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Loved and lost: the cars that stole Top Gear's hearts

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Loved and lost: the cars that stole Top Gear's hearts | Top Gear

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Here are the cars we once owned that will forever hold a place in our affections...

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Loved and lost: the cars that stole Top Gear's hearts

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Here are the cars we once owned that will forever hold a place in our affections...

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
Here are the cars we once owned that will forever hold a place in our affections...

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
Loved and lost: the cars that stole Top Gear's hearts

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
Loved and lost: the cars that stole Top Gear's hearts

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
Loved and lost: the cars that stole Top Gear's hearts

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Here are the cars we once owned that will forever hold a place in our affections...

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Ford Ka (1998): Ollie Kew

Dear little blue teapot, it’s been a while.

I know you’re no longer puttering about the roads of Lincolnshire – last taxed and tested in early 2017. Was it the sill rot that got you in the end? Probably. Dad and I did our best to stave off the symptoms out there on the driveway on a Saturday morning, with the wet ‘n dry, filler, and the Halfords rattle can which never quite matched.

You were an honest car from a simpler time. The perfect first car. Idiotproof. Humble. Remember that time we tried to hit 100mph for the first time in my life and you called it a day at 95? Remember how you made me choose between a 70mph cruise or running the air con? And that evening in the PC World car park when it snowed – the only time your slack handbrake ever managed a handbrake turn? Glorious.

You probably taught me more about cars than the hundreds I’ve driven since little teapot. Cheers, you were absolutely my cup of tea.

Renaultsport Clio 182 (2005): Peter Rawlins

Dear Clio, it’s been just over two years since I tearfully watched you being driven away.

I hope you’re happy in your new home – your buyer told me he planned to use you for the odd track day, but otherwise polish you to within an inch of your life, where you’d live in the garage alongside his GR Yaris. Clearly a man of good taste, and hopefully a man of his word too.

Of course, I’ve fond memories of our eight (eight!) years together. Racing to Wales to get to you in time, before the insurance company closed. Taking you to university, where we must have explored the whole Jurassic Coast together. And of course, attending our very first Top Gear Speed Week, including some track action… where you more than held your own.

Problem was, I cared too much about you. Do you remember parking as far away from everyone else as possible every time we went anywhere? Deciding against doing long journeys in you to keep the mileage down? I didn’t dare bring you with me when I moved to London – our time was up, over to someone else to enjoy you as much as I did. I hope you’ve forgiven me.

Just a piece of metal? You were so much more than that.

Jaguar XJR (1999): Simon Bond

Dear Jag, what a motor you were.

Grandiose in presence. Abundant in leather. Sinister in black. Taxing in fuel economy. A wolf in business casual, we used to prowl quietly through South London traffic with Guy Ritchie quotes ringing in our ears. Modern, shouty V8s? Pah, you were better than that. You were of an era when noise was ungentlemanly. All the better for creeping up on rivals.

Gangs loved the space, apparently. Grace, pace and space to hide some loot, I think the saying goes. Not that you were used for any nefarious activities, of course. Oh, that burnout away from Andy’s wedding? Foot slipped, remember? 370bhp and that somewhat intermittent traction control system of yours. Speaking of which, that’s about all that went wrong, right? A ‘TC Failure’ warning on the dash that was only fixable by spinning the rear wheels. Weird.

You were the most reliable car I’ve ever owned. Not a tough crowd, I’ll admit, but you always ran like clockwork. I won’t tell anyone though, it won’t help the bad boy image. I’ll reminisce instead about banshee-level supercharger whine, five-ish seconds to 60 and how wonderfully predictable that back-end was.

Go well, you always did.

Ducati Monster (2000): Esther Neve

Dear Bert, I remember when I decided to buy you, to bring you into my life.

I remember collecting you from that awful shop, paying for you with my Switch card, and vowing never to take you back to that miserable place. I remember the countless moments of joy you brought me – the sound of your v-twin, the shine of your glorious red paint, the feeling of speed. I remember the early morning runs to the south coast and the late afternoon rides to Lewes to watch the Bonfire Night processions.

I remember being stopped for speeding twice in the same week, by the same police officer, and getting away with it. Happy days! And I remember selling you. Should never have done that.

Sorry. Miss you.

Land Rover Series IIA (1968): Tom Ford

RWD 436G. My first car. A Land Rover Series IIA, 2 ¼ diesel.

Slow. Noisy. Annoying. But you could fix it like Lego. And it had character like you wouldn’t believe – especially when all my mates had Novas and Escorts.

