It all started back in the nineties when I learnt to drive in a Lada Niva. Pottering around an abandoned car hospital park, I was at an age where the non assisted steering really demanded that Gladitorial Scottish bloke to turn up and ask if the contenders were ready.

A Lada whatnow? "Was that the boxy one or the boxy but Fiat-y one?" I hear you ask.
For a brief rundown of the models to help the picture, that was the 4x4. The Riva was 'the one Lotus fettled on Top Gear' and the Samara was the other one that was reasonable at its job but mind-numbingly dull; otherwise known as the Lada-Leona-Lewis.
The Niva was tough, boxy and slow. However at the time we lived on one of those streets just on the brink of where the gritters can be arsed to go. 

Occasionally in the depths of winter we would be lucky enough to have a Mr Plough come around to help us out of the snow, but by this point it was usually too late and everyone had already resorted to turkey burgers for lunch. Our milkman however was the local hero; when his trusty float didn't fancy the cold he used to fire up the Series II Defender and just deliver the milk anyway. Frozen milk, but milk nonetheless.
One snowy day, his faithful Landie became stuck and couldn't get anywhere. My Dad however, armed with the Niva (and, presumably, a belly full of black tea) happily trundled down the road. I can't remember where he needed to go so urgently, but judging by what seems to be programmed into my brain from birth, I guess it was probably nowhere. 

I also fondly remember the days when the Lombard RAC Rally used to lay its plastic bedsheets down at Chatsworth House, a location that was less than an hour away. It was November, the parking was in a sloped field, and a large majority of car enthusiasts in attendance liked to drive RWD cars. Can you guess who helped out the tow cars? It was an unstoppable hunk of force.
As was, of course, the heater. If you design something for a Russian winter, no matter how much of a balls-up you make of it, the chances are it is going to be overengineered for a British winter. 

Surely it wasn't all happy times and demonic off-roading skills? Well no, it wasn't exactly a saint of reliability. We had three Nivas in total, two of which liked to give up the ghost randomly, even when en route home from the showroom (nearly new). One however proved almost faultless and never skipped a beat; that is the car we should all remember most fondly.

One day an enthusiastic young lady drove her (Mk3) Fiesta into the rear quarter of the first Niva. Since Lada had chosen to specify some leftover sections of railway line as bumper beams, they could take a hell of a hit and just shrug it off. There was a six inch dent on the corner beside The Beam, but little else worth mentioning. The Fiesta, being a few years old, was a write off.

On one occasion (whilst I was till practising hill starts) we had a Riva hire car. This was a revelation, with more feedback than I had ever experienced before through the steering thanks to front wheels unhindered by driveshafts. This very nearly led to a bizarre affliction for Rivas, I may even have turned into one of those strange people that only ever buys weird Eastern European cars. You know the sort, blokes that only ever drink foreign tea and are still confused by how you can get a model ship inside a glass bottle.I didn't take this photo but bloody love it... so please forgive me.
Luckily, I made it through, but having never driven another compact RWD saloon due to my young age, it was the best car yet and they make sense again now. Forget paying £15k for an old Mk1 Escort to turn into a track car, you can get a front-engined, RWD Riva for chocolate buttons and have the most unassuming project in the world (if you can find one). 
So think twice before laughing at the Lada louts, for about £500 you could go off-roading in one on Saturday, then pull off lurid tailslides on a track on Sunday in t'other.

Ready? 1,2,3 Go...

The second is 'information information information'. You don't need to witter on about how it once overtook a 2.0i Mondeo so "is actually really fast for a 1.6", just the basics like tax and test, mileage, service history, niggles and price are most of the way there.

However I have a new rule that should without a doubt be the first thing you think about when pondering whether or not to sell your car. Go to the bathroom, lean on the basin and look at yourself in the mirror very carefully. You can now asses the following: "Am I a twat?"

Autotrader (along with any other publication which prints tips on how to sell your vehicle privately) should really include a small pull-out vanity mirror in their bindings for potential candidates to have a quick peek and double check, for it is the number one rule of getting the price that you are looking for in the sale.

What has brought this on? No, it is not THE USE OF 

BIZARRE AND OFTEN HUGE ITALIC 

AND WIERDLY JUSTIFIED TEXT all over t'shop.

It is not even people who think it is fine and dandy to sell their car without a V5 and not state it in the description "as you just send off for one from the DVLA, what's the problem mate?" 

