LOVE IN THE FAST LANE

Johnny Ireland

It was the summer of 2001, in the Cote d’Azur, South of France, when I saw her for the first time.

I was standing at a pedestrian crossing. There were no lights, just a black and white zebra painted on the road. Is France the only country in the world where you’re advised to be cautious when attempting to navigate such a crossing? Even when a driver stops to allow you the opportunity to cross, experience has taught me to always expect them to change their mind at the last minute!

She was stunning in the St Tropez sunshine. My heart skipped a beat as she glided by. I’m sure she winked at me. “Oh, Baby!” I was instantly smitten and vowed that, one day, she would be mine.

Prior to that, there was Julia, my dad’s beautiful, brown (yes, we had brown cars in the 70s) Triumph Toledo. She was the only brand-new car my father ever owned, and she smelt gorgeous. That distinctive 1970s showroom smell that, as much as car manufacturers try to duplicate today, never quite manage to recreate. Julia’s only fault was that she didn’t like the cold weather.

“Come on, Julia, don’t let me down!”

On a freezing cold morning, with the choke fully extended, Dad would need to turn the key at least three times before the engine fired up and she was ready to go. He would always talk to Julia, coaxing her to start. In return, she never let him down. The day she eventually left, upgraded in a part exchange deal, he lost a true friend.

When I was 15, I took on a weekend job as a milkman, helping a local guy deliver milk to the doorsteps around my hometown. My new boss, Barry, was a lovely chap. Prior to my first day, he said: “Sammy will pick you up on Saturday morning, 5.30am sharp. No need to get the bus.”

I assumed Sammy was a family member and thought no more of it, but when I opened the door that first morning at 5.30am, there was Barry.

“Oh, where’s Sammy?” I asked.

Barry laughed and pointed at his shiny, blue car.

“Johnny, meet Sammy the Simca.”

On my weekly commute to work, Barry often spoke to Sammy in the same way my father spoke to Julia. There was something quite sweet about it.

My first car was a three-door Austin Allegro, maroon in colour. It may be 40 years ago, but I smile at that car’s personality. It had a mind of its own with unpredictable electrics. The headlights only came on when they felt like it, and the windscreen wipers? Forget it. They only worked when you put the indicators on. I kid you not!

Despite what some people may think, I’m convinced cars are either male or female. My ‘All Aggro’ (as I quickly nicknamed it), was definitely male. We never got on. My now father-in-law, whom I’d only known for a short time, and whose knowledge of mechanics was forever called upon, spent more time under the bonnet than I spent in the driving seat!

Things went up a gear (sorry!) when Eddie arrived in 1985. Eddie was a Ford Escort. He was navy blue… until I got hold of him. Within weeks, I’d fitted white wing mirrors, white hub caps and white ‘go faster’ stripes. But the pièce de résistance? A white pop-up sunroof. I was in heaven. My pals were in hysterics!

But, it transpires, I was decades ahead with my two-tone car. Many cars now have different coloured wing mirrors and alloys. Some even have a different coloured roof! The iconic Mini springs to mind. I should have patented the idea!

I knew it was time for me and Eddie to part company when the door fell off its hinges. My future father-in-law confirmed the diagnosis: it was rotten. Poor Eddie was off to the scrap yard. But not before removing the white accessories. I was convinced I could sell them. I still have them.

For my next car, I gave my girlfriend (now my wife) a budget to find me a new motor while I went on holiday with my pals. When I returned, I was ecstatic to find a fabulous five-door Ford Escort 1.6 GLS in sky blue. My favourite colour! It had five gears, six including reverse, and the audio system was top of the range. It was also the first car I’d ever owned that didn’t have a choke. I asked her the price. She told me. I instantly gave the car a name which, unfortunately, cannot be printed in this top-quality magazine.

Despite the ‘misunderstanding’ over the budget, it was a fabulous car. So fabulous, that one Saturday night, someone decided to steal it from outside my girlfriend’s house and abandon it in Milton Keynes a day later full of stolen photographic equipment. I didn’t feel quite the same about it after that.

From that day onwards, I was fortunate to benefit from company car schemes and although each vehicle was very nice, I didn’t bother to name any of them. They were just cars, swapped annually or when the agreed mileage threshold was met. They were reliable, run of the mill motors until…

I had to look at the car list twice. I couldn’t believe my eyes! My employer had introduced a change in policy, and I could select any car of my choice, paying to up-grade if necessary. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d exceed my budget! The company car manager thought I’d lost my marbles but, having paid the money, my new car was ordered and, six weeks later, delivered.

Once I’d collected the keys, I walked (very quickly) to the designated area. There she was! I smiled. She winked. I was back in St Tropez… back in love.

I slid into the front seat of my new silver Audi TT Sportback, caressed the leather steering wheel, and whispered her name… “Hello, Baby.”

That was 23 years ago. Sadly, my 60-year-old bones are no longer compatible with an Audi TT. But boy, did I Iove that car…