Some losses are inevitable. Modern powertrains are so fiendishly complicated that attempting your own maintenance without a £40,000 diagnostic computer is basically impossible. Maybe that’s why cars no longer come with toolkits - what would be the point? Relatedly, the choke has gone. Fuel injection is infinitely cleverer than some cable connected to a flappy bit in the carburettor.

But whatever happened to a proper spare wheel? Not one of those pathetic space-saver things that looks like it belongs on a shopping trolley, but a real wheel you can actually drive on. Worse still are the spray cans of gunk to temporarily fix a puncture. Then again, given the average intelligence on the roads these days, perhaps it’s safer that there’s no jack.

Less forgivable is the disappearance of bumpers - or, more precisely, bumpers that serve any purpose. In case you’ve forgotten, bumpers used to let you bump into another car, wall, or bollard (or cyclist) without damage. Today’s cars lack such technology; the slightest touch results in scratches or scuffs on your paint. It’s almost as if manufacturers have decided your car should double as a revenue stream for their dealers.

Then there’s the reserve tank - that magical extra bit of fuel that appeared when the gauge hit empty, giving you another twenty miles to find a garage and stave off the memsahib’s worried glances. Some Jaguars went one better and gave you two proper tanks, with a glorious dashboard switch to swap between them. Class.

And while we’re on the subject of lost style: vinyl roofs. The kind that made a Jaguar look like it was wearing a tuxedo. Gone. Vinyl seats too - the legendary MB-Tex that laughed in the face of children, dogs, and spilt Kia-Ora. These days, it’s all called “vegan leather,” which is marketing bollocks for plastic that somehow costs more and wears worse. In these enlightened times, even your steering wheel has to have a conscience.

The car wireless has also undergone significant change - mostly for the better? Built-in is now de rigueur, with no chance to upgrade, fix, or nick. Hence, no more detachable faceplates to lug around whenever you park in a dodgy neighbourhood. Electric aerials, which impressed no one, have also risen their last - even the ones that automatically extended when you turned the wireless on ( another switch gone from the dashboard).

Then there’s the car ‘phone - the ultimate 1980s option that screamed “I’ve arrived” before you’d even left the drive. A massive box of electronics in the boot, wired to a proper handset in the car. They even had hands-free calling before anyone worried about such things. And best of all, they actually worked. Unlike today’s digital wonders, where even walking around the garden mainly features “Can you hear me now?” Ah, glorious 1G (ETACS in the UK, AMPS in the US). It was good to talk.

The absentee that really gets my pip is the ashtray. Corporate virtue-signalling, so fixated on social engineering that it ignores the 15% of the civilised world that enjoys a fag while driving (30% in places like Turkey, Greece, and Stockport). Nothing says “we care about your health” like a manufacturer telling you their cars can do 140 mph while clutching their pearls over a Marlboro Light. The resulting loss of the cigarette lighter is another setback for parents: how is one supposed to brand recalcitrant children?

So, excuse me while I accidentally bump a snowflake EV, and fill Bertie’s five super-bowl-sized ashtrays.

Parked next to mine above were the usual suspects: a Renault 5, a Hillman Hunter - wheezing like my Uncle Reg after a Sunday roast, a Triumph of some description (or possibly a pile of rust with windows), a Morris Ital - the car that made the Marina look like a Ferrari, and an Escort that handled like a shopping trolley. The Golf? It looked like it had just time-travelled from 2026. Or maybe I’m biased?

About 7 million Mk.1 Golfs were produced between ‘74 and ‘83, making it the best-selling of the eight generations (37 million in total - and counting). It was even brought back into production between ‘84 and ‘09 in South Africa as the Citi Golf – a car so tough it outlived apartheid, multiple economic crises, and still turned up to parties looking mint.

By the early ‘70s, VW was in the kind of trouble that made British Leyland look successful. The Beetle, bless its air-cooled heart, was propping the company up like a 90-year-old butler who refuses to retire. One more bad quarter, and Volkswagen would’ve been reduced to selling sausage rolls at motorway service stations.

The Mk.1 Golf didn’t just replace the Beetle - it dragged Volkswagen kicking and screaming into the modern era and then invented a whole new type of fun car that every manufacturer from Peugeot to Ford had to copy. It’s practical enough to carry your shopping, naughty enough to embarrass a Porsche at the lights, and handsome enough that even after half a century it still turns heads.

The GTi edition wasn’t some boardroom brainwave. It was cooked up by a bunch of VW engineers as an after-work skunkworks project. They nicked bits from the parts bin - bored-out engine from the Audi 80, fuel injection, lowered suspension, plaid seats - and created a monster. Management initially thought it was a bit of a laugh. Then it turned up at the 1975 Frankfurt Motor Show and the world lost its mind. Hot hatches were born, and the rest of the industry spent the next decade playing
catch-up in brown trousers.

That tartan interior was designed by a woman named Grunhild Liljequist, who’d been on holiday in Scotland. The golf-ball gear knob was her idea too. Proper genius - every time you change gear you’re reminded you’re driving something fun, not an appliance.

Early GTIs had just 110hp, but weighed 810kg - that’s about the same as a packet of crisps compared to today’s electric behemoths, which tip the scales at over two tons and have the agility of a wheelie bin full of bricks. And it’s not just the batteries that make today’s fatties as nimble as a washing machine; the Mk1. had 200m of wiring, the Mk.8 has nearly 2,000m! You’d need the courage of a lion tamer and the reactions of a caffeinated squirrel to exploit even a fraction of a modern 2+ ton EV’s performance. But you could throw a Mk.1 GTi around like a frisbee and it would stick to the road. It was witchcraft.

Mind you, my own Mk.1 GTi didn’t exactly retire gracefully. After a completely sober Christmas party (officer), I was admiring a gift on the passenger seat when I looked up to discover myself burrowing a new entrance into a 400-year-old cottage in Cookham. The owner, thankfully, was in the bath. The car? Not so lucky. If cars could talk, the Mk.1 would be the one at the bar, nursing a whisky, muttering, “I’ve seen things, son. And most of them weren’t my fault!”

Picture the scene in the early 1930s. The world is having a proper financial sulk after the Wall Street Crash of 1929, and Daimler-Benz - builders of gloriously over-engineered luxury barges - suddenly realised their customers had all gone bankrupt. Time for a cheaper car, they thought. Something radical. Something the world had never seen in proper production numbers.

So what did they do? They built the world’s first proper rear-engined production car. Three of them: the 130 (W23), then the 150 (W30), and finally the gloriously named 170H (W28), where the “H” stands for Heckmotor - German for “engine in the boot, where it ruins the handling.”

These were genuine attempts at making something accessible. The Type 130 cost a sensible 3,200 Reichsmarks. For context, their flagship 500K - that glorious, chrome-drenched, supercharged monster - was 22,000. One was for actual humans. The other was for people who measured success by territory.