Infact (shock horror to those that have noticed I'm rather partial to eBay Motors) it is not even for once anything to do with our favourite auction site. 
You see yesterday I casually phoned a seller from a classified advert on Pistonheads, a website where the majority of users are assumed to have at least a vague interest in the automobile. I was not, truth be told, that interested in buying said car, merely seeking some more information. However this did not matter as the seller never answered. The phone (which I rang from my non-withheld mobile number) simply rang out after a minute, and there was no voicemail option. Less than a minute later I received a text stating merely the following two words in capital letters:

"WHO THAT"

Which was then sent again a few minutes later:

"WHO THAT"

Cheers mate, no wonder your car is still for sale (needless to say I had no intention of replying).
So the next time you think of advertising, just go and have a cheeky peek at yourself, you never know how much time it may save you. 

I am licenseless.

Nope, I haven't done anything stupid; I've not V-maxed the A686 or driven around the M25 with a bottle of Duvel in my cupholder. I've simply sent off the little pink card of joy to those lovely folks in Swansea to be issued with a shiny new one, complete with a photo of someone that actually looks like me. Well, more than the old picture of some spotty child wearing a Sweater Shop jumper anyway.

The thing is, I can't think of any occasion when it has been out of my sight since first arrival, back when the world was celebrating The Death Of The Millennium Bug. The closest I've come to loss is wondering in my late teens; what would happen if a grunting nightclub bouncer just pocketed it and told me to piss off? What would I do? Threaten him with a fist the size of his sovereign ring and a Ford Escort 1.1 car key? Who knows, but it always worried me, I think I'd rather have my passport confiscated. 

Apparently the green paper chasers will try their utmost to return your card within 14 days, which is rather good of them, especially since you are paying £20 for the privilege (plus an inevitable £5 for the wonky-faced mugshots). I certainly hope so, since I need it in approximately four and a bit weeks.

Although the empty space in your mind is the most significant, what are you supposed to do with that clear plastic 'display pouch' (try not to think of Borat) on the one side of your wallet which just looks plain stupid unfilled. 
What would look best in its place on proud display to shopkeepers and pin stealers? 
A Nectar card? Nah, too common and why would you show off the fact that "they've got you" (as Mark Corrigan would say). Halfords Trade Card? Too geeky I feel. Nandos Loyalty Card? 

I think I'll just stay indoors.

I've inadvertently just announced my age...

Does this man...

You could sit in a box all of your life eating fruit and vegetables and you might well live to a ripe old age (no pun intended). But where would be the fun in that? Life is all about a compromise that involves as much pleasure and personal satisfaction as possible without completely annihilating your chances of getting another go at it all tomorrow. 

Extreme folk who are into base jumping are happy to leap off skyscrapers, trusting their chances that the parachute will manage to slow them enough to prevent giving the waiting police cars an impromptu saggy headlining. Most of us however wouldn't take such a risk as we don't thrive on adrenalin enough to warrant it.

I tell you what I will do though, that is to use my body's rather clever natural defences, honed over thousands of years, to stop myself from contracting minor illnesses. 
Face masks were fair...drive this car? enough in the height of the bird/swine/man flu outbreaks, especially you were frail, elderly or worked with the sick. But for the average man on the street today after the worries have passed? Mate, you look like an idiot, get a grip.

The thing is, as with most of modern life, car culture has its unique automotive equivalent. The 'bonnet bra' for example. Or, to give it the more common name, the 'Thatcarlooksstupidwhatonearthisthatthingfor' as uttered by many tourists in the USA.
Yes you may well avoid a few stone chips and you won't have to try very hard to remove dead flies either, simply remove your leathered bondage bib and pop it in the wash with your microfibre cloths.

I'm sorry (and fully aware that they are quite fashionable in some styling circles), but they look ridiculous and define pointlessness, especially on vehicles that command a premium for their styling and design. What is the point of a nice looking vehicle if you have to cover the thing up like a gas guzzling gimp to go anywhere? You might as well leave it in the garage and try to feed it butternut squash soup.

You probably should get that checked out

When will it all stop? I do find that more and more people like to harp on about how all new cars look the same and (in the supermini and mid size hatch classes particularly) it is becoming true, even to those who can distinguish between them.

Safety is obviously a key contributor, with continual and stringent new regulations for pedestrian safety not helping with portly front ends. This seemingly has forced manufacturers to spend more time styling the intricacies of the new model design, lights being near the top of the list in the style awards.

First there were Lexus style (and we all know how that ended), then VW putting their logo within the bulb holders, BMW Halos and most recently a continual evolution of led sidelight strips for people who loved Knight Rider. And most probably watched it on a shiny black telly.

Driving and experiencing cars is what life is all about, however friends' cars do not fall into the same category. Even with the words "she needs a good thrash really" echoing around my head you just know that if the more thrilling Big One from Blackpool spontaneously combusted at the end of the street you would still feel bad about it in twenty years time. Likewise, if you were stationary at a junction and a Hummer ploughed into you from behind, you would still be getting ribbed down the pub for crashing your mate's pride and joy in 2019.

