Personalised plates are just N0T 4ME…
I don’t mean to be churlish, but cruising around town with your costly reg is all a bit ‘look at me’
Do you know what’s even more embarrassing than having a personalised number plate? Having such a row with your brother about a personalised number plate that you have to go to court to decide the matter.
This is the undignified situation facing Scottish brothers Ian and David Suttie, both wealthy Aberdeendwelling businessmen (Ian apparently made £450 million from oil; David is a property developer) who have fallen out over the plate “21S”. There was a peculiar agreement to share this plate, apparently, with each having it for three years before handing it over to the other, but this has disintegrated and now they both want it for themselves. At one particularly heightened moment of drama in March, David returned to his car at an Aberdeen curling club to find a menacing note on his windscreen – “21S NOW”. Might the writers of Bodyguard consider using this as the plot for their next series?
I’m not sure the significance of the plate myself. Perhaps 21 is their combined number of brain cells. But it’s a row that confirms everything I’ve always suspected about those who spend fat sums on personalised plates. Sorry. You may drive about with one on the back of the Jag that reads “G4NGSTA” or “RUD3 B0I” and be an upstanding sort who’d never squabble with a sibling over such a trifling issue, but even in this “look at me” age, such number plates remain unacceptable. They’re a giveaway suggesting you care too much about status and other people noticing you. After all, it’s not as if you see the plate yourself while cruising around Aberdeen, is it? You’re inside the car, busy thinking about your next business deal or important curling tournament. Instead, it’s for those outside to see as you and think to themselves, “Oh look, there goes 21S, he’s the one who has such terrific anger management issues he took his brother to court.” I don’t mean to be churlish. Bravo if you’ve made money and want to treat yourself, or someone else, but it feels a teeny, tiny bit as if you’re over-compensating, like Nigel Farage putting on his tweed blazer and posing with a pint of Spitfire.
The history of the plates dates back to 1903, when it became compulsory for British cars to be registered. A toff called Earl Russell dispatched his butler to queue outside the registry office over night to secure his “A1” plate. Perhaps Earl Russell had inadequacy issues. Perhaps he was sad he wasn’t a duke. In the intervening 115 years, the situation has descended to the point where blacked-out Range Rovers often have plates like “N01” or “M8NEY”. Just off Harley Street not so long ago, I saw a soft-top Porsche with the plate “007 007”. I suspect he wasn’t a spy. A couple of weeks ago, the plate “RR1” went for £460,000. I imagine it was a Rolls-royce owner who bought ht it, but it would be quite a good joke if f you stuck it on a Fiat Panda.
In Scotland, meanwhile, our modern-day Cain and Abel are awaiting a final court judgment next year, so it’s going to be a tricky Christmas for Clan Suttie. Spare a thought for their poor wives. If I were them, I’d buy a couple of personalised number plate key rings and stuff them in their stockings.