Six

The beginnings of mayhem

Back on the rallying front, things were progressing well. I was asked by the top local female driver, Pauline Reddy, to navigate for her on a major new all-night rally taking place in the north-west on the 5th November 1961. The Kirkby Lonsdale Motor Club’s Devil’s Own Rally would feature quite difficult navigation, and a 200-mile road section around the lanes east of Lancaster and on into the Trough of Bowland.

I was obviously on good form that night, and coped with all the navigational demands admirably. Pauline was a superb driver, and had the added advantage of knowing all the lanes we were traversing, as her job involved visiting all the farms in the area, testing milk. The night was wet and foggy, which didn’t please all the people having Guy Fawkes’ night bonfires, but we were happy and seemed to have a good rapport. This is, of course, an essential part of rallying – the driver and co-driver/navigator must like and respect each other in order to succeed. After a full night of difficult rallying, I was pleased to find that Pauline and I won the event by eleven minutes from the next car. It was my first big win, and naturally I was elated.

However, there is another little twist to the story; I mentioned earlier that one of my ambitions was to get my name in Motoring News. I had, therefore, precociously telephoned Motoring News and asked to speak to the rallies editor. I advised him of the forthcoming Devil’s Own Rally and asked if he would accept an article from me. The rallies editor at the time was one John Brown, a former Oxford student and a brilliant rally navigator and organiser. Thankfully, he had heard of me (very vaguely, I suspect) and commissioned the article on the Devil’s Own Rally for the princely sum of £1-15s.0d. For the benefit of any younger readers of this book (if there are any!), I am talking about pre-decimal currency, but I think you’ll get the point that I was being paid peanuts.

Fate had played its hand again; my first-ever article in Motoring News was to feature my name in the opening paragraph in heavy print. I duly wrote the article, posted the hand-written words to Motoring News, and it appeared in print. I offered to write articles on many other northern events, including local Morecambe Car Club rallies, and was accepted as a correspondent. This had two enormous benefits: I could ensure my own name appeared in Motoring News (usually in the first couple of paragraphs!) and I could also approach and converse with all the other competitors (including well-known names like John Sprinzel, David Seigle-Morris, Pat Moss, Reg McBride, Don Barrow, Phil Simister, Graham Robson, and others) to solicit their views on the previous night’s rally.

John Brown went on to organise some of the best rallies in Britain. He won the RAC Rally of Great Britain in 1961 alongside one of the greatest rally drivers of all time, Sweden’s Erik Carlsson. We’ve had a lot of contact over the years, and I value John’s friendship which all started with that innocent phone call in 1961. To be honest, John has, for many years, been encouraging me to write this book, so now you have someone to blame when you take it down to the Oxfam shop.

Away from rallying, I was progressing well in my job in Liverpool and studying hard for qualifications in advertising and marketing, attending evening classes in the famous Royal Liver Building. Now aged seventeen, I decided to take driving lessons and signed up with the British School of Motoring in Southport, taking six lessons in quick succession. It was a good place to take the test as there were lots of wide streets but no hills, other than a railway bridge near the station. I passed the test driving a Hillman Minx, and can still vividly remember that the examiner wore a blue mackintosh that smelt of vinegar.

On the job front great progress was being made, and I was ‘head-hunted,’ to use modern terminology. I was offered a job in the marketing department of a much larger advertising agency in Manchester. Osborne-Peacock had no association with S C Peacock in Liverpool, although there had been in the distant past, apparently. I would be working on lots of major accounts including Cussons Imperial Leather soap, 1001 cleaner, Vosene shampoo, Vimto, Currys and Great Universal Stores. It was an exciting time with new products being developed all the time, and I was part of a very busy department, making many new friends.

I arranged digs in Timperley, near Altrincham, and commuted to Manchester by train. I remember my Scottish landlady who provided my breakfast and evening meal, and I also remember sitting in the freezing lounge with her, watching the new programme Coronation Street on the small black and white television. The lady had purchased a new electric fire with two bars that were never turned on as she was convinced that the flickering red bulb under the artificial coal was emanating heat! As she was protected by several layers of shawls and woollen half-gloves, she could not see the necessity of any more heat. I would often go to bed early to keep warm.

Among the staff at Osborne-Peacock was a former fellow Lancaster Royal Grammar School pupil, Mike Harrison, who was employed as a copywriter. We enjoyed each others company and very soon decided to leave our respective lodgings to share a flat in the Chorlton-cum-Hardy district of Manchester, which made life much more enjoyable.

