Along with Jaguar’s new F-Type ‘Chequered Flag’ limited edition run, Jaguar has also been busy turning 2 of their F-Types into rally cars and THEGAYUK were fortunate enough to be invited to have a play with the road going cars and trying this special build rally car.
(C) JAGUAR UK
The F-Type isn’t really a suitable rally car, and why have Jaguar done this?
Firstly it’s all about putting some fun into the celebration of 70 years of sports cars at Jaguar that all started in 1948 with the XK120. The XK120 spawned a number of victorious wins and being an open-top racer, it answers the second question. And that is, why the hell not! It’s a nice homage to the open top winners.
(C) JAGUAR UK
So what has been done to the road going sportster to make it a rally car? A number of things had been changed or altered and all in accordance with FIA approval. Instead of the usual 19” alloys, 16” rims with a more rugged 205/55 16 gravel tyre are fitted. 2” suspension lift with 60N/mm Eibach springs and three-way adjustable competition dampers.
Usual things have been added like a 5mm aluminium belly pan, hydraulic handbrake and the removal of luxury items. No side windows, no roof, no fancy door trims. Instead, the inside it plain, basic and filled with an FIA approved roll cage and full 6 point harness. Weight wise, the removal of such items has been matched by the race-spec items added so it’s pretty much the same as a road going car.
(C) JAGUAR UK
So what is it like to drive?
As you can imagine, it’s an open car so you are very much at one with your surroundings in as much as mud gets kicked around and that mud gets you and the interior. There is most certainly no need to wear your Sunday best for this Jaguar. Just climbing in leaves you covered in mud.
Engine and transmission are the same 300PS at 5500rpm delivering 295Ib.ft of torque from 1500rpm 2 litre Ingenium power unit mated to the standard automatic gearbox. The only difference is the final drive has been adjusted for a better 0-60 time and putting down the power to the limited slip differential at the back. You never get to top speed, but top speed isn’t what this F-Type is about.
No, indeed it is not. It is about swinging it around the dirt and going sideways. Thankfully we were not driving solo. Instead, we had 2 rally experts with us. Finland’s 9 times winning rally driver, Minna Sillankorva as co-pilot, offering advice (she taught me the perfect handbrake turn) and the UK’s own Jade Paveley in the pits.
This was the first rallying I have ever tried and to be honest, it isn’t as easy at it looks. I also wasn’t going hell for leather but instead, as Jaguar had said, I had fun in celebrating this 70th year with Jaguar.
I’ve always had a tough relationship with my body. Being disabled meant that I have always looked different to everyone else.
For example, we are born with 7 muscles in our necks. I was born with 3 which are all fused together in a ball. This means my head is slightly wonky. Other than neck pain, this doesn’t directly affect my life (with the exception of the canvases in my flat looking wonky). That knowing of being different, not looking ‘normal’, immediately creates an imbalance with you, like you’re never quite on a level playing field with everyone else.
For me, this manifested into thinking I was ugly. I remember from being a young kid and every time I would throw a penny in a fountain, blow out my birthday candles or have a loose eyelash; my wish would be the same. I would wish I looked like everyone else.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I have amazing parents and family who would always tell me how beautiful I am. I never felt like I wasn’t loved. I was loved by everyone… just not myself.
I then took these feelings and ate them. I would buy multiple packets of cookies and scoff them all at night when everyone was asleep. They would be hidden under my bed, behind my wardrobe, in my school bag. And so, naturally, I gained more and more weight. This was never a problem for me until I had to move school aged 13. On my first day, I walked into a classroom and saw the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. I remember he had these big blue eyes and I still recall feeling like I was going to throw up. I quickly became obsessed and made it my mission to be his friend.
It worked. We became close friends and eventually lovers. Privately, he was always really sweet. We’d have sex, kiss, cuddle and he’d tell me how much he liked me. Publicly, he’d point out if I got sweaty, mock me loudly if I was eating chocolate and I was always the butt of his jokes.
I took it all with a smile because I loved him.
I went on my first diet aged 14. I told my parents I would be cooking for myself and would make small meals full of vegetables.
I began following workout DVDs. I’d do everything I could to lose weight, fast.
My relationship with him lasted 3 years and I spent the entire time willing to do anything for him to love me.
It was never going to happen, he was confused about his sexuality and didn’t know what he wanted. This made him both physically and mentally abusive towards me. He would text me if I posted a photograph online saying I looked huge or, if I changed my profile picture on MSN, he’d tell me how ugly I looked in it.
