The Mustard Capri
A model. A car. A simple toy car. But why does this die-cast metal ornament mean so much more to me? Yes, it holds a tangential memory. My brother owned one. No, not the toy, the real thing. Decked in the same mustard and black livery, the 2000GT was every boy’s dream. Well, it encapsulated my aspiration anyway. I say “was”, but there is a part of me that has never let go of that particular penchant.
There is a pleasing roughness to the model’s matt black bonnet, which lifts to reveal a detailed facsimile of the real car’s 90BHP engine. Even today, I recall the thrill of that yesterday monster roar and the pleasure of being pushed back against cracked black leather as it drew twelve year old me along 1975’s simpler byways.
Yet, there is more to the model than happy memory. As I run my finger along it’s sleek, glossy paint lines, I think of what the Capri symbolised and how the subsequent loss of this icon epitomised the decline of a nation. Born alongside Concorde in Wilson’s white heat of technology, the Seventies’ Roads teamed with Britain’s cars. Overhead vapour trails spawned from Whittle’s jet engines, and daily, steel ships from Belfast, Jarrow and Glasgow traversed the seven seas, manned by the magnificent merchant marine, they fed and clothed the world.
So, no. Not a simple toy car at all, but the ironic smile of the model’s dual headlight radiator grill reminds me that this symbol of our nation’s future, now carries made in China on the base.
Some things I don;t understand…
I’m not a fan of cricket, but as far as I understand, the Ashes series is an invitational match between England and Australia. In football parlance, this would be called a friendly. It has three possible outcomes. England win. Australia wins, or there will be a draw. Yet, this outcome is apparently headline news. It has even been known for players to be knighted or given some random honour for winning said friendly. To me, this is crazy.
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BBC Savings
BBC
The BBC is always looking for ways to save money. Here’s a suggestion that would do so, while reducing the amount of time I get angry and shout at the screen. (It’s an old man thing.)
When, half way through a bulletin, the presenter says, “Now we will go over to Bob, who’s standing outside and empty building where the thing I have just told you about happened, and where he will tell it you all again…
Well, just cut this crap, fire bob and tell it to us once. Bob, standing outside the building was told what to say by a producer before he left broadcasting House and doesn’t know a bloody thing more. What is the point of spending money sending him and an expensive film team to repeat the story?
This nonsense is just one of the many reasons the BBC drives me up the wall. Don’t get me started on their bloody obsession with the weather… Look out the window if you want to know whether it’s raining folks.