My interest in rallying continued apace, and I was competing as a navigator a great deal as we entered the sixties. Road rallies took place all over Britain, and I started to venture further afield than my native north-west Lancashire. Many of the toughest rallies took place in Wales and were demanding in every sense. The roads were hilly and twisty and the maps difficult to read, so it was a true test of the ability of the crews. It was a steep learning curve for me, as practically all my rallying had taken place in the north-west, where I had built up a good knowledge of the roads and become very proficient as a navigator, winning local events and, indeed, taking the Morecambe Car Club navigators’ championship (the first of many). I also won the drivers’ championship as well, once, but I’d better not sound too much of a clever Dick!

Among the very best crews in British rallying were a number from the Manchester area, and I began to get to know them as I competed in the most competitive road rallies as part of the Motoring News Rally championship. Still living and working in Manchester, I was able to meet many of them at meetings of the successful Knowldale and Cavendish Car Clubs. I also discovered that the leading lights of the Cavendish Club would meet up for a drink at the Brocklehurst Arms in Macclesfield on a Thursday evening, to discuss the following weekend’s rally.

I was welcomed to these little get-togethers, and felt very privileged to be among such notable drivers as Reg McBride, Phil Simister, and Frank Grange, and the quite brilliant navigator Don Barrow, who would win the Motoring News championship four times as well as the RAC Rally championship. I got to know all these people well, and Don and I remain good friends to this day.

Back on the work front, I was continuing to study for my exams and making good progress in the Manchester advertising agency. Osborne-Peacock moved from an old-fashioned building in Piccadilly to new offices in Television House where Granada TV also had offices. Many evenings, some of us would go to a bar beneath the building for an early evening drink after work. These were sociable occasions, and I can remember one of the older executives telling us about his wartime experiences in the RAF when he had been an orderly on a small transport plane flying to North Africa. The plane had a special compartment with a bunk bed in it, which on one occasion contained Winston Churchill, no less. Churchill stayed in the bunk the whole trip and summoned the orderly by ringing a bell. He popped his head out of the curtains and growled the very few words “I want some soup, I want it hot, and I want it now!” before briskly closing the curtains. These were the only words uttered by Churchill to my colleague on the entire trip. Another occasional attender at these little soirées was a young actor called William Roach who had recently joined the cast of the new Coronation Street where he remains to this day.

My interest in cars and all motoring matters was increasing, and I was entrusted with the marketing director’s new Ford Anglia, which I drove as much as I could, travelling all over the north-west on market research projects. Life was marvellous as I honed my driving skills, but I was a little too exuberant at times and the inevitable happened. I entered the underground car park of Television House far too quickly on one occasion and scraped the entire side of the car on a concrete pillar. The boss was livid, as one might imagine, and I was reprimanded in no small way.

My next driving incident was even more extreme and embarrassing. I had been allocated the new ‘pool car,’ another Ford Anglia, for a full week. I made the most of this by racing back to north Lancashire to marshal on a local rally one evening, and practicising rally techniques around Derbyshire on another night. I had new freedom, so took a girl out one evening to demonstrate my prowess behind the wheel. There was a sprinkling of snow and it was quite icy, but I managed to return the young lady safely to her home in Cheshire before returning through the lanes towards our Manchester flat. I misjudged a fast bend on a bleak moorland road and ‘lost’ the rear of the car. I over-corrected with the steering wheel, and the car spun wildly in the darkness before sliding backwards into a rock face, severely modifying the rear of the Anglia. Thankfully the car was drivable, so I gingerly drove home with my tail between my legs. I didn’t sleep that night, worrying that I might lose my job.

Facing the marketing director next morning was not a pleasant prospect, but I made sure I was at work early, long before any of my colleagues would arrive as I did not want them witnessing my downfall.

My reputation as a budding rally driver was in tatters and the boss man was incandescent with rage. He marched round his office, arms flailing, and called me a bloody hooligan. He said I was a pathetic driver to have had two crashes in two months, and marched me off to the car park to inspect the damaged car, which I’d craftily reversed into a dark corner so no-one would see it. He marched around the car, fuming, and said “This will cost a bloody fortune to repair – you’ll have to pay for it!”

