RICHARD PORTER
Can he fix it? Chances are, no. Porter laments his lack of mechanical skills
‘Eventually you approach even simple tasks with a weary expectation that you’ll make things worse’
WHEN WE WERE TEENAGERS MY BROTHER AND I had repeated and protracted arguments about who was going to go bald first. This was prompted by the conspicuous slapheadedness of our dad, and the fact he’d felt an unwelcome chill on his scalp since his mid-20s. On this basis, and ignoring all that stuff about such things skipping a generation, my kid bro and I would bait each other with pointless, nonsensical reasons why it would be the other brother who would find his forehead growing like the windscreen on a C4 Picasso.
We’re now in our 40s, my brother and me, and it’s amazing to note that we both cling to a full head of hair. So that’s something, aside from the same parents, we have in common. But there’s another thing we share, and this one is even less expected. We’ve both somehow become owners of modern-classic Fiats. I’ve got the Panda 100HP you can sometimes find in the Fast Fleet section of this magazine. My bro has a tidy, late model Coupé 20v. Yet, unlike male pattern baldness, there’s no genetic history of this in our family.
Dad was a Rootes Group man and retained that loyalty through Chrysler and Talbot before parlaying his devotion into Peugeots, largely because they were sold by the same dealers. It’s weird how someone who knew about cars could display such blinkered brand faith. Even when his sensibleness bible, Which? magazine, said the Peugeot 406 suffered ‘too many faults to list’, our dear old dad went out and bought one. This, like becoming more aerodynamic in his mid-20s, did not pass down from father to sons. My brother has never owned a Talbot or a Peugeot. Neither, I realise, have I, though I wouldn’t say no to a tidy 306 GTI. Or a Tagora. But the fraternal enthusiasm for 2000s Fiats I can’t explain. It’s just something we unexpectedly have in common.
When it comes to looking after our noughties Italian cars, however, the divergence in the gene pool is dramatic and, to my mind, rather unfair. My dad was an engineer and a very precise, practical man. He died seven years ago, on his birthday, which was mathematically neat and therefore a very Dad thing to do. What he left behind was a technical, hands-on expertise for making and mending. And he left it all with my brother. Oh, I could draw you a rough diagram of a Macpherson strut or explain the basics of how a cylinder head works and I’m sure I could dismantle either of those things. But putting them back together again, that’s going to result in blood and swearing and, eventually, a phone call to someone who knows what they’re doing. I could blither through an oil change or fumble around behind a door card at a duff window regulator but more fundamental things, I just don’t trust myself.
I’m little better around the home. In the first flat I owned there may still be a shelf I installed. I don’t know. I had to sell the place before I heard the expected clatter of books and ornaments falling suddenly to the floor. I assume the current owners have sorted this, and indeed all the parts of the bathroom that were never right, a series of issues that once led me to shout the C-word at a radiator. I just don’t have my dad’s aptitude for anything more than basic running repairs and the situation has only been made worse by years of cock-ups, flesh cuts and calling some part of the central heating system a c**t. Eventually your confidence ebbs away and you approach even simple tasks with a weary expectation that you’ll make things worse for your house, your car and, since it now has a screwdriver through it, one of your hands.
Contrast this with the attitude of my brother. He has no fear, and why would he when he’s inherited our dad’s ability to be good at this stuff? Stud walls, mid-level plumbing, new paving, he’s done it all. And when it comes to keeping his Fiat going, he’s all over that, from wiring to welding. He can even talk about spring clamps without flinching. Worse yet, I’ve seen his work and it’s not even covered in gaffer tape or bits of his own leg. My brother seems to know what he’s doing, just as my dad did, and here’s me, in so many ways similar to our late father yet with a less shiny head and a level of competence that probably shouldn’t be allowed to use a hammer drill.
Sometimes genetics work in mysterious ways and this is one of them. I once sold a car knowing full well at least one of my tools was dropped somewhere in the engine bay. My brother recently removed the entire front end of his Coupé and then effortlessly put it back on again. I wouldn’t mind, but when mother nature gave him this ability she could at least have taken away his hair.