Features

The older I get, the more hateful I find this sort of thing. How difficult can it be to make an old car work? If bits are bust, repair or replace them. Or find a man who can. And if you can't afford it, get rid of the thing.

Do anything, in fact, except drive around in an incomplete car claiming that you're going to 'sort it', because you obviously aren't in the way that I'm not really going to write a novel.

Rather worryingly, I seem to be coming around to Jeremy's way of thinking on this subject. If the fag lighter on his Ford malfunctioned, he'd consider it broken down. And the fact is, he may have a point.

Then again, our recent ten-grand supercars debacle, as seen on TV, reminded me of one of the unique pleasures of a truly broken car. And it's exactly that - it's uniqueness.

Consider the ancient Triumph sports car I owned a decade ago. I once leant it to a mate, and the first time he exited a roundabout he nearly fell out. That was because I hadn't warned him about the way the knackered driver's door would fly open on a tight left-hander.

Then again, I was so used to it, and the preparatory grasping of the door on the approach to a left-hander was so instinctive, that I didn't think it worth mentioning. I used to grab the doors of other cars on tight left-handers as well.

I also didn't warn him that it would jump out of third gear, but why would I? Whenever I was in third gear, I'd extend the little finger of my left hand from the steering wheel to hold the lever in place. I never even thought about it, because it was all part of driving, like pressing the brake pedal to slow down.

Though ideally not too hard, because this could inadvertently open the front-hinged bonnet as well. Looking back, maybe I should have pointed this out, since it almost certainly didn't happen on his new VW and he wouldn't have been prepared.

He returned from the short journey an exhausted and gibbering wreck, but I used to drive the old Triumph all over the country with ne'er an anxious moment.