerodynamics are better. Recumbents are at least 30% faster than standard bikes, and can be a lot more - the current speed record on the flat is over 80mph! (http://www.whycycle.co.uk/recumbents.htm)”

Nic & Sedef, they must be a few spokes short of a wheel surely? The distance to travel is a staggering 17,000miles, across 3 continents, 15 countries and through 11 time zones. The only other journey which inspired me as much as the Nuts on Bents trip was the recent ‘Long Way Round’ expedition undertaken by Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman (http://www.longwayround.com/) a trip by motorcycle from London to New York in aid of Unicef, CHAS and Macmillan Cancer Relief.

Charley & Ewan: they took the long way round

It’s truly mind altering, an amazing journey coupled with sheer generosity. I’d sincerely love to be able to undertake such a trip, but the trappings of suburban life and the fact I’m such a wuss prevail. Maybe a gentle car journey from London to Milan in a nice classic vehicle might be more my bag, I’m thinking of doing something like that for classic convertibles. However with the task in hand I can assist by pledging money to the cause, something I do without question, and I urge you to do the same. I find it beyond belief that some people needed gentle menacing for their money promised so readily (you know who you are, shame on you very naughty man). Without such exploits by the likes of Nuts on Bents and the Long Way Round, charities would go unnoticed and unsupported.

Nic & Sedef an inspriational couple

I met with Nicolei Zuraw, one half of the team for a coffee today, he’s not mad, in fact he’s a fellow petrolhead of sorts, drives a fabulously nutty TVR no less and has owned a whole host of Alfas, Land Rovers and such. It’s astonishing that he and his partner, Sedef are self-funding this trip, sure they’ve got some sponsorship, but giving their time, physical effort and teamwork is simply inspiring.

It’s an epic journey Nic and Sedef are about to undertake, they’re hoping to raise £50,000 for BBC Children in Need and Cancer Research UK.

There are a few things in life I’ve regretted, not finishing my pilots licence yet, not being forthright enough to ask someone out, wearing that orange miniskirt, but some of these things you can change. Go ahead, face that challenge, grab the bull by the horns and do something worthwhile. Nic and Sedaf are doing something worthwhile and I for one will watch their progress closely. Good luck chaps!

For more information about Nic & Sedef's trip and how to sponsor them visit:
http://www.nutsonbents.com

Sydney here they come!

What do you think?

2005-07-24T22:31:00.000-07:00

Helping a friend choose a new car is a bit like commenting on her latest suitor. If all goes well and they get on famously, then you too are flavour of the month and your friend is indebted with gratitude. If you express disappointment and yet she still goes ahead and buys the car, but the thing turns out to be a complete jalopy then you also remain flavour of the month and your friend promises to listen to you in future as of course, you were completely right all along. However if you express dismay at her choice and infer all the wheels will fall off and her warranty is fit only for lining the cat litter box and the car transpires to be the most reliable versatile mode of transport your friend has ever owned. Then you’re in trouble.

I often try to avoid helping a friend choose a car for this very reason, but it's difficult to say no, "it’s good practice for when someone wants to pay you for your opinion" they argue, so inevitably my good nature and curiosity prevail and it’s off to the showroom.

The job of providing a friend with a sounding board for a new car purchase is made considerably easier if said mate is a bit of a petrolhead. By far one of the best decisions I ever made was to persuade a procrastinating Technology Manager friend to buy an Alfa 147. He agonised over it for more than three weeks, taking numerous trips to the showroom, taking digital photos from every conceivable angle, reading every single roadtest he could find. All the while I kept the pressure on "you know you want it". He succumbed and they’ve been together for two very happy years. He was, of course always going to buy it, he only really needed ‘approval’. I even think it might have improved his image with the ladies.

Some friends can enjoy cars but don’t really see them as essential. One of my friends is a very successful finance manager, she’s been driving a 1993 Nissan Micra slowly for 5 years and she’s only just flirting with the idea of a new car. She’s looking at a Toyota Prius for the environmental benefits or a Mazda 6 because she likes the look of it as she doesn’t like German or French cars she wouldn’t even entertain going to see any. Her husband on the other hand has three cars, one of which is a Ferrari. Takes all sorts.

The task of helping a friend buy a new car can be substantially more difficult if your friend really doesn’t care what the car looks like or how it performs, they don’t even care what manufacturer, country of origin or colour. This is like trying to power London with a bicycle and a dynamo.

My mate Nat is a doctor, she is American, and one of my oldest friends, we’ve shared exam results, stories of first kisses and she was there to provide chocolate, tea and probably something like Tia Maria when I had my first heartbreak. I can go months without seeing her and yet we are so familiar with one another’s company we will still pick up the same conversation as if it were yesterday. Despite all this history, when Nat called me to say she wanted to buy a car as she was moving jobs from London to Manchester, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and the colour drain from my face.

My memory drifted and I remembered when Nat called me one winter’s night several years’ back to help her find Great Fosters Hotel in Surrey to sample the restaurant. She was driving an ancient white and rust Ford Fiesta, which had the Stars and Stripes fluttering from one of the air vents. It was also the first time I’d ever been a passenger in the car with Nat - it was also the last. The darkened Surrey lanes became akin to driving the Nurburgring blindfold when Nat was at the wheel. Unfortunately she wasn’t the greatest driver but did get 10/10 for effort and enthused in-car commentary. Following that I heard tales of Nat trying to change station on a shower radio she had placed on the passenger seat whilst smoking a Marlboro Light driving in a contraflow in the snow; because her radio in the Fiesta had given up hope. I am sure she has improved since then. No I’m certain she has.

I knew Nat wanted a small, economical car that wasn’t too fussy, so began to do my homework. I presented a shortlist of candidates, the Toyota Yaris, Fiat Panda, Renault Clio, Honda Jazz (it came in pink). Nat had other ideas and went off with another friend of hers, stopping at the first dealership they saw that had small city cars. I was beginning to fall even at the first hurdle. I pleaded with her that the car she was looking at was whiney and had poor road handling and would take 800 years to get to 60mph, but she retorted it had free insurance, a warranty and easy finance, it was an uphill struggle.