Was painted fire engine red. Ironic really, since – after some ill-advised mods – it took two fire engines to put it out.

RIP. I still miss it.

Vauxhall Calibra (1991): Vijay Pattni

Dear Calibra, not a day goes by that I don’t miss your rusty arches, faded red paint or dodgy electrics.

Nor will I ever forget your engine code – C20XE – or the impact you had on this Luton boy who’d longed for a Calibra ever since he first sat in one as a shy teenager doing work experience for Vauxhall. Buying one then, many years later – at night, with no proper inspection, from a ropey part of town – was a no-brainer.

I adored your looks. Adored your naturally-aspirated 2.0-litre 16-valver. Cherished the life-affirming late night drives. Mostly because you didn’t overheat at night. Never saw that snapped cam belt coming, though.

A hapless attempt to secure a new cylinder head – bought at night, with no proper inspection, from a ropey part of town – ultimately proved futile. You deserved better than to have ended up at a breakers’ yard.

I still miss ya, ya big, pretty lug.

Mini 1275 GT: Andy Dow

Dear WAT 262S, for the nostalgia you provoke, you probably deserved a better name.

I chanced upon you at Kennings in Hull, coveting my mate Chris’s. One part-ex and a credit agreement for a grand later and you were all mine. And you came with a factory-fitted radio! Pure luxury.

For three years, you were a delightful daily driver. Your solo GT sojourn was that time we went from Durham to Jersey, and back via the hospital. Turns out the missus’ “trapped wind” was acute appendicitis – how were we to know?! We paid the price for that, mind. Had to get married, didn’t I? Had to sell you for the deposit on the house, didn’t I? You might have sold for the £1,730 we needed, but my, you were worth so much more.

Regrets, I’ve had a few. I’ve looked for your plate from time to time, but it seems you’re long gone.

Gone, but never forgotten. Thanks for everything.

Volkswagen Scirocco: Ollie Marriage

Dear Rusty, you deserved more.

Mainly you deserved a solvent owner, not a 17-year old who had to make sure the pump clicked off at £2.80 or he’d have gone overdrawn. Repairs, I’m so sorry to say, were entirely uneconomical. How you nursed yourself through the MOT was a mystery to me, given the rust situation. It was everywhere by the time you became mine, already 13 years and 84,000 miles old. The front wings and sills were heavily perforated and the dried mud that had built up in the wheelarch inners was, as I found out on the fateful day I hosed them out, largely structural.

But I loved you. You were the envy of all my 2CV, Maxi and Nova-driving friends. The fastest of the pack, since you were a 110bhp GLi. I’m sorry about the oak tree incident – chalk it up as an early lesson in understeer. I always knew you’d stop three inches from its unforgiving trunk. I’m not sure the same can be said of my three passengers.

It was a six month affair. By September I was off to uni and outside the umbrella of my Dad’s inventive insurance policy. You were never able to accompany me. Someone bought you for £300, but you were never taxed again likely stripped for parts. An organ donor. The final indignity.

Nissan Micra: Joe Holding

Hello little Micra, I make it 14 years since mum traded you in.

Looking back, our relationship was… toxic. Categorically, irredeemably toxic. You were noisy at any and indeed every speed, unsupportive - could those seats be any flatter? - and the literal opposite of a sight for sore eyes. Heck knows what Grandpa saw in you. And yet… you tried your hardest.

Every football match, you got me there. Every missed school bus, you saved my skin. Every 400-mile trek to see Granny, you made it. Somehow. Even that time a blizzard shut the A55. I am forever grateful. I know I hurt you too. Filling your door-pulls with chewed-off nail cuttings is a particular regret. I do hope you can forgive teenage me. Lord knows mum hasn't.

PS. Are my shinpads in your boot? Keep them - something to remember me by.

Toyota Yaris T-Sport (2005): Greg Potts

Ah, the Yaris T-Sport. I only really loved what you could have been.

In reality, you were a bit of a s******. From a distance you looked great, especially once I’d removed the aftermarket window tints. You were a bargain, left-field hot hatch and I hoped to restore some of your former glory while learning a little along the way. Your red paint was only slightly faded and flakey, but underneath all the important bits had both the look and the structural integrity of bran flakes.

I should have realised that you were a lost cause when the exhaust split in two after taking a particularly large speed bump, but at least that allowed the little 1.5-litre VVT-i engine to drown out the din being made by the knackered wheel bearings. It’s probably best that we parted when we did.

