For one reason or another I needed a car after I had been invalided out of the RAF. My brother, Nigel, an engineer, knew of someone in a hamlet near Southampton who made up cars from second hand and new bits.
My requirements were simple. It had to be soft-topped, sporty, simple and unique. Then, for a modest sum, I took possession of a little Austin sports car that was crab-tracked with an outside exhaust that would burn the unwary.
Baby Austins in those days had very poor brakes and didn’t go very fast. But mine was fun and where ever I went, smart or otherwise, it commanded attention. For an ex-RAF pilot with modest funds at his disposal, it was a godsend.
I had been invited to a smart weekend in Norfolk. So off I trotted in my little car. A rather slow cattle lorry was hindering my progress north east.
As I was in the middle of overtaking this goliath, a cow, standing athwartships decided to relieve herself. Open-sided, the liquid poured from the truck to soak me in cow’s urine. We all enjoyed the tale in Norfolk and fortunately I had taken other clothes.
On the way from my Council rooms to a wedding reception dinner party, a lamppost jumped out from the pavement to halt my progress. I left the car where it stood and continued with another guest who had just before been entertained in my rooms.
The time came to upgrade a bit, and the Austin became rather unstable at speed, and a bit dangerous.
I had joined an Austin 7 racing club and even the great Collin Chapman, founder of Lotus, was unable to find anything wrong with it.
So I sold it to a man în the city.
A while after, he contacted me by telephone and I feared for the worst.
After solving his simple question about the carburattor, I asked him how fast he had taken it. I have forgotten the answer but it was very slow and quite safe.
