Dad took us for drives in the country, and we just loved it—not the countryside, the drives. He’d take us to a beautiful place called “the Meeting of the Waters,” where the North Tyne and South Tyne meet. Once we got there, Mam would put out a blanket and set out a picnic, but I would be behind the wheel, going somewhere else, where there was no school, no foul weather, where the air smelled of leather, gasoline, and wood, and where time was not a thief.
* * *
P.S.: The car lived with us for about two years, until my father couldn’t really afford the repairs and the gas. Then, one day, it was gone, just like that. My father never bought another car for the rest of his life, nor did he ever drive one again. If that Wolseley still exists, I’ll buy it. Name your price.
Chapter 12
Grand National
THE RACE THAT STOPPED A COUNTRY
One of my great memories as a kid is of the Grand National. Everything in Great Britain stopped to watch this race. I put my very first bet on, a whole week’s pocket and milk-round money, about three shillings, and, to this day, I don’t know why I did. I bet on a gray horse called Merryman II. It won. I screamed, shouted, “Hallowed be thy mane!” I had money. About two pounds. Boy, it was a lot then! I went straight to the toy shop and bought an Aston Martin AC3 race car, all green and English, and a green double-decker bus I’d had my eye on. And last but not least, a Mosquito fighter plastic model airplane kit. I was keen on the smell of the glue (er, just kidding . . .).
Childhood memories are great. You just remember them as you get older. And you’re ashamed you ever lost them.
Chapter 13
The Bulldog and the Chick
WHEN AN OLD BRIT SHAGS A BEAUTIFUL ITALIAN
Four years after getting the AC/DC gig, I bought my first Triumph Roadster. It was metallic green, with those beautiful rumble seats and a second windshield for the passengers. It wasn’t the fastest car on the planet, but it looked mighty cool with those huge chrome headlights. I loved it so much that I shipped it to America.
My fondest memory is of Cliff Williams coming to see me in his new Ferrari Mondial. Oh, he was a proud man, standing there with his scarlet prancing horse. But when it came to starting it, his horse wouldn’t dance. It was stone fucking dead.
I got some jump cables and stuck them up its arse. The joy of connecting a 1948 Triumph to a brand-new Ferrari and watching it come to life was unforgettable. Cliff was a little embarrassed, but you should have seen the smile on the Triumph’s face. The old British bulldog had just shagged a beautiful Italian chick.
Cliff never had much luck with Ferraris. A couple years later, he picked one up brand-new from Fort Lauderdale, and was driving it back to Fort Myers, when he smelled something funny. He stopped and called the dealership, they said it was the newness of the engine, so off he went again. About five miles down the road, he didn’t smell anything, but he did see flames in his rearview mirror. He stopped, jumped out, sat down, lit a fag, and watched his lovely new Ferrari burn into a red mud. He never bought another one.
I sold my Triumph to William Kelly (or Billy, as everyone knows him), the famous painter who is Sister Wendy’s favorite artist. Why I sold it is quite sad. When Billy’s mother was in Sarasota, on her last visit before she died, she loved the car so much she asked me to take her for a drive, which I did, the whole length of Siesta Key, with the top down, the beautiful sunshine, the Gulf of Mexico and white sand. She sat by me with a smile on her face, saying nothing. Her eyes spoke volumes—her youth, her first love, whatever—it was just a beautiful moment in a beautiful car with a beautiful lady. It was the last time I saw her.
Six months later, Billy asked me if I would part with the car, because, he said, it was all his mother had talked about after the ride, and it would always remind him of her. I did just that, and he drives it now with his big old straw hat—you can’t miss him on Siesta Key. And who’s that sitting beside him? Naaah, it couldn’t be.
Chapter 14
The BSA Bantam
THE OPPOSITE OF A CHICK MAGNET
My very first means of motorized transport was an ex-army, khaki-colored BSA 125-cc Bantam. My father had bought it off a friend at work. It was almost brand-new. This friend had bought an ex-army Bedford three-ton truck at an auction. It had a canvas cover on the back. He took it home, and under the canvas were ten motorcycles, part of a job lot. So he sold them to workmates and it paid for the truck and then some.