We decided to battle it out the only way we knew how, an age old tried and tested method, I made Italian food, and Nat brought the wine. Several glasses of white burgundy later the criteria had been defined. Cheap to run, small enough for city use but decent enough for the occasional motorway jaunt, free insurance, easy finance, decent warranty and the option to give it back after 3 years. Simple enough. By the third bottle of wine, the discussion had changed. Did Nat really need a car? She worked long hours, her new job was within walking distance and near very good tram links in Manchester, if she was visiting friends she’d take the train so she could travel with a hangover or write notes without worrying about fellow travellers. She was also a cheap taxi ride or train journey away from Manchester airport for when she travelled home. We finished the wine, switched to whisky and made our conclusion.

Nat didn’t really need a car and we’re still friends.

Shrewd...or Prude?

2005-07-18T20:30:00.000-07:00

The weather is glorious, there are hosepipe bans, Mr Whippy is making a killing with his 99 Flake cones, the sound of flip flops and subsequent tripping over fills the air, sales of band-aids to ease ailing blistered feet are at fever pitch. It's a British Summer and my summer loving latin car is STILL in the workshop.

But as I drive along, enviously coveting Porsche Boxsters, Saab 93's, Mazda MX5's, and Morris Minor convertibles; I find myself getting increasingly irate. What is happening to open top driving in this country?

It would appear that the majority of these cars have obviously come out of the factory with malfunctioning hoods, possibly electrickery gremlins, stiff manual hood catches perhaps? A sudden demise in upper body strength? Maybe not, but this is what I'm being led to believe. 90% of all convertibles I saw today and each and every day HAVE GOT THEIR HOODS UP!

Come on you prudish Brits - get your tops off! Show a bit of flesh, be proud of your bald patches, blonde tresses or greying hair and flaunt that middle aged spread, play your stereo as loud as you like and sing along to ELO. Don't hide it beneath your canvas and mohair automotive parasols.

Hold on a second, what sort of brainwashed car nut am I? Not all convertibles are driven by middle aged blokes or blonde totty. They're being increasingly driven by, well people like me actually. Fairly normal folk who enjoy the wind in their hair, the sound of their engine, and you never really appreciate it until you've experienced it; the smell of the surrounding countryside. I know what you're thinking, the smell of catalytic converters on the M4, well no, you'd be surprised but there's one spot as I'm heading out of London where I get the most amazing floral aroma, it could be the expellations of a perfume factory for all I know, but it's wonderful. And I don't give two hoots about the upper echelons of motoring journalism wittering on about scuttle shake, floppy handling and losing some of the car's stability - it's had it's roof cut off for Pete's sake! Or in my case, it just is like that, it's a convertible, I like driving it and I've made my bed, I intend to lie in it (when it gets out of the garage).

So returning to my shielded black-top riding companions, why on earth do they buy cars with convertible roofs? Even the latest trend for folding 'tin-tops', they're just as bad, preferring to switch on the a/c than reach for the SPF.

Is it self consciousness? Hardly, I know that sometimes as I drive along I look as if I'm lodging some blackbirds in my barnet from the wind whipping and my face like a smacked bottom, but hey that's my choice, I bought the car, I pay the hair styling consequences and the face thing? Why it's a healthy outdoors English Rose glow. Who needs MAC or Clinique when you have wind-rouge?

Maybe it's snobbery? The fact that they have the choice, is that it? Half of them have wind breaks to prevent un-flattering un-willing automotive barnet restyling anyway. Frankly I'm not impressed with weekend only hair flappers.

Therefore I propose my first Motor Muppet campaign. The Great British Get your Top Off Campaign.

When you see a convertible in decent weather with it's roof up, I emplore that you politely enquire as to the wellbeing of the roof functionality, and if it's fine, then sternly advise they get their top off, assisting if they obviously are unsure of how it works, I'm sure some may even be shocked to discover that the material actually retracts (this is another theory I have - they think the roof is static and meant to look like that).

The future of British open-top motoring is in your hands my reader, good luck chaps.

Let it all hang out, some things look so much better topless

Motor Muppet....also seen on

2005-07-14T20:00:00.000-07:00

Is it wise to want to be on tv?

For me it was an easy decision, who wouldn't?! It was more a question of whether someone would actually let me. Unfortunately I am one of those people who are a little, well clumsy. Case in point, just recently I found myself wandering across the street between my office buildings when I was stopped by two young ladies. They'd helpfully come over to inform me that I had my ever so stylish gypsy skirt tucked into my knickers. If I can hardly dress myself how could I compose a coherent sentence with a camera lens stuck in my mush?

Cast your mind back to December last year, when the snow was so bad that a 20 minute car journey took 3 hours and because as we're British, we were completely unprepared for such prevailing weather systems. Because of this I was spending more time than usual with my nose in the automotive presses and my eyes fell upon an article about an independent production company looking for people who liked cars to film. I responded and was told more about the project.

Car Nation, a series of three, one hour long documentaries about car culture in Britain. Each episode was to be themed and compiled by a different Director. An application form and screen test later and I was somewhat surprisingly in the filming schedule.

I'm fairly familiar with what goes on in programme making, so knew a little of what to expect. I didn't however expect a camera with a lens the size of my head, which is what I got.

Filming took place sporadically over a period of four months. In that time I sold a car, for the knock down price of £75 which was so rusty, as the purchaser came to take it away, the towing hook broke away. Made for excellent filming material, as did the evening I spent searching for a replacement on eBay. Several spelling mistakes and completely inappropriate vehicles later and I bought my fairly tidy, dependable Saab 900 for the princely sum of £750.

Sure enough the subsequent Saab collection was also 'good tv' as I discovered that the car was actually pretty good and not a complete basket case. The highlight for me however, was two in-car sessions as I drove my daily commute into London, my little Spider rigged up with more cameras than the M4 elevated section, I was interviewed along the route and discussed a variety of motoring issues. It'll probably be the closest I get to fulfilling my career ambitions and it gave me the bug even more.

As with most television much of what was filmed ended up on the cutting room floor. On reflection I'm pretty glad it did, my multi coloured winter jumpers remain a embarrassment only to those unfortunate enough to catch me out walking the Buckinghamshire countryside on a chilly Sunday morning

The first episode of Car Nation was shown on BBC 2 two weeks ago. I looked at my watch and found only twenty minutes had passed. The programme was dragging, it was not what I had been expecting. The resultant reviews from friends were somewhat disheartening and I found myself dreading Sunday 10th July as this would be when the second episode aired and my contributions would be viewed.

I settled to watch on Sunday, ten minutes passed and I was laughing, time was moving on, the people were engaging, oddball and amusing with some interesting points to make. I was also surprised at my own contributions. Pleasantly surprised.