But my, what a car. Having driven a few TVRs before I was past the initial intimidation stage, even in the wet, but never really had long enough to get the full experience. This opened my eyes just a little wider. It's quick, obviously, but not silly by modern sports car standards. However, the last time I remember being so shocked by a delivery of any sorts was when Parcelfarce brought me a completely empty box by mistake.
This is torque almost by definition. Into gear. Wallop. All over, next gear. Wallop. A bit like being hit in the face by a bowling ball instead of a bean bag. One is over a lot quicker but a hell of a hit in comparison. It is quite hard to get a perspective of how fast the rate of speed changes, all of a sudden it has peaked lower down than you would expect and it is time to clunk the unwieldy yet weighty aluminium ball into the next slot, a task made vastly more difficult by a transmission tunnel that (for me anyway) was completely in the way.
It is just a pity about the handling, no other fancy word from a Thesaurus could be more suitable than being a bit 'edgy.' A quick steering rack is all well and good but this was the first time I have concluded that it is just that bit toofast for the particular car. A sneeze would have almost been enough to fire me off into the nearest hedge. Which is rather inconvenient when there is an open roof and one third of the population are hayfever sufferers.

But it was all well that ended well, the Chim washed and returned home looking grateful for some lavished attention like most of her spoilt brat factory siblings. No hissy fits this time. What's more, there is even a perfectly appointed leather cubby hole for that pack of Piriton. If only all favours were this good.

However, the original brief was to build a car that was purely for road and track driving pleasure - for as little money as humanly possible. Ok so it went over budget by about, erm, double, but still the opportunity to save £27 on a half price MOT voucher from Autotrader and Nationwide MOT centres was not to be sniffed at and would bring the spreadsheet final figure down a touch (geek alert).

So what do we think of Nationwide Autocentre? Well, good in some respects, one large headache on the other. I booked the test two days in advance at the site that was literally one minute up the road. Ideal I thought, although they were not the friendliest the last time I paid them a visit, it can't be that bad can it?
I normally find that the larger chain outfits such as these are popular with folk who either have a company car (and therefore really don't care as long as they can still get paid whilst drinking 80's themed Klix coffee) or just want piece of mind as they are known, well, nationwide.

First thing to frustrate me was the booked centre to ring three hours before my alloted time and say that they are having work done, can we change it to another day. Great. Must have been anthrax related I suspect, otherwise it is simply impossible to know the day in advance of your entire business being shut for the whole day. No "sorry" by the way.
After trying two other centres in the area, desperately waving my voucher (to myself, I was on the phone) and being impolitely told that they could only do today if I left it with them (even though I said I didn't mind waiting for the whole afternoon) I managed a booking at a Nationwide at least 20 minutes away. I did rather enjoy the stereotypical sucking of the teeth from one employee however.

It was about as far as I would like to drive to a booking really, otherwise I run the risk of having to explain all of the above to a traffic officer who would undoubtedly use the word 'yourself' instead of 'you' and try to tell me that "removing your carpets doesn't turn you into Jason Button you know son."

But I made it with no drama. So do I now trust the larger repair establishments? Yes, but I won't be going back in a hurry.
My first alert was pulling into to the MOT bay. I could have popped a Momo steering wheel and some Minilites in the blubber of a killer whale and one guy wouldn't have looked any more confused. "I don't think he'll even start the test mate, you have no back seat belts."
I have no back seats, you didn't think I was just guessing at the MOT rules did you?

But sure enough, once I had entertained with the party trick of a bonnet that comes off and explained that I fitted in the seat ok without kidney pain the tester himself was very thorough, explaining technicalities of the rules and what a properly anal tester (don't laugh on either count) could in theory fail upon.

So did it fail? Well of course. Headlamp alignment, a slight blow from a loose manifold downpipe nut and the fact that I have a sunstrip which has inappropriate infringement on the sweep of my wiper. Ooh err. I don't like it either, but there are no sunvisors so it is essential (and lighter).

The next day I set off for my pre booked afternoon retest, all 10 minutes of rectification carried out (1 minute if I didn't have to fabricate Blue Peter style headlamp alignment geometry) and driving Westbound like a good boy scout, saluting all the way to hide the sun.

I know the test is thorough and it makes me happy know that no corners are cut when it comes to UK road safety (except it being ok to be blind en route) but a typical trusted local station could/would have just tweaked the alignment there and then in a matter of seconds, I even offered to remove the offending vinyl in situ but no, a retest tomorrow was the only way.

So, in petrol that was four trips of over 20 minutes plus a fair amount of test idling twice. Oh yes, and a new tinted screen top. Nowhere near £27 that, no way.

 If you are feeling brave you can print off a voucher here to use before the end of the July.
Don't say I didn't warn you..
Do email andtell me all about it..