BE HONEST with me – how badly do you have it? Call it what you like – retrofever, retroholism or perhaps, to use a Dep-O-ism, ‘the illness’ – to what lengths will you go for your next fix of the good stuff...?

   The first real diagnosis of the illness came when I was having a high-powered, out-of-hours phone conference with Gez and as usual, we quickly got distracted and oversteered off topic. He’d just managed to track down a superb NSU owner’s handbook for the Prinz and he was telling me about all the cracking nuggets of advice contained within in its faded and foxed pages.

   In particular, I was being informed about all the fantastic pieces of advice and tips it proffered – and how it differed from the rather po-faced image of today’s German auto industry. It clearly sprang from the days before the Health and Safety Stasi meddled, when the phrase 'no win no fee' was as completely meaningless as it is empty. Anyway, it was during this triumphalism and laughing that Gez’s other half walked in and simply announced: “You two really are sick...”

   'Ouch' was the initial reaction but it rapidly dawned that she had us banged to rites without a leg to stand on.

   Of course, we do wilfully partake in more conventional retroholic behaviour: trawling Ebay and classifieds looking for cars which simply must be saved, buying retro classics when utterly and completely potless (and encouraging mates to do the same thus risking the wrath of her indoors), or wasting hours building fantastic retro concepts in the dreamer’s virtual garage that is Photoshop.

   You find yourself obsessing about a retro classic you’ve spotted on the bay of E, rotting in a field or perhaps down someone’s driveway and then indulging in Banana Republic economics so that you can satisfy yourself, if no-one else, that yes you can really afford to add another rusty gem to your collection.

 

Words Simon Charlesworth

   I’m particularly good at this last symptom because it was pointed out to me by a ‘normal’ mate. The logic followed thus: that if I got a ticket for my Golf and sold it, that the funds would go toward putting the Midget back on the road. Completely forgetting, until reminded by ‘normal’ mate, that my everyday 'I need it for my job' motor urgently needed a cam-belt change, new brakes and a service. I retorted with a “yeah, but...” however I failed to finish the sentence because I knew he saw the world with rational, sane eyes – not with the retro vision of a sufferer from ‘the illness’. Somehow spending money on a modern car just seems wasteful – it’s like buying alcohol-free beer, voting Labour or watching the Stallone remake of 'Get Carter'.

   The problem is that there is no satisfying the rabid, ever increasing demands of this condition. So far this year, I have spent 12 hours in a Transit towing back a project from somewhere just short of Denmark – called Newcastle – which I bought with a maxed-out credit card (you see, plastic isn't real money). I’ve nearly had my trespassing arse savaged by two Rottie hell-hounds the size of Shetland ponies, whilst trying to get a glimpse of an abandoned BL beauty with Mad Mark and Mr Huge. Then, the other day I clambered up a very flimsy ladder to help out a fellow sufferer with identifying some NOS body panels (the smell of a bargain made me forget, until I was up there, that I get all wobbly with vertigo on anything higher than a bar-stool). Ho-hum.

   Still, none of that compares with my own personal low-point which occurred this weekend. Late on Friday, I was made an uncle for the first time following a valiant push by my favourite sister-in-law. Saturday therefore, would clearly involve a spot of lunch and a quick razz down to Wiltshire to offer hearty congratulations and partake in lots of noises along the lines of koochy, koochy, kooo-o.

   Well, it did until an old mate called asking if I was interested in the contents of his late dad’s garage. Uh-oh. Initially, I was strong and told him the situation – but then after he so reasonably, completely understood my point he revealed what was lurking within said garage. “Old panels and spares, junk you’d be interested in,” before, sighing and saying: “Oh well, I’ll just have to skip it...”

   Conflict alert, system 404 error and two puffs of smoke mushroomed from my ears. Choice required. Important family milestone or postpone it for ‘a bit’, to have my cake and eat it – to hold the baby and have a hit of oil-sniffing, nostalgia-inducing, parts scrounging... What could go wrong...?

   As you can imagine, I didn’t arrive in Wiltshire until long after darkness had shrouded the hospital. Oh and three or four increasingly urgent ‘where are you?’ text messages from my brother. Somehow I don't think the phrase 'you won't believe what I've just found – an untouched, mint and boxed NOS BMC Britax retractable seat-belt!' would have cut any mustard with a non-retro believer.

   If I’d had any sense, I probably should have checked myself into the hospital there and then. I knew though, that I couldn’t leave my old jalopy unattended – certainly not with all that valuable retro bootie stuffed in the back.