MG owners
Seat of yearning
Jasper Gerard
DRIVING gloves, tweed cap, goggles: allow me, squire, to introduce you to MG Man. And now that the MG marque could become the last remaining player with any oomph in the once-triumphant British car industry, he is the embodiment of Anglo automotive endeavour.
This is an alarming thought. MG owners are enthusiasts. One political correspondent is so enthusiastic he owns two, a different cap in each. They don't drive anywhere, MG enthusiasts, they motor. They even have a magazine called, well, MG Enthusiast. And then there's their club, which has more members than the Conservative party (though there is certainly a large crossover).
An MG is many a young man's fancy, but it can do strange things to the mature motorist. It makes him remember wind-in- the-hair motoring. It makes him remember hair. Generations of British men were brought up on MG advertisements. For me — gaining my mechanical awareness in the 1970s — it was the peroxide blonde with short skirt and open mouth fondling an MG gear-stick (adverts didn't require much imagination back then). No wonder ageing men yearn for their youth when they look at the passenger seat of the Mondeo and see a fat old boiler sitting there. And no wonder every MG owner feels sexually short- changed when eventually he sells his beloved car.
A strange breed, with stranger rituals. Forget the masonic handshake, think the MG flash. Whenever one MG passes anoth- er, each shines its lights. Apparently one member who refused to engage in this bonding ritual was reported to the owners' club. Then there is the curious practice of keeping the hood down, even if it is a rainy afternoon in Reigate. Above all, there are the shows, where enthusiasts scurry around polishing their loved ones in thunderstorms, then award each other rosettes for the cleanest hub-caps.
MGs are a singularly British taste, like jel- lied eels and sun-dried tomatoes. The high priest of MG motoring is Terry-Thomas (throaty cackle, pipe, a rasping honk for the passing bit of skirt). As a boy I noticed that those of a yobbish disposition dreamed of Ford Capris, while middle-class boys longed for an MG. The occasional toff would be seen in one, but only if papa couldn't stretch to a Lotus. MGs were built for prep-school masters taking matron for a pootle to the Ferret and Firkin where they would enjoy a swift half by the fire. And so it was for much of the 20th century. In the 1930s the MG was one of the most popular roadsters. Less stylish than the Riley and requiring a lot less lolly than the Lagonda, they were always extremely pretty, cheaply produced pleasure machines (which, in the parlance of the garage forecourt, meant a lot of flash for not much cash). Your MG man is a conservative cove and he is always sniffy about new models. Protests about the possible MG Rover union should be seen in this light. For MG made full use of the Morris parts-bin long before British Leyland got hold of the firm: a door handle here, an ashtray there. Indeed, the celebrated MGB was actually powered — if powered it was — by the same 1800cc engine as that lion of a machine, the Morris Marina.
However, one should not ridicule the MGB. When it first chugged on to our byways in 1963, we still didn't have a national speed limit and there were hardly any motorways. For its day, it was a terrific car. The problem was that the same model was forced to stagger on until 1981, by which time it was obsolete. Leyland then cheapened the name by badge-engineering `sporty' Metros and Montegos as MGs. When a resurgent Rover revived the true MG with the F, even the most reactionary MG aficionados were delighted. Here was a wonderful sports car, a million times bet: ter engineered than any earlier MG, and
THE JOY OF MOTORING
almost as sweet-looking. However, by fail- ing to keep sports-car production going through the 1980s, MG lost ground, allow- ing the Japs to sell us — in vast quantities — the Mazda MX5, a shameless copy of the 1960s MG and Lotus.
In the manner of modern confessional journalism, I should admit to a dark secret. Indeed, you may have guessed it. I, too, was once bitten by the MG bug. It was a long time ago. I was a student of humble means and I was pretty damn desperate for a girlfriend. Hell, Mary Warnock would have done. The girlfriend I really wanted was Joanna Lumley. She had driven a canary-yellow MGB in The New Avengers. I had met her briefly as a child when she sported pink hair and, in one of those twisted acts of adolescent logic, I decided that if I got an MG I'd get a Joanna Lum- ley thrown in as part of the deal. At any rate I was determined to buy one.
The MOB I finally settled for was black (but hey I'm open-minded), with sleek lines, and (so I was assured) went like a steam train. And there was not too much rust — at least not from 20 paces. I fell in love. The MGB had clearly been polished to within a few inches of its life and some way beyond. But I ignored the ominous signs, even when my helpful AA man held a magnet to the sills and received no reac- tion (more filler than a club sandwich, you see). I even forgave it its orange seats: amusingly period, I assured myself.
It was a tempestuous affair. I broke down in black tie one New Year's Eve on a desert- ed Norfolk lane. While friends enjoyed din- ner at the Hall, spirited there in E Types and Aston Martins, I waited three hours for a lift. The problem with the B, see, is that any model you come across will have had at least eight careful student owners. So I saw rather a lot of my local garage. Luckily, Robert of MG Motoring is about the one honest — and, let's cut the crap here, mid- dle-class — garage owner in London. Even- tually he was the one who advised me to sell. 'It's jinxed,' he said when the big end went again. When it overturned on the motorway (because of a flat tyre, rather than anything mechanical) I agreed.
I must have looked a plonker behind the wheel. This hit me recently when a young gossip columnist rolled up at a first night in an MGB with shades and, yep, a cap. The new MG does not suffer from such image problems and is a delightful car, one I would love to own. I am still haunted by memories of my old B, driving, sorry, motoring, over Romney Marsh, swerving round perilous lanes. Just as the Statue of Liberty repre- sented freedom to a generation of Yanks, so the MG promised the great escape to hun- dreds of thousands of young men. I wish all MG drivers the very best. Just don't dare flash me, old boy.
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