I’m not sure I should say ‘we’ at all here; Kevin is completely not to blame for this one. Except that he said something about an MG BGT being more practical than another model as we could get a dog in the back. Well, we’ve tried that and, guess what, it sort of limits us in choice of dog…
Mischa not unconditially enthused about being squashed into the back of Cleo
Mischa put up with being squashed into the back, but was not entirely happy with the arrangement. And it reduced all other ‘loading space’ (as if that’s what MGs are famous for; their vast loading capacity) to zero. And PRACTICAL…? What’s that got to do with getting an MG?
So that’s not it, then.
Well, there was this thing about the M and the G. My dad’s initials. A friend of his, Gunnar, whose a bit of a boy when it comes to things like this, was forever hassling my dad about this thing stating that if HIS initials had been MG, HE would have bought one. It’s the kind of thing one does. Buys cars that match ones initials.
My initials are not MG.
When I was about six and the MGB was still a new design, one was imported to Norway and I saw it, real live and up front, and I fell in love with it. THAT was decidedly the car for me! I already had a career in driving, crashing my parents’ 2CV by loosening the handbrake when I was two. The car rolled into some stairs not too far off and ground to a halt there with not too much damage done, but it put a real fright into my parents as if it had missed the stairs it would have rolled down a hill and onto the motorway. You could see I had guardian angels where motoring is concerned even then.
But what got between me and my MG was partly my age (you’re not allowed to drive at six even in Norway) and another dream. I wanted a motorbike. I’d watched bikers, and seeing the way they floated through bends and… no, I don’t think I’ll go into any more details than that. Use your imagination. It’s all about sex. So I spent all my school fees while at college on a motorbike and had to beg dad for more money.
Then Kevin and I decided to move to London and hired this bloody van. The fuckers at the van hire company hired out a dodgy van that was not road-worthy or even insured — though there was no indication of either in any of the paperwork and I’m not the world’s greatest mechanic, which I guess is what David Sim and his dodgy friends count on for their dodgy business. Outside Darlington a wheel fell off and we were extremely lucky to walk away unscathed. I’m telling you, those guardian angels? They’ve got their work cut out.
So then we were left with the mental trauma of GETTING OVER IT. And THAT, my friends, is why I got Cleo. To get over my new fear of driving because I just knew I had to. I LOVE driving. Always have. And I still had to get the bike down from Edinburgh to London. You would have thought that would cure things, right? Driving the same route as the crash-route on a 500cc bike? Sure. But what about Kevin? I don’t like having pillions, they are invariably bigger than me, and heavier, and it unbalances the bike. The bike was an entirely selfish purchase, all for me. So I got Cleo for Kevin. Do you now understand how kind and considerate an act this was? I bought a 1971 MG BGT, with shitty automatic transmission that made the engine boil over after ten minutes and with an adjustment problem that stalled the car at random intervals, a car with a million wiring problems, rust and no padding in the seats, on eBay, just so Kevin could get over that nasty accident with the hire van.
Yes, you read correctly. On eBay. DON’T. TRY. THIS. AT. HOME. I never even saw her before I won the bid, except in pictures. I was in New York at the time. Bidding in between working on a trauma workshop for Reuters with my then boss, Jim. And Cleo was in Croydon, South London. Do you see the writing on the wall here? ’cause I do.
I committed the entirely selfless act by bidding on eBay (that shit is just addictive) while working a trauma workshop for hardened journalists in New York just so Kevin could get over his fear of being in a car with me as the driver. Am I not just the most loving person on the net? Or am I just totally screwed and should be shut away and the key thrown away? Don’t answer that. I’m still paying for this act of kindness. That’s my punishment, and possibly my cure.