I allowed this because I felt grateful he even paid any attention to me. He and I were always off and on and, in-between our off times, I got attention from other people in my year group. I had lots of sex in High School (sorry, Mum!) but this never boosted my body confidence because I believed everything my boyfriend was telling me, that I was ugly and fat and that nobody really wanted me. I was only good for sex.
We broke up at 16 when I decided to stay in Sixth Form and he went to a different college. Free from his clutches, I started to feel good about myself again. I also ate like crazy and gained my weight back.
Then I fell in love for a second time.
He was a nerdy guy that I struck up a friendship with when I noticed he sat alone. He was funny, sarcastic and he had a beautiful smile. I was smitten but it was somewhat unrequited. I decided the only way to make him like me was if I lost weight. Yet again, I went on a diet. This guy was always very kind to me. He never commented on my body or my weight. He never made me feel ugly. Yet, I still took it upon myself to assume I was.
This pattern has carried on throughout my life. My confidence in myself and my body has always been based on men. If men paid me attention, that meant I was attractive.
At University, I found myself in a long distance relationship with someone I’d spoken with online since I was young. He was funny and interesting. Unfortunately, he was also a heavy drinker. When he’d drink, he’d become abusive to me. He’d go on a drunken Skype rages about how fat I’d gotten since I started University. He wasn’t wrong, I had gained the typical Freshers 15 and then some. This time, I didn’t diet. I just carried on eating. And eating. I would binge on takeaways and booze and cakes. Once he and I broke up, I poured my affection into food instead. I would go on websites like FitLads but it’d break my heart when people didn’t message me first. I always felt I knew why: I’m too fat and ugly to be loved.
This feeling, like I wasn’t enough like I didn’t even deserve to be loved carried on right through my 20s. Until last year. I met someone. It wasn’t a love affair, we only kissed once, but I never felt self-conscious the entire time I was in his presence. He was more interested in me, as a person. We’d talk about our favourite TV shows, we’d laugh at stupid jokes and I never once felt I should be grateful he paid attention to me (even though he was SO gorgeous). I felt on top of the world that maybe, just maybe, someone would like me for me. Could it be possible? Am I actually deserving of being loved? I came to the realisation that I was locked up in a jail cell whilst holding the key the entire time. This boy hadn’t done anything special to make me feel this way. It was how I thought about myself. At the same time, I also realised that I had become extremely unhealthy. I was tipping the scales at 20 stone, I was eating 3 takeaways a week. I was struggling to breathe, I was sweating constantly. I wasn’t just overweight but morbidly obese.
I have since lost over 5 stone and what has been interesting is how much of my lack of confidence is still to be shifted too. I feel more confident in how I look on the whole but I still carry those same fears. I may be thinner but am I actually pretty? Is my hair too thin? I’ve got stretch marks from losing weight, will anybody want to look at me? I now realise that I still have a long way to go truly loving myself and my body. But it’s happening bit by bit. With every selfie, I post where I actually smile because who cares if my teeth look a bit weird? With every crazy outfit, I wear because I’m still working out my style. I do things for me, I dress how I want to dress because I like it. And when I look in the mirror, I feel pride. I have moments of weakness, sure. And there are definitely still issues I have to face in that I still attach some of my self worth to the approval of men. But I’m working on it. Self-confidence is a matter of both mind and body. All I need is time.
So, here’s my advice. Tell the guy you like, you like him. Compliment someone on their outfit. And compliment yourself. It’s so easy in today’s gay culture to idolise “traditional” beauty but most of us don’t have the six pack and the thick hair and the flawless skin.
The first step to accepting yourself is accepting we’re all different. And damn it, being different isn’t a flaw… it’s a beautiful gift.
You can catch my date on Series one of First Dates, episode five.
After having successive failed dates, I thought I’d try my luck in the First Dates restaurant. What did I have to lose?
In my opening interview, I proclaim on national television that I’m a really horny person and if I see a fit man on the tube, I get a tent pole and have to cover my crotch with my man bag. Great start.
It was a boiling hot day and as I walked into the restaurant, I was sweating like a Bombay hooker. I chose to wear a pair of shorts, hoping it wouldn’t look too casual. But to my relief, my date Lee, was also in shorts. Phew, I thought, we can both look casual together.
I was escorted to meet Lee by the maitre’d and we awkwardly introduced ourselves. We clearly didn’t know whether we should shake hands or share a kiss on the cheek. After nearly head butting each other, we settled on the kiss on the cheek.
We instantly found we had some common ground, discovering that we’d both worked as entertainers for holiday parks. The other mutual trait we shared were perfectly plucked pruned eyebrows. This put me off straight away as I usually like my men a bit more rugged and less manicured. I WANT to be the pretty one in a relationship.
