YOU CAN tell when the ‘latest thing’ gathers enough momentum to register on the cultural radar, because people attempt to define it.

  It happened and still happens with the classic car scene, argumentative bickering fires up about the true meaning of the word ‘classic’ and it’s usually based around ‘classic means special, memorable, of note’ tied in with the issue of how old a car might be. Morris Marina no; Golf GTI yes; MkI Focus RS er...? Datsun 120A, not on your ruddy Nelly.

  Some people are claiming that in order to be retro, a car has to be modified in a certain way. I can see their point, but if that is the case well, I have a confession. Depending on the car, and according to that definition, I have a tendency to be too retro to be retro.

  As I write this, my short-term memory is still being haunted by a ride in the Lamsley 270bhp Reliant Kitten. In case you were in any doubt, this car is fantastic, a brilliant retro sleeper which will ruffle heel ’n’ toe beards in their Caterhams. Now, Mal’s approach to the Kitten is fine, it’s huge fun and you can practically see the bewildered thought process on the faces of passers-by. What’s that? It looks like a... No, it can’t be, can it? Who in their right mind...?

  Yet I’d never dictate to everyman and his wife that this is the definitive school of retromodding a Kitten. By all means, if you want to stick to the standard running gear, slap on a stickier set of boots and keep the standard ride height – then please do. Who am I, or who is anyone, to suggest that because it isn’t rubbing its belly along the Tarmac, then that Kitten would fail its retro entrance exam?

  It really is important not to fall into the trap that still lurks in some distant dusty corners of the classic world: hours, days, even months are wasted defining 'what is classic?' when, really, life is just too short. Just enjoy the cars and enjoy yourself, because as the bumper stickers says, ‘if you have to ask, then you wouldn’t understand’.

  So whilst I’m sure I was grinning like a half-wit in the Kitten’s passenger seat, I’m not about to rip out all my cars’ engines and replace them all with spicy throttle-bodied Duratecs. I’m going to do what I think suits each of my cars on a case by case basis. My retro motors will only have one common thread running through them – they will please me.

Words Simon Charlesworth

  Only the other day I managed to coax the Gazelle into life and took it for a spin around the private roads on the right royal Dep-O estate. To some it is powered by a 1500cc OHV all-iron engine which was engineered by ‘Stig Of the Dump’ and because its ride height is so damn lanky, nose-bleeds are a danger and consequently its spacious wheelarches have been earmarked by the government for yet another new housing development – but...

 

  The thing is that pootling around the tracks, roads and lanes, revealed something that the Singer is really rather good at – in fact, it’s so good that it shames the vast majority of modern cars. It’s ride is as comfy as Vanessa Feltz stuffing jelly on a waterbed. Its hum-drum suspension design is thoroughly ancient but because the seats are sprung, the crossplies have sidewalls and the set up wasn’t designed to break a meaningless Nordscheiffe record, it’s a right old relaxing little sweetheart.

  Yes it could do with more power, but if a Holbay – let alone a Duratec or a V8 – were installed then I would have to upgrade the brakes, then the suspension and then fit some seats which aren’t trimmed in vinyl so slippery that it feels like a banana skin smothered in baby oil. So I would lose what, to me, makes the Gazelle worth keeping – it’s retro charm. Not retro? Well, there are people out there who vehemently deny that my humble saloon is a classic too, so who is right?

  By all means define retro as a period covering cars built in the Seventies and Eighties – essentially taking up where classic cars leave off – up to perhaps the last generation of cars built with real man’s bumpers, but leave it at that. Don’t waste your life dissecting and cogitating or else one day you’ll realise that you’re sitting alone in a pub with only half a Bishops Finger and a damp dog with itchy anal glands for company.

  Keep it individual, don’t restrict the movement to a uniform aesthetic trend or scene, otherwise retroism will end up like those sad saps in new Minis who appear to have driven off the set of ‘The Life of Brian’ declaring in chorus: "Yes, we are all individuals!"

  Part of the very appeal of retro motors is that we have forever been told that we shouldn’t really like these cars, but we do because we have minds of our own – at its heart retroness is about individualism. We don’t listen to self-proclaimed experts who try to dictate what they and therefore we should find acceptable, so please don’t listen to anyone who tells you what to do with your car.

  Actually, if you follow that line of thought to its natural conclusion then you probably shouldn’t pay a blind bit of attention to me either. It's alright, I've already got my coat...