I didn’t enjoy our walk back up to the offices, and not a word was said by either of us. I returned to my own office very sheepishly while the boss stormed off to see the managing director. Things were getting serious. I braced myself for his return and sure enough, he reappeared and said “You’re bloody lucky mate, we’re going to dock your wage by £50 and you’d better go out to find a panel beater for a quote.”

It was the beginning of the sixties, and as I now had a driving licence I needed some wheels, so I foolishly took up the offer of a friend in my home village of Bolton-le-Sands and bought his Norton 500 motorbike. I don’t know why I did it because I had never had the slightest interest in bikes. It was a speedy machine, and I soon discovered that I was not cut out for this sort of thing when I crashed through a hedge and into a field near my village. I was not injured badly, but a bit bruised here and there. I soon disposed of the bike, and didn’t sit on another one until I filmed the Isle of Man TT races some forty years later. I was meant to close the Top Gear programme by saying a few words before riding off into the setting sun as pillion to the TT winner Phillip McCallen. So petrified am I of motorbikes that it was agreed I would dismount after saying goodnight to the viewers, and another person of similar stature (yes, there was someone out there, can you believe?) would be put into my jacket and helmet, and filmed screaming along the road. Never believe everything you see on television!

I had swapped my dreaded Norton 500 for a prewar MG PA that had steering problems, and I frightened myself to death driving around the villages of north-west Lancashire. I was not a good mechanic, but tinkered with the car alongside a friend who lived down the road, and knew more about engines than I did. I kept the MG for about three months before selling it to the friend who enjoyed the mechanics bit. I then purchased a red 848cc Morris Mini from the chairman of the Morecambe Car Club, Colin Briars. I paid £360 for 588 GRM, which, incidentally, is exactly the amount paid recently to my dentist for two fillings. How things have changed.

John Baxter, the friend who bought my MG, seemed to accumulate various cars, and informed me that he had acquired a Bond Mini. For the benefit of those who are not familiar with such things, I should tell you that this was probably the cheapest car on the road, with one wheel at the front and two at the back. It had a canvas roof, a short bench seat for two, and a Villiers motorbike engine attached to the front wheel.

There was a problem: the Bond had broken down on the road by the shore at Bolton-le-Sands. John had walked home and persuaded his father to let him borrow his Armstrong Siddeley to tow home the three-wheeler. I was appointed as driver of the Bond Mini. We went down to the Bond with a long tow rope, and set forth along the mile-long and very straight Pasture Lane, which led from the shore back towards the village.

The big Armstrong Siddeley was soon in full flight. John was driving very quickly and the little Bond was rattling along behind, although it was a very low car and close to the ground so he could not see it in his mirrors or through his back window. There was a right-handed bend at the end of the mile-long straight and I dread to think what speed we were doing. The little Bond was literally bouncing along, the front of the car lifting in the air, not unlike a world record-breaking power boat on a lake. I was beginning to think there could be some problems as I had little control over what was going on.

As we approached the bend I attempted to turn the steering wheel but nothing happened. The single front steering wheel was only in contact with the road intermittently and I had absolutely no chance of following the big Armstrong Siddeley round the bend. I went straight on, up a bank and demolished a line of fencing as I continued to be towed at a high speed, still being attached to the towing car.

For the first time in my life (but certainly not the last) I experienced the sensation of turning over. It was quite dramatic as the windscreen and canvas top were demolished with glass flying everywhere. I had to crouch down (or was it up?) to be lower than the dashboard, otherwise I would have been decapitated. My friend in front continued at great speed, unabated and unaware of my predicament. The Bond was now being towed while being upside down with me doing everything to stay unharmed inside. There was enormous noise as the long fence continued to be turned into matchwood with bits flying in all directions. It really was frightening, and I feared for my life.

A road junction thankfully appeared so the Armstrong Siddeley stopped and, at last, John looked out of the car and saw this upside down clump of metal on the end of his tow rope. The Bond three-wheeler was a light car so he managed to put it the right way up without assistance and I emerged with relatively few cuts and bruises.

There is an even more frightening aspect to all this, as the 50 yards of fencing that we had demolished was at the side of the main West Coast railway line, and, had the tow rope become disconnected, I would inevitably have been catapulted onto the busy railway track itself with unimaginable consequences. My motoring career was certainly becoming incident-packed at this early stage, but this would not be the last time I turned over in a three-wheeler as viewers of the Reliant Robin world championship, shown on Top Gear, may remember. More of that later.