I’M-FRENCH-AND-FUCK-YOU ATTITUDE
In England, French cars have been with us longer than you might think: Bugatti, Citroën, and Renault since before the war. The Citroën Light 15 was the Maigret of motor cars, used by the Gestapo, the Resistance, and the prewar English banker. They were brilliantly forward-thinking cars. I still think they’re sexy, that push-me-pull-you gear stick and the I’m-French-and-fuck-you attitude. Anyway, you look at this car and it’s beautiful, and I’m amazed you can still buy them as cheaply as you can. They were still building them in England until the mid-fifties. Renault is another manufacturer that built an “I am French, eat merde” type of car, whatever it was. The French cars were, well, so fuckin’ French, and that’s cool: Gauloise ciggies; berets; women that were chic, gorgeous, shaggable, leggy, marriable, slender, and got better as they got older, just like fabulous wines and cheeses; and their bread and their brandy. Aha, that’s why French cars are what they are: SEX. Well, you have to start with the basics, and I do believe sexy was where they started.
I nearly died in a French car (remember 1966?); I nearly froze in one, too. In the great freeze of ’78, lorries were stopped on the motor-ways the length and breadth of Britain. “M6 Madness!” said the headlines. Drivers were lighting fires under their trucks to unfreeze the oil. I had a blue Renault 4; it was a great cheap car that did everything except go fast. I had to go to Darlington to pick up a windshield for my company, North-East Vinyls. I didn’t think the weather was so bad, though it was snowing and cold. So, with my slippers on and just a sweater, I set off on the thirty-eight-mile trip to Darlington. I made it no bother (the 4 was basically an estate car), picked up the windscreen, and set off for Tynemouth. The weather worsened, the car started to stutter and came to a complete stop, frozen up, in between “ah shit” and “fuck me.”
I sat wondering what to do next. The trucks going past were throwing slush and snow against the car, and it was becoming invisible. I was getting to the uncontrollable shivering stage. I took the polythene off the screen, wrapped it ’round my feet, and got out of the car. I saw a farmhouse about a half a mile off the motorway, and I was just gonna start running there when a car stopped and a big mustachioed man stuck his head out of the window of a top-of-the-line Citroën GS. I recognized him, this guy was famous! It was Roger Uttley, England rugby player and Jesus look-alike. “Do you need help?” “Yes,” I said in Dutch—my mouth had frozen. He got out, tied a rope around my axle, and towed me to Birtley service station. I’ve never met him again, and he probably doesn’t even remember the occasion, but I’m here to tell you: Roger, mate, you were my Good Samaritan.
The Renault 16 was another regal car; it just looked well-dressed always. I still have my beloved Citroën DS23 Pallas, 1973 model. It’s a shame such a beautiful machine became known as the “de Gaulle.” I know he got driven around in one, but why anyone would compare a Pallas with a fat, arrogant, self-important twit, I have no idea. Oh yeah, and, according to his wife, the general was a completely useless shag.
Vive la France!