The engineering was surprisingly clever: a tubular steel backbone chassis for lightness, independent suspension (swing axles at the rear, which is always a laugh), and a weight bias so rearward it basically wanted to swap ends at the first hint of a corner. They even offered optional front ballast to stop it behaving like a shopping cart with a straight-four in the basket. Very thoughtful.

Chief engineer Hans Nibel and Max Wagner were the brains behind it, apparently “inspired” by Edmund Rumpler’s Tropfenwagen. Or, to be more accurate, they were simply carrying on the work of their predecessor, Herr Porsche, who’d instructed Wagner to study the RH teardrop racing car’s innovative aerodynamics and suspension. Porsche then buggered off to brown-nose Hitler - drawings under one arm, principles under the other.

And here’s the kicker: it didn’t work. Not commercially, anyway. Daimler shifted fewer than 6,000 of the things. Meanwhile, the Volkswagen Beetle - the rear-engined, air-cooled, Hitler-endorsed people’s car that Porsche “invented” - went on to sell over 21 million. The Führer might have been many things, but he understood marketing better than a room full of suits in Stuttgart. It’s said he entered car manufacturing to get his own back for Daimler never paying him for the promotional work he did for the 500K (above).

So there you have it: the Mercedes 130 series. Technically interesting, historically important, and commercially murdered by a better-marketed version of the same idea.

Postscript:

Five-hundred horsepower is now ordinary. “Ludicrous” is literally a drive mode in what used to be called a milk float. Holding a card for a car with less power than a 308 would feel like drawing the shortest straw. This must all be tremendous fun for today’s children - assuming they ever look up from their phones - but are these cars actually fast in any meaningful sense?

In later life I was fortunate enough to own a Ferrari. It made the 308 feel positively pedestrian, yet it rarely felt fast. Yes, it could annihilate most speed limits in under four seconds, and 180 mph on the autobahn kept the big Mercedes off your tail. But day to day it was simply a nice car to drive. The constant invitations to drag-race hot hatches piloted by youths quickly got old. And as I’ve said before, the supposed “social benefits” only worked if you batted for the other side - women, in my experience, are far more interested in dogs.

The relentless march of draconian speed limits and ubiquitous cameras means you’ll rarely, if ever, explore what today’s cars can do. At 20 mph they feel no quicker than my auntie’s Morris 1100. In fact, they often feel slower - like you’re barely moving. There is, I’ve found, far more joy in driving a slow car quickly than a fast car slowly.

Pitching Bertie through a roundabout at 25 mph, tyres squealing, is infinitely more exciting than 120 mph on a motorway (or 70mph backward through a hedge). Hustling an underpowered classic around a bend at 40 mph feels fast. In a modern car, merely touching the accelerator often triggers the onboard nanny with its chorus of bings and bongs. Where’s the fun in that?

James Hunt, the 1976 Formula 1 World Champion, knew this better than most. After a career spent in the fastest race and road cars of his era, he claimed the vehicle he enjoyed driving most was his Austin A35 van:

“I can put everything I learnt in motor racing into driving it round the Wandsworth one-way system on a wet Saturday night, blow off all the Ferraris, and nobody takes a blind bit of notice.”

That, in the end, is the secret. Real driving pleasure has never been about outright speed. It’s about using the car - whatever it is - to the full, somewhere you’re actually allowed to.

Yes, the fuel pump chose an inconvenient moment to expire - stranding us on an autoroute, limping ten kilometres in a cloud of self-denial. Yes, the smoke test revealed Bertie to be less a car, and more a colander in a blazer. And yes, the AC hose detonated in an underground carpark with the theatrical flair of a Bond villain’s lair. But these are precisely the sort of challenges that require calm leadership, clear priorities, and a strong sense of direction - ideally before the power steering fails again

This morning on the drive, flanked by Bertie, two oil-stained rags and a half-dead hydrangea, I delivered a keynote address. I said we must listen to users, owners, and, where absolutely necessary, the AA. I said we needed a new relationship with reality - one where reality occasionally blinks first. I pledged to go further and faster on reliability, while maintaining our red lines: Bertie must remain, he must not be traded in for a Volvo, and under no circumstances shall he require a push-start from neighbours over sixty.

The speech was, I am told, warmly received by those predisposed to receive it warmly, which is to say - me. The Mrs.’s contribution was to observe that the AC explosion had been, and I quote, “the first she’d heard of it.” A remark I have chosen to interpret as loyal support, though I concede I may have forgotten to mention it.

I stressed that the lesson of the recent difficulties is not that Bertie should be retired, but that the country - by which I mean the household - must understand the value of closer alignment with European motoring standards, especially if they are to help us get across the Channel without the sort of incident that tends to attract René waving a large repair bill, and muttering about les rosbifs.

Let me be clear: this is not a timetable for departure. It is a timetable for delivery. People ask, “What, exactly, is being delivered?” To which I say: Defeatism is not a strategy. Delivery is an attitude. Delivery is a tone. You do not resign over a failed distributor O-ring. You clean up, move on, and say nothing to the Mrs.

There is a clear, democratic process for consigning Bertie to history: someone has to buy him. And let me be absolutely clear - no one has yet presented me with a cheque, or even a suspiciously large brown envelope. The process has not been triggered.

I accept, of course, that there are concerns. Some say Bertie is too expensive to run. Some say he has become isolated from ordinary motorists. Some say he’s a rolling monument to poor life choices with leather seats. All of this, in a narrow, pedantic, and frankly unhelpful sense, is not entirely untrue. But I would remind critics that leadership is not about avoiding difficulties. It is about standing beside a large, unreliable heap, and insisting, with absolute sincerity, that the best is yet to come.

I have listened. I have reflected. I have reset. The ashtrays are clean, the wireless is tuned to Classic FM (none of that modern nonsense), and the timetable is clear: Bertie will go further and faster - provided he starts!

Born on October 23, 1966, in Bologna - just 20 minutes from the Imola circuit - racing was in his blood. At age 10 he was already building his own kart. His father, grieving the loss of Alex’s sister in a car accident the previous year, eventually relented and bought him a proper one. By 15, Zanardi was competing in the Italian National Karting Championship. In 1985 he claimed both the Italian and European karting titles. The spark had become a fire.

He progressed through Formula 3, showing the persistence that would define him. In 1990 he finished second in the championship and won the European F3 Cup in a one-off race - beating a young Michael Schumacher in the process (reports of rule-bending by the German added extra satisfaction for Italian fans).

He moved to Formula 3000, finishing runner-up to Christian Fittipaldi, before making his Formula 1 debut with Jordan in 1991, stepping in for the final three races. Stints with Minardi, and Lotus followed. His best F1 result was sixth in the 1993 Brazilian Grand Prix, though a scary 1993 practice crash at Spa highlighted the dangers.

