Cautionary tale from an Alfa male

Andrew Martin has some regretful advice after getting caught in a Spider’s web

My name is Andrew and I’m an Alfaholic… I think that’s the way I should introduce myself to the self-help group I so badly need to attend.

It all started out so well. There I was enjoying the full auction experience at the December Morris Leslie auction: kicking tyres, crawling under rusty barn finds, tucking into stovies and showing a passing interest in cars being sold.

Opening up in this confessional, I have to admit that I need another car like the Radio 4 Today programme needs another story on Brexit. There is a wafer-thin delusional rationale to replace the much missed Land Rover Defender V8 with a utility workhorse for the winter, but an Alfa open top… what was I thinking?

Now, at the auction there was a tidy Volvo 240 GL, the Luther-style car. It had an impressive service history from a Volvo main agent in Northumberland, was solid underneath, had a new exhaust and lovely alloy wheels worth a few hundred alone. I did bid on it, but chickened out and it was hammered away at £2,400. That would have been a good buy.

At the auction, I did run my hands over a white Alfa, and it had a pretty face. As I was checking the car I was approached by a neighbour of the vendor, who had come along to help sell the car. He told me all about the money that had been spent on it. I also noticed the Alfa Romeo garage sticker on the windscreen, a Dundee garage that I’d used for a previous Alfa Romeo GTV I had owned. Anyway, we swapped telephone numbers and I departed the auction for a bacon roll at The Horn. A week later the vendor was on the phone. The Alfa with pretty face didn’t sell; he was departing to Spain, and asked if I’d like to offer on the car. I did. And he declined my offer. Phew. A week later, he called again, the deal was on. What could go wrong?

Well, friends, you end up paying too much for a car you don’t like. I didn’t do my due diligence. Sure, there is a heck of a lot of work done on the car, in excess of £17k since 2012. And the vendor did put it through an MOT for me, with the pretty-faced car passing with no advisories. But, it’s not a matching numbers car, that means it has had an engine block change earlier this year. It also needs a bit of tidying, the repair work on the driver’s door is poor (it’s rusting already) and for December… I paid too much.

Much, much worse is that it’s not nice to drive. The engine, on lovely looking carbs, has all the urge of a red Morris van owned by Postman Pat. The steering, although beautifully centred, is heavy; the turning circle is rubbish, and the feel is totally absent. You see, looks can be deceiving.

Now, I’ve been here before, that’s why I need help. I bought, at auction, an Alfa Romeo GTV, which had a pretty face. I loved that car. It took my brother David (the owner of the killer bikes we tested last year) and me to Le Mans and back with all our necessities on board (tent, wet weather clothes and malt whisky) without missing a beat. But the GTV cost way more than its value every year to keep on the road. But, because I loved it, I kept spending money on it. Sentiment cost me thousands. The white Alfa Spider has been the same for the previous owner, and I can see that I’ll end up making the same mistake as I did with the GTV. So, it’s going to auction to be sold in February. I’m going cold turkey on the Alfa.

Over the years I think I’ve been quite car savvy. Apart from the two Alfa Romeo purchases. So, why do I fall for the pretty Alfa Romeo face? In Alfa therapy I feel it’s harking back to my primary school days. At aged eight, at school country dancing, I asked girls with pretty faces to take the floor with me. They shook their heads and sat tight, as in the 1970s, geeks weren’t attractive.

So here’s some consumer advice. Instead of buying a classic Alfa Romeo, take a wheelbarrow of cash out on to your drive and set fire to it. If a prettyfaced girl shakes her head at you, don’t give up on country dancing, but you might wish to consider break-dancing in an Inbetweeners style.