I hope your new owner enjoyed the bingo wing-busting effect of the steering wheel vibrations at motorway speeds. I probably should have given them those Pagid brake discs I never got round to installing, although I hear they’ll also fit a third-gen MR2…

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Ford Ka (1998): Ollie Kew

Dear little blue teapot, it’s been a while.

I know you’re no longer puttering about the roads of Lincolnshire – last taxed and tested in early 2017. Was it the sill rot that got you in the end? Probably. Dad and I did our best to stave off the symptoms out there on the driveway on a Saturday morning, with the wet ‘n dry, filler, and the Halfords rattle can which never quite matched.

You were an honest car from a simpler time. The perfect first car. Idiotproof. Humble. Remember that time we tried to hit 100mph for the first time in my life and you called it a day at 95? Remember how you made me choose between a 70mph cruise or running the air con? And that evening in the PC World car park when it snowed – the only time your slack handbrake ever managed a handbrake turn? Glorious.

You probably taught me more about cars than the hundreds I’ve driven since little teapot. Cheers, you were absolutely my cup of tea.

Renaultsport Clio 182 (2005): Peter Rawlins

Dear Clio, it’s been just over two years since I tearfully watched you being driven away.

I hope you’re happy in your new home – your buyer told me he planned to use you for the odd track day, but otherwise polish you to within an inch of your life, where you’d live in the garage alongside his GR Yaris. Clearly a man of good taste, and hopefully a man of his word too.

Of course, I’ve fond memories of our eight (eight!) years together. Racing to Wales to get to you in time, before the insurance company closed. Taking you to university, where we must have explored the whole Jurassic Coast together. And of course, attending our very first Top Gear Speed Week, including some track action… where you more than held your own.

Problem was, I cared too much about you. Do you remember parking as far away from everyone else as possible every time we went anywhere? Deciding against doing long journeys in you to keep the mileage down? I didn’t dare bring you with me when I moved to London – our time was up, over to someone else to enjoy you as much as I did. I hope you’ve forgiven me.

Just a piece of metal? You were so much more than that.

Jaguar XJR (1999): Simon Bond

Dear Jag, what a motor you were.

Grandiose in presence. Abundant in leather. Sinister in black. Taxing in fuel economy. A wolf in business casual, we used to prowl quietly through South London traffic with Guy Ritchie quotes ringing in our ears. Modern, shouty V8s? Pah, you were better than that. You were of an era when noise was ungentlemanly. All the better for creeping up on rivals.

Gangs loved the space, apparently. Grace, pace and space to hide some loot, I think the saying goes. Not that you were used for any nefarious activities, of course. Oh, that burnout away from Andy’s wedding? Foot slipped, remember? 370bhp and that somewhat intermittent traction control system of yours. Speaking of which, that’s about all that went wrong, right? A ‘TC Failure’ warning on the dash that was only fixable by spinning the rear wheels. Weird.

You were the most reliable car I’ve ever owned. Not a tough crowd, I’ll admit, but you always ran like clockwork. I won’t tell anyone though, it won’t help the bad boy image. I’ll reminisce instead about banshee-level supercharger whine, five-ish seconds to 60 and how wonderfully predictable that back-end was.

Go well, you always did.

Ducati Monster (2000): Esther Neve

Dear Bert, I remember when I decided to buy you, to bring you into my life.

I remember collecting you from that awful shop, paying for you with my Switch card, and vowing never to take you back to that miserable place. I remember the countless moments of joy you brought me – the sound of your v-twin, the shine of your glorious red paint, the feeling of speed. I remember the early morning runs to the south coast and the late afternoon rides to Lewes to watch the Bonfire Night processions.

I remember being stopped for speeding twice in the same week, by the same police officer, and getting away with it. Happy days! And I remember selling you. Should never have done that.

Sorry. Miss you.

Land Rover Series IIA (1968): Tom Ford

RWD 436G. My first car. A Land Rover Series IIA, 2 ¼ diesel.

Slow. Noisy. Annoying. But you could fix it like Lego. And it had character like you wouldn’t believe – especially when all my mates had Novas and Escorts.

Was painted fire engine red. Ironic really, since – after some ill-advised mods – it took two fire engines to put it out.

RIP. I still miss it.

Vauxhall Calibra (1991): Vijay Pattni

Dear Calibra, not a day goes by that I don’t miss your rusty arches, faded red paint or dodgy electrics.

