Buckley’s market matters
All the classic-car traders I’ve talked to of late are flat-out busy to the point of almost not being able to cope in some cases.
And did you see the Anglia Car Auctions results from the end of February? In a way, nearly £30,000 for a Bond Bug is fairly predictable given what cult objects they are, but £24,840 for a 1972 Lancia 2000 Berlina? I suppose that’s what they should be worth, really.
Meanwhile, my wife has added to her collection of slightly outof-fashion convertibles by buying a Saab 9-3 Vector 2-litre turbo from around 2006, for pretty much buttons. I wasn’t expecting much when I took the wheel, but it drove well and was evidently a better-built thing than the soon-to-depart Mercedes-benz CLK230 soft-top.
I’ve been focusing on getting the 1979 V12 Jaguar XJ-S up and together. It only failed its MOT on a leaking power-steering rack and I was really impressed by the service I got from Western Power Steering Services in Bristol. They turned a rebuild around in virtually a day and returned the rack looking so beautiful that I took a picture of it before Mike Connor fitted it.
It’s great to find there are still firms out there who do these sorts of unglamorous but crucial jobs. The car runs well and it may end up as a keeper, unless I talk myself out of it very soon.
My friend Fredrik Folkestad also recently popped round in his latest acquisition, a Renault 16TX that I have a feeling I will end up with at some point. It’s an auto in a very odd lavender colour, and I was surprised to find that it didn’t have the electric windows and central locking that were much-touted claims to fame of the TX, at least in the UK. It seems you didn’t get them in Norway.
It reminded me that almost any mechanic you talk to hates working on Renaults, old or new. I remember this being a curious phenomenon even when I was a kid, although I suspect mechanics resent all motors in the end – old or new, but especially the latter.
Sitting in my favourite MOT haunt the other day, one of the older spanner-wielders came in to use the coffee machine and, without any prompting from me, announced: “I bloody hate cars…”