No surprises, I was instantly knocking back the Sauvignon Blanc. And I went straight in for direct questioning. No point beating around the bush, I always say.
In fact, I never beat around the bush.
Hence the fact I’m gay.
Direct and to the point, that’s me. Just call me Jack Bauer.
“So are you looking for a long term relationship?” I asked.
Maybe a little forward for the first conversation but I do like to know where I stand. Even though I didn’t fancy Lee on first sight, I like to keep an open mind. You never know if the spark will come later.
The conversation quickly moved onto kids and we both agreed we would want a boy if we were to have children.
“I’d want a boy because girls are bitches!” I declared, whilst looking around for my Savvy B to be topped up.
As I swigged some more of the First Dates restaurant’s savvy B, for some reason I decided it would be a good idea to tell my date that I’ve already got my wedding planned. And no word of a lie, this is what I have envisaged all of my life.
I want the vicar to come up from under the pulpit on a revolving platform. And I want a disco ball spinning as I make my way down the aisle. And the best bit; my walk in song is Whitney Houston classic, ‘How will I know?’, “if he really loves me, I say a prayer with every heartbeat”.
Really proud that I’d clearly described my wedding, I see Lee has fallen deadly silent, lost for words. A rarity with this man, let me tell you, as he loved the sound of his own voice.
Breaking the silence, I asked, “Does it sound like a wedding for which you’d like to be the fellow groom for?”
“NO”, he bluntly replies, “It sounds really tacky.”
My face drops as I knock back some more wine and another deathly silence fills the table. Well, I guess I did ask.
To break the silence, Lee asks if we should go for a cigarette. Relieved that we both smoke, I jump at the chance to grab a nicotine fix after failing to woo him with my wedding plans.
As we puffed on our Mayfair fags (yes, classy I know), the conversation turns to our coming out stories. I came out to the world at 17, even though I don’t actually think I really needed to tell anyone because they’d all guessed that I was a raging homo. Actually, I don’t know if guessed is the right word. It just so happens that none of my friends and family are blind or deaf.
Discussing our school years, I opened up about being bullied. God, now I know I’m quite an open and honest person but I don’t think I’d ever been quite so open and honest on a date before.
Once upon a time, I was held down on the school field by some boys who wrote “Faggot” on my forehead in black marker pen. Yes, sad but a true story. And then I was the one who got into trouble with the Headmaster. YES, ME! He told me off for having pen on my face which wasn’t in accordance with the school uniform policy. What a bastard, although this was the 1990s. If that were to happen in this day and age, the Headmaster would get sacked for sure.
Nicotine fix complete, we were back at the table, being served our mains when… Cue another awkward silence as I bring up the fact I had quite a religious upbringing. Believe it or not, I went to Sunday school and I was in the church choir. And I still regularly go to church now.
“So have you never been to church?” I enquire.
“I go for like christenings, weddings, just when I’ve got to”, was his response.
As the conversation evolved, I fear I was a little too defensive of my old mate Jesus. After Lee called the communion wine, rancid old vinegar, I proclaimed:
“I can’t believe you just dissed Jesus’ blood!”
That quote will follow me around for years to come as I saw it quoted on Twitter hundreds of times the night the programme went to air.
“Maybe we shouldn’t discuss religion”, I sensibly suggested as I grabbed the waiter’s attention to get some more wine. And no, I didn’t ask for rancid old vinegar.
Note to self: Don’t talk about religion, wedding plans or being bullied on first dates. It creates too many awkward silences.
During my closing interview, the producers were plying me with wine. Trying to get me pissed they were. Attempting to loosen my lips even more so than they usually are.
I proclaimed that I didn’t really fancy him but if there was the option, I’d probably go home to bed with him.
SLUT.
I think our final conversation on camera summed up our date perfectly.
LEE: I think you’re really nice. BUT… we are too alike personality wise.
ME: It would be like shagging myself if I shagged you.
LEE: Just a better-looking version.
Cue my pursed lips.
Even television can’t guarantee this undateable gay a future of love. Maybe I should try Blind Date next…
‘He’s my toy boy, toy boy. I’m out with my toy boy, toy boy. And when I get to take him home, I know he’s gonna love me right’
Now don’t worry, I’ve not lost the plot. I was fortunate one week in February to be given the keys to Toyota GB’s Mk1 MR2. It came with Toyota’s state of the art cassette player and I found a mixtape with Sinitta’s hit ‘Toy Boy’ and if ever there was a song that suited a car, it was this.
It all started after I contacted Graham from Toyota press about a future article I was planning to write about the MR2 Vs Fiat X1/9. He suggested I come over, collect the car and take it to an event Toyota GB had organised at Silverstone with the Vintage Sports-Car Club (VSCC) called the Parallel Pomeroy Trophy. It dates back 70 years and was devised to find the best GT car. For Toyota, it consisted of 4 tests. I couldn’t really say no now could I.