Nor will I ever forget your engine code – C20XE – or the impact you had on this Luton boy who’d longed for a Calibra ever since he first sat in one as a shy teenager doing work experience for Vauxhall. Buying one then, many years later – at night, with no proper inspection, from a ropey part of town – was a no-brainer.

I adored your looks. Adored your naturally-aspirated 2.0-litre 16-valver. Cherished the life-affirming late night drives. Mostly because you didn’t overheat at night. Never saw that snapped cam belt coming, though.

A hapless attempt to secure a new cylinder head – bought at night, with no proper inspection, from a ropey part of town – ultimately proved futile. You deserved better than to have ended up at a breakers’ yard.

I still miss ya, ya big, pretty lug.

Mini 1275 GT: Andy Dow

Dear WAT 262S, for the nostalgia you provoke, you probably deserved a better name.

I chanced upon you at Kennings in Hull, coveting my mate Chris’s. One part-ex and a credit agreement for a grand later and you were all mine. And you came with a factory-fitted radio! Pure luxury.

For three years, you were a delightful daily driver. Your solo GT sojourn was that time we went from Durham to Jersey, and back via the hospital. Turns out the missus’ “trapped wind” was acute appendicitis – how were we to know?! We paid the price for that, mind. Had to get married, didn’t I? Had to sell you for the deposit on the house, didn’t I? You might have sold for the £1,730 we needed, but my, you were worth so much more.

Regrets, I’ve had a few. I’ve looked for your plate from time to time, but it seems you’re long gone.

Gone, but never forgotten. Thanks for everything.

Volkswagen Scirocco: Ollie Marriage

Dear Rusty, you deserved more.

Mainly you deserved a solvent owner, not a 17-year old who had to make sure the pump clicked off at £2.80 or he’d have gone overdrawn. Repairs, I’m so sorry to say, were entirely uneconomical. How you nursed yourself through the MOT was a mystery to me, given the rust situation. It was everywhere by the time you became mine, already 13 years and 84,000 miles old. The front wings and sills were heavily perforated and the dried mud that had built up in the wheelarch inners was, as I found out on the fateful day I hosed them out, largely structural.

But I loved you. You were the envy of all my 2CV, Maxi and Nova-driving friends. The fastest of the pack, since you were a 110bhp GLi. I’m sorry about the oak tree incident – chalk it up as an early lesson in understeer. I always knew you’d stop three inches from its unforgiving trunk. I’m not sure the same can be said of my three passengers.

It was a six month affair. By September I was off to uni and outside the umbrella of my Dad’s inventive insurance policy. You were never able to accompany me. Someone bought you for £300, but you were never taxed again likely stripped for parts. An organ donor. The final indignity.

Nissan Micra: Joe Holding

Hello little Micra, I make it 14 years since mum traded you in.

Looking back, our relationship was… toxic. Categorically, irredeemably toxic. You were noisy at any and indeed every speed, unsupportive - could those seats be any flatter? - and the literal opposite of a sight for sore eyes. Heck knows what Grandpa saw in you. And yet… you tried your hardest.

Every football match, you got me there. Every missed school bus, you saved my skin. Every 400-mile trek to see Granny, you made it. Somehow. Even that time a blizzard shut the A55. I am forever grateful. I know I hurt you too. Filling your door-pulls with chewed-off nail cuttings is a particular regret. I do hope you can forgive teenage me. Lord knows mum hasn't.

PS. Are my shinpads in your boot? Keep them - something to remember me by.

Toyota Yaris T-Sport (2005): Greg Potts

Ah, the Yaris T-Sport. I only really loved what you could have been.

In reality, you were a bit of a s******. From a distance you looked great, especially once I’d removed the aftermarket window tints. You were a bargain, left-field hot hatch and I hoped to restore some of your former glory while learning a little along the way. Your red paint was only slightly faded and flakey, but underneath all the important bits had both the look and the structural integrity of bran flakes.

I should have realised that you were a lost cause when the exhaust split in two after taking a particularly large speed bump, but at least that allowed the little 1.5-litre VVT-i engine to drown out the din being made by the knackered wheel bearings. It’s probably best that we parted when we did.

I hope your new owner enjoyed the bingo wing-busting effect of the steering wheel vibrations at motorway speeds. I probably should have given them those Pagid brake discs I never got round to installing, although I hear they’ll also fit a third-gen MR2…

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Here are the cars we once owned that will forever hold a place in our affections...