Once again, my dad was thinking of me, not himself. The bike was a typical piece of British “why we nearly lost the war” lump of shite. I mean, what would you rather go to war in? A BMW or an Austin? A Mercedes or a Morris? Everything on this bike smacked of the First World War. The accelerator cable snapped at least once a week. The headlight bulbs popped at any speed over 35 mph. This was the mechanical equivalent of rubbing one out while wearing a boxing glove.
It had a single-seat spring-loaded saddle, which looked like it had been on a horse in a western at one time. There was no battery—everything worked off the (very dodgy) dynamo. Oh yeah, and it had a kick start that didn’t kick. When, and if, it started, it sounded like a squadron of bees flying low. With popping noises that sounded like ack-ack guns firing at them. It had three gears and a potluck gearbox. This was about as basic as it got. Riding to work was an adventure, especially on freezing-cold mornings. I had to go down a cobbled street called Forth Banks, which led to the Quayside. There was a sharp left-hander at the bottom. Icy cobbles and skinny tires are not good together, and every other morning I’d slide and end up under the bike. But I wasn’t the only one. There were lots of other blokes under their bikes, too. I made a lot of friends lying on the road under my BSA bike.
“Hey, mate, you all right?”
“Oh aye, lad. I think it’s my knee today. I did my ankle and me flask of tea yesterday.” We’d help each other up and continue on our way. I tried to tart my bike up by painting it black and silver, only to find that enamel paint reacts pretty badly with army khaki—it bubbled up so that the bike looked like a loofah with wheels on. This bike was not a chick magnet. Even old crones would titter as I pootled past.
The final straw was when I went for a ride one Sunday to Rowlands Gill. I was about three miles past Swalwell when the chain came off. After an hour of fiddling, I got it back on. Then the accelerator cable snapped again. I pushed the bastard seven miles home—mainly uphill with the odd down.
BSA stands for Birmingham Small Arms. I wish they had stuck to doing that. I can’t grumble too much, though. It did get me from A to B. From the pedestrian-slicing front license plate to the rear light, which came on when it felt like it, and the oil dripping from the engine casing, it was kinda cute in a “we’ll fight them on the beaches” sorta way.
Now, the Mods were coming to power, and scooters were the thing. Lambrettas and Vespas with loads of mirrors; parka coats with fur edging on the hood; and The Who. I was being left behind by “my generation.” I had to move quickly. I gave the bike away to a friend—who never spoke to me again.
Chapter 15
A Lovely Story
HOW NOT TO ORDER ROOM SERVICE
Sit, my fellow car nuts, whilst I tell a story about a good friend. Is he a race driver? Is he a musician? I cannot tell, for he is a married man still, “still” being the operative word. My friend found himself in Singapore, and he treated himself to a night in the Peninsula Hotel, a very beautiful place. He went to his room. “Ah, what a view!” he thought.
It was about seven thirty in the evening when he started getting a little edgy in the penis and wanting-a-shag department. He picked up the phone book and did the natural thing: he looked under “escorts.” He phoned the number, and a sexy lady’s voice said, “Can I help you, sir?”
He said, “Yes, I want two gorgeous girls who are into each other and want to do me, too. I don’t mind a little kinky stuff, either, a few whips and handcuffs. And I do expect them to shag each other.”
The lady on the
phone said softly, “Sir, you have to dial 9 for an outside line.”
He did not sleep well that night.
Chapter 16
The E-Type Penis Extension
TOO HOT TO RUN
I first met Thomas Rantzow in Sarasota, Florida, in 1988. I was buying a 1973 Jaguar V12 E-Type. It was automatic; in fact, that’s all they sold in the U.S. Anyway, Thomas had built this one up himself. It was silver with cherry-red upholstery, with stunningly lowered suspension and huge fat tires. It was also an accident waiting to happen. E-Types didn’t like it much when you turned on your headlights, air con, windscreen wipers, and radio at the same time, and would basically call it quits. Why? Lucas electrics, England’s finest. In America, Lucas was called the “Prince of Darkness.” It was the auto union of electrics.