All that was needed was to collect the car and pay the £30 entry fee that was going towards Toyota’s chosen charity for the past couple of years, Guide Dogs for the Blind. Toyota has been sponsoring the training of 4 dogs and lifetime costs of one. That’s around £55,000. https://www.guidedogs.org.uk
The MR2 was collected and a look around some of the heritage fleet Toyota keep was shown. The MR2 was a lovely little car and had undergone an extensive restoration that also came with some words of advise about being sympathetic to the newly built engine. So no pressure there then considering the weekend Toyota had planned!
Tests centred around a slalom handling course, flat out short distance and a series of forward-backward-forward etc strip where you had to stop within the boundaries of some pre-set cones. Penalties were issued if you messed it up. Suffice to say, I did. Twice! Annoyingly.
In total, there were 38 Toyota’s ranging from a 1971 Corolla coupe to the 2018 Yaris GRNM with everything in-between included 4 generations of Prius and a Hilux. All this was made even more serious when we were issued with number decals to apply to our cars. All road going cars (the rules stated that ALL entrants must be road legal) were instantly turned into race cars. Applying numbers to a car just makes them racy. The MR2 had sharp looks, an engine making borborygmi noises behind you and sporting potential to start with. The immaculate 1973 Crown estate however didn’t.
That said, it didn’t stop Eddie Bellringer beating me and the MR2. His times showed commitment at EVERY level. If I’m honest, I got beaten by practically everything out there including Steve Cropley from Autocar magazine in an Mk1 Prius. That said, Alan Bradley from the Motoring Podcast, in his Yaris GRMN, also got beaten by the Crown Estate.
This was the first Parallel Pomeroy event PR and social media manager, Scott Brownlee and his team had organised and it went very well, even down to the weather. There was however only two Toyota PR team members taking it for the team. Product and technical, Mr Richard Seymour in an iQ and PR student, Mary Nicholls in a Prius. She also beat me in a Prius.
Well, let’s not leave you in suspense. Richard in the iQ won. The smallest car with the smallest engine with the impossibility of positioning a car with a cone within the wheelbase won the event. Which went to show that Richard of product and technical either knew his stuff and the iQ or it was a fix? Either way, it’s a long way to fall when you are at the top, I’m wondering what Toyota could put him in next time.
An MR2 perhaps?
As for me, it was a blast and a really good day was had by all those who attended. So it is with great thanks to the Toyota GB team for letting me have the MR2 for a few days prior to the event.
In my last article, I wrote about all the things you can do to look about as sexy as the mud-covered posterior of a Rhino (appreciating that other rhinos may find you/that attractive – each to their own). In this article, however, I’d like to share with you some techniques for how to be sexy on a first date, remembering that sexy is all in the mind so this isn’t just about how to make yourself ‘look sexy’ physically.
Wear something that compliments you
Free-Photos / Pixabay
If, like me, you watch Gok Wan and listen to his wise teachings as if he was Jesus Christ reborn (no… just me? OK…) then you’ll know that there are a number of things you can do to dress for you without completely changing your wardrobe and not be you anymore.
What we wear is often a reflection of our personality, so I am not saying that you should go out and buy totally new stuff just to impress a boy – far from it. But instead, wear things that make you feel comfortable and confident. For me personally, I avoid white tops at the moment because all they do is remind me that I’m carrying 2 children and it’s about time the little buggers came out as they have been brewing for almost 4 years now. Therefore I often wear black, with some sort of jacket/overshirt to reflect my body shape and emphasise what I want emphasising. Regardless of your fashion, if you go out in something that you are comfortable with and feel confident/OK in, then you are in a good position to charm/impress your date.
Put on those lucky pants
CREDIT: NYPhotoboy-bigstock
People say they don’t have lucky pants, but they do. Everyone does. We may not call them lucky pants, we may instead just call them pants that make us feel comfortable or a little bit sexy. For me, it’s a jock. I don’t wear one with the expectation that it will be seen, I’m a ‘top’ after all so all expectations are it’ll be wasted on the majority of people, but when I wear one I feel confident and remotely sexy (emphasis on the word remotely). And then the twins kick and I’m reminded that I’m carrying a male pregnancy. These twins are a wonder to modern science they really are. Also, I’m pretty sure the father owes me A LOT of child maintenance…
I digress. The point is to wear something only you know is there to help remind you that you are sexy, you can feel sexy, and that sexy feeling is more for your benefit than it is theirs. If it benefits them, all the better! Sometimes that sexy feeling is more about how you feel than what you appear to them.
