Diary extract Nov 13th 1956
Second early start of the week for excursion to Oxford to see my old friend, A.I. (1), who wanted to discuss some devilish new contraption he’s been working on recently. Jack Frost had visited in the night, so spent first few miles peering through letterbox-size slot in screen. With little vision available, nearly flattened Bob, our ever-disrespectful postman, when he materialised suddenly on his cycle. Perhaps if he stopped that dratted whistling for a minute he might be better able to keep out of the way. Took evasive action and skilfully avoided a collision, but the incident made me more sure than ever that heating equipment jolly well ought to be standard fitting on a £500 motor in this day and age.
Took the usual route through Black Country and Birmingham, where I must have seen over a thousand motor vehicles in half an hour. Soon the country will be completely ruined, I fear. Passed Fort Dunlop at 9.25am and picked up A34 to Bardsville (2), then onward to Banbury, where I should have found use for a cock horse to thread through the melee! One would never know that Petroleum is in short supply. Lovely run through leafy Warks countryside to Oxford’s dreaming spires, where I encountered all too many dreaming bicyclists. Might expect varsity chaps to have more brains than slothful Bob, but they seemed equally unable to concentrate on the task in hand, so I often had to sound horn to make swift progress.
As usual, met A.I. at the Trout, a pleasant hostelry near Cowley factory. He was his usual ebullient self, rattling on about various pet projects of the moment. During the war I had to suffer his enthusiasm for ridiculous powered wheelbarrows and other chimeras (he assumed I wasn’t in cahoots with Lord HH, evidently!), but a few years later he consulted me many times about the Mosquito (3). Contrary to rumour, the late decision to widen the car by four inches was originally my suggestion. Dear Alec tends to ‘forget’ these things, of course.
The latest ADO car is naturally still on the top secret list, so Len Lord would probably shoot me if he were aware of my involvement. It’s going to be a tiny machine, scaled down in all respects yet still able (alleges Issi) to accommodate four adults plus luggage. I playfully suggested he should use a rear engine, as any mention of a car with even the remotest similarity to a Volkswagen makes A.I. apoplectic with rage. He laughed about it later!
In fact, the Morris Microbe is destined to have a lightweight two-stroke engine. You mean you’re copying DKW, I teased. No, Wilbie, he thundered, it is an entirely novel design, and at some time in the future all manufacturers will be producing cars built on a rhomboid base, with a flat-twin two-stroke engine mounted under the floor driving the middle wheels…
As the conversation drifted on into the afternoon, by which time we were both somewhat scotch squiffy, I outlined some of my own theories again. All the details were set down in 1938 diary, so there’s no point in repeating myself here (4), but I genuinely believe this rhombus plan is misguided and told him so. Look, Issi, I said, forget this damned diamond nonsense – put the engine across the car in the front, driving the front wheels. To save space, stack the crankshaft above the gearbox and use small wheels (the Microbe has 12-inch side wheels, admittedly, but the leading and trailing ones are as big as my Bentley’s). As I explained, with the aid of sketches on a paper napkin, the finished car need only be ten feet long; a true miniature.
A.I. eventually conceded that my ideas had some merit, and it will be interesting to see how BMC’s small car develops. Arranged another Cowley rendezvous for May, by which time Alec promised he will have a prototype for me to try. If so, let’s hope he chooses a different route from the factory, because his horrid little Microbe (a name that I sincerely hope will be changed for production) will become a see-saw on that humpback bridge on the edge of the village, and what happens to the steering then, eh!
Homeward journey took only three hours. Although it’s fashionable to believe that drinking alcohol before driving is unwise, I find my concentration greatly improved by a moderate intake, particularly in winter, when one would otherwise feel uncomfortably chilly. ‘One for the road and half a dozen for the motor’ is sound advice, certainly.
It is surely noteworthy that my best ever time for Holmfirth-Bales was achieved early on NY’s Day, 1953, when I had consumed almost a full bottle of my favourite malt libation and rather a lot of the G-Jones’s rather excellent punch. Incidentally, that 2hr 28m record could easily have been better, because I was obliged to stop for several minutes on the outskirts of the Potteries to dislodge a Keep Left sign that had somehow become trapped in my nearside front wing.
Going farther back, it’s indisputable than most Brooklands class records were set by drivers who were so comprehensively oiled that they were barely capable of walking. Once installed behind the wheel they were truly magnificent. For instance, having been in the Clubhouse knocking back doubles since early morning, Archie F-C (5) took his 8 litre Snardly Napier Special round at 124mph with absolutely no trouble. Mind you, he only realised he’d done it three days later. Great times.
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Bales, 2006
(1) Alec Issigonis, of course, whom I first met before WW2, when one frequented Shelsey and Prescott.
(2) Stratford-Upon-Avon, obviously, but my still youthful self evidently preferred silly nicknames!
(3) Later known as the Morris Minor.
(4) ‘A Modern Mini-Car for the Common Man’, described in July 1938 entry.
(5) Archie Ffeinning-Coresote. Splendid fellow. Shot down over France in 1941, aged 26. Tragic waste.
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