P76 HISTORY
Arguably the most maligned Aussie car in history, the Leyland P76 is important for many reasons. Dave Carey explains why
THE Leyland P76 should have been a contender. Released by British Motor Corporation Australia in 1973, the P76 was roomy, economical and technologically advanced. It’s easy to view the Kingswoods, Falcons and Valiants of the time through rose-tinted glasses, but truthfully, they were all compromised in design and quality. If the developers of the P76 had adequately addressed these issues, the car might have changed the Australian automotive landscape for the better. BMC’S failure to do so left it remembered as Australia’s Edsel. It ‘could have’ and ‘should have’, but ‘clearly didn’t’. Where did it all go wrong?
Throughout the 1960s, British Motor Corporation Australia had enjoyed considerable sales success with compromised products; the Mother Country was seen as the go-to for economical buzzboxes, regardless of their technological and quality deficits. The Japanese were advancing on our market too, but were yet to prove themselves the automotive emperors they would become.
Yet despite the outwardly similar visages of BMCA’S products, very few parts were shared between the Mini, Morris 1100, 1500, 1800 and Austin Tasman/kimberley. To find a solution to this cost-creating anomaly, the Advanced Model Group (AMG) was formed in February 1968, swiftly recommending that the company focus on grabbing a sweet slice of Big Three pie.
Two major product streams were proposed: a confident medium-sizer (Model A) for release in 1973, and a super-profitable, rear-wheel-drive family car (Model B) to follow in 1974, with the pair sharing as many components as automotively possible.
But development of the ADO28 Marina back in the UK derailed the AMG’S plans, with an Australianised Marina scuppering the Model A project. However, although the move brought a smaller car to the Aussie market a year earlier, the ADO28 Marina was a woeful contraption, sitting on lever-arm suspension that was almost entirely unchanged from the ancient Morris Minor.
Still, the adaptation of the Marina allowed the company’s overstretched resources to concentrate on the larger Model B, which would eventually become the Leyland P76.
BMCA’S director of engineering, David Beech, headed to the UK with the view to securing AU$30 million for the Model B project, known internally as YDO26. Beech was allowed only $21 million, chump change considering the ground-up nature of the endeavour.
Without a previous model under which to disguise their developing product, and no private proving ground like Holden’s Lang Lang facility, Leyland engineers purchased three then-current HK Holdens to use as incognito development mules. A six-cylinder Kingswood sedan, a V8 Monaro coupe and a six-cylinder Kingswood
wagon were modified with an array of engine and suspension configurations, with a 3.5litre Rover V8, Macpherson strut suspension, power steering, Borgwarner 35 automatic and E6 2.6-litre OHC straight-six all seeing service in the various Holdens. The ruse was so successful that four more HKS were modified for purpose, with the final car, built in June 1971, converted to full YDO26 specs under the skin.
It was 1969 before things got serious in terms of shaping the outside of the car. Insanely, BMCA’S facilities did not actually include a styling department, with chief stylist Romand Rodbergh working from a corner of the Experimental Department. Rodbergh and his team were normally called upon for cosmetic reworks and upgrades; they’d never penned a car from scratch.
Knowing GM-H, Ford and Chrysler’s facilities essentially shat on those of BMCA, David Beech visited Karmann in Germany and Giovanni Michelotti in Turin, hoping to use the former for the body engineering and tooling while engaging either company for the styling. Both European houses submitted proposals, as did BMC’S own studios at Longbridge, UK.
But Rodbergh was upset that he wasn’t even consulted about the project, so, working through his holidays, he created his own styling proposals for the YDO26 sedan and YDO27 coupe, adding them to a presentation for BMC UK head Lord Stokes. Bizarrely, it was Rodbergh’s wedge-shaped submission that created the most interest, with the Longbridge, Karmann and Michelotti designs largely ignored.
The marketing department were still keen to attribute a ‘designer’ name to the vehicle – something the Big Three could never claim – so Beech recommended that Michelotti finesse Rodbergh’s vacation-penned sketches. But regardless of the Michelotti name in the marketing, the shape of the new car, to be called P76, was Rodbergh’s more than anyone’s; Michelotti did nothing more than some minor revisions, turning around his final design within a single week.
A verbal agreement had been made with Karmann for delivery of the panel tooling, but come contract time, the Germans needed more time. Unwilling to delay the project, David Beech instead engaged Pressed Steelfisher, a wholly owned subsidiary of BMC. It apparently mattered little that the P76’s panels were to be the biggest of any BMC vehicle and Pressed Steel would struggle to create tooling of any quality; they had capacity and were handily positioned next door in Longbridge, so got the job.
The first car to wear a production-spec P76 body was assembled in MG’S Abingdon factory, the last prototype to be assembled by the veteran British carmaker. The P76 body was revealed to be exceptionally strong, although there were plenty of areas for improvement. Front barrier testing revealed better bonnet latches were required, as were some modifications to the inner structure. In an Australian first, side intrusion beams were integrated into the doors, despite ADRS not requiring them until 1976.