You really do need to ensure good hygiene.
The only thing I’ll mention in terms of physical body appearance is hygiene. There are days when we just feel yucky and no matter what we do we cannot shift it. Having said that there are some basic levels of hygiene that we can all engage with to make a good impression. For example, after a long day, we can often smell a little. Either literally or because it’s been a heavy coffee day and the breath is a little lacking. Small things like a little aftershave or a chewing gum can easily correct it and don’t then play on your, or your dates, minds.
Anyone who says that hygiene isn’t important and people should accept you for who you are, warts n all, is a liar. As human beings, we all expect basic levels of hygiene (with some mitigating circumstances) so if you rock up smelling like a gym bag and have the breath of a 100 a day coffee drinking smoker then don’t be surprised if your date becomes distracted by it.
Do something that makes you feel confident before heading in.
Have you ever watched the Olympics or other sport and noticed that they often come onto the pitch or competition area and are wearing headphones? (Or are you just perving at the tight costumes they wear – I don’t blame you if so). They are listening to something called ‘an anchor’. An anchor is a piece of music (or anything else for that matter) then when they listen to it, it fills them with the desired feeling.
In my case, as I’m the author here so I’m going to make this all about me, I listen to a particular remix of Jessie J’s ‘Domino’. Before going on a night out, a date, a ‘hookup’, or whatever I stick that on and I am instantly taken to a memory of being confident “sexy and free”. Therefore if there is something that would remind you of such a feeling, use it. Confidence is one of the sexiest things around but also one of the most elusive things. We can often let our nerves get the better of us and that awkward nervous energy can start to remove what sexiness exists. As a little trick, therefore, give yourself a little confidence and create your own anchor to help you get it.
Have that one friend that will tell you the truth.
On most occasions when I am going on a date I don’t tell another living soul. It’s just easier that way as it’s fewer people to explain it to if it goes bad and fewer people poking their noses in on ‘how it went’ before it has even finished. Having said that, however, you should have that one friend you can tell and that one friend you ask their opinion on about what to wear etc. From a personal safety point of view, it’s a good idea anyway, but that friend can also say you look good (adds to the confidence) or recommend some changes to make you look even better (also adds to the confidence).
And if they are a particularly good friend they can even calm the nerves and offer a friendly slap round the face if the nerves get too much and you talk yourself out of going.
Above all, do try to enjoy your date. Regardless of everything else. Life is too short to over-analyse your dates and spend your night fretting. What will be, will be. Roll with it and just see what happens.
The Toyota Yaris, the Greek goddesses of charm and beauty. Well not quite. According to Wikipedia, “Yaris” is derived from “Charis”, the singular for Charites. And this thankfully is as complicated as Toyota’s little toaster on wheels gets.
Her beauty didn’t last long because you might have noticed that almost ALL Yaris’s have a dented panel below the rear bumper. You do wonder if they actually came from the factory like that.
OK, I’m being unfair and what I am about to write pretty much gives the game away. The Yaris isn’t a bad car. And despite its oddball looks, it’s not ugly either. Here is a car that was miles away from the dull forgettable Starlet that it replaced. You might want to Google “Starlet” because you would have forgotten what it looked like by now.
Walk around the Yaris and you’ll greet its cutesy looks with affection. Its rounded face and slabby sides were in keeping with the populous of the time in that we were all getting a bit portly. What we needed was to walk more. What you needed was a car that broke down.
The Yaris didn’t break down. You just couldn’t stop the bloody things. So reliable were they, that they won customer satisfaction awards all over the place. Here was a city car that didn’t cost much to buy, cost even less to run and could be abused like no other car. If ever there was a car that made the manufacture absolutely no money in after sales, here it is.
Getting inside was a doodle too. Big wide doors on the 3 door, or slightly smaller doors on the 5 door, opened up the grey cabin. The driving position was high too. It gave good visuals and speaking of visuals, it also came with a far-out digital pod, slap-bang in the middle of the dashboard. This was a revelation. Digital displays were still alienating customers, others had tried and failed. Toyota gave a 2 finger salute and shoved it in there. It worked. It was crystal clear. You couldn’t wish for anything better.
And the ride wasn’t that bad either for a shopping cart. It all worked well. So you would expect this to be a massive sales flop. A little Toyota with a high driving position that’s easy to get into, surely only the granny brigade bought these. Absolutely not. It was universally approved by all.
THEGAYUK were invited to visit Ford UK’s heritage centre to check out the delights that lay hidden in Dagenham. Finally, the threat of a visit with Charlotte was finalised and l had the pleasure of spending a few hours at the site with the very informative Ivan who oversees the repairs and restorations of the cars.
