March 2011
It wasn't much of a car - in fact, it wasn't even a car at all, it was a van - a Trafalgar blue Morris 1000 van to be precise. It was all I could afford at the time, but to one who had only been used to a motorbike before, it was the height of luxury; for the first time ever I could go out without arriving looking like a deep frozen astronaut, fingers and toes glowing with the painful onset of frostbite. For my girlfriend it was also a major improvement, as it enabled her to travel in more feminine outfits that did not automatically involve some form of trousers and bulky warm coat.
Of course, it was a lot less exciting than a motorbike - the roar of the engine, the wind in your face, that satisfying one-upmanship of being able to cruise to the front of any traffic queue . . . the taking of your life into your own hands every time you ventured out . . .
My first bike was a Honda 50, which, it has to be fair, was a good place to start, and an economical alternative to the other methods of transport at a time when I had only just started work and was on the bottom rung of the salary ladder.
That was followed by something with much more street cred - a Norton Navigator 350 twin: white and black with two side panniers and a back box, and tweaked exhaust pipes which made a testosterone friendly, fruity roar. Sadly, this bike expired in a very inauspicious way in the centre of Romford, when the engine repeatedly refused to start . . . then finally caught and revved briefly before it seized, throwing the con-rod out through the side of the engine housing. The cost of repairs was prohibitive and, realistically, I was ready for a more comfortable alternative.
Enter the Morris 1000 van. It was everything I had ever dreamed of, and the previous owner had even converted it, inserting a bench seat in the back, capable of seating a further three passengers - though more on that later.
As the owner today of a modern saloon, looking back, that old van does seem surprisingly primitive, though at the time it was wonderful; I will try to avoid old fogie speak, telling you at great length how: 'In my day things were different . . .', but it is inevitable to make a few comparisons along the way.
As I listen to my in-car entertainment from my ipod or from the CD player through a surround sound speaker system, it is easy to forget how it used to be in the days when cars didn't have any form of radio fitted as standard. Instead, I had my little Japanese transistor radio, strapped to a huge square battery and screwed to the dashboard, with a lone speaker dangling down near the passenger foot well. To say that it was not quite hi-fi quality is very much like saying that the Pound Shop is not quite Harrods; but to be able to listen to music while on the move was a truly novel experience.
However, when the heater was turned on, all that luxury disappeared immediately, for the van had not been fitted with a heater as standard either! Some enterprising previous owner had trawled the latest technology and had fitted a heater which was slung below the centre of the dash; it was, quite simply, a heating filament, akin to one of those old fashioned single bar electric fires, coiled around a fan, which made such a racket that your ears could only tolerate warmth in small doses! It was also easy to imagine the power haemorrhaging out of the battery while your feet grew vaguely warm.
My Mondeo has a heated front windscreen, which is a boon in the depths of winter, but the van didn't even have a heated rear window. Instead, I had glued on a flimsy plastic device which attempted to double glaze a small area to the centre of the window; I say 'attempted' because I don't ever remember it having much effect at all, and the rear window was constantly misted up, especially if passengers in the back seat insisted on breathing!
Today's steering wheels are constructed in luxuriantly soft plastic; no need therefore for the fluffy cover stretched tight over the wheel to protect the hands from the icy touch of the solid Bakelite surface; in the depths of winter, it always seemed a possibility that your hands would become frozen to the wheel like the hero in some sad old Jim Reeves tear-jerker.
It goes without saying that to unlock any door the key had to be inserted into the individual lock and that to open a window a handle had to be frantically whirled without the assistance of a convenient button - but this van didn't even have indicators - instead it had two trafficators, small plastic arms which leapt out from the side of the body and signalled your intended course with a faint orange glow. Like the refrigerator bulb, I always wondered if the light went out when the trafficator sank back into its mounting!
In those days I was in the Thurrock District Service Crew, a part of the Scout Movement . . . not the dib-dib-dib, woggle, rumpled shorts and Akela type of scout, but the long trousered smoking and drinking variety, which provided a support role to the, what we considered, less 'cool' variety. We had a hut at Condovers Camp site in East Tilbury where we met each Friday night to plan forthcoming events, play cards and generally chill out.
When the evenings work was done, we would repair to The Ship public house near Coalhouse Fort, where the licensee had no objection to a group of teenagers quaffing ale while singing non-PC modified versions of old favourite camp-fire songs. The usual mode of transport between these two places was, of course, a Trafalgar blue Morris 1000 van! With the only other alternative to walk a couple of miles, everyone, but everyone, piled in.
On one occasion, we were driving back from the pub towards Condovers, when we were stopped at the level crossing gates while a train went through. Propped up against the gates was a large black bicycle; propped up against the bicycle was a large black cloaked policeman, who, to relieve the boredom of an otherwise quiet night, took the time to check out the van. I was driving; one youth was sat in the front passenger seat with his girl on his lap; on the rear seat were a further three youths, each with girls on their laps, and there were two more in the back of the van!
The poor policeman must have thought Christmas had come early as he asked, 'Don't you think you're a bit overloaded in there, sir?' while sniffing excitedly at the stench of stale beer wafting from the open window. After an uncomfortable ten minutes or so, he grudgingly had to concede that I had been on shandy all night, that the van suspension was adequate for the load and that my driving position had not been compromised, and he allowed us to go on our way - greatly relieved!
I finally killed off this beloved van by fitting wheel spacers to extend the rear wheels out from the bodywork, because, in my deluded youth, I thought it looked really cool! But this excitement came rapidly to an end when, in the centre of North Ockendon High Street, the excessive strain caused the wheel bolts on one side to shear off and I had the pleasure of watching my rear wheel overtake me, rolling off into the sunset all on its own, while the rest of the van ground to a halt on the axle!
I replaced it with a Bermuda blue Austin A40 - but that, as they say, is another story.