An ode to a motor

Today I sold the Pussy Wagon for scrap. A day that has been inevitable for the past few months, mainly down to the faltering engine, screaming fan belt, and clonky control which have made it a choir to drive. I remember when I first bought the beast, 400 quid off a geezer in Streatham with the money I got from a tax rebate. A little Citreon AX with an abnormally high bite point on the clutch, a flickery indicator and a reverse gear that just wouldn’t stick into place, needless to say I fell in love straight away.


Now a lot of people always ask “pfft, why is it called The Pussy Wagon?” this is mainly for 2 reasons, one of which can be traced back to its first road trip, a ride down to Brighton for the Regime at The Volks, I left the keys with Lewis and Emily whilst I went into the club, when the night had finished I was walking back to the car and saw the 2 of them shagging in the back seat. I stood there and watched for a bit, chuckled to myself, then went and disrupted them before I became aroused and the whole situation got weird. Then the second was my then good friend Anna and her girlfriend, whilst picking them up from Victoria station one night, (one of the many taxi jobs I did in that car) and whilst driving them back to Kings Cross the two of them started going at it on the back seat. There was no nudity or full on sex but it was close enough to confirm that the car certainly made the birds wet. Lewis has now been in a relationship with Emily for a couple of years now thanks to that night and I don’t talk to Anna anymore thanks to her bird being a bitch, but I wish them both the best. I myself never had sex on that back seat, but I did once bowl round Epsom Downs one summer afternoon whilst receiving oral sex, probably the most dangerous drive I ever did.


Many of my favorite memories in that car have been trips to festivals, one trip down to Camber Sands for the Bangface weekender I gave Nanja a lift who had traveled all the way from Holland, she said it was the best trip to a festival she’s had, and the motors best ever performance was when I drove Jem and Ian down to Glastonbury, busting down the A303 at no less then 90MPH the whole way and doing Hammersmith to Glastonbury in 2 and a half hours. The trip to Secret Garden Party was the only time the Wagon ever broke down on me. A hole in the pipe that connects the radiator to the water tank formed a whole and I had to get the AA out, a fee that I never paid and as a result has got me black listed from the AA. My most favorite journey in that car was also the longest one, that I also did on my own. A 4 and half hour trip to Torquay for Ian and Rosa’ wedding, A beautiful summers evening, ploughing down the 303 nearly crashing every 10 minutes because I was so distracted by the countryside, whilst listening to Dreadzone albums.



Apart from that minor annoyance of a break down, until recently the only other pain in the arse I was ever given whilst driving was a flat tire on the way back from Portsmouth one weekend. I could only pull over on a bend, which proved to be extremely dangerous, especially when 16 wheelers were having to dodge us. When the Motorway maintenance people showed up, they escorted us onto the hard shoulder, on my way there on the bend I pulled over into the outside lane and an oncoming Range Rover very nearly took me and the Wagon out, but fait had other ideas. The motorway maintenance people were dicks, but I wont give them the pleasure of being talked about.
I did have some lucky moments in that motor, one in particular was when me and Lauren went to the pub one night, then on the way back to hers pulled over on the downs to smoke a spliff, on the way back I did my usual speed of 40 but unfortunately an unmarked filth car was behind us and reminded me that the speed was 30. I was breathalysd and despite my 3 pints of Guinness and bottle of Becks just an hour earlier I was somehow under half the limit. Even on inspection of the car, which had empty nos canisters, roach ends and half empty booze bottles in (due to a trip to Glade the weekend before) I was still let off with just a warning.



They say you always remember your first car as your best one. I think they are right, despite the horrible performance, broken boot, horrible steering which made a 3 point turn feel like turning in a tank, knackered speakers that would peak horrible, a car radio that was increasingly getting worse by the day and scratches and dents all up the side, most of which caused by other cars on me. It never failed to start on them frozen mornings, and got everybody to every destination safely and soundly. The Wagons last road trip was a successful one to Bristol, but even then it was showing signs of wear as it drained the petrol at an alarming rate. From London to Brighton, Portsmouth, Bristol, Wales, Glastonbury, Reading, Torquay, Salisbury or Northampton, every journey I can remember being bliss. My next motor may be a better performer but it will never have the same character and will never have the privilege of the title of Pussy Wagon. I brought that car with 53,000 miles on the clock, I left it after just under 2 years of service with 68,000 on it.

R.I.P
The Pussy Wagon
1995-2011