I am very pleased with the way in which I was portrayed, Kevin and Steve who I worked with were fantastic, and I would almost certainly do it again given the opportunity, what a great way to make a living, Jeremy Clarkson et al have the right idea.

The final episode of Car Nation airs this Sunday and I for one will be watching. It was never meant to be a series about cars, but more an insight into the people behind the wheel, people we can nod knowingly at and say 'my mate Phil is just like that'. Everyday people.

And yes, my muppet clumsiness reared it's head once again. Mid way through my monologue about the benefits of commuting by car in preference to public transport, I made a statement that 'my car only smells of me' and I can listen to what I like on my stereo rather than 'a tinny rendition of Morning has broken on someone's iPod'. Morning has broken? Who on earth listens to that on their iPod?

Some things will never change.

Subaru's in the Park

2005-07-09T22:00:00.000-07:00

Life has been a tad stressful of late for Muppet, so when a friend called me last weekend with an invitation of a picnic in the countryside and a Sunday drive, I jumped at the chance. Idyllic scenery, fine food and a biff about the country lanes. Well, no, actually, that was not quite what he had in mind. I found myself en route in a tastefully modified Subaru Impreza WRX to the interestingly titled ‘Southern Big One’ the Subaru Impreza Drivers’ Club’s first show in the southern counties. The venue was Beale Park, near Reading.

every woman should have a little black number

Impreza-ive

not quite my idea of a picnic

There are roughly 6 different models of Impreza. Some bought direct from main dealers, others being lovingly imported. In unmodified form, the Impreza varies from the 2.0 GX model, which kicks out 125bhp, with 136 lb/ft of torque, it has a maximum speed of 119 mph and finds 0-60 in 9.8 secs. Compared with the top of the range turbo powered Impreza 2.0 WRX STi which has an impressive 265bhp with 253 lb/ft torque, a top speed of 151mph and 0-60 time of 5.2 secs. STi are Subaru Tecnica International (the motor sports division of Subaru), and it does occur to me that at times motor manufacturers really don’t think too much when they add acronym badges to their cars…

think before you acroynm

The modified Impreza’s in their myriad of varied specifications squeeze out more power and higher top speeds be they for road, track or as nature intended, rally use. And the owners are like the possessed in their mission to tweak these 4 door saloon cars within in an inch of their lives.

can you tell what it is yet?

The name Subaru is not the name of the owner of the company; disappointingly there is no Mr Subaru. It is in fact a direct translation of the name of a 7 star cluster Pleiades which is found in the Taurus constellation, as seen on the marque’s badge. Ah but there’s only 6 stars madame muppet I hear you cry, and you’d be perfectly correct. There are only 6 because it is said that the 7th star is barely visible to the naked eye, so quite rightly Subaru don’t show it on their cars.

So, the Southern Big One. The aim, I was told, was to beat the Northern equivalent’s attendance figures of 500 Scooby’s. This is another Subaru ‘thing’ , the nickname for the cars, “Scooby”, as in the cartoon character Scooby Doo, which is why you’ll see many of these cars sporting Scooby Doo plush cuddlies of various size. It’s thought to have emerged via rhyming slang ‘Subaru – Scooby Doo’. On the other side of the coin in Australia the nickname is Rex as the turbo is called WRX, which figures I suppose.

Scooby and er Scooby

Picture the scene, a balmy English summer’s day, a meadow filled with Impreza’s of their various shapes and sizes.

have any one you like, so long as it's blue

I honestly had to look very very hard because other than colour it was increasingly difficult to tell them apart. Granted the majority of modifications was probably lurking hidden under the bonnet or in the tell-tale ride height indicating lowered suspension.

spot the difference

After a couple of hours intensive study and with the aid of my friends’ extensive knowledge, I actually began to notice the differences between models. The original ‘classic’ style, the ‘new age’ controversial ‘bug eyed’ models, which some had had changed before they even left the showrooms and the latest models with smoother looking headlamps. Add to that the trends I noticed. Bonnet air intakes of various designs, rear spoilers of varying sizes, surely there’s a joke in there somewhere? Some of them were so large I expected to be taking tea off them later in the day. But the thing for me were the exhausts. Shiny, varying in note, but most of all diameter. There were some of the hugest exhaust pipes I had ever seen. Small children and family pets could be lost in there and no one would know until they shot out when the car was started.

a cookie cutter? or an exhaust?

Many in attendance at the Southern Big One were from the Essex chapter of the SIDC, which to me seems a fitting habitat for some of these modified Japanese motors. The camaraderie of these members was quite impressive, particularly when visitors were told that one car which I was really quite eager on seeing in action, was ‘not quite working, come back later’. It was alleged that this car belched flames from it’s arse, something I would be very impressed with, I’d even given serious thought to buying some Cumberland’s especially for the occasion. I was saddened, however when the sign was reversed and alas I would not be witness to the flame throwing car today.

but it doesn't

To lighten the mood my friends took me to the nearby wildlife centre which is housed at Beale Park, home to some fascinating playful Meerkats and it did really cheer me up, as in true Muppet fashion I found a miniature steam engine to play with.

it got me hot, it got me steamy

On return to the WRX, the day took a turn for the better; a man from Southern Scoobies who looked as if he’d stepped out of an all-nighter came to inform my friend that his car had been judged ‘best new age’ in that section of the show. Given that he hadn’t really polished the car, nor was it a show car, the resultant smile on his face made me glad that I’d been there to witness the event.

These cars may not quite be my idea of beautiful, they may have hard suspension and give me slight whiplash on acceleration, but are big real Gran Tourismo toys on the road. When in the driver’s seat the high speed cornering ability is colossal, these things really stick to the tarmac.

With the sheer pleasure they give their owners and the dedication they get in return it is hugely admirable and definitely gets my seal of approval.

a proud owner

The word Subaru, if read backwards states "u r a bus". For more information about the Subaru Impreza Driver's Club events visit http://www.sidc.co.uk

essential Subaru equipment

Just one Bugatti...give it to me...

2005-07-04T21:00:00.000-07:00

If I had a mansion house surrounded by acres of the finest of England's green and pleasant land I think I would invite to the grounds a few hundred people with fantastic cars and motorcycles to race up my driveway. And I'd even open it up to the public to come along and see for themselves this bevvy of automotive beauty.

This 250 Ferrari GTO is valued at 7 million pounds!