Classic cars account for quite a big market in the UK and the world. Indeed you only need to look at the latest car shows to see old bangers being given new leases of life buy some mechanics that to be quite honest are as much of the eye candy on screen as the cars are. I’ll spare their blushes, however, there are three that l professionally stalk on Twitter.
It was quite strange driving around the Dagenham site. The place isn’t what it once was with car manufacturing sadly being undertaken elsewhere but you get lost in a vast size of the site, the dreams that were made at Ford, the labour upheavals and who could forget the 1968 strike by the ladies of the sewing room who made the seat covers. Apparently, Vera Sime, Dora Challingsworth and the ladies were quite a handful but their strike action resulted in the Equal Pay Act of 1970.
So to Ford UK, I go to check out their shed of dreams. I don’t mean to be rude when l call it a shed, the standing joke is that it is just that, found on the outskirts of the Dagenham site. I’d heard about the shed before and only seen pictures of what it was like. Entering the shed took me right back to the ’80s with an Mk2 Fiesta that greets you at the door.
You then walk around the corner and there are the dreams Ford wished upon you back in the day. It was like looking into a box of Quality Street, all these gems hidden under plastic covers. It’s a sight to be seen and despite there being almost every Ford l grew up with being there, this is only a small part of the show.
It was interesting to see The Focus in almost all its generations being tickled with the polish ready for shipping to Germany for the launch of the new 4th generation Focus. Ford Germany don’t have what we have in the UK you might be surprised to know.
Ivan and his team were more than happy to explain what was going on and despite the backing by the FoMoCo, they too also suffer from what every classic car fan does and that’s lack of available parts. You would have thought Ford could just make them up again, sadly that isn’t the case.
Thankfully for Ivan and his team, there is Burton Ford who specialise in Ford replacement parts and a good network globally that can help. And that’s what it all comes down to, enthusiasm and a support network. And it’s that network that has helped Ford GB create an enviable array of its past history and a part that I hope to enjoy over the next year.
Trouble is, what do I want to savour first?
Many thanks to corporate affairs manager, Charlotte Ward and Ivan for the invite and time given.
VW’s Polo has just reached its Mk 6 status and the little Polo has gone from strength to strength, once being the smallest and cheapest way into VW. And then Polo became a proper VW and a new smaller car was available, thus pushing Polo to another stratosphere in VW ownership. It’s all gone well for Polo except.
Back in 2002, the MK 4 Polo arrived. It was ALL NEW, all sparkly and dull as ditch water. Changing the front indicator was probably as exciting as it could get.
It wasn’t a bad car, it didn’t necessarily achieve great showroom appeal, but it did sell in vast numbers with most being painted silver. The new colour for the millennium so I am lead to believe. And the Polo did what you needed it to be. It was a small car with large dimensions in as much as it just got fat as was typical of VW’s ethos back then.
Polo was well built. It carried the VW traditions quite well. Wasn’t know for falling apart, could take some serious bodily abuse and never see a welders torch. It was what Polo customers wanted. A quality car that stood for something even if it was lacking in entertainment on almost every level. You could also fool people by replacing the VW badge with one from Mercedes because it did look a little like the 2000 – 2007 Merc W203.
Sadly, the looks of Polo didn’t really change between model to model. To be honest, you’d have to do more than squint to spot the mild fire breathing 100PS 16v over the more humdrum three cylinder 1.2 with about half the power.
And it’s this 1.2 engine that brings me here. The little 3 pot petrol was quite energetic in its power propulsion method and didn’t leave you with a strange feeling like that of sitting on a washing machine with a brick in it. It was quite smooth and liked revs. However, It was a ruddy awful engine and not one that I would, in its advancing years, recommend. EVER.
Piston slap and burnt out exhaust valves are the main culprit and not always on engines with high mileages either. To get the good economy it ran weak and lean. The leaner they run, the hotter they get. The hotter they get, the likelihood is burnt broken bits. Find a Polo running rough and chances are it won’t be a coil pack for £20. It’ll be a new head for £700.
The Polo 1.2, not a good car. Run for the hills, it’s that bad!
After talking of my Budgens’ days as customer service manager in my previous tale of dating woe, it took me back to another memory of my youth. So get inside the undateable gay time machine once more, as I take you on a trip to 2004.
Working in Budgens always provided me with plenty of eye candy. All of the evening and weekend staff were mainly students of the male variety, all looking to earn their beer money. And I was their boss. What a fantasy.
Now, before anyone gets on the phone to the police, may I remind you that I am talking in the past tense. I was only 20 at the time of these fantasies about young male students aged 17 or 18 so it was all perfectly legal. And does not make me a sexual predator.
