Martin Buckley Backfire
‘I tried to talk her out of the car but she wouldn’t be dissuaded. Two days later, as is the wont of P38s, the air suspension packed up’
Ishould start a classic-car counselling service. Patients would be queuing up. I recently reconnected with ‘P’, a caraholic from Edinburgh who admitted he has owned 5000 vehicles since the late ’70s. He’s been married five times; the two being heavily interconnected, I suspect. It was good fun to talk again, but with the internet to feed his habit, rather than the weekly hit of Auto Trader or Exchange and Mart, his classic-car addiction is now out of control.
I think I first talked to ‘P’ back in the 1990s about a Maserati Quattroporte. I suspect I was selling and he was buying…
This time we had a deal semi under way to swap my cream 2-litre Lancia Gamma Coupé for a selection of his waifs and strays: Mercedes 320TE, Porsche 944, the remains of a Fulvia Coupé and something I’ve forgotten. I was relieved when the financial logistics of shifting them south proved too prohibitive, because I was probably swapping one known quantity of a problem for four unknown ones.
The Gamma eventually went elsewhere, but I alerted my Scottish friend to a €6000 Coupé that I could source for him in Italy, completely sorted and ready to go. It soon became clear that buying a ‘proper’ one (for not a lot of money, really) would have been far too simple.
You see, ‘P’ buys into the stories behind his cars and prefers quantity to quality. His current selection is mostly restoration cases and cars that “just need this” and “only need that”; the rusty Series III XJ up to its doorhandles in grass, the faded Saabs, the tired mid-’90s Alfa Spiders. I know the signs, I have been there myself.
There are a few nice bits in there somewhere – a Maserati Merak was mentioned – but, as usual, the demics and no-hopers suck all the energy that should be spent on preserving and enjoying the worthier cases. Rarely have I come across a more suitable case for treatment, for rationalising, for sitting down to decide what is really wanted, what would offer a new thrill. Or even which cars should be revisited.
The latter is particularly relevant, because ‘P’ talks wistfully about some of the cars he used to own (including an ex-white House Lincoln Continental and ex-reggie Kray MKX Jag).
It’s not too late for him and, in fairness, there is an element of self-awareness. He admits that he tends to take something around the block once or twice then loses interest; I assume he is talking about his cars and not the wives.
Actually, I began to wish I had done a deal with
‘P’ against my green P38 Range Rover. A rusty Fulvia would have been preferable to what I currently have on my plate.
This cursed vehicle was proving both impossible to sell and too expensive to use. I had almost forgotten about it when I was contacted by a woman who was living the rustic Cotswold dream but looking for a car to finish the picture.
She bowled into my office with a fluffy dog. I tried for 15 minutes to talk her out of the car on account of its thirst and the tap from the engine but she wouldn’t be dissuaded.
Two days later, such is the wont of P38 Range Rovers, the air suspension packed up. As I had quietly envisioned, she went into a tailspin and bombarded me with text messages; not nasty ones but very demanding, and so many of them that my wife thought I was playing away.
Her requests – ‘do you have a car I can borrow?’ – and sense of indignation that the 23-year-old vehicle had developed a problem were consistent with somebody who had just bought a new Range Rover for £100,000, rather than an old shed for a grand.
My MOT man was not best pleased with me when she turned up demanding the problem be sorted on the spot. She was not especially placated when I offered to pay for the part if she covered the labour. She is yet to mention having her money back (which I would be happy to do), but for the meantime it’s a toss-up between ‘block number’ or faking my own death.