Our Classics 20 MGF 1.8i 21 Rover 216 SLi (R8)

The ’F may be up and running again, but it’s refusing to speak to anyone at the moment…

Given all of the worldchanging things that have happened in the last few months, I found myself wondering what my long-suffering MGF might have been thinking as I set about rousing it from its nine-month slumber. As the second terminal clicked into place on the battery and the K- Series engine burst into life, how would it react to life as it stands now? Thoroughly bewildered, I would have thought…

‘ What do you mean, “there have been hardly any classic shows this year”? It’s June!’

‘ Why won’t my 25th birthday party be happening this year?’

‘I’m sorry… MGLive!’s been cancelled again?’

‘Good grief, I’m absolutely filthy!’ ‘Hang on – why am I parked next to a Jaguar?’

‘And where the hell is your MG Midget?’

Where a car capable of drinking, I suspect that it would have taken itself off to the nearest Rack and Pinion for a few calming beers.

Which is why, as I write this, I’m feeling nothing but sympathy for the mobile auto-electrician who’s currently lying on our driveway, waist-deep in OHR’s nether regions, trying to persuade its ECU to communicate with his code reader. He’s been there for nearly two and a half hours, now, so I’m guessing that OHR’s not feeling particularly talkative at

the moment.

I can’t say that I blame it. When said car sparks arrived, it was sitting in the barn looking like one of Richy Barnett’s more gruesome barn finds. It was covered in dust, the steering wheel had an impressively thick coating of furry mould on it and the bonnet was ajar – had been, in fact, since I removed the umpteenth dead battery back in October in the (vain, as it turned out) hope that I might be able to re-charge it.

I then added insult to injury by reversing it into one of the big wooden supports in an over-hasty and ham-fisted attempt to exit the barn. The impact speed was tiny and the bumper’s fine, but an area of paint has cracked and is already flaking off. Clearly, I’ll be visiting my local branch of Chips Away very soon. I’m not happy.

In short, OHR looked like it had spent the last nine months sitting at the bottom of a lake. And I’m ashamed to admit that this is far from the first time that I’ve allowed the poor thing to get into such a parlous state; given the additional ‘ bonus’ of the brave new world into which it’s re-emerged, I doubt the electrician will get anything out of it other than a stream of colourful, outraged invective.

And that’s why I’ve just handed a chunk of cash to the aforementioned man with a van and will probably do much the same again when he returns in two days’ time to replace what he thinks is a faulty exhaust Lambda sensor and hopefully extinguish the ‘check engine’ dashboard light once and for all.

Spending money on it to assuage my guilt? Maybe. But I think I might be able to talk it round in time. The vacant battery tray is now home to a new battery and the K- Series fired at the first turn of the key.

The tyres – the rears are new, fitted last year – don’t appear to be square, either, and the interior arachnid count was considerably lower than the horror film scene with which I was presented last year.

I’ve since given it a deep clean and polish inside and out, cleared the garage of the junk that had somehow accumulated in there in the few short months since the departure of its previous incumbent – my old MG Midget – back in January and moved OHR into its permanent new home. But not before lowering that lovely new hood – the better to listen to that delicious new exhaust rasp – hitting the road and dropping the loud pedal, just for old time’s sake.

Like many people, I haven’t always been in the best of moods of late, but

feeling the old familiar shove in the back in second and third gear on that gloriously sunny Sunday afternoon as the slipstream did interesting things to my already ridiculous lockdown hair, I actually felt really good for the first time in ages. Might even, in fact, have let out a socially-distanced victory ‘whoop’ as I whipped it through the first tight sequence of S-bends.

My MGF may be an old (under) dog – and thoroughly grumpy one at that, at the moment – but it still has a few new tricks up its sleeve.

Welcome back, old chap. It’s good to see you again.

Auto electrician tries to persuade tightlipped ‘F to spill its innermost secrets. The nerf into the wooden post was gentle enough, but still managed to crack the rear bumper’s paint. Mike’s absolutely furious with himself.

‘No way! This is my new home?’ The MGF can’t quite believe its luck. Interior responded well to elbow grease, but that steering wheel is on borrowed time. Looking more like its old self and ready to promote Mike’s lockdown hair from ‘hideous’ to ‘utterly ridiculous’.