Double take
CONSUMING INTEREST LESLIE ADRIAN
A young chum of mine once borrowed from an old chum of his a Mini, which (to the sur- prise of its optimistic fuel gauge) ran out of petrol in the middle of his alma mater. In the way these things happen, he had precisely 2s 10d on him at the time. This should have been enough, at prevailing rates, for a half a gallon of gas and a small packet of Polo. But the owner of the nearest garage had had an unfortunate experience over a previous petrol can : it had departed with a motorist-in-distress, never to return, and he was resolved that any recurrence of such an incident should leave him no sadder. In short, he wanted a deposit on his can. A cheque was offered and, understand- ably, scorned. A signet ring was suggested as security and, under pressure, accepted.
As the now penniless and ringless higgler walked back clutching his hard-won half-gallon, a policeman fell into step with him. At once he suspected himself suspected. But of what? Intention to commit incendiarism? Obstruction of a public highway? Some more obscure offence under the laws of barter and truck? Shades of the prison-house began to close upon the growing boy—but no word was spoke until he stepped forward proprietorially to that car. 'Just a moment, sir'; said the policeman, pleasantly, 'what sort of vehicle is this?' A Mini."Yes, sir, I know that : but is it an Austin or a Morris Mini?' I've no idea, it's not mine.' This blurted piece of ambiguous in- telligence took time to sink in. Meanwhile * straggling crowd had come into existence, as it always does to watch a prospective brush with the law, or indeed anyone's public calamity.
With a keen political sense of the practical and the possible, my friend addressed himself to the petrol tank into which he poured the pre- cious elixir. He did not spill too much. He was quite proud of that. He smiled reassuringly at the policeman and the bystanders as he inserted the key in the door. The key would not turn. Hp struggled. It was unavailing. Then, suddenly, he noticed that in his absence the car had sprouted a radio aerial. An umbrella had appeared on the back seat. His driving gloves were gone. He stared around him wildly. Two cars farther along the road there was a second off-white Mini (save for the aerial), an identical twin. 43.0., the guffaws of the copper, for whom the pen* had now dropped, and the wonder of the on.' lookers ('Why is he only putting petrol ip white cars? What's he advertising?') he rushed to its rescue and, in the end, succeeded in squeeiing enough from the nearly drained can to get 'it going. One would scarcely expect this Lucky Jim to draw the obvious lessons from his escapade— like the inadvisability of car-careering about the country without a spare quid in your pocket, an empty can in your boot or some means of showing you're in legal possession. Instead, when he's not trying to twist my arm to get his money back Mould any SPECTATOR reader who passed through Cambridge in the winter of 1966 and thinks he did an unusual number of miles to the gallon in his white Mini, kindly contact .'), he rails against the evils and inconveni- ences of mass-produced motor-cars. He pines, like any old reactionary, for the days when a Morris was a Morris and an Austin was an Austin and a policeman could tell the difference without having to ask. He dreams of removing himself far from the madding and conforming crowd, of no longer having to hunt through car parks for his own car, of never again providing vicarious sport for spectators.
This year he has been sorely tried by adver- tisements screaming from hoardings and whis- pering seductively from magazines: 'Ford Capri : the car you always promised yourself.' For the copywriters seem to have known his weakness. 'There's a Capri Custom Plan which enables you to tailor your car pretty much to your own particular requirements,' they told him, and he was tempted. 'Ford can produce - two and a half million versions of the Capri, no two of which would be identical,' he read, and almost fell. The only thing which saved him from surrender, I think, was a chance glance at a lavish booklet produced by Ford in America to promote their 1969 Thunderbird. Of course, it may not be the same girl in the colour spreads who looks with misty, spoony eyes at Capri and Thunderbird alike; but, by my troth, one could be forgiven for confusing them—same enviable age, same swinging hair-do, same soulful ex- pression, same finely-tucked gown, same ridicu- lous (enchanting) hat: in a word, same produc- tion line. Perhaps my chum's particular require- ments will not be met by a choice between five option packs and seven engines—but what's really needling him is that two-timing hussy.
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