I failed my driving test, largely because of a disastrous hill start. I couldn’t get the dratted handbrake off.

AS rites of passage go, mine came pretty late.

Readers of a sensitive disposition – sorry Mum – need not look away in fright. I’m talking here about passing my driving test.

Yesterday was the 80th anniversary of the test becoming compulsory. UK Transport Minister Lord Ahmad gave it the aforementioned tag, saying: “The driving test is a significant rite of passage, giving greater freedom and independence to generations of people across Britain.” Well, perhaps. But for a sensitive 18-year-old, it was a significant source of embarrassment.

Unlike most of my mates, I failed the first time round. But it wasn’t my fault; it was the car’s, honest.

As I have mentioned here before, my first motor was an ancient VW Beetle, bought at auction not long after I started my first job. With the help of a long-suffering father and some fearless friends, I learned to drive in the Teutonic boneshaker.

The Beetle was great for tootling around the relatively quiet roads of Perthshire, where we were living, but she wouldn’t do for the actual test. No seat belts, a wobbly steering column and, worse, a lack of fully functioning brakes meant it was deemed wiser to try for the full licence in a modern car. So, I took a top-up lesson with a local driving school, and booked their car, a two-year-old Mini, for the big day.

I was confident. In the company of friends, I had driven hundreds of miles over the preceding few months. I had memorised the Highway Code, and I knew my road signs, including the one that seems to be warning of low-flying motor cycles.

But I failed, largely because of a disastrous hill start. I couldn’t get the dratted handbrake off. I hadn’t had a working one in the Beetle.

It had become habit to stamp on the footbrake, ram the car into first and balance the clutch to move off, but that wouldn’t be allowed on the test.

So I stopped on an incline when requested and yanked on the Mini’s handbrake. When it was time to proceed, however, try as I might, I couldn’t get the release catch to work.

After what seemed an eternity but was probably no more than five hours, the kindly examiner finally took pity, and did the needful for me. He was writing the fail slip before we had rolled to a halt at the test centre; I was the only one of my peers with a blot in the copybook.

Still, one should always try to look on the bright side. When I finally passed the test, six months later, it was all the sweeter. And the examiner no doubt dined out on the story for years.

‘‘ Unlike most of my mates, I failed the first time round. But it wasn’t my fault; it was the car’s, honest