Uncompetitive cars in F1 limited him, but America embraced him. Switching to the CART (IndyCar) series in 1996, he won three races as Rookie of the Year and finished joint second in the championship. He dominated in 1997 and 1998 with Chip Ganassi Racing, winning back-to-back titles with 12 victories. Fans adored his flamboyant “donut” celebrations - spinning victory donuts in clouds of tyre smoke - and his aggressive, wheel-to-wheel style. One overtake at Laguna Seca in 1996, dubbed “The Pass,” remains iconic: Zanardi dove down the inside, briefly on the grass, to snatch the lead in breathtaking fashion.

A brief, less successful return to F1 with Williams in 1999 saw him overshadowed by teammate Ralf Schumacher. Undeterred, he went back to CART in 2001. Then came the defining moment. On September 15 at the Lausitzring in Germany, while leading, Zanardi suffered a horrific 200+ mph crash that severed both legs above the knee and nearly killed him. Emerging from a coma, his first coherent thought captured the man perfectly: “I wonder how the hell am I going to do all the things that I have to do now with no legs, but like, I had no doubt in my mind I was going to do it.” That was Zanardi — pragmatic, optimistic, and utterly unstoppable.

Just two years later, he returned to the Lausitzring to complete the 13 unfulfilled laps in a specially adapted car, operating throttle and clutch with his hands and braking with a prosthetic using hip strength. He set a time fast enough for fifth on the grid. The crowd’s roar was deafening.

He wasn’t done with four wheels. In 2003 he raced for BMW in the European Touring Car Championship with minimal practice and still finished seventh. By 2005 he was winning races and titles in the World Touring Car Championship and Italian Superturismo. His smile and storytelling remained as infectious as ever; he charmed press and fans alike.

Then came a new chapter. Zanardi took up hand-cycling. He won the Venice Marathon (2009), Rome Marathon (2010), and New York City Marathon (2011). At the 2012 London Paralympics he claimed two golds and a silver. In Rio 2016, at age 49–50, he added two more golds and another silver. He collected 12 UCI Para-cycling Road World Championship golds and, in 2018, set a world record in his category for the Ironman Triathlon.

Through it all, his warmth shone. Colleagues described him as the “sweetest, warmest, most wonderful man,” with a car that seemed to smile when he drove it. Pope Francis praised his strength. He founded Obiettivo3 to help people with disabilities discover sport.

A 2020 handbike accident in Siena caused severe head injuries and long hospitalization, followed by setbacks like a 2022 fire. Yet Zanardi kept training, recovering, and inspiring right to the end. He died peacefully on May 1, 2026, surrounded by family and friends.

Alex Zanardi showed the world that legs are optional when the heart and mind are this strong. He turned tragedy into triumph not once, but repeatedly, with humour, humility, and relentless joy. Motorsports lost a racer; humanity lost one of its brightest lights. But his example - to face the worst and still chase the next victory, donut and all - will endure for generations.

Thank you, Alex. Rest in peace, champion.

Eleven days. That’s how long it took to get from Las Palmas to Gstaad. And before I start giving you my usual rose-tinted nonsense about “the romance of classic car travel,” let me be perfectly honest: apart from maybe the unplanned week in Lunel, it was not fun. Not even slightly. Bertie is now exiled in the garage like a disgraced former prince, and I have no desire to visit the old bastard anytime soon.

This is exactly the sort of adventure classic cars foist upon you, and I suppose part of the charm? If “charm” is the right word for slow-motion mechanical suicide on the autoroute. Still, the weather was glorious. The food was properly excellent (I can thoroughly recommend the Gardiane de taureau - bull stew that fights back). And the local wine, Muscat de Lunel, is a sweet little dessert number that begs for deceased geese. There was even a vintage car museum down the road in Vauvert. I didn’t go. Given the circumstances, dragging the Mrs. to see more old cars would have been pushing my luck.

I’ve been trying to be philosophical about it, because if it hadn’t been for that Skinner’s Union fuel pump (SU - named after two brothers, George and Carl, who had a deep hatred of humanity), we’d never have discovered Lunel. Twenty kilometers earlier, and we’d have been stuck in Montpellier. Twenty kilometers later, and it would’ve been Nîmes. Neither would have been half as agreeable, nor nearly as easy to find an old mechanic willing to wrestle with an elderly British car. It’s almost spooky how these things turn out.

Anyway, I’ve made a decision: I’m upgrading a generation for my daily driver - something from the 1980s, a “modern classic.” Something simple enough that a man with basic tools and moderate swearing can fix, but hopefully with a little less of the constant, soul-crushing maintenance that comes with 60s machinery. With that decided, I might also have to admit that contrary to my recent assertion that nothing of any importance has evolved in the automotive sector, it appears one plucky Chinese manufacturer has just obtained a patent for an in-car khazi.

This could turn 130 years of motoring history on its head: where once you had to go before going, now you can go after you’ve gone! No more desperate searches for service stations. No more hiding in bushes. I’m not sure how this will go down with one’s fellow travelers, particularly with the windows up. But as the years advance, and my prostate begs for its own postcode, I must admit the idea has a certain grim appeal.

It might, finally, be the thing that weans me off these wretched, magnificent, infuriating old classics. God help us all.

We’d sailed through Spain without drama. Then, just north of Montpellier, dear old Bertie started juddering like a man who’d eaten a bad moules marinière. I blamed the fancy new electronic distributor, but swapping the rotor arm and cap revealed a healthy spark. Disconnecting the fuel feed to the carburettor revealed something rather more troubling: only the occasional squirt of fuel. A few enthusiastic thwacks on the fuel pump bought me another ten kilometres, but there are only so many times one can squeeze under Bertie before one's knees decide to join the pump in retirement. I even ran a wire straight from the battery. It helped, but for only as long as a politician's promise!

Eventually, I coaxed the old boy off the autoroute at Lunel, and limped into the nearest hotel. They had a room, which was a relief. What they didn’t have was an SU fuel pump. SU pumps are now about as common in southern France as a sober Englishman in a football shirt. Thankfully, Nathan at FlyingSpares had one in the post within an hour. That meant I was now at the mercy of DHL, a delivery company that makes Bertie’s reliability look like a Swiss watch.

So we settled in for an unexpected weekend in the south of France. This sounds glamorous, and in brochure form I’m sure it would have been. In reality, my heart was broken. The Mrs had lost faith in the old bastard and, if I’m honest, so had I. Divorce papers felt imminent.

To be fair, Bertie had never subjected me to the full humiliation of a recovery truck. Most of his sins were really mine: lazy, optimistic, tight-fisted me refusing to replace parts that were plainly on their last legs. That SU pump, incidentally, contains two pumps in one body. Both have to fail before you’re stranded. I had been ignoring the warning signs for the best part of a year in the manner of a man who has looked Lord Mandelson squarely in the eye and pronounced him sound.