I always remember good old Peter Woods*. He was the store manager. Knowing I was partial to perving on the odd pretty boy employee, he would often give me his words of wisdom. “Don’t poke the payroll.”
Being a good, obedient boy, I always listened to his advice. Always, that was, until Jamie* came along. I finally had a fellow gay boy in the store.
Jamie was absolutely gorgeous. He had the most beautiful blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. And you could see his well-toned physique through his chequered green Budgens uniform. I quite often did an impression of a dog’s tongue hanging out, dribbling every time I saw he was rostered on my shifts.
One night as we were filling up the shelves with loaves of Hovis, I felt our eyes meet across a thick cut granary. Unusually coy, I blushed and looked down at a white bloomer.
It was Christmas eve and my ears caught a glimpse of Mariah Carey playing in the background. As the words of “All I want for Christmas” resonated in my lug holes, I took the bull by the horns.
“Would you like to go for a drink this evening?”
I looked at a Best of Both loaf to avoid making eye contact, fearful that his answer might be no.
My confidence with men in those days wasn’t what it is these days. I was quite a chubby youth with a bit of acne and a fake tan addiction. I also had eyebrows that I would shave with a bic razor which sometimes made me look like I was sporting a pair of slugs above my eyes.
My friends often say I’m the ugly duckling who blossomed into the swan. And to be honest, I’m glad I grew into my looks at a later age. All the pretty boys who I fancied in my teens at school are dog rough nowadays. So I’m glad I went the opposite way! Better to be like a fine wine and get better with age.
Anyway, I’m digressing. Back to the drinks proposal with the medium cut Kingsmill as our witness.
“Yes.” He replied rather quickly actually. Expecting the answer to be no, I didn’t let my ears register the answer and started babbling on like a banshee.
“I mean, I understand if you don’t want to.”
“Yes!” He said again, but in my banshee induced state I continued not registering his response.
“I know it’s Christmas eve, so I completely get if you’ve already got plans.”
And then, quite out of the blue, and I guess to shut me up, I felt him face plant his lips onto mine. All down the bakery aisle in Budgens in the year 2004. Very modern for the era, let me tell you and no one even raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll meet you at the Crossroads at 7”, he said as he departed from my lips. Oh, the Crossroads. That takes me back as well. That was the pub at the end of Shepperton high street. It was our local haunt.
R.I.P Crossroads. (And I’m not talking about the dodgy ITV soap. Although that’s also very sad that it’s no longer around) But right now, I’m talking about the Shepperton pub which got knocked down years ago to make way for retirement homes. I miss it. Many a drunken night (or business lunch) was spent in there. Well, I say ‘business’ lunch. It was just an excuse for the managers to get pissed during work hours.
As we stumbled from the pub that night, we walked arm in arm and I was as pissed as a fart, I can tell you. We came to my local church and I clocked the time. Midnight Mass was about to begin.
I made the suggestion that we should attend and I could see the hesitant look on Jamie’s face. But I gave him a flutter of my rather long eyelashes and before you could say “Hallelujah”, we were inside the church.
We tripped our way through the doorway in our inebriated state and the first carol was already in progress. Any fellow bible bashers will know which carol we entered to. “ONCE IN ROYAL DAVID’S CITY”. It’s always the first carol to be sang at Midnight mass.
I used to be in the church choir as a young boy you know. I would always sing the first verse as a solo at Midnight Mass. I had a lovely little soprano voice back in the day. Until nature came along and made my balls drop, that is.
Talking of the church choir, my mum is still in the choir to this day. And I saw her on this night, look up from her hymn book as she caught a glimpse of me from the choir stalls.
I could see her disapproving stare and head shake as we tumbled our way to our seats. A stare and head shake that only a mother can perfect. She could tell I was rather trollied. I knew I would be in for it on Christmas day morning. But the Sauvignon Blanc erased any worries of her wrath right away.
This particular night, the service was being taken by the Bishop of London no less. It was a big honour for a small church in Shepperton. So it was packed to the rafters.
We were at the part of the service called the Peace. For those of you not familiar with church service proceedings, this is the when the priest invites the congregation to share God’s peace with one another. And you all shake hands with each other and declare, “Peace be with you!”
As the Bishop made his way towards Jamie and I, I quickly made a beeline for him, hand held out with excitement at the fact I was about to shake hands with the Bishop of London.
And in my overzealousness, I forgot to check what my feet were doing. Before I knew it, my foot became caught on the chair leg and I went face first into the Bishop’s chest. My boat race smacked into the cross hanging around his neck.
