Hi Simon
Mine look a little different to the ones you posted, but probably along the same lines:
View attachment 229340View attachment 229341
Tone tongue in cheek for a mo’, Simon, they’re of Italian manufacture and I’m always a little dubious of their products, especially their cars, although to be fair, I have limited experience in this field, my wife’s business Fiat to which I was afforded access being the only vehicle in my control and the less said the better….. (the rest of the doom and gloom is gleaned from motorist reviews of luxury vehicles hailing from said, over the years). Oh, and the odd item of furniture……and rather smart chandeliers and matching wall lights which were a pain to fit (for the Spark) and flickered for no apparent reason at random moments…….and……Well, you get my drift.
Incidentally, I note your contempt (?) for a certain British manufactured car i.e. the Leyland Allegro on another thread, which I share, and I’ll give you my reasons for doing so (although be they a little extreme). In fact, I wonder whether the Latin title was an omen for what was to come (I seem to recall mention of it sharing some Italian parts in its construction, although I could be wrong on this).
Anyway, on return to Division after successfully passing my Standard ‘B’ driving course (as it was known back then) I discovered to my dismay that the excellent Mk. II Escorts were being phased out as Pandas (we called them ‘Mikes’ on Merseyside), to be replaced by - in the main - Austin allegros, which spent more time off the road than on patrol. We all detested them. One busy tour of afternoons (always a busy shift) we were short handed; consequently, I had a list of jobs as long as your arm to attend , punctuated by the odd rush job or two, and within an hour or so, I kid you not, I had to park up before limping back to the Nick as the brakes had become pedal to the metal (isn’t that usually a term for the throttle?) Anyway, they didn’t work (brake fluid bubbling?), and I had to put it off the road, again. Never happened with the Escorts or Chevettes.
By rights, it should have gone to the garage for rectification (perhaps recycling would have been better, but wasn’t around then), but Bobbies were reluctant to do so as it took yonks to get them back. The problem was, in days of yore, the garages were Police controlled and under the supervision of a Garage Sergeant (imagine that in today’s world of sending everything off into the private sector…..). Anyway, at this particular time, the role was occupied by a Con, (there were no P.C.s on Merseyside, that was just for telly like Juliet Bravo, Z cars and Dixon), who was your usual obstructive nineteen stone Hob (colloquial term for a Traffic Man, and short for Hobby Bobby, which they hated……) and, being in the right lodge, had been put out to pasture in the last couple of years before retirement. Anyway, he supervised a band of wooly backed grease monkeys who shared the same overinflated sense of self aggrandisement, and who looked down on young Divisional Bobbies like me. You knew that a visit to collect a car was in vain, even having been told to do so by the radio room, as Traffic cars always took precedence (favouritism or what…..). I dreaded it.
It was always the same: You’d apprehensively enter the garage and tentatively knock on the open door of the mechanics’ rest room, where you could see them supping tea whilst either playing cards or idly reading the paper. Aware of your presence, they’d ignore you for an excruciatingly anxious spell, before the older guy would raise his head reluctantly from his copy of The Mirror and snap: ‘Wadda you want?’. Unfortunately for me in those days, I was still a polite, well polished and trendy young man, and not the direct individual that I became after 31 years of doing the job in a variety of roles, so I took it all on the chin and politely excused myself (to sounds of mirth). At this point, the nineteen stoned supervisor with five bellies and almost as many chins, would make himself aware of my presence, in the vain of a Gamekeeper who’d discovered you accidentally trespassing on his land. It was usually followed by pointing a metaphorical finger of blame for ‘breaking’ the heap of old rubbish in the first place! As always, surprise, surprise, they claimed we’d been given duff gen and it wasn’t ready, with a reluctance to provide a provisional date for when it would be repaired. G1t! And that went for the allegro next to it, and the one next to that….…
For all the angst, I’d still rather have had The Job the way it was, than what it became, and I feel so sorry for the young people today having to do it. No wonder they leave in such numbers.
But I digress.
One point of note about the alleg………(can’t even be bothered to write its name!), was that the drivers seat almost always seemed to break, and I shall deny, to my dying day, that I drove one whilst seated on a milk crate…….aherm…….
Perhaps I’ve been a little hard in a family car that was never designed for the wear ‘n’ tear of being on the spike with a gang of hairy @rsed Bobbies at the helm, but other popular makes managed it so why not this piece of……(insert appropriate term of choice here).
@John57sharp ‘s comment about ‘pushing it into the dock’ made me howl btw, and I couldn’t concur more.
Jon