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.

Enter the reigning champion of aftermarket coils: the Pertronix Flame-Thrower. The name alone is pure marketing genius - it’s like they hired a 1980s action-movie trailer voice guy to christen it. “40,000 volts of pure, unadulterated spark-throwing fury!” How could I resist? I tracked down the 40011 model (the 1.5-ohm version, perfect for electronic ignition setups like my 123) on Amazon for a wallet-friendly £35. That’s less than the retail price - and it’s the black version which usually costs more?

Installation? A breeze. Less than 30 minutes from socket to smug grin. I had it bolted in place, wires connected, and Bertie fired up on the very first crank. No hesitation, just a healthy roar that woke the neighbours (up early to avoid the sun). Success tasted sweet... until I spotted the slick of oil pooling around the base of the shiny new 123 distributor.

Yep, Bertie has one more leak up his sleeve. Clearly the O-ring seal on the new distributor shaft was rubbish, turning my engine into an impromptu oil painting. Cue the ritual of rags, degreaser, and muttered curses - because nothing says “classic car ownership” like spending the morning cleaning-up oil.

The Flame-Thrower is living up to its name: stronger, snappier response, and that lovely crisp spark that makes cold starts feel less like Russian roulette. Word on the forums is these coils play beautifully with electronic distributors (just make sure you’ve got full 12V to it - no ballast resistor nonsense). If you’re still running points, it might be overkill, but with modern electronic conversions? It’s like giving your ignition system a double espresso.

Case in point: sourcing an AC hose for a 1979 Bentley T2 - Bertie. A quick 10-minute drive from tourist centrum landed me at Radiadores Paco. These legends can fabricate anything - radiators, full AC systems - while you wait. I handed over my holed hose; two hours later, it was reborn for £90 (including paint!). Bentley (well, VW these days) wants three grand for a new one. Three. Grand. I’ll let that sink in.

Fitting the hose? Just the reverse of removal - so no video this time. The real villain? Reinstalling the bumper. What a bu**er of a job! Two washers have to sit above and below the supports - inside the bumper - while you contort like a pretzel. Pro tip: remove the supports first... but then you need a mate (or several) to hold the hefty bumper steady while you fumble bolts. Fun times.

Once the hose was fitted I set off to re-charge the system. Naturally Paco was my first port of call, but due to their popularity I’d have to wait longer than I wanted. So I set off to another of the gems on the Island: Autosur. Christian, the main man, had me chilling within 30 minutes, and all amongst the hoards of other people clamouring for his attention. It’s a sight to behold.

After my Paco and Autosur experience, I couldn’t help but wonder: how many more classic cars would still be alive in the UK if parts and service was so reasonable? Spain’s fleet is among Europe’s oldest (average ~14 years) - no wonder with wizards like Paco and Autosur on every small island. Meanwhile, the UK boasts one of the newest averages (~9 years), probably because dealers charge Bentley-level prices for a simple hose.

The good news? Average car age across Europe (and the UK) is creeping up - thanks to better rust-proofing, sky-high new-car prices, and everyone side-eyeing EVs (”better the devil you know?”). But I reckon it’s a temporary blip. Once the electric switchover really kicks in, we’ll probably see fleets getting younger again... and wallets lighter.

The first job: to remove the ruptured compressor-to-condenser hose. To reach it, one must first access the condenser, which (unsurprisingly) lurks behind the grille. And to remove the grille? You guessed it: you have to remove the bumper.

With only one car at my disposal, this posed a logistical challenge - I had to reassemble everything just to drive the holed hose to a local artisan for refurbishing. Finding said specialist isn’t easy, hence the need to show them the part in person... especially given my pigeon Spanish.

Thankfully, this wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d removed (and reinstalled) the bumper, grille, and that very hose before, so I thought I knew the drill. Famous last words. Out of habit or sheer stupidity, I still undid the bolts securing the vanes inside the grille shell - completely unnecessarily. No harm done, but a reminder that my memory is even less reliable than Bertie!

Keen-eyed viewers of the above video will spot the inevitable interruption that comes when working on Bertie. A lovely Polish chap wandered over for a chat, blissfully unaware I was mid-recording. He probably thinks I’m terribly rude for not pausing to discuss Bertie’s latest misdemeanour!

Anyway, if I can’t get the hose fixed I do have another solution…

After the initial shock, I spotted oil mist emanating from under the bonnet. Again. Feck. All that cleaning, expense, and effort – and he’s blown another AC hose. Somehow I’m always relieved it’s “only” the AC, but I was not happy. The only upside? The Mrs. didn’t witness it. She’s already (rightly) dubious about his place in the fleet.