The French, bless them, take a gloriously practical view of cars: buy one, drive it until something drops off, then patch it up with string, shrugs and a Gauloise hanging out the mouth. Their mechanics still know how to fix proper old metal for sensible money, instead of demanding your firstborn and a kidney. Which is exactly why I was more than happy to let René earn his living. Replacing that pump without a ramp is not so much a repair as a form of punishment. It lives above the rear chassis crossmember in a position that can only have been chosen by a man with a deep hatred of knuckles.

So I left it to the professionals, opened a cold rosé, and quietly wondered how much longer Bertie and I had together. Some relationships run on love. Ours, apparently, runs on SU pumps, denial and blind optimism.

I read yesterday (in the FT) that the answer to EVs shortcomings is to fit a small petrol engine to charge the battery. They’re called range-extended EVs (or REEVs), and they’ve been doing rather well in China. According to the experts, this astonishing technical breakthrough - bolting on an engine to top up the battery - is going to revolutionise demand for electric cars. Drivers will finally be able to tackle “extended journeys”. Wow. Meanwhile, 58 years after Apollo 8 first orbited the Moon, we’ve just sent humans back around it again. Mankind is clearly on a roll.

All this got me thinking about how motoring has actually improved over the last few decades. Before I share my thoughts, a quick disclaimer: this is entirely my personal take. Different people value very different things in a car, so what feels like progress to you might feel like regression to me. This is just one driver’s perspective.

Safety was the big story in the 1970s and 80s. Looking at the numbers, the really dramatic gains in crash survivability came in the 60s and 70s with proper seatbelt standards, crumple zones and better structures. By the end of the 90s, the US fatality rate had already fallen from around 5 deaths per 100 million miles driven in the 1960s to roughly 2. Since then the improvement has been much more modest - we’re now hovering around 1.3. A lot of that later progress probably owes more to congestion, lower speed limits, and better road design than to any revolutionary leap in the cars themselves.

So are modern cars actually getting better? Well, the standard equipment has certainly improved - or at least that’s what the brochures tell us. I can remember when a radio was an optional extra. I do genuinely appreciate central locking and air-conditioning (both pretty exotic in the 70s). But the rest?

Electric windows still manage to catch me out at the worst possible moment. Heated seats - despite years spent in Switzerland - always make me feel like I’ve had a little accident. Factory sat-nav systems look embarrassingly dated after two or three years compared to my ‘phone.

And then there are the options I actively loathe. The constant binging and bonging. It started with the gentle reminder for not wearing a seatbelt. But now the car has a full orchestral meltdown if you drift over a white line. When I learned to drive, staying in my own lane was considered basic competence, not something the car needed to babysit. My instructor never said, “Don’t worry lad, if you forget, the car will scream at you.”

The same goes for automatic emergency braking. I’ve never found driving into the back of another car particularly appealing, so I’m not sure why the car feels the need to intervene like a panicky passenger. And don’t get me started on the irony of cars that lecture you for “not paying attention” while forcing you to navigate a giant touchscreen just to adjust the bloody heater.

So much like adding a combustion engine to charge the unnecessary battery, or repeating a lunar orbit nearly 60 years after the last, I personally don’t feel cars are really improving - despite the manufacturers trying to convince us otherwise. And before anyone brings up reliability… (more next week!)

She was having none of this flippant nonsense. The notion that the one man she has any time for had been messing about with cars was not something she wanted to entertain. So responsibility passed to me - I also deemed it unlikely. Wrong.

Volkswagen was established in 1937 by the Nazi Party's German Labour Front under the wholesome-sounding banner of 'Strength Through Joy' (or 'Kraft durch Freude,' if you prefer your propaganda in the original German). Hitler wanted a proper People's Car - something affordable that could cart two adults and three kids along at a breezy 100 km/h. He even personally approved the prototype, despite never having held a driving licence. Classic.

Ferdinand Porsche supplied the clever air-cooled rear-engine, and Adolf supplied the vision, factory, forced labour, and dodgy financing. In other words, Porsche did all the hard work, then Hitler did the PowerPoint presentation and claimed all the credit. Some things never change.

The target price was an optimistic 990 Reichsmarks - roughly €5,000 in today's money. German industry in the 1930s couldn’t quite pull off a Tata Nano miracle, so Hitler launched a national savings scheme. Hardworking Germans could stump up five Reichsmarks a week and eventually take delivery of their shiny new KdF-Wagen. Germany's first subscription model - except cancelling meant being sent to the Eastern Front.

Thankfully for Adolf, nothing says 'your delivery is delayed' quite like invading Poland. By 1939 around 336,000 people had paid in, and after the dust settled, a court case dragged on until the early 1960s. The lucky survivors eventually received a generous 12% discount on a new Beetle. By then Hitler had moved on (Argentina has excellent retirement options, apparently), so never had to explain the late deliveries, the missing millions, or the Holocaust! Makes John DeLorean look like a saint.

Despite his little setbacks, things haven’t turned out too badly for Adolf’s dabbling in the automotive sector. The Beetle went on to become one of the most-loved and mass-produced cars ever - a symbol for peace-loving hippies who probably have no idea they’re driving around in the Führer’s masterpiece.

And Volkswagen is now the second-largest car manufacturer in the world - second only to Toyota. Encompassing Audi, Seat, Skoda, Cupra, Porsche, Bentley, Lamborghini, Ducati, MAN, and Scania, it churns out nearly 10 million cars a year. Not a bad legacy for a former lance corporal who couldn’t get into art school or pass his driving test. Turns out world domination and branding were his true callings after all.

Next time you see a classic Beetle pottering along, give it a little wave. Just don’t shout “Strength Through Joy” at the driver - they might think you’re taking the pi$$. Or worse, they might agree with you.

It got me thinking: there are striking similarities between a decent round of golf and a satisfying classic. Golf, at its core, comes down to three things:

• Knowing the course

• Having the skills to play it

• Possessing the mental discipline not to lose the plot

Failing in any of these and your round is doomed. The same applies to keeping a classic in your good books. It requires:

• Having the right car for your needs

• Finding a good, solid example

• Actually enjoying the thing

Ignore any of these and you’re in for a world of disappointment. You can have the “right” car on paper, but if it spends more time on a lift than on the road, it’s just an expensive lawn ornament. Conversely, you can have a perfectly reliable old chap, but if he leaves you colder than a tax return… well, what’s the point? You might as well drive a dishwasher.

Most things in life are about balance. You can mask one flaw for a while, but if your stars aren’t aligned, frustration is inevitable. Right now, Bertie and I are about as aligned as the Middle East.

The problem is simple: he isn’t the right car for me. Not because of any complaints from “her indoors” about size (a topic I will not elaborate on!), but because of that baked-in Rolls-Royce expectation of continuous, wallet-lightening devotion. Previous owners may have enjoyed being gently invoiced to death. Me? I like the occasional weekend that doesn’t involve lying in a puddle of oil. I don’t need another high-maintenance mistress.