That's exactly what Charles March, the current Earl of March has done every single year since 1993. His house is Goodwood House, synonymous with motor racing since 1936 when a private hill climb was staged through the park by the 9th Duke of Richmond who then opened the infamous Goodwood Motor Circuit in 1948. Racing continued at Goodwood well into the 1960s only halting because of the increasing burdens of safety. The Festival of Speed and it's sister event the Goodwood Revival are a must for anyone who adores the sound of an engine, the smells of wax polish, oil and fuel.

Couple of gorgeous Italian 'disco' dollies

I attended my first Festival of Speed last year. I was like a blind man being given back his sight, it was heaven. I saw cars that I had only ever read about and never thought I would ever see in my lifetime. From the most modern of Le Mans racers and F1 cars to the Bugattis of the 1930s, each and every one is paraded before you, like a motoring sushi bar and you're completely spoiled for choice. The Festival of Speed is much more than a mere hill climb, it is the biggest and most diverse celebration of the history of motor sport in it's various forms. Maddened crazed wildebeeste couldn't prevent me from going back this year.

Magnificent Mercedes

How clean is your engine?

You wouldn't see this in Sainsbury's car park

However wonderful it is to see these vehicles in action with the vast array of well known personalities behind the wheel. Far and beyond this and what makes the Festival of Speed the best motoring event in the country for me is the fact that you can get unrestricted access to get up close to the cars and see them for yourself. This year I spent a good 15 minutes with my head in various orifices of the Bugatti T35, one of my all time favourite vehicles, something that I never thought I'd have the opportunity to do. I now have an ambitious daydream to take a T35 up the hill at the Festival of Speed, so Nick Mason if you ever find yourself reading this; I really like your Bugatti and I'd look after her.

Just one Bugatti, give it to me....

There is only thing I would change about the Fesitval next year and that is to ensure I go for the weekend instead of just one day, oh and remember to take my picnic out of the boot of the car!

Penelope Pit Stop's car attracted lots of little girls...

MG 4 ME

2005-06-28T23:30:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-27T13:30:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-06-19T18:45:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-17T13:30:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-11T14:00:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-06T13:00:00.000-07:00

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.

The End of an Era

2005-05-31T09:00:00.000-07:00

I don't usually post anything too personal but today is a bit different. It marks the end of 3 years of travelling by car to work.

Please take a moment of your time today to reflect upon the fact that it is the last official day Muppet parks the Spider at work. Transport for London here I come (I've not saved enough for the bike yet) be gentle with me.

Eastern [engine] Bloc

2005-05-25T23:00:00.000-07:00

The Czech Republic. Capital city Prague.

It is home to the imaginatively named Prague Castle, the largest ancient castle in the world, its architecture famously haunted Franz Kafka and stole screen time from Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. TV’s show a cartoon about a mole called ‘The Mole’, you can consume enough Absinthe to make you a bit do-lally and some of the best beer you’ll ever have; snaffle rabbit stew; pay respects at Kafka’s final resting place; frown at a TV tower adorned with scary babies crawling skywards and listen to some Mahler.

But it is not such delights to which tourists flock from miles around to part with their hard earned pennies that I wish to bring your attention. For it is another wretched beast from this hinterland that has captivated my imagination; sour of face and sharp of tail, later incarnations were ridiculed by the masses and belched an acrid poison in defiance.

The Skoda.

Perhaps it is somewhat ironic that the name Skoda means ‘pity’ in the Czech language, you think someone might have had some inkling as to what the future had in store?

Some of the best jokes I told at school were Skoda jokes. Here’s a selection of my favourites:

Q: “what do you call a skoda convertible?”
A: “a skip”

Q: “why do Skodas have a heated rear windscreen?”
A: “to keep your hands warm whilst you push it”

“I’ve just bought the new 16 valve Skoda ...4 in the engine, 12 in the radio!”

And my personal favourite:

Q: “What's the difference between getting out of a Skoda and getting out of a sheep?”
A: “You don't get so embarrassed if someone sees you getting out of a sheep.”

Obviously since Volkswagen became owners in 1991 Skoda’s fortunes have been on the upturn. This year Skoda celebrates it’s centenary so I decided to lavish some attention on the little cars.

Skoda started life as somewhat of a luxury car maker (no giggling at the back), producing their first car ‘Voiturette Laurin & Klement A’ in 1905, prior to that they made bicycles and then motorcycles, struggling through both World Wars when much of their production went towards the war effort; Skoda continued to succeed producing motor ploughs which helped keep the firm afloat.

Fast forward a few decades and the Skoda I know produced some oddities, the Trekka for example, looked like a Land Rover after a few too many sherberts down the Dog and Duck and the 1980s car to which all those jokes became synonymous, the Favorit, which was surprisingly perhaps, designed by an Italian; Nucio Bertone.

Skoda has been able to shake off the ghosts of their previous years, they are no longer the recipient of jokes and sniggers, and are emerging towards the top end of customer satisfaction polls; the Fabia has just recently been awarded ‘What Car?’ best supermini for the third consecutive year. And in motorsport they are hugely successful rally car manufacturers.

The new found integrity in the brand is on the upturn. It’s official we have to find a new joker in the automotive pack.

This particular Skoda however is old school, it’s a 1962 Felicia, and has captivated my imagination. With more than a nod to the ‘57 Chevy with it’s Americana style cues, it is a car I’ve never seen ‘in the flesh’. In recent years Skoda have revisited the Felicia name but the two cars could not be further apart, sharing merely a name.

It's a Skoda...honest

I was given a photograph, taken specifically for me by friends on a recent visit to Prague. It was the source of much amusement to play ‘guess what it is’ with me for about ½ hour until the tables turned and I started asking questions about the upholstery and what the engine sounded like.

crocodile?...nope still a Skoda

check out those fins...where's this crocodile?

This little Felicia probably sounds terrible it has a 1089cc engine with a top speed of approx 128 km/h, they were first produced in 1959 and ceased in 1964 and also came in coupe variant. A sum total of 14863 were manufactured which would explain why I’ve never set my peepers on one before.

But now I want to go and see it, in the same way I want to see lions and tigers in the zoo; to look at; smell; listen to and maybe even get close enough to touch - but you wouldn’t actually want to own one and have it sat outside your house.