But that was by the by. The XKE, as Americans call them, was gorgeous, and I was driving this beautiful penis extension down to Fort Myers, where I lived at the time. I didn’t even make it to the interstate before some strange, banging noises came from under the hood. I phoned the garage and they sent out Thomas. They sent Thomas out so many times after that that we became friends, and Thomas, as you know, became our race-team chief.
I loved to drive that E-Type, when it wasn’t broken, or pretending to be broken. It was alive, I’m sure. It was a pouting, spoiled brat of a car.
Phone call to Thomas: “Hey, mate, the Jag won’t start.”
Thomas: “Are you sure? Don’t give it too much gas.”
Brian: “Thomas, I just turned the friggin’ key, and it wouldn’t start.”
Thomas: “Okay, I’ll be right over.”
Thomas would come, sit in it, turn the key once, and it would leap to life. Sometimes I would get so upset I would swear at it and say stuff like “Lada,” “Polski Fiat,” “Yugo,” just to piss it off. The pick of the litter in E-Types was certainly the straight 6, early sixties model. What a shape! And who can forget three of them getting chucked over a cliff in The Italian Job? That brought a tear to a generation’s eyes. If you owned an E-Type, you couldn’t really say to someone, “I’ll be there at seven,” because you’d never make it. The trouble with E-Types was they just couldn’t be bothered to putz around city streets, it made them overheat something terrible. Believe me, I went through three radiators.
My brother-in-law, Dr. Arild Jacobson, loved the E-Type, and visits us every year from Norway. He’d asked me for years about buying it. I finally relented in 2005. He shipped it to Norway, where, he says, it runs like a dream, because “it’s cold there.” So that was the problem! It was too hot where I lived in Florida. Simple, eh?
The next time we visited Arild and family was summer 2006, up in their mountain home in Beitostølen, and I had missed the Jag more than I cared to admit. Arild asked me if I would like to drive it down to the town. I said yes please, and as I drove down those beautiful mountain roads, I suddenly got it. The orgasmic exhaust noise, the long, sexy hood (penis extension), the not-very-good brakes (penis retraction and “pucker factor” on mountain roads). It seemed to be saying to me, “I told you, dickhead, it was too bloody hot.” Then, when we arrived at the town center, I parked, and the radiator hissed, farted slightly, and took a huge dump, gallons of water pouring from out of the thing.
Arild smiled and said, “I think it’s too hot today!”
Chapter 17
The Pilbeam
A LOT MORE TIT FOR YOUR BANG
In February 2008, I drove my first race in the Pilbeam MP84. My wife, Brenda, had bought it for my fifty-ninth birthday, God love her. I had to wait a year to race it, because it was a giant leap from the Royale RP4. I went to test it and practice with it with Sasco Sports, who look after it at the stunning Virginia raceway. I must admit, the buttons and computer thingies everywhere were daunting, but I had to prove I could drive it so’s I could get my Super License from Historic Sports-car Racing and go from group three to group six, where there’s a big leap in driver performance. Maybe it was asking too much of myself—it was like going from Twiggy to Pamela Anderson, a lot more tit for your bang.
It was the 4 Hours of Sebring again. Dave Handy, the Sasco boss, would do the first forty-six minutes, I would drive the next fifty minutes, Pete Argetsinger would do thirty-five minutes in the middle, and I’d do the last session. That was the plan, anyway. Another gorgeous day. Twelve noon start. I’m looking forward to this, but I see the other cars practicing. Oh my God, “Spices,” Lola, Judd V10s—this wasn’t vintage anymore, this was the real deal with real pro drivers. I was in for an almighty ass-kicking, but ya gotta start somewhere. Why couldn’t it be a nice, smooth track like Watkins Glen, Road Atlanta, Road America, or Lime Rock?
By the second day of practice, I started to fall in love with the car. It was quicker than a shipyard worker at the four o’clock siren, quicker than shit off a shiny shovel. Wow, this thing could go! But it was the stopping that really got your attention. Every time you had to pick your eyeballs off your chest. The G-force was something I’d never experienced before. The team were great boys, Virginians all; Les wore a walrus mustache, red suspenders, and a hat pulled tight down on his head.