What I want is something less… needy. Something from the 1980s. Something German. Something engineered with a slide rule and mild disdain for failure. Ideally with a Stuttgart badge and a reputation for being useful rather than fussed over. A Mercedes W126, for example. Mercedes made nearly 900,000 of them, while Rolls only managed 558 Bentley T2s. Statistically speaking, I’ve got better odds of finding a decent W126 than achieving T2 enlightenment.

But here’s the kicker: even if you find the perfect car, you might not love it. And no amount of polishing, fettling, or “she’ll be right once I’ve done the headlining” will change that. It’s like golf - some days you could thrash Tiger Woods (even when he’s the right way up) - everything is aligned. Other days you couldn’t hit a barn door. You can’t force it. Either the spark is there, or it’s gone!

So where does that leave Bertie and me? Well, let’s just say I’m browsing the classifieds… while avoiding eye contact. It’s not him. It’s definitely him.

• UA73544P Gasket (8 per Engine)

• UA161ZPP Manifold bolt (16)

• UE31382P Manifold bolt spacer (16)

• UR5666P Half clamp bolt (4)

• UR5665P Exhaust nut (4)

Turns out I was hasty. The sort of hasty that makes you very thankful for Flying Spares’ generous returns policy.

Christian at Autosur, not fancying the idea of wrestling with rusty bolts in spaces narrower than a supermodel’s waistline, instructed his English-car specialist to have a proper poke around. And what a good idea that was.

They didn’t just whip the manifold off. No, this chap insisted on a proper leak test - sealing every orifice like you’re embalming Tutankhamun, then pumping the system full of high-pressure smoke while a camera lurked ready to capture the carnage. Science. Proper grown-up diagnostics.

First, the good news: no leaks around the exhaust manifold gaskets. Hallelujah. Ranmore’s phantom hiss? Not there. Sort of. Then the bad news. Smoke. Everywhere. Pouring out like the engine had decided to audition for a part in a low-budget disaster movie.

• Both exhaust manifold-to-downpipe joints, weeping like betrayed lovers

• The exhaust system itself - two actual holes in the rear silencer, because why have one when you can have symmetry?

• A cheeky little leak at the inlet manifold-to-head gasket

• The entire air intake path from filter to carburettor, farting smoke like a chain-smoking uncle after Christmas dinner

• And - get this - even the oil filler cap seal was joining the party. The oil filler cap.

In short, Bertie is about as airtight as Swiss cheese attacked by a shotgun. The exhaust leaks were what Ranmore heard, masquerading as manifold gasket leaks - but the rest? It’s a full-scale mutiny. Every gasket, joint, and seal appears to have collectively decided: “Sod this lads, we’re under too much pressure.”

I’ve poured blood, sweat, swear words, and an embarrassing amount of money into this car, and now it turns out the engine is basically a colander with aspirations. Depressing? Try soul-crushing. Will it ever end? Of course not. Classic cars don’t end; they just keep finding new and inventive ways to remind you that entropy is real, British engineering from the ‘70s was optimistic at best, and ownership is less “hobby” than “slow-motion suicide pact with four wheels.”

Still... it’s Bertie. And somehow, despite the smoke signals screaming “abandon ship,” I can’t quite bring myself to walk away. Because when he does run — when the stars align and the Gods of Lucas electrics take a day off - he’s glorious. Utterly, stupidly glorious.

Right. Where’s that credit card? Again.

Mercedes didn’t mess around. They poured over a billion Deutschmarks into development - roughly the GDP of a respectable small European nation back then. The payoff? A fortress on wheels that shrugged off nuclear winters, zombie apocalypses, or - far more terrifying - British winters. While today’s disposable appliances start shedding parts at 100k miles, the W123’s OM617 five-cylinder turbodiesel was barely broken-in. Real-world proof? Greek taxi driver Gregorios Sachinidis clocked 2.85 million miles (4.6 million km) in his 1976 240D before Mercedes museum-curated it in 2004. A Canary Islands long-wheelbase 240D taxi hit 4.35 million miles and kept going. There’s even talk of examples pushing 7 million km. These weren’t pampered garage queens; they were daily-driven taxis that treated redlines like polite suggestions and still refused to die.

The dashboard oil pressure gauge deserves its own comedy special. Fire it up cold, and the needle pins itself like it’s auditioning for a fighter jet. “Brilliant,” you think, “this engine is forged from pure unobtanium.” Then it warms, drifts back to normal, and you realise: it’s not broken - it’s showing off. Mercedes’ little psychological pat on the back: “Relax, mein Freund. This car is built so well even the instruments are flexing.”

Safety? Mercedes basically invented the modern concept while everyone else was still arguing seatbelts were optional. The W123 brought crumple zones, a collapsible steering column, and optional airbags. In an era when most cars treated “crash protection” like an aftermarket add-on, Mercedes was engineering your family to survive a disagreement with a brick wall. Need to transport the whole clan, the dog, luggage, and maybe a small string quartet? The W123 estate (the first proper Mercedes wagon) had self-levelling rear suspension and optional rear-facing jump seats that turned it into a rolling family bunker.

The vacuum system is pure steampunk wizardry. It doesn’t just handle brakes - it runs central locking, door locks, trunk release, and probably whispers sweet nothings to the climate control. Everything works like a Swiss watch... until a diaphragm perishes, and suddenly you’re Sherlock Holmes with a stethoscope hunting hisses like U-boat leaks. Master it, though, and you’ll strut around feeling like you’ve cracked Enigma. Pro tip from owners: carry a spare vacuum line and a sense of humour.

In 2026, as the W123 hits its 50th birthday, the classic world has woken up. Hagerty valuations are climbing, collectors drool over preserved 300Ds, 280Es, and those unicorn turbodiesel estates. Prices? Still sane: solid runners hover £5k–£15k in the UK, with really tidy six-cylinder petrols or low-mile survivors pushing higher - but nowhere near “Ferrari territory.” A quick scan of auctions shows average sales around £13k for decent examples, with gems fetching more.

The W123 is the ultimate antidote to touchscreen hell, forced software updates, and planned obsolescence. No apps, no subscription heated seats - just sumptuous MB-Tex (leather substitute!), doors that close with a bank-vault clunk, and the quiet confidence that this machine will probably attend your funeral... still running. Grab one, plan that absurd cross-continent jaunt, and enjoy the ride while it outlives us all.

The NEC show is, for those unfamiliar, essentially Glastonbury for people who’d rather restore a seized SU carburettor than listen to Coldplay. It’s the starting pistol for the UK classic car season - the moment Britain collectively emerges, blinking, from its winter garage, wipes the Waxoyl off its hands, and remembers why it spent January sourcing a brake flexi for a 1974 Triumph Dolomite. There will be barn finds, club displays of bewildering ambition, and the Iconic Auctioneers sale, where sensible people do deeply unsensible things with their bank accounts and walk away beaming.