I’m hoping the hose burst was down to previous chafing by the bonnet spring – something I should have relocated earlier. Looks like I’ll need this one custom-made, as no original hoses are available. Ranmore had to fabricate a new low-pressure hose when fitting the latest compressor, so that’s probably for the best given the age of the originals.

On the bright side, the newly installed pressure switch checks out: it goes open circuit with no (or low) pressure (< ~20 psi, as now). Hopefully the high-pressure side (where this burst occurred) doesn’t need its own switch – the original POA valve certainly never regulated high-side pressure.

For fellow Shadow and Bentley T owners, the above experience won’t be a surprise (new). The factory AC systems on these cars (using that big twin-belt Harrison A6 compressor and the old POA suction throttling valve) are notorious for age-related gremlins after 40-50 years. Original rubber hoses perish, crack, or chafe - especially the high-pressure one - and sudden bursts like Bertie’s are a rite of passage. Leaks often starve the compressor or damage components, and with R12 long gone, most of us end up converting to R134a with modern barrier hoses for better durability. No originals available? That’s par for the course. If you’re lucky enough to still have a working system, check those hoses regularly for wear!

Happy New Year…

Monday (22nd), the news broke that Chris Rea had passed away at the age of 74 after a short illness. For most, he’ll forever be the man behind the song that soundtracks every festive journey home. We played it religiously on those long drives back to Switzerland each December, endless kilometres, rain, ice, snow, the boys in the back finally quiet as we pulled into the drive. The tune feels so lived-in because it was: the road was a metaphor for life - the traffic jams life lessons, the relief of being home after hours of tedium and tail-lights.

But for those of us who live for the smell of old petrol, warm oil, and hot brakes, Chris was one of us. A proper classic car nut, a historic racer, and a man who understood that cars - like songs - carry stories we all add to.

He owned a wonderful, eclectic collection: Ferraris including a Dino 308 GT4 and an F355 Berlinetta, a Lotus Elan, a Caterham 7, a Morris Minor, a classic Mini, a Land Rover, and more besides. These weren’t trailer queens or celebrity investments; Rea raced them in historic events, turned up at track days, and threw himself into the clubs and the camaraderie with the same enthusiasm as any of us leaning over a bonnet at the NEC Classic Motor Show.

He was even mates with Eddie Jordan (1948-2025), and once donned the full team kit to help out in the Jordan F1 pit lane - proudly put in charge of the tyre-warmer blanket on the rear-right wheel of Eddie Irvine’s car. Proper petrolhead credentials.

That deep love of motion, of roads and engines, threaded through his music. Driving Home for Christmas wasn’t some glossy fantasy; it was born in a snowy crawl from London to Middlesbrough in his wife Joan’s Austin Mini back in 1978, stuck in traffic, watching miserable faces in the queue of headlights. He scribbled the lyrics on the way, turning frustration into something warm and enduring. Like the best classics, the song has only grown better with age and miles - a reluctant release that became a perennial favourite, re-entering the charts every December.

This Christmas, as you pack the thermos, check the oil, and point the nose towards home - whatever you’re driving, old or new - crank up Driving Home for Christmas. Not just because it’s tradition, but as a quiet nod to a fellow car lover who’s no longer with us. Rea’s gone, but the song, like the cars he cherished, will keep going.

Safe journeys, everyone.

After a thorough clean, I was relieved to discover that Canarians don’t really go in for Christmas trees. It’s funny how every idyllic Christmas card or advert shows a perfect tree lashed neatly to the car roof, branches fluttering like a festive flag. In reality, I’ve never once managed that with any car I’ve owned - no roof rails, or just sheer incompetence with ropes?

Instead, my tradition involves cramming the thing inside: the bushy top perched proudly on the dashboard (obscuring half the windscreen), while the sawn-off stump leaks sticky sap and needles all over the back seat. Changing gear becomes a wrestling match with a dozen rogue branches poking your ears; steering, a perilous negotiation around flailing foliage. Visibility? Optional. Comfort? Forget it.

Still, the car always ends up smelling wonderful - like a mobile forest. And come June, you’re still vacuuming needles from the strangest crevices. A small price for tradition, I suppose. Not this year, though - ours arrived in a box. :-)

Another tradition we’re gladly avoiding is the perilous airport run to collect family. Last year, I foolishly attempted it in Bertie - without snow tyres, naturally (good luck finding Avon TurboSteel 235/70R15s with studs!). It began snowing en route, and by the return journey, our guests were pushing him up the drive into the garage.