It was race day. At eight thirty in the morning, I went to our paddock, and there was my gearbox in pieces. What the hell! “Les!” “Les! Les!” He was drinking coffee and reading the paper. “Les, there’s only three and a half hours to go, mate.” He looked up and said, “Morning y’all, Mr. Brian. Sit down, I got some fresh cornbread. I gotta get the dog rings on the shaft a while and put this puppy back together in about one hour tops, okay?” and started reading his paper again. Of course, he was right. Just like the “predator” team, these guys were pros and I was a nervous girl. The car looked just magnificent.
I was in group three of group six. Groups one and two were V10s and V12s, fast, vicious buggers driven by fast, vicious buggers. These guys didn’t take prisoners and they didn’t care that it was my first race with the car. At the drivers’ meeting, Ken Fengler, chief dude at HSR, introduced me: “Gentlemen, you have fresh meat today . . . Oh, I’m sorry . . . You have a first-time Super License–holder today. Try and keep an eye on him!” Well, that made me feel just like a live rabbit at a greyhound track. And I was English—even better! The German guys didn’t care where I was from; they were after ze whole vorld anyway.
The race was getting nearer and I was getting nervouser. The flag dropped, the bullshit stopped, and Dave Handy was away in a field of forty-five cars. We’d qualified seventh, which was brilliant: against these cars, our engine was a Nissan V6, the smallest. I was sitting waiting my turn. It was hot in my suit, and the cars were going by so fast. I thought, “Jeez, I’m going out into that!” This was a different world. “Okay, you’re in!”
In comes Dave and the car goes up on hydraulic jacks. I pop in. Shit, it’s a spaceship! I’ve forgotten everything I’ve learned. The new tires are going on, we’re refueling— Oooh this is Formula 1 shit. The car goes down and I’m off. Don’t stall, don’t stall. I don’t. Yeah! Yeehaw! Hubble-bubblaflubbla-flibble-wibbly, I forgot to put my visor down. I just got out, and the flag marshal was waving blue at me; that means someone’s going to pass you. I was blue-flagged all the way ’round and I never saw the guy behind me. I came back ’round to the first flag, still waving, and I shouted, “Go flag yourself!” I never did see what they saw, because nothing passed me until the big boys came ’round.
Then it happened. The car in front that I was trying to take dropped something—a bolt?—straight into my rear tire. It blew the thing up at about 145 mph. The car wallowed sideways, the wall was coming nearer, and I had a bowel movement or two. I saw Heaven, and it looked dull. I was back again—I’d controlled the car! All that was left was the outer rim of the tire, which was going in and out from the bodywork like a licorice allsort having a shag. “Oh bollocks, I gotta make it back to the pit!” Thankfully, it held; crew waiting, new tire. Go, go, go!
Off again, everything running good. I check my computer
readouts. It’s tough at the start, but then you get used to it, like getting used to women who stop giving blow jobs the instant they’re married. I see my suspension cantilever didendum slatulisor is going well, and my rear-brake induction certainty levels are right up there. Then Wally Dallenbach goes by. The noise of my engine and his together causes this strange sensation in my head. It’s not Cilla again; it feels like someone’s frozen a footlong corn on the cob and pushed it in one ear and pulled it out the other, a scraping-of-nails-on-the-blackboard thing. Shit! There was fluid on my visor—where the hell was that coming from? I was out of tear-offs, so I wiped it off with the back of my glove. I looked down and saw my suit was covered with a thin layer of foam all the way up from my legs. “What the fuck?” I panicked a little. Was this some acid eating away at my suit?
It is my last lap before Pete takes it. I do a really quick lap and I’m in the pits. I jump out; people are pointing at me, my crew’s hosing me down, the cockpit’s full of foam. Dave comes running back. “It’s okay. The fire extinguisher went off.” Pete gets in the car and he’s off. “Go on, Pete, my son, we haven’t lost any time.” What had happened was the two engine noises were powerful enough to vibrate the onboard fire bottle to “on.” See, I told you it was a friggin’ strange noise! Pete does some great driving and we’re lying about fifth. Wow! Top ten, not bad, not bad at all.
Rockers and Rollers: A Full-Throttle Memoir Page 3
