Welcome to my Wolseley 6/99
When I sold my Mercedes- Benz W126 in 2015, I genuinely thought it marked the end of my everyday motoring. I still owned a 1966 Vanden Plas 4- Litre R restoration project, but my health made it difficult for me to drive it on a regular basis. However, fate was of a rather different opinion, and in July of 2021 I heard that Ernie Jupp’s 1960 Wolseley 6/ 99 previously featured in Classics Monthly might be for sale.
To say that I was interested in NFF 823 is a mild understatement, as I had harboured dreams of owning it for over two decades. For readers unfamiliar with the British Motor Corporation’s Big Farina family, the Wolseley debuted in the summer of 1959 along with the cheaper Austin A99 Westminster and the flagship Princess 3- Litre. All share the same distinctive bodyshell and 3-litre six- cylinder engine, and the principal differences were in social demarcation. In terms of the famous Class Sketch, if the 6/ 99 is Ronnie Barker, the Princess is John Cleese and the A99 is Ronnie Corbett.
In my deeply subjective view, the Wolseley is the most attractive of the range, its grille perfectly blending with the sweeping lines, but aesthetic considerations were only one reason for my purchase. The other was that NFF has the specification of a London Metropolitan Police traffic car, which innately appealed to me. This was not just because my ‘other job’ is a film historian specialising in post-war British cinema. It was more that I had grown up with the mighty Wolseley of Justice.
I should say that this was on the screen rather than the roads. By the time of my birth (the year of Abbey Road and the Austin Maxi’s launch), the Met was still using the 6/110, the 6/ 99’s heir, but they were soon to be decommissioned. Nor do I recall the last- of-theline examples that Hampshire Constabulary used into the early 1970s. It was via the likes of The Fast Lady or the Margaret Rutherford Miss Marple series that I first encountered the big Wolseley. By the 1980s I would eagerly anticipate a black 6/ 99’s arrival at the convulsion of an Edgar Wallace B-film screened on late night ITV. 1962’s Solo for Sparrow was especially notable for a conclusion involving a chicken, two police Wolseleys and Michael Caine as an Irish gangster with a very odd accent. ( There must be a joke in there somewhere...)
Such thoughts were in my mind when I travelled to Kent to view the Wolseley. Naturally, I was mentally rehearsing arguments to justify its purchase to myself, such as stepdaughters’ weddings, film work and even as a potential investment, but the truth was that I really, really just wanted it. A deal was struck and two months later, the 6/ 99 was trailered to Oxfordshire. Its arrival was quite nervewracking, as I genuinely did not feel worthy of owning such a car – and nor do I still.
Naturally, I had to consider a
number of practicalities before the Wolseley’s arrival. Garaging was not an issue thanks to my very kind neighbours, and I invested in a tracker for added security. It was the installation of this device that reminded me of just how long it had been since I had owned a car that was on the road. Fitting one myself was not an option – I know my limitations in matters mechanical – and so I thought I would hire a mobile engineer. It was here my challenges commenced. ‘Not sure if I can do that, mate,’ said one, ‘ The price is £xxx plus VAT,’ said another. As Valued Added Tax came to the UK in 1973, why not simply give the inclusive price? It does save time.
Eventually I found a splendidly helpful mechanic and I invested another £100 in having the Wolseley valeted. Since October of last year, it has served as transport for a civil ceremony, taken part in a village fete where it caused a minor stir, and was even driven along the Silverstone Circuit – more of which in the next instalment.
Ongoing issues include a driver’s door lock that works only on its own terms, and the need for replacement kingpins. These spares are exceedingly hard to source, but fortunately I have the wise guidance of Eddie Foster of the excellent Cambridge- Oxford Owners Club. Another vital job was fixing the bell as we initially discovered the clapper was prone to sticking.
Over the past year I have ignored doubtless well-made suggestions that RO-style wheels would enhance the 6/ 99’s appearance. This would only be the case if I wanted it to look like transport for a middle-aged ton-up boy such as Dudley Sutton in the George and Mildred film. As for the motoring impressions, the best descriptions are from my next- door neighbour, and from my friend and motoring connoisseur John Antonaki. The former mused: ‘It is just like driving a lorry,’ for although the 6/ 99 has power-assisted front disc brakes and the optional automatic transmission, it is a large and heavy vehicle from another era. The fact that the Wolseley lacks PAS – BMC did not offer it until 1961 – makes town driving an interesting experience.
Meanwhile, when the 6/99 made its majestic progress from a side turning, the latter asked: ‘How did the police catch anyone in one of these?’ We found the true forté of the Wolseley is A-road motoring, often attracting gasps of amazement from other motorists. This is wholly understandable, as NFF is a relic of another world, one now glimpsed on Talking Pictures Television. Before the 6/ 99’s weekly trip around South Oxfordshire, our practice is to remove the Police signs and the radio mast, although the bell and the loudhailer still function.
Above all, NFF represents not so much my last classic car as my last car per se. The Wolseley tallies with my film writing, and it reminds me of Carry On Cabby, so I could not ask for more. The VDP is to be sold as it is easier for me to focus on just the one vehicle, and NFF embodies my beliefs that classics are for everyone, regardless of your mental or physical health. It truly is an inclusive pastime.
Finally, here are some words of advice – do not use a tannoy to make Quatermass & The Pit style announcements when in the middle of a Tesco car park. They will not increase your popularity...