One tradition that remains is finding something for the boss. She’s been remarkably generous to Bertie this year, so I feel I owe her. Ironically, her ideal present would be for me to sell him - she remains unconvinced about the practicality of pottering around in a 50-year-old relic. Lately, she’s taken to commenting on his length: the convenience of maneuvering a 5.2m-long hulk around a small island. At least she’s not talking about my dimensions. 😊

This got me thinking: what classic cars of Bertie’s stature are actually shorter? A Mercedes S-Class (W126) is still 5m long, and even the SEC is only 10cm shorter. Decent Jags are around 5m, and I’ve never fancied a BMW or Audi. Bristols, Alvises, and Rovers are even older than Bertie and lack modern conveniences. Ferraris, Porsches, Lotuses, or Morgans would never accommodate her luggage (some positives?), but they come with their own trials - like getting in and out. The Citroën DS is only 4.8m long, but that’s not much shorter than an SEC, and it’s a lot less well-equipped. If anyone has inspired suggestions for a shorter-yet-stately alternatives, do whisper them to Santa…

First, a leap of faith: entrusting Bertie to the witch doctors of Betchworth (Ranmore Service & Engineering). We’ve all experienced the classic post-service curse - a perfectly running car ‘fixed’ only to expire a few miles down the road, leaving you stranded. Not this time. Martin and his team worked their magic, and 1,600 miles were dispatched without so much as a splutter.

Next came the gauntlet of French service-station bandits. Nowhere else in Europe will you encounter such brazen fuel thievery. Fill up at a supermarché and you’ll pay a reasonable €1.50 a litre; dare to stop on the (already extortionate) autoroute and you’re suddenly mugged for €2.20 or more. Highway robbery. Literally.

Then, the real people-smugglers: those notorious gangs known as Fred Olsen and Naviera Armas. True, they’ve upgraded from inflatable dinghies to proper ferries, but after two days cooped up on board, you’ll feel every bit the desperate migrant. The onboard catering alone surely violates the European Convention on Human Rights.

Upon “landing” in Gran Canary, Bertie wisely chose not to tear up his V5 in a dramatic gesture of no return. Passing him off as a child to qualify for leniency would have been tricky - he’s clearly over-age and overweight (thanks to you know who). Thankfully he has no criminal record - well, apart from that speeding ticket in 1987... I told immigration he promises to integrate with local customs - i.e. drive on the right!

For now, we’re claiming temporary asylum until the weather up north improves - sometime around April hopefully. I had to lie about him not being a burden on the local healthcare system, knowing full well he’ll likely be in some Spanish mechanic’s workshop within a week, but I promised he’d not to be a burden on the locals. Well, apart from guzzling the local petrol at a blissful €1.20 a litre — no VAT! 😊

I must admit to a degree of trepidation as I’ve not only to drive to Ranmore (1,000km - ~600 miles), but then drive Bertie all the way down to Huelva (~1,600 miles). Over six days we’ll be covering over 2,200 miles, and the journey doesn’t end there. Bertie gets to rest on the ferry down to Gran Canaria (~800 miles), but then has to play taxi on the island’s winding roads.

Using a classic as your daily driver is not without its little anxieties. The internet loves to remind us of the classic quartet of doom:

• Reliability – will we make it, or will I be thumbing a lift with a Spanish trucker called Juan?

• Cost – repairs that make your wallet weep and your mechanic’s children very well-educated.

• Safety – in a smash, is vintage charm an acceptable substitute for seven airbags?

• Comfort – no adaptive cruise, no heated bum, manual everything. I am the automation.

Yes, there’s some truth in all of the above, but let’s not exaggerate – Bertie isn’t a horseless carriage. Safety and comfort are perfectly liveable - even if I do have to flick the wipers on myself – horror!

Maintenance costs are an irritation, but as I’ve written before, they’re little different than any car of his stature. I’ve owned many ‘modern’ luxury cars that have saddled me with bills more associated with house deposits than car repairs.

No, the real knot in my stomach is reliability. While Bertie hasn’t stranded me (yet), he’s not been short of threats. Doing daily duties under the withering gaze of She Who Must Be Obeyed is uncomfortable at best. “Why didn’t you just buy a Toyota?” her eyes seem to say. Bertie’s shortcomings are mine!

So here we are. In a few days I’ll be sliding behind that big old wheel, turning the key, and praying the starter motor doesn’t answer with its usual sarcastic pause. Two thousand-plus miles of motorways, mountains, and questionable service-station coffee. Will Bertie triumph and roll onto that Gran Canaria ferry like a conquering hero? Or will he finally enact his revenge for my smugness? Either way, there will be stories. There will probably be swearing. And there will definitely be photographs of a slightly frazzled Englishman who refuses to act his age next to a car that does!