So now I’m looking for a valid excuse to go to Prague for the sole purpose of partaking in the questionably named ‘Crocodile Dundee’ tour, which the Felicia is the means of transport around the sights of the city. I really need to see for myself what the Skoda can do, and to get to the bottom of the tour title.

I can’t sleep just thinking about it.

Blue lights & dust carts

2005-05-19T14:00:00.000-07:00

I have some friends who work in the medical profession, they're quite a raucous bunch who even with all their idiosyncrasies and particularly those with a strange habit of falling asleep on nights out; are right up there at the top of my list of truly outstanding human beings. Their sheer dedication, focus and ability to face whatever is put before them is truly awe inspiring.

And to think should my life have taken a slightly differing path - I could've been one of them.

However, it was my Dad who helped me out on that one. I was showing an interest in becoming a nurse, I even had a uniform complete with flat shoes and opaque tights which I seldom took off...pity I don't still have it really. One weekend Dad took me to Frenchay hospital as they had an exhibition of 'real-life' staged displays of hospital life which would help me grasp what I could face should I take this career path. I was brimming with excitement at the prospect of absorbing the atmosphere, seeing dramas unfold before me and mingling with like minded souls in sensible shoes. But it was not to be. One look at the mock up of an operation and I turned on my heel and high-tailed it out of the place with a distinct feeling of nausea, tears pricking at my eyes. But then I was only 7 years old.

Twenty years on, I can appreciate that I was able to have the experience and take solace in the fact I discovered early that I would make a truly rubbish nurse. However, just recently my thoughts have been turned in that direction once again.

My friend Brian is a paramedic and has been for a good many years. He's a highly trained professional and is sometimes first to attend emergency calls in his rapid response car. And he gets to drive an ambulance, with lights... and a siren and everything...um did I mention the lights?

I want to drive an ambulance.

It actually doesn't stop there, the ambulance was just the beginning, I've seemingly opened a Pandora's box of vehicles which up until now a desire for which has been hidden away in the back of my mind. Fire engines are high on the list, but not police cars, this confused the issue as I wasn't entirely sure if it was a speed-related longing or if I had a deep seated desire for a blue flashing light and wailing siren. So I delved deeper and pondered on it some more.

It got much, much worse. I have since come up with a definitive list of vehicles that make me react like a 6 year old boy:

Fire engine - lights & siren obligatory;
Ambulance - see above;
Tower crane transporter down the M6 - in rush hour;
One of those lorries which appear to have an entire house as their payload;
A lorry towing a train/part of a plane;
Dumper truck - complete with debris to dump over the side of a preferably huge cavernous ravine;
A tank - with a gun turret that I can turn and I wouldn't say no to some practice shots;
Dust cart - with rubbish to chuck in the back so I could press the button to send it through to the holding area like spoon feeding a mechanical giant.

I know that this longing is for the sheer unadulterated, juvenile, 'look at me I'm a complete girl driving this!' kick of it. Imagine the thrill of driving at 25mph up the M6 with a train in your rearview mirror! The satisfaction of moving huge masses of earth or rubble and disposing of it into a huge pit! Absolutely fantastic.

And I think I know where this seed was first planted, a couple of months ago my local village had a fete at which the local fire station brought along one of their engines; they let me sit in it with all the other kids but it was me who turned on the siren, oddly they weren't as willing when I asked to see their hose, mustn't have had enough water. Around the same time I was looking for a sensible car, mostly on eBay and as usual I turned to one of my favourite hobbies and looked at some entirely innappropriate cars too. It was whilst looking at Land Rovers I came across an old converted Defender which was a mobile field hospital. It was fantastic had stretchers too - the full military spec and if the money was right, I actually think I might have bought it.

So now, I'm ignoring the advice of others about 'never meeting your heroes' and 'keep your dreams just that' and am actively seeking to live out these fantasies - well to be honest I'd be happy with just one!

Amanda aged 27 1/2

Bashful road signs

2005-05-14T09:30:00.000-07:00

There’s something odd taking place on one of my regular commutes to work. Just recently some new signs have been erected but they do seem to be a little bashful. They're hiding under bags.

From their size and shape they show signs (ahem) of being new speed limit indicators. But for the life of me I can’t imagine why they’re hiding under black plastic bags.

Surely the Highways Agency haven't begun fly tipping disused roadsigns? Or have these signs got something to be ashamed of? What shameful exploits could have possibly occurred to cause such boring signs to hide in disgrace? Have they had the road sign equivalent of botox gone wrong? Have they been involved in a sordid tryst with the M25 electronic gantries? Or are they merely playing hide and seek with some traffic cones? I’m surprised that they’re not drooping slightly as they hang their heads in shame at the almost inevitable truth that these signs are in fact about to impose an unnecessary evil upon the unknowing commuting public – a reduction in speed limit.

If you travel the London bound stretch of the A40 past Polish War Memorial on a weekday morning you’d be very lucky to get into 3rd never mind 5th gear. I thank my lucky stars on the rare occassion this happens, it's usually followed by an extraordinarily cheerful day. But the reality is usually that the sheer number of cars prevents speeds little over 30mph, so is a reduction entirely necessary?

I’ve also discovered that this particular stretch of road, unlike it's parrallel sister the M4, is below the national average when it comes to accidents and has very little pedestrian activity. All in all a pretty safe, reliable bit of black top, albeit at a rather sedentary pace.

There has been very little in the way of publicity to indicate the limit is about to be changed. I really would be unsurprised if shortly after the signs are unveiled and enforceable that they are accompanied by that shiny unequivocally upstanding pillar of society; Mr Speed Camera esq. Rising up over all it purveys, flashing to catch the early morning bleary eyed sign-ignorant motorist. Or a hand held gun, little difference both would have the same consequence.

This scenario happened on a short local road near me a couple of years ago. The speed was changed literally overnight from 40mph to 30mph with no forewarning. Now I didn’t have a problem with this as the road separated a housing estate with a large local park, so was used by many children, joggers, dog walkers and such. The reduction was a genuine safety concern. In the first four weeks following the reduction there was an almost hysterical amount of speeding tickets issued as a result of the new speed camera installation and regular police patrols.

But surely it would be the motorists’ fault for exceeding the speed limit they deserve to be punished? Fines are a consequence of speeding not of cameras - aren't they? I’m actually not so sure. Can you honestly admit to paying 100% attention whilst driving every single journey you take? You could be travelling in the ligitimate belief that you are adhering to the speed limit. Interesting thought.

