You don’t have to be a VW to talk!
Move over, Herbie.
Hi, my name’s Raymond …hey, over here. I’m the Rover P5B coupé in the corner of the scrapyard. Yes, rusty, broken, forgotten, unloved. I’m waiting to get crushed for salvage. I might be old but I can still talk. Why not? VWs do it all the time! I know…I know…but if you didn’t have a good imagination you wouldn’t be reading stories anyway.
I was born on the assembly line in Solihull, in late 1968. Oh, I had a good life, no complaints, lots of great memories, every shape of arse sitting on my leather, some sweeter than others, I can tell you. The only companionship I get these days is a couple of kids who come crawling all over me. Funny, I hated kids once. Now, in my final resting place, they are good company, spending a lot of time climbing into the driving seat, grabbing my steering wheel, which is huge and stretches their arms wide, banging on my horn, long ceased working, and trying to reach the pedals with short legs.
But let me dream of my youth for a moment. Just so you know, cars don’t acquire any personality until they finally hit the road from the salesroom. So, with the road under my tires, I left the salesroom full of energy, gleaming, with a big sod of a eight cylinder 3.5 litre engine block under my hat. Who is to say, there might well be someone out there who knew me personally?
I come from a long line of notable cousins, aristocrats, even. We’ve all carried Prime Ministers, Harold Wilson, Edward Heath, James Callaghan and Margaret Thatcher, yep, the Iron Lady. Actually, her arse was quite squashy.
I had three long relationships before things started to wear out, none of us go on forever. There were some tearful goodbyes.
Wait…who is this guy? I haven’t seen him in here before. He’s giving me the eye! There was a day I would have caused a twinkle in anyone’s eyes, Queens, Dukes, Lords, and he doesn’t look like any one of them. Mind, I don’t suppose he’ll ever know what I once looked like. Hey, what’s this, let me go, I’m waiting for the kids to come and play.
Well, this is weird. I’m sitting on a trailer.
Okay, that was a long haul. I’m in a garage. That guy I saw at the scrapyard lives here. He’s giving me a good look over. I think he sees something of what I used to be.
A year later.
Hey!! Yes, it’s me. Honestly, I know you won’t believe it. Raymond, yes, Raymond Rover, the very same. What do you think, eh? Not bad…not bad…its amazing. I feel like new. My chrome gleaming, polished to a mirror, new treads, new leather, and my horn works! But you’ve heard nothing until you’ve heard my V-8 with its upgraded manifold. Whoopeee, my personality is back!