But as production began, Pressed Steel’s substandard jig tooling wreaked havoc, with the worst problem being the tendency of the A-pillars to shrink back towards the body when mated to the roof panel. With the P76 one of the first cars worldwide to wear bonded front and rear screens, water leaks, dust-sealing issues and cracked windows were rife, while the front doors struggled to fit within their respective apertures.
Further sealing issues, this time along the sills, were evident on the hand-built prototypes and carried over into production, with the inner door panels incorrectly shaped from the outset. At the firewall, the steering column cover plate and automatic clutch-cable blanking plate caused trouble, as did the boot seal, while unskilled line workers left out all manner of grommets and sealants, including bonding the troublesome windscreens on only three sides.
The dashboard, designed by ZA Fairlane stylist Mark Cassarchis, gave a meaningful nod to ergonomics, but was not developed adequately. In fact, not one prototype vehicle was fitted with a production-spec dashboard. As a result, the final product quickly distorted in the sun and the fakewood fascias peeled off soon after purchase.
Elsewhere inside the car, winder mechanisms proved to be weak, T-bar shifters fell off due to crappy clips, dashtop switches broke and centre consoles rattled like proverbial skeletons in a closet. Cars were stockpiled while awaiting supply of crucial components, often delayed by pressure from other customers like Ford, Holden and Chrysler.
Outside, dimensional variations in the Hellaproduced zinc-diecast head- and tail-light assemblies caused fitment problems, as did inferior clips holding the C-pillar vents. Those who stumped for air con found the Smiths compressor not adequate for the large glasshouse, despite being the same unit fitted to competitors. If it rained, wipers were jumpy, which was not only annoying but placed a high load on motors, hastening early failure.
Engine-wise, the 4.4-litre V8 wasn’t a bad unit, weighing significantly less than the V8s of the Big Three and aiding the P76’s able handling prowess. Yet somehow, hot-weather testing failed to reveal to engineers at BMCA – now rebranded as Leyland Australia – that the sparkplugs ran too cool; most were changed at the first service. Buyers who went for the 2.6-litre E6-powered car were faced with blown head gaskets, oil leaks from the rear adapter plate and weak water-pump pushrods.
It’s not like the staff and management at Leyland Australia didn’t care about the quality and warranty issues; workers were retrained and immigrants taught conversational English on the job, while corporate types put out spot-fires like
a scholar at a book-burning. However, when presented with a choice between stopping production or the spot-fires, Leyland Australia chose to burn. Cars requiring correction were initially funnelled back onto the line, creating a backlog and cooling buyer enthusiasm as waiting times blew out. Production issues stemmed from every quarter, with the line itself, designed for the Morris Major/austin Lancer, damaging the big cars as they were built. The P76 simply didn’t fit, and calls to spend some Aussie pesos revising the size of the line fell on deaf ears back at Longbridge.
With scant room on the factory floor and no money to fix the production line, Leyland Australia set up the Rectification Centre, a two-million-dollar facility with 60 highly trained staff tasked with making the cars fit for sale. Once established, almost every completed car went through the centre for repair work.
To add insult to injury, industry yardstick Holden experienced an 11 per cent slump in sales in the 12 months preceding the P76’s release, dropping to 22 per cent of the Aussie market. Likewise, Ford shed 7 per cent of its previous year’s sales, while Chrysler was languishing with 6.4 per cent of the total market. Leyland opted to jump into a shrinking market at precisely the wrong time.
Back in the UK, Leyland was in the hole for three-quarters of a million pounds thanks to chronic mismanagement and a poorly timed three-month coal miners’ strike that essentially crippled the United Kingdom.
The writing was on the wall, and in October 1974 it was announced that the Australian plant would close, with the last cars plated that November. The Leyland P76 alone wasn’t the reason for the Australian arm’s closure; in fact, Leyland outposts in Spain, Italy and South Africa were all kyboshed at the same time.
Naturally, hundreds lost their jobs and buyer enthusiasm for the already-troubled P76 tanked, leaving a significant backlog of unsold vehicles.
Could the Leyland P76 have been a contender? Could it have challenged its market brethren – the Kingswood, Falcon and Valiant – and come out on top? If the P76 had suffered just one problem, one that could be solved with some rectification work and a sincere apology, then possibly. But with such a litany of issues – development compromises, budget problems, supply concerns, labour disputes, manufacturing woes and top-level management indifference – it didn’t have a chance.
As a result, the P76 has become the butt of every Aussie automotive joke since. It was technologically advanced, and, initially at least, the public and press wanted to it succeed, but ultimately a confluence of unfortunate circumstances conspired against it. THANK you to Gavin Farmer for his incredible book Leyland P76: Anything But Average (available at ilingabooks.com.au) and Ian Thomas for his insights from the coalface.