Hagerty have published their 2026 Bull Market List, and it is not a list of cars Bertie would invite to his birthday party. The Golf GTI Mk2, Porsche 996, BMW E60 M5, various Alfas - and, almost incomprehensibly, Ferrari F430s as “value plays.” A car that sounds like Pavarotti being fed through a jet engine is now officially a bargain. The world has gone mad. I couldn’t be happier.

These “youngtimers” - 1990s and early 2000s cars - are old enough for nostalgia but young enough to be ULEZ-compliant and daily-driveable. They offer analogue thrills: manual gearboxes, mechanical feedback, and minimal screens. Cars where you can still feel, in your hands and your backside, whether you’re making a complete hash of things. The generation raised on Gran Turismo loves them. The 996, once mocked for its IMS bearing and “fried egg” headlights, is now the bargain 911. It was always a 911. The market is simply catching up.

At the NEC auction, keep your eyes open. Renault 5 GT Turbos and Fiesta RS Turbos are surfacing as genuine barn finds - pulled from actual barns, covered in actual hay. History moves faster than anyone expects.

And then there’s Bertie: my 1979 Bentley T2 land yacht - he’s forty-seven years old - older than most cars on the Hagerty list by the same margin those cars are older than a current SEAT Ibiza. He was built when the Berlin Wall was still standing. In UK law he’s a Historic Vehicle: tax-free, MOT-exempt, and ULEZ-excused.

The tweed-and-pipe brigade once thought pre-war Bentleys were the future of the hobby. The Boomers decided it was E-Types and Mk1 Cortinas. Gen X made Sierra Cosworths sacred. Each generation loves the cars of its adolescence - so of course 996s and E46 M3s are rising now. The surprise would be if they weren’t.

What this means for Bertie isn’t doom. The older classics don’t become obsolete when youngtimers rise - they become rarer. More emphatically the preserve of people not buying for any rational reason, which is exactly the right reason.

A Golf GTI is wonderful - tactile, fun, historically significant. But it tells a different story. Bertie represents a philosophy of construction that has essentially ceased to exist: the belief that a car should be built not to a design cycle, but to last for decades. He’s not fast. He won’t try to kill you on the way to Waitrose. But he has presence - the deeply unfashionable presence of something old enough to exist without justification.

Let’s put this in perspective. A modern luxury saloon - your S-Class, BMW - contains about 35,000 parts. But before you assume that makes it ten thousand parts better, consider what those extra parts actually are: fifty-odd electronic control units, two to three kilometres of wiring loom, and hundreds of sensors whose sole purpose is to tell other sensors that the first lot of sensors are working properly. Then there’s the hybrid gubbins - electric motors, battery packs, inverters, cooling systems - bolted on top of a combustion engine that already has turbocharging, direct injection, and an emissions after treatment system complex enough to require its own postcode.

None of this existed in Bertie’s day. He doesn’t have radar. He doesn’t have lidar. He doesn’t even have a cupholder. What he does have is twenty-five thousand parts that were designed, in many cases, for him and him alone.

And that’s the thing people miss about cars of this era. A modern Mercedes or BMW is built on a platform shared across half a dozen models and three different badges. Economies of scale, the accountants call it. Bertie’s generation was different. Yes, the carbs, pumps, and motors were bought in - SU, Girling, Lucas, but the engineering that surrounded them was bespoke. The subframes, the hydraulic plumbing, the suspension geometry - all of it designed for one purpose: to make this car ride like no other.

You’d think those extra ten thousand parts in a modern car would make it better. More parts, more luxury, more stuff. And in many ways, you’d be right. A modern S-Class can parallel park itself, massage your lumbar region, and probably file your tax return if you tick the right option. But here’s the thing. If a sensor fails in a modern Mercedes, you don’t fix the sensor. You replace the entire module, at a cost roughly equivalent to a weekend in the Maldives. The module goes in the bin. The bin goes to landfill. And somewhere in Stuttgart, an engineer sheds a single, precisely calibrated tear.

Bertie doesn’t work like that. When something goes wrong - and something always goes wrong - you can actually fix it. With spanners and a hammer - though Rolls-Royce would prefer I didn’t mention that.

He was built in an era when parts were designed to be serviced, rebuilt, and reused. The SU carburettors can be stripped and reassembled at a kitchen table. The brake calipers can be overhauled. Even the gearbox - a GM400, shared, somewhat embarrassingly, with American pickup trucks - is virtually indestructible and endlessly rebuildable. It’s engineering designed for the long haul, not the lease cycle.

Modern cars are engineering marvels, obviously. I’m not stupid enough to argue that a fifty-year-old Bentley is better than a new one. The new GT is quieter, faster, safer, and unlikely to deposit hydraulic fluid on your driveway at three in the morning. But it’s also essentially disposable. When the electronics age out, when the software is no longer supported, when the fourteen-way adjustable seat controller decides it’s had enough - that’s it. Game over. Thanks for the memories and the finance payments.

Bertie, meanwhile, soldiers on. His parts were made from brass, steel, and aluminium by people who expected them to last. And fifty-odd years later, they’re still available, still rebuildable, and still capable of making a mechanic feel like they’ve actually accomplished something rather than simply swapped one black box for another.

Twenty-five thousand parts. Every one of them fixable. Every one of them worth saving. Which is more than you can say for a parking sensor.

The function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.

Jack London wrote that, and it’s stayed with me for years. You might recognise it from No Time to Die, or perhaps it’s just one of those profound truths floating around in the ether. London, of course, wasn’t talking about being a complete lunatic. He was talking about a quiet, steadfast refusal to sleepwalk through whatever brief sliver of time we have on this rock. Which, inevitably, brings me to cars.

Why do so many folks fritter away their twilight years living for steamed broccoli and hospital appointments, in a hopeless bid to dodge the Reaper? It’s like slathering anti-ageing cream onto a face that’s already got more lines than Keith Richards’ forehead. The exact same absurd tango plays out in our garages. When do you finally look at your beloved motor, whisper “enough,” and find some other schmuck to take it on? Having spent decades rubber-necking, I’ve identified three distinct religious factions when it comes to car ownership.

• The Pragmatic Puritans junk their car the instant it so much as hiccups or threatens to strand them. A flat tyre? Heresy! A dodgy alternator? Straight to the auto-inquisition! They’re the type who buy a beige Nissan Qashqai on lease and divorce their spouse for leaving a mug on the coffee table.

• The Patchwork Penitents cling on like limpets, patching up their motors with duct tape, prayers, and whatever spare change they can fish from the sofa - and they do this long after the bills have completely eclipsed the car’s value. It’s the automotive equivalent of nursing a biblical hangover with tequila, just to postpone the inevitable vomit of defeat.

• The Restoration Resurrectionists will happily spend fifty grand to rebuild a car worth ten. They’re the fanatics of the motoring world, willing to remortgage their house to restore a shed.

It’s life’s grand dilemma, isn’t it? Do you rage against the dying of the light, or do you flick the switch, crack open a cold beer, and start watching daytime TV? This isn’t a sermon but a greasy-palmed dissection of the human condition - because it bleeds into everything. Relationships? Some move on at the first sign of trouble (“She forgot my birthday - next!”); others patch with therapy until the emotional bill bankrupts the heart. Houses? Even pets - but let’s not go there.

Most people fall squarely into Group One. They treat cars like white goods: appliances for schlepping from A to B with the frictionless efficiency of a suppository. They're not fussed about torque or cylinder heads, as long as it starts and stops. It's like subscribing to Netflix instead of pirating dodgy streams - pay the premium, skip the hassle, get on with life. And honestly? There's a coherent philosophy in that. Choosing an easy life is still a choice. It’s just a choice that makes your heart beat like a resting sloth's.

The latter two tribes are often lumped together as "classic car enthusiasts," but that's like calling a Lada and a Lamborghini both "cars" - technically true, but missing the gulf in pedigree. Both harbour a passion hotter than a V8 exhaust, yet the distinction between them is brutally simple: money.

The Penitent adores their motor with a fierce, blue-collar devotion, but their wallet whimpers at the thought of the next expense. They'd love to splash the cash if only the bank balance - or Mrs. - permitted. So they improvise. They bodge. They make do with elbow grease, but they love their cars no less.

The Resurrectionist commits the dosh to make those dreams roar to life. Their garages are museums; their logbooks are love letters. But here’s the thing: the Penitent doesn’t love their car any less. They just can’t say it in chrome. And there’s something quietly noble in that - the devotion that persists without the means to prove it.

Boil it all down: Group One has made peace with boredom, and they probably sleep very well. Groups Two and Three are the romantics - bonded to their beasts like a dog to a suspicious bone, shelling out whatever they can (or spectacularly can't) afford for that sweet hit of adrenaline. Value for money? Practicality? These are the lies we tell ourselves at three in the morning while scrolling through AutoTrader, looking at a decaying Alfa Romeo we can’t afford.

Life’s not a dress rehearsal. Merely existing in a bland, hybrid SUV, shuffling silently toward the grave in a cocoon of grey plastic, is not living. It's surviving. Why do that, when you can actually live - behind the wheel of something that makes a noise, makes you sweat, and makes you feel alive? You’ve no time to die.

I shall use my time. But, preferably not always under Bertie’s bonnet!

I’ve banged on before about driver aids that nanny you to distraction, but I’ve barely touched the other “gift” of modern safety legislation: what it’s done to car looks. Here’s the rap sheet of aesthetic crimes, all courtesy of crash standards and deformability mandates:

• Tiny, high-set windows that start at eye level - giving the “squinty bunker” look. You peer out like you’re in a pillbox.

• Ridiculously high bonnets to cram in crush space - turning elegant front ends into massive, blunt snouts that scream “I’m trying not to kill you… but I look like I already did.”

• Thick, heavy A- and B-pillars that block half your view - because rollover protection trumps actually seeing where you’re going.

• No sharp edges allowed - everything rounded to beach-ball radius so no one gets a boo-boo on impact. Goodbye crisp creases, hello jellybean blandness.

• Massive plastic cladding and blacked-out lower sills everywhere - deformability padding that makes cars look like they’ve been bubble-wrapped for shipping.

The result? A parade of identical blobs: tall, puffy, soft-edged, and utterly soulless. Park one next to a 1960s or 1980s equivalent and the difference is night and day. Bertie gets stopped in car parks for compliments - “She’s a stunner, mate!” - while the latest German barge gets ignored because it looks like every other… barge (beaver?).

And who do we have to thank for this rolling festival of mediocrity? The same joyless brigade who think cars should apologise for existing: the health-and-safety zealots, the Brussels pen-pushers (even post-Brexit, their ghost still haunts the rulebook), and our own home-grown eco-puritans who want to ban anything with a tailpipe and a personality.

Beauty may be subjective, but if cars could subscribe to OnlyFans, Bertie would be raking it in with his curves, chrome, and that handsome stance. The modern lot? They’d be begging for tips just to show a glimpse of underbody without the plastic cladding.

Maybe it’s time I launched CarlyFans - the subscription site where cars flaunt what the regulators tried to hide. Tier 1: daily pics of shiny paint and elegant lines. Tier 2: exclusive engine-bay ASMR and slow-mo walk-arounds. VIP: private garage sessions with classics that still have sharp edges and visibility worth a damn.

These kale-munchers love telling us what’s good for us: eat less meat, cycle everywhere, drive a faceless blob on wheels that looks like it was designed by committee in a darkened room. Well, look what happened when they forced the agenda - the car world’s turned into a giant beige care home on wheels.

And then there are the zombies - marques that still breathe but only because someone bigger and richer is keeping the ventilator plugged in: Bentley, Lotus, Jaguar, Volvo, Rolls-Royce, Audi, Porsche, Lancia, Vauxhall… They’re badges on someone else’s balance sheet.

Car companies die the same way most businesses: they spend more than they earn - until the bailiffs arrive. Sometimes the cars were rubbish, but mostly there just weren't enough punters willing to pay the asking. Remember Rover? Started as a bicycle company in 1878, survived two world wars, built the P5 that carried prime ministers, then died because BMW couldn't make the sums work. Tragic, yes. But at least it was honest capitalism.

These days, though, it’s infinitely worse. Manufacturers must now be at the bleeding edge of tech, and obey whatever mad decree Brussels or Westminster vomits out. Safety nannies are bad enough, but the real killer is the electric ultimatum.

Europe’s politicians have decided they know better than you what belongs on your drive. Fancy a proper car after 2030, 2035, or whichever made-up deadline they decide? Tough luck, comrade. It must be electric. Never mind that you live in a flat with no charger, or that the grid would collapse if everyone plugged in, or that you quite like the noise and range of something that runs on dead dinosaurs. Buy the wrong car, and they’ll fine the company that made it. It’s not Artificial Intelligence driving this change - it’s Natural Stupidity. Soviet planning with even less interlect.

The results? Stellantis (Fiat, Citroën, Peugeot, Vauxhall, Chrysler, Alfa Romeo, …) has just taken a €22 billion write-down because they overestimated how quickly the world would fall in love with battery boxes. Shares have fallen like a brick off a multi-storey. Ford? $19.5 billion gone in a puff of smoke after scrapping half their EV dreams and pivoting back to hybrids and proper engines. GM’s nursing about $7 billion back fire from their own EV rethink. Even Volkswagen (Bentley, Porsche, Audi, …) has been bleeding billions on EV reversals.

Demand for pure EVs isn’t just soft - it’s in a coma. What little there is comes from government bribes (your taxes) propping up the corpse. Even Tesla is pulling back.

Here's the brutal truth: EVs have more in common with smartphones than cars. No complex engines, transmissions, or decades of mechanical heritage - just batteries, motors, and another bloody software subscription. Chinese giants are throwing up giga-battery factories powered by bargain-basement coal energy, with no unions, and a government that actually welcomes success. Western manufacturers? Drowning in regulation and politicians peddling the “net zero” lie like it’ll suddenly make punters queue up for a £50k fridge on wheels.

Just as horse-and-carriage makers were steamrollered by Henry Ford, the old Western car empires are now watching their own funeral procession. Only this time, it isn’t because customers demanded something better, faster, cheaper, or more exciting. It’s because a bunch of politicians decided they know best - and are cheerfully driving companies that were happily building the cars people actually wanted straight into the ditch.

The irony is thicker than the smog over Beijing. We’re not witnessing evolution. We’re watching assisted suicide, paid for with our own money. If we're not careful, Havana will be the last bastion of the running classic. Isn’t democracy great?

I decided to take Bertie for a jaunt up to Roque Nublo, the volcanic rock that’s basically the island’s answer to Stonehenge but with better views and fewer druids. The road winds like a corkscrew, and Bertie’s 6.75-litre V8 was purring happily, guzzling the cheap local petrol with the enthusiasm of a tourist at an all-inclusive bar. But as we climbed higher, I noticed the engine sounded a bit throatier than Rolls intended.

By the time we reached the summit car park - jammed with hire cars half Bertie’s size - I could swear he sounded a little wheezy. A quick inspection revealed the culprit: the exhaust was blowing somewhere in the engine bay. It was at this moment I recalled Ranmore mentioning the need to replace the exhaust manifold gaskets. At the time, the brakes needed more attention than the gaskets, so I declined their offer.

Back at base, I rang up Christian the previously mentioned hero of Autosur. He didn’t look fazed by the idea of removing the manifolds, and I didn’t mention the estimated six hours Ranmore had quoted - no need to frighten the chap. So I made an appointment for Bertie to spend a couple of days with him, and in the meantime ordered the parts.

She Who Must Be Obeyed, ever the voice of reason, suggested this might be a sign to downsize. “Why not something more... nimble? Like a Smart car?” I shuddered at the thought. Bertie may not be the ideal mountain goat, but he’s got presence. Park him next to a flock of Fiat 500s, and he commands respect - like a lion among kittens.

This little episode got me pondering the evolution of gaskets. Back in the day, gaskets were simple “sandwich” constructions with outer layers of steel or copper enclosing a heat-resistant fibre filler, often including asbestos for its thermal properties. These were basic but effective for low-power engines, though asbestos use declined due to health risks.

The dominant design today is MLS (Multi-Layered Steel) gaskets, consisting of 2-5 layers of stainless steel interleaved with elastomer (e.g., fluoroelastomer) coatings. They provide superior sealing under high pressures (up to 600-1,600 hp in performance engines), handle thermal cycling, and conform to minor surface flaws without damaging the head. This evolution was driven by OEM needs for reliability in turbocharged and high-compression engines.

If anyone fancies recommending a classic that’s better suited to volcanic escapades without sacrificing luxury, drop a line. Just don’t suggest an EV; the charging points up here are scarcer than rain in July.

Let's start with ADAS - Advanced Driver Assistance Systems - which sounds helpful until you realise it actually stands for "Actively Destroying All Satisfaction." Since 2022, every new car sold in the EU and UK must have this electronic nanny fitted as standard. You're essentially paying to be lectured by a machine that has the personality of a speed camera and the common sense of a traffic warden.

It bongs when you edge 1mph over the limit. It beeps if it thinks you're not paying attention - which you probably won’t be if you’ve ever tried using the screens that replace switches. And best of all, it yanks the steering wheel out of your hands if it spots a white line while you’re trying to avoid a pothole the size of Wales.

Then there's AEB - Automatic Emergency Braking - which sounds marvellous until it decides you're about to crash into something that doesn't exist, and slams the anchors on in the outside lane of the M25

Now, you'd think that all this nonsense would be optional. Or at the very least, you could turn it off and leave it off. You'd be wrong. Disabling this electronic harassment takes longer than the actual journey, and you have to repeat the process every single time you turn the key. If you're in an unfamiliar car, you've got more chance of solving a Rubik's cube blindfolded. The process is make, model, and even year specific. You might actually have to read the manual - the automotive equivalent of taking the bus.

But wait! There’s more! Every new car now comes with a built-in informant. A grass. A digital Stasi agent sitting in your dashboard, logging everything: where you went, when, how fast, your cornering g-forces, whether you used cruise control, and - God forbid - whether you dared switch off eco mode (or ADAS!). The manufacturers can access this data whenever they fancy. In some markets, they sell it! Your driving habits, flogged to the highest bidder (or insurance company?). And if the authorities come knocking? That data gets handed over faster than you can say “privacy settings”.

Of course, the UK’s army of ANPR cameras already has you covered, but the car’s black box fills in any gaps nicely. In 2007, there were around 127,000 speeding offences recorded in the UK. By 2024? Roughly 750,000. That's a 600% increase. The explosion of 20mph zones - cunningly positioned on roads that were perfectly safe at 30 - is only accelerating this gold rush.

Parking’s the same story: in less than ten years, parking tickets issued in the UK have doubled, from around 7.5 million in 2018 to 16 million in 2025. It's not about road safety; it's about revenue. Traffic enforcement has become Britain's most profitable industry after financial services and complaining about the weather.

Then pile on the taxes. VAT at 20%. Fuel duty at 53p per litre. Road tax up to £5,490 - I've bought entire cars for less! ULEZ charges. LEZ charges. Congestion charges. And lurking in the near future like a mugger in an alley: pay-per-mile charges. The modern motorist is being milked harder than a dairy farm in the Cotswolds.

Oh, and the price for the privilege of all this surveillance and taxation? That'll be ~£40,000, please - because that's what the average new car costs now. Ten years ago it was ~£20k. It’s doubled. And then depreciation hits you like a brick through the windscreen. Keep it three years and you've lost more money than Greece.

Now, compare that joyless, expensive, privacy-invading nightmare to a classic car:

• No ADAS telling you how to drive

• No digital snitch logging your every move

• No eye-watering monthly payments - you bought it, you own it, end of

• Zero road tax if it’s over 40 years old

• No ULEZ, LEZ, or whatever other acronym they’ve cooked up to fleece you

• No VAT on the purchase - because it’s not “new,” it’s merely brilliant

• Minimal depreciation - it might actually appreciate?

• You can fix it yourself if you’re mechanically inclined, instead of being held hostage by a dealer charging £180/hour to plug in a laptop

So tell me - who's the real eccentric here? The chap pootling along in a charming, analogue machine that doesn't judge him, lecture him, grass him up, or bankrupt him... or the poor sod who's just signed a five-year PCP deal on a £45,000 rolling surveillance van that treats him like a naughty cash-cow?

The classics aren't just surviving - they're staging an uprising. They're the last bastion of actual driving enjoyment in a world determined to turn motoring into a joyless, sanitised, monetised trudge. See you on the road - I'll be the one grinning without the bongs, beeps, or Big Brother.