The cynicism in me would lead me to believe it’s an easy way to earn revenue, or a motoring ‘stealth tax’. The Association of British Drivers www.abd.org.uk would probably suggest this use of cameras and restriction is to enforce a congestion reduction scheme and I have to say I think there’s a traffic enforcer somewhere nudging me in the back of my mind winking knowingly in answer to that theory.

If you’re brutally honest, if you travel along the same road every single day – do you pay attention to the signs or have they just become part of your peripheral vision? For the most part with me, I think this could be true. Everyday signs are something you know are there but are a constant, mostly static and unchanging so you don’t really bother giving much attention to them. It’s almost certainly because I’m so curious that I noted the new incognito signs, therefore when they’re in force, will regular users actually notice the speed limit has changed?

I have been told that the A40 was part of the West London speed camera demonstration project, which analysed changes in rate of accidents and casualties over a 36 month period and was a catalyst for the increase in camera erections. From my interpretation of the statistics it does actually appear that there was roughly an 8% reduction in accidents due to the presence of the camera. Which is of course a good thing and I would actively encourage ongoing studies of traffic flow and external influences, even if the findings do make for excellent bedtime reading. But my argument is; that where there is little opportunity to actually speed due to high levels of congestion, is it really necessary to reduce the limit and enforce it with a camera?

There has been some argument for variable speed limits throughout the 24-hour period on the main London commuter routes to reflect the levels of congestion, with higher speeds allowable when there’s very little traffic, as seen on an M25 near you. I think this would be an interesting and beneficial addition, but high costs keep this a mere pipedream.

I await the unveiling of my bashful road signs and maybe I’ll be proved wrong and they won’t be reducing the speed but messages of cheer for the commuter weary traveller. But I fear my journey time is just about to be increased.

Thundersprinting-tastic

2005-05-09T23:00:00.000-07:00

Take one Motor Muppet; a car park; some straw bales and several hundred men in leather. Toss together liberally with equal parts of Northern hospitality and bikes, lots and lots of throaty growling gorgeous vintage motorbikes and you come up with the biggest free motorcycle sporting event in the country.

Once a year the Thundersprint turns the humble Cheshire town of Northwich into a motorcycle enthusiast’s idea of heaven. The Thundersprint is a classic motorcycle sprinting competition. Motorcycle sprinting involves competitors racing against the clock to record the quickest time. The Thundersprint organiser Frank Melling explains further “Courses vary in length from 220 yards to over a mile. Classic sprints are different from modern sprints and drag racing because they are often far from straight. More traditional sprints are run by the National Sprint Association and the "Straightliners" organization. Their events are run in straight lines with the emphasis being purely on acceleration. By contrast, in many of the classic sprints the fastest, or most powerful, machine will not necessarily win. To succeed in a classic sprint, the bike needs to stop and handle too…This means that you don't have to spend a fortune on a super-duper replica Grand Prix racer”

The Thundersprint start line - begging for action

If you should happen upon a meeting with a regular Thundersprinter they will always talk about the atmosphere, which is actually quite difficult to describe. I think everyone has their own take on it but all are influenced in a very similar way, it’s quite bewitching. I’ve been for the past two events and both have been very different but the atmosphere and the enthusiasm of the crowd is unequalled by any other motorsport event I’ve attended.

preparations in the paddock

I popped my Thundersprint cherry last year. Being a lass who grew up a couple of miles down the road I’d heard many a story amidst the biking fraternity, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to try it out for myself - I did and was in motorcycle overload. Vintage Ducati’s, Norton’s a-plenty, hundreds of Hondas, Royal Enfields, Velocette’s, BSA’s, MV Augusta’s and Triumphs, something for everyone really. Admittedly I developed a fascination with seats or ‘saddles’ on the shiny metal horses, they ranged from big and comfy bum huggers to something not that dissimilar to the boneshaker I saw in Brooklands museum! And yes for reference I am firmly in the bum hugger camp.

Another aspect of the Thundersprint I really like is the fact the vast majority of competitors wear clothes akin to the era of their bikes, a bit like punters at the Goodwood Revival. Now that is a sight to behold, I am partial to a male bottom in leathers and well vintage leathers just seem to fit that bit better.

classic bikes and leathers in the cavalcade

is this a bike? well it has a bike engine - answers on a postcard

Motorcycle people are a very friendly welcoming bunch. At Northwich you’ll find no VIP enclosure, no laminate passes, no miles of barriers blocking your view, no pushy promoters - it’s open to all and all are part of the in your face action. You can very easily get to meet your biking idols from veteran biker Jim Redman, Top Gear’s James May to Olympic Gold medal winning rower James Cracknell.

Mr May & Muppet. James entered his 1979 Moto Guzzi California, not the quickest entrant but certainly very popular

I went alone last year and luckily I did meet a work colleague who was kind enough to decipher a little of what was going on, answer my constant questions and put up with my imposition - which was fantastic and I vowed I would come back again this year.

And so armed with a much better knowledge and despite sadly not having the company of my favourite erudite guide this year, being whipped by the wind, rain and chills I made the pilgrimage back to Northwich this weekend. I wasn’t disappointed. From the classic car led cavalcade around the streets of Northwich which, with that many bikes in one place produces the sweetest most awe inspiring heart racing sound, the beautiful Spitfire display at lunchtime to the sprinting itself. It was satisfaction guaranteed what with a handful of vintage cars, all those bikes and a spitfire; this event was almost tailor made for Muppet. Compared to last year there were a lot more competitors so there was just one run of three sprints per rider but enough action to fill the afternoon.

My only grumble however was that there was not one lady competitor this year. That’s such a shame and all too evident in many motorsport events, I am sorely tempted to get myself a basket case classic motorcycle and prime it for competition next year. Jokingly someone did suggest that to me last year. Us ladies should be represented and I think I could cut a fine figure in a nice vintage race suit and some goggles.

So should you happen to be in Northwich in May 2006, which frankly you really should be for this fantastic event keep an eye open for a bumbling young lady on nice comfy seated Vincent…well maybe.

that comfy seated Vincent...looks simple enough...doesn't it?

http://www.thundersprint.co.uk

Let there be [brake] light!

2005-05-04T23:30:00.000-07:00

I’m a simple sort of a girl who likes the simple things in life, such as getting my hands dirty. I enjoy fiddling with oily bits, I like grappling with spanners and screwdrivers and ratchets. I need to see how cars and bikes work.

