Mini One/Cooper

It's 3.45am and I'm having a very bad dream. There's a dishevelled bloke from a local breakdown service with a fag-end hanging out of his mouth pointing an orange light in my face and winching my car onto the back of his truck. He drives off without strapping the wheels down or inviting us into the safety of his truck's cabin. For the next hour he hurtles along in the opposite direction from the one we've been trying to go before descending into the coastal town of Lavagna.

He knocks on a couple of hotels' doors, gets no answer at one and is told to 'do one' at another before ditching us outside a garage and speeding off. It's five in the morning, too light for us to sleep and yet three hours before there's any chance of a mechanic showing up.

Thankfully, apart from being a Maserati servicing agent, Autofficina Franco is also an Innocenti specialist. Innocentis, as I remember it, are Italianised Minis and the boss certainly seems to know what he's up to. Another set of spark plugs, a set of points plus a thoroughly cleaned-out carburettor and fuel lines sees our Mini once more heave itself back into life. All for 30,000 lire (that's a tenner).

I try to point out how far we've still got to go today and despite my lack of Italian and his shortage of English, the message comes across clearly enough that there isn't a chance of making it if I don't ditch the moustachioed bloke. With the AA's assistance once more, Mike and all his cases are plonked into a hired Opel Corsa for the final leg.

With the caffeine from a couple of full-strength espressos fizzling around in my brain, I hold on grimly for the last 200 miles. The Mini's Italian crap car arch-enemy, a Fiat Panda, pulls alongside and goads it into one last monumental dice. After 10 minutes flat-out, I realise that the biddy at the wheel is approaching 90 (years, not miles per hour) and is completely oblivious to my presence.

The car's steering is all over the place by now and it's once again overheating wildly, but I don't give a monkey's because I can see a signpost for BMW's launch headquarters at Perugia airport. Three days, 1,321 miles, 17 litres of oil, 146 litres of petrol, 12 spark plugs, one set of points, six bottles of water, 28 packets of crisps and one kaput Mini later, we've made it.

Before leaving on this epic misadventure, I'd contacted Christian Sementina of the Umbria Mini Club from one of the hundreds of Mini enthusiasts' websites. He's now waiting to take our Red Hot and shagged example away.

As I pull to a smoky halt he sets about strolling around its sorry exterior, grimacing at the dents, drips and blue-black emissions. Then he grins and explains that he plans to chisel off any parts that might still be useable to keep his own Minis going, before doing the kindest thing and scrapping what's left.

It's not the most tragic of partings. I'm so absolutely cream-crackered, meanwhile, I find myself promising that if I'm ever coaxed behind the wheel of a Mini again, I'll swallow my own socks...

Peter Grunert