Liverpool Stories
The stories on this site are not included in my book.
The tales are snapshots of my life in Liverpool, the home of the Beatles, and the echo chamber of the Mersey Sound that in the sixties resonated around the planet like an acoustic Tsunami. The stories cover a period of 50 odd years and so they touch on every aspect of my life from the rites of passage to the passing of youth. I hope you enjoy them.
The Irish Rover - My love affair with a now extinct species
By
John Williams
Since I acquired a driving licence in April 2002 I have purchased two cars. The first, a battered old Rover, cost me three times its purchase on repairs price during the three months that I owned it. The old adage,'You get nothing for nothing' should have been writ large on its last M.O.T. because when I decided to have it tested the mechanic, no doubt quoting from an economic text book, remarked that I would be better off scrapping the vehicle which, he picturesquely termed, 'Tripe on wheels', and invest in another car.
By this he no doubt meant another, better, 'banger'; another sump to pour money into. My wife and I decided that rather than remain in the clutch of back street mechanics we should instead put a brake on our fiscal fears and buy an almost new car. Thus it was, with bullet firmly gripped between molars, that we approached the task of finding a car which would still be extant when we had paid for it.
The first place I looked was Loot, a sort of online bring and buy sale. Almost every car I fancied was either too far away, or already sold, but I did at least get an idea of what cars were selling for. I also noted the over usage of the term 'immaculate' which seemed to occur more frequently than at a mass to celebrate the Annunciation of the Virgin.
On the advice of my driving instructor, who appears to have made a complete recovery from the effects of teaching me to drive, to the extent that didn't immediately scream on hearing my voice on the telephone, we sought out an accredited dealer.
As we pottered around one of the four local Rover dealerships I became aware of the absence of a salesman, as I had expected to be button-holed by a smiling hand-wringing suit the instant we entered the lot.
Eventually, as we paused to scrutinise a reasonably priced and sleek looking Rover 416, the aptly named Frank approached us. The explanation for his late appearance on the stage was both simple and reassuring. The showroom was staffed by people who weren't paid commission and so did not feel compelled to immediately go into their W.C. Field's impression, and mentally repeat their trade mantra, 'Never give a sucker an even break'.
Frank explained that the reason car was relatively cheap was that it had a high mileage. He went on to inform us that the car had been traded in by the person who had originally purchased it from that very showroom and who had decided to upgrade. He also showed us the car's service history, all of which had been undertaken by the showroom's mechanics. Now I know so little about motor cars that one evening at the beach, where we had tarried to the point where headlights were required for the first time in my experience, I had been forced to ask a stranger where the light switches were, but even so I eventually translated Frank's remarks as 'One careful owner'.
That realisation, and the fact that there was a year long parts and labour warranty sold us and before long I was taking a test drive. I would like to say that it was a simple case of love at first sight, but there was a powerful impediment to instant rapture. The car had manual gears, something I had not encountered since the day I passed my test because my first ever car was an automatic. I had grown so used to its dodgem car simplicity that when I engaged the gears of the 416 I managed to perform a minor feat of conjuring. I transformed a Rover into Skippy the bush Kangaroo.
The man who accompanied us remained incredibly calm as we hopped the two or three miles to the beach road, but by the time we returned to showroom I was greasy with sweat and red from exertion and embarrassment.
Frank suggested that I think about the deal over the weekend, and I was grateful for the opportunity to think about renewing my love affair with automatics.
However by Monday I was persuaded that I would soon get used to the manual gear change and so I clinched the deal. That was on Wednesday last. It's now Sunday morning and because I only cause the car to skip occasionally I am thinking of calling my car Wally, short for Wallaby, which is, as you know, a small Kangaroo.
It occurs to me that I love my Rover because my ancestors came from Dublin and the car's mascot is a Viking ship, and there are many Irishmen with Viking DNA. Now, where to pillage first!
My car blew a cylinder head gasket, apparently a common fault with Rover 400's. However, the dealer's warranty was as good as its wording and after much moaning and sulking on my part Frank's team had it fixed with four days, which must qualify as some kind of modern miracle.