Four out of five of my cars are pre 1990s and have very little in the way of electrickery or gadgets. I much prefer a purer car that doesn’t have too much to say for itself. This probably explains why I sold my Peugeot 307 last year and swapped it for a Series 3 Alfa Romeo Spider. My Pug was always having far too much to say for itself and making decisions without my express permission. Je n'ai pas été impressionné.

Don’t misinterpret me however; I am passionate about a vast array of new cars. The Aston Martin DB9 and new Vantage are absolutely beautiful; I’m even growing to like the look of the new Fiat Panda. The advances in design and automotive technologies never fail to intrigue me, I’m like a sponge, I want to know about everything, in an easy to read, diagrammatic glossy pamphlet sort of a way. But in terms of ownership, I’m a tinkerer. I’m not claiming to be a mechanical expert, far from that, but if I can have a go then a go is what I will have.

But with the Spider I’ve really had no cause to tinker. Following rectification by my genius mechanic of a seemingly terminal problem involving my little Italian being true to her Latin roots by getting very hot very regularly, then giving up entirely to sit seductively by the roadside and simply be gazed upon, she has been impeccably behaved.

When I told my friends I intended on driving an Alfa on my regular commute I was dismissed as an obvious lunatic and advised a level of AA cover that would jump start the Planet should it slip out of orbit. But 7 months on and I have proven my detractors wrong. Through fabulous smile inducing spirited drives around the leafy Buckinghamshire lanes to a treacherous snails’ pace 3 hour 30 mile M4 schlep to work, the Alfa has taken it in her stride. But somewhat disappointingly - still no cause for me to get my hands on her innards.

It is the snails’ pace motorway schleps I undertake daily that I blame for the fact a very red faced man made a decision to threaten a bewildered Muppet with extraction from her little Italian via means other than the door, wildly gesticulating with language mostly involving chickens from what I could gather (well every other word was ‘cluck’) all a few inches from my delicate posteriore di Milano. All for no apparent reason. Was it national keep your top up day? Had I missed a local byelaw pertaining to woman being revoked their driving licence?

I figured something must be awry. There was. Both my brake lights were refusing to perform. Oh dear, kind of fundamental to the stopping of the car and notifying those around you ploy. I was like a metallic pathologist, ‘I must perform investigative surgery – Nurse, quick! The screens!’.

Surgery reported that bulbs & fuses were fine and I had a broken brake switch. The fate of which I believe blame lies with the London traffic. I had killed my brake switch through flogging it mercilessly morning and night; it had expired admirably during service with not even a grumble.

kaput brake lights

I had tested this of course with a nifty trick of disconnecting the wires from the switch and briefly touching them together to complete the circuit therefore lighting up the back end of the car satisfactorily and giving little regard to whether the current had given me a new hairstyle.

any excuse

Do I look like I know what I'm doing?

On consultation with my pristine workshop manual I made my advance. After doing a canny impression of a contortionist, lying underneath the dashboard, legs skywards grappling with the old nylon plastic switch and nut – it does help if you find the right size spanner, and not try to get the thing to budge with your teeth - oh and ignore some of the instructions to slide where you obviously have to screw, I had the old kaput switch liberated. I popped the new metal switch back in connected her up and stamped my size 7 on the brake pedal. A vision of scarlet luminosity against my garage door heralded success and a craving suppressed.

Until next time…and there will be a next time.

Let there be light!

Fezzer-phobic Petrolhead?

2005-04-30T23:22:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-24T19:25:00.000-07:00

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

Defender and Conquer

2005-04-21T13:30:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-17T23:30:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-14T21:06:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-11T23:50:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-08T16:45:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-04-05T22:24:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-03T21:49:00.000-07:00

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!!

2005-04-01T22:05:00.000-08:00

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/

Would you buy a 99p car from eBay?

2005-03-31T13:57:00.000-08:00

Word got to me today that a lucky bidder on eBay has potentially bagged themselves an absolute bargain.

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=4539597484

I’m sure there must be some mistake but through sheer stupidity or damned good fortune this particular eBay auction was ended early to award an almost brand new Peugeot 407 2.0 SE in a tasteful colour to “the current highest bidder at the current bid price”…which appears to have been £0.99p!

Of course I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for it all and it will be resolved amicably and archived in the myth and folklore building around the infamous auction site. Can you imagine though the poor punter’s face when he was under the impression he’d got a brand new car for 99p?! Even if it was a Peugeot (we have a history, I’m psychologically scarred by a vivid green 307 I used to own) I’d certainly be planning what to do with few grand I’d managed to save.

Maybe there’s hope for me yet, I have an ambition you see to buy a ‘decent’ and interesting motor, that is driveable with at least 1 months tax and an MOT from eBay for £50 or less. A pipe dream I’m sure, but so far I have bought a 1994 Saab 900 for £750 which is a pretty good sensible car, albeit with a slight air of ‘eau du wet mutt’ about it.

Someone allegedly wise to this sort of thing once suggested to me that cars should be bought £1 for every cc of their engine which is an interesting theory, so with that in mind my 2.0 Saab was pretty triumphant. I also know of at least 3 other eBay car purchases that have been very successful.

But then there have been the horror stories. For the most part I think the majority of transactions are excellent, but there were a few that slipped through the net. Descriptions not being quite accurate, like the story I heard of a mini purchase which on the journey to collect it transpired there had been just reason for only front view photographs, there had been a rearwards incident with a skip. The vendor on that occasion did point out he hadn’t lied on the description; he just forgot to mention that (vital) nugget of information. Also there was the VW Polo that had been given some careful engineering work to ensure that my unwitting Doctor friend got the car to just within 3 miles of her house and the engine died – permanently.

But, if you do see that Golden Fleece of a car for me….don’t nab it for yourself …do let me know

That Scary Citroen...

2005-03-30T15:46:00.000-08:00

The Citroen C4 advert, marvel of CGI technology jiggerypokery or downright scary as hell?

I have to say my feet are firmly planted in the latter camp. My god I had a nightmare about the damn thing the other night. In an attempt to exorcise this 'auto-demon', I searched for the images below, unwittingly clicked on a website of what can only have been the ‘brains’ behind it all and it bloody well launched the automotive Justin Timberlake onto my damn computer…you’re lucky I remained sat at the screen, I almost ran off screaming into the night!

