My mate Big Ade is something of an early onset eccentric. And practising hermit.

He also hoards for Britain, and would hardly surprise me if he wound up being one of the subjects of a sensationalist Channel 5 documentary about a bloke who slept in chip papers dated from 1987.

Amongst other things.

But I love him.

Big Ade also has excellent taste in cars and is fairly good at badminton.

But it’s the former claim I’d like us to concentrate on for the sake of this blog.

He inherited his passion for understated cool wagons from his parents. Parents whose garden was so large it yielded a croquet lawn out front. They also didn’t have to superglue Kellogg’s Rice Krispies to their car tyres to fake the sound of landed gentry arriving at the homestead as they actually did have a gravel driveway. And two pillared entrances.

Big Ade’s Dad Never Warmed To Me

Big Ade’s dad never warmed to me.

Yet took the opposing view to Thursday’s Channel 4 porn night back in the 90s day, according to his least favourite (and only) son.

Redeeming features-wise though, and his paternal figure was an unapologetic‘Audi man’ through-and-through; whilst his mum was a Ford woman. 

For Audi read Audi before ‘new money’ surgically removed themselves from BMW.

Years in the future, that said, when Ingolstadt had forgotten all about the nonchalant, understated swagger of the Audi 100 Avant (C3) and A6 Avant (C4) and had created the Q7 specifically for men who wear shorts in January. 

Equally as interesting was Big Ade’s mum’s blue oval-brandishing road weapons of choice. 

Again, because they were business folk (industrial deodorant manufacturers) they required a secondary load-lugger which happened to be successive 1983 MKII Ford Granada 2.8-litre Ghia estates. 

Which their hapless son graciously received as hand-me-downs once he passed his driving test.

10/4 Good Buddy

Not long after writing off the aforementioned Audi 100 Avant (C3) on a twisty stretch of tarmacadam somewhere around Glossop (which his dad had foolishly lent him for a weekend), Big Ade’s mum decided to withdraw his Granada estate privileges too.

Until such time as he calmed the fuck down, as she DIDN’T say because they were pseudo-posh.

Bear in mind Big Ade is the only person I’ve ever known to crash into a mini roundabout.

And I mean one of those slightly raised surface area mini roundabouts designed to break up low-speed traffic flow in urban settings. His last Clarksonian words to me in the passenger seat at the time being; “Watch this!”

This meant that Big Ade was without personal transportation. Which needed to be rectified, pronto.

As we were now minus a car to sit in on a damp Tuesday evening as we tuned our Citizen Band radios into the local police channels. Once you discount the Nissan Bluebird 2.0-DLX fastback I borrowed off my mum. Which Big Ade preferred to do.

We were a two man protest against our local pub which didn’t approve of us each nursing one pint for up to and sometimes exceeding three hours at a time.

Back then we were akin to unanimated versions of Beavis and Butthead.

“Do We Have Someone Starting Us Off At £100?”

Therefore the Tuesday evening motor auctions beckoned us, naturