DRIVEN TO DISTRACTION

Olly Mann finds he can’t keep up with his son’s burgeoning interest

As far as Olly Mann is concerned, cars are for getting from A to B. So how come he is surrounded by a family of petrolheads?

INEVER MUCH LIKED CARS. This was something of an issue in my family, as my father very much liked cars. His first business was a start-up selling ‘ funky’ hub cap covers. His cufflinks had Bugattis on them. I don’t remember him ever reading anything apart from Classic and Sportscar. By the time he was my age, he’d established himself as a foremost specialist in the art of restoring vintage Bentleys. Our house was full of memorabilia. The vaguest sniff of a doer-upper would have him out in the snow, blazing a trail to West Sussex. As I say, he very much liked cars.

So, when I came along, there was an expectation I’d like cars too. My bedroom was plastered with Bentley wallpaper, which, as a teenager, I painted over (I had to paint it racing green, the only colour we had). My bed was in the shape of a car. I even had a little Bentley of my own – a standard kids’ ride-on, I guess, to which a bespoke body had been added ( but I can’t be certain, because it scared me, so Dad sold it). I was very nearly actually called Bentley – a fate I escaped only thanks to my mother, who presumably recognised that such a name would only be acceptable if I were an aristocrat or a rap artist. Or both.

Even when my own interests came into focus – film and drama – Dad would surreptitiously sneak in a motoring angle. My primary school show-and-tell, delivered to the whole school at assembly, was about the evolution of the four-and-a-half-litre Bentley. No prizes for guessing who wrote it. (And no prizes for the speech, either: I delivered the talk adequately, but floundered spectacularly on the Q& A – I didn’t even know who W.O. Bentley was.)

My disinterest continued into adulthood. I mean, I enjoy a Sunday drive – if the scenery is right and I’ve chosen the soundtrack. I took a role in selecting our family car (I checked it had a Bluetooth connection). I can, after a couple of beers, endure Top Gear. I do appreciate the form and function of motorcars, in the same way I admire the slickness of Amazon’s supply chain – it’s just not something I think about much.

When I hear other men (it’s usually men) yapping about carburettors and crankshafts and brake fluid, my mind wanders to a list of to-dos, like Homer Simpson dreaming about doughnuts. Cars aren’t my thing.

But apparently the motoring gene can skip a generation. My son Harvey, who has just turned two, is infatuated with all things vehicular. Initially it was construction vehicles: his first word was “digger”, employed when pointing at anything yellow. His next interest was Thomas the Tank Engine, a ‘character’ who, let’s be honest, is just a train with a face drawn on it, much like those infuriating anthropomorphised chocolates that advertise M&Ms. Now it’s matchbox cars – ambulances, fire engines, Porsches, Minis, whatever. He carries half a

When I hear other men yapping about carburettors and crankshafts and brake fluid, my mind wanders to a list of to-dos

dozen of them with him constantly, even when it’s entirely impractical to do so, eg, while crawling upstairs.

There are upsides: matchbox cars are cheap, so we buy him one each time we go to the supermarket, thus making the entire expedition tolerable. Boring car journeys are dressed up as a treat (“We’re going in Daddy’s CAR! It goes brum-brum! We will see other CARS!”). But we’re getting to the stage – it’ll arrive at some point later this year – where my toddler will know more about cars than I do.

This doesn’t feel right. As a parent, I’m supposed to be the omniscient authority on all things, whether that’s when we’re having dinner, why trees are green or how Thomas can talk (he’s magic, obviously). As Daddy, it falls to me to explain the intricacies of engines, and show enthusiasm when a car ad comes on. I cannot perform this function. I cannot.

I console myself with the knowledge that, though my father isn’t around any more, my father-in-law is, and he’s the kind of chap who lurks in Ferrari forums. He’ll step in where my knowledge fails me. And, just because Harvey is passionate about cars, that doesn’t mean he won’t also grow to enjoy theatre, or theme parks or country walks – all of which I am amply qualified to discuss with him.

But here’s the thing. I inherited a real Bent ley from Dad; a 1920s three-litre. It’s in storage. I’d planned one day to sell it, for school fees, or mortgage payments, or perhaps to exchange for a car I can actually drive – you know, with a roof and an automatic gearbox. But now I’m not so sure. Should I keep it for Harvey? Do I really want him at the wheel of what will be, by then, a 100-year-old car?

Is it too late to get him interested in computers?