That scary Citroen

It’s a clever marketing gimmick that’s for sure and evidently very successful. It certainly catches the eye and there hasn't been a car ad that's evoked such emotion in me since the new Mini ads (which made me feel quite nauseous). There’s a dedicated website for the dancing C4 and as it loads the parts ‘fly’ in gracefully to form the 'Citroen‘bot'. You can download the ad too although why you’d want to do that is beyond me! It’s the tool of evil I tell you; perchance would it be to stop young children from putting their filthy mits on your Apple Power Book?

I mean the car itself in all its civilian glory is pretty mean and menacing looking, all narrow-eyed at the front with angled headlamps not unlike winged eyeliner; ever so slightly arching it’s back like a ferocious old pussy cat stretching in readiness to shred you to bits after you’ve poked him awake from a restful slumber.

I think this fear of the Citroen harks back to my childhood. As a young girl I had a Transformer, Optimus Prime, the big truck one that carried all the others around, I loved him to bits, he was never killed in any of the battles I had with my playmates and their evil Decepticons. His theme music would be 1980s electro pop and OP always flew in to rescue my ailing corgi and rogue scalextric cars. Could you see the C4 doing that? I think not, he would trounce in taking over motor village (the creation of my fragile 8 year old mind) ousting my corgi cars and Optimus Prime and turn it into a break dancing den of iniquity.

I don't do denim dungarees

2005-03-29T14:40:00.000-08:00

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.

Boys with Boats and getting a good vantage point

2005-03-28T13:32:00.000-08:00

Ah yes the Great British Easter Weekend; chocolate (lots of, it's almost the law), relatives and traffic jams.

Rather than post relentlessly about what I got up to, here is a photographic summary of Easter Sunday spent watching Oxford v Cambridge University Boat Race from the riverside at Chiswick (Oxford won btw). It was a nice day, over far too quickly mind you so the nearby pub with vast stocks of Guinness was hugely handy. Shame about the mud and rain though, then again it was Bank Holiday....

Eager anticipation

The expectant crowd gathers

The calm of the Thames

Aaaaaaand Oxford streak past (to be said in mandatory Murray Walker-esque voice)

it's off to the finish line

Hmmmm have to say I'm glad I parked elsewhere!

Cars on show at Classic Cars Live

2005-03-19T14:00:00.000-08:00

The crowded scene at Ally Pally!!

Men with beards, classic cars and my first trip to Ally Pally

2005-03-19T12:59:00.000-08:00

Alexandra Palace sits atop of North London and boasts an amazing view over the city, on a clear day you can pick off the landmarks one by one. This was just such a clear day, as was yesterday and silly me forgot to take the photo *face:palm*.

I went to Ally Pally yesterday and today to help out at Classic Cars Live on the stand of the car owners club I belong to; the Alfa Romeo Owners Club http://www.aroc-uk.com. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, one thing's for sure there were rather alot of bearded men. Now I'm not making any accusations about men of a certain age who like classic cars, but it does seem amongst the motoring fraternity (and motorcycles for that matter) that age brings facial hair. Thank god I've not reached 30 yet.

Over the past two days I've learned all about the Alfa Romeo GTA and GTC on our stand and got to know some of the chaps who keep the club going, including club Chairman Jon Dooley, a very interesting and thoroughly pleasant man, I'll happily seek him out for a natter at future events. I met photographers, journalists of many varieties and lots of like minded people with an empathy for things all-geriatric-car.

Yesterday (friday) my friend Vikki brought along her cuddly sheep mascot which we placed on the roof of the 1967 European Touring Car luminary GTA, which proved rather fruitful; lots of bearded men came and took photos.

I went to watch James May (of BBC2's Top Gear, pictured at Ally Pally below) do a Q&A session about his stable of elderly cars & bikes after which I expressed to him the fact I didn't think he suited his new 1980's Porsche 911, I see James as being more of a relaxing driver down a country lane in something comfy (like his Bentley T2) listening to radio 3 with a pretty young lady alongside and nice hamper full of decadent foodstuffs and alcohol bringing up the rear. James said that I hadn't been the first to air my disapproval of the 911, and went on to say he approved of my Alfa Spider. Cut to me feeling guilty, James, I'm sure you'll enjoy cutting loose in the 911, just watch out for those bends!

James May

An explanation: I like James May, he's one of those people I view as an unread book, bloody interesting and just my sort of slightly acerbic, laconic motoring journalist who seems to have a penchant for cars with a slight air of "basket case" about them that need homes (a bit like oneself). Now I feel slightly guilty about this but nonetheless through my curiosity and undeterred interest, I somewhat forcibly made James a (probably definite) unwitting acquaintance of mine early last year through the fact we work for the same organisation. Sorry James.

I digress...However, I do think the presence of a young lass on the stand confused the bearded types, they assumed I was there merely to look at (although with my confidence looks-wise I saw this as a potential crowd dissolver), so I had to be pushy to get the fact across I was a fellow petrolhead. Saturday was full-on car talk from beginning to end, I met Mark the AROC's web meister who rather bravely put up with my girly witterings for most of the afternoon (a gold star and motor muppet valour award nominee). Jeremy was with me for the whole weekend and told me all about his trips with his cars and the fact he brought back his Spider from the US. He always had a smile and never once complained about the fact I kept retouching my lipstick and saying I was in love with the GTC because it was "sooooo pretty" (motor muppet valour award nominee).

motor muppet word of the weekend: "pretty"
motor muppet phrase of the weekend: "it's just one of those cars that looks fast, you know like it's moving but it's standing still..."

Here's to the next event!!!

And this would be me...

2005-03-16T22:37:00.000-08:00

This is me!

This photo was taken on a hazy sunny winters day in November 2004. I'm sat in my favourite spot, the driver's seat of my Alfa Romeo Spider, roof down no italian sports car would be complete without big shades and be-messied hair (mine usually is), I'd just come to a stop for a cup of tea after blasting away the winter cobwebs.

Learning to walk

2005-03-15T22:24:00.000-08:00

This probably won't be the most interesting of posts as it's my first! I've had blogs before but found they became an online transcription of the soap opera that is my life, so have vowed The Motor Muppet will not plummet down the same slippery slope. Nope with The Motor Muppet I'm hoping to share my views on motoring and debut some of the random articles I write as well as posting photos and my various musings on things that take my fancy, interspersed with a little of what I get up to in my day to day life.

Welcome to the world of the Motor Muppet, I hope you have ABS, ESP, airbags and a large tin of travelsweets.