As I clung onto the Bishops’ hips, I felt him go a bit wobbly on his pins and as he went backwards towards the floor, he managed to steady himself on the side of a chair.
I looked up at him, big drunken gin on my face, sorry, I meant grin and I proudly pronounced “Peace be with you!”
He quickly peeled my body away from his hips and chest and moved onto the next member of the congregation, fearful for his life and his balance.
My mum hid herself behind her hymn book. Jamie hid himself behind a pillar and pretended he was there worshipping with another group of people.
After bashing the bishop at midnight mass, I decided I would take Peter Wood’s advice in future and not poke the payroll. Business and pleasure don’t mix.
* names changed to protect the innocent or not so!
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What’s boxy, rather wild on the limit, has to be driven enthusiastically and comes from Italy?
No, not an Abarth something or other, we are talking about the Fiat Doblo van. A van that, despite its looks, won the 2006 “International Van of the Year” Admittedly that award came some six years after its launch with a facelift and like the Doblo, it’s a grower, not a shower, so eventually it gets there.
Shame about the facelift really because the 2000-2005 model had quite a nice purpose built front to it. And model maker Norev thought so too and made a nice 1/24th scale model of it that until recently, you could buy from Home Bargains for just £2.99 Probably not one of Norev’s greatest achievements because their models often retail for around six times that price.
And so to the real van, and what a van and how very Fiat with some of Fiat’s idiosyncrasies missing. Namely, the rubbery gearshift that afflicted Fiats for so long. The gear shift in the Doblo, mounted high up on the dashboard, was within a flick from the steering wheel and selected gears as good as any race-bred machine from sister company, down the road in Maranello.
And things got better with the engine. The lively FIRE (Fully Integrated Robotised Engine) 1.4 petrol was an absolute peach. It developed 76hp and my word, it feels like it has more. It’s 5 star award is its eagerness to please like a dog that has just thrown up your dinner that it stole from the coffee table.
And then things get even better for Dobby the Doblo. The handling is quite remarkable and highly entertaining, boarding on crazy, dangerous and downright outrageously good fun. You see, the rear end has a solid axle, suspended with some of those old fashioned leaf springs. What it would appear had been forgotten by the development team, was to soften it for the passenger carrying variety of the Doblo. Instead, it retained the stiff setup from the van. It made it highly entertaining.
The bad thing about the Doblo, though thankfully still keeping with Fiat tradition, was the driving position. It’s not so much a position but a torture, especially for your ankles. Thankfully, your feet don’t rest for too long so they are always moving around. That enthusiastic buzz getting the better of you.
It’s no sports car and yet it thinks it is. And with that facelift, it moves it from an ugly car to a good car.
The 1998 – 2013 model was a step in the right direction when the Berlingo came out as a van. It raised the game in the CDV (car derived van) market. Instead of taking a humble hatchback, this was a purpose-built van on a hatchback chassis. In this case, the Citroën ZX.
This meant it had van like space in the cabin and storage appropriate for its van moniker. And then Citroën added windows and seats to it and sold it as a cheap lifestyle vehicle and judging by their sales literature, it was aimed at the young get-up-and-goers. Truth is, it’s easy access and comfortable seats sold it to the silver surfers who bought it in their droves.
They even fitted it was an optional electric folding sunroof that went almost the entire length of the vehicle. A sunroof, in a van! an ELECTRIC folding roof IN A VAN!! That’s the French for you.
And it sold in big numbers. Nothing could match it for small road space and huge interior dimensions.
It’s not that bad to drive either and when it was launched, even Jeremy Clarkson had a soft spot for it. In fact, it was almost universally liked by every road tester.
The Berlingo has one thing that it lacks and that is street cred. Despite being seen as a young active lifestyle persons transport for five, it was a box on wheels. It was easy for old people with arthritic hips to get in and out of and its floor pan was easily adaptable for wheelchair ramps. If ever there was a truly multipurpose vehicle, the Berlingo was it.
Buying one is easy. Oil leaks are the main culprit and some will have seen the welding torch, though rust isn’t really the killer for the Berlingo. Lack of maintenance and collapsing rear trailing arm bearings are.
About £600 to have that fixed. Also, driver seat foams collapse. It’s about £130 to replace that and this I know because I bought one for mine. I own one. And remember the old people that bought them? Safe to say they wouldn’t have thrashed them. To be fair, there is little to be gained from thrashing the 1.4 petrol or 1.9 diesel. The 1.8 petrol was far more spirited, it’s harder to find one.
It does what it does very well. It will carry you over great distances comfortably and swallow huge amounts of cargo. It’s just that it’s not very attractive and that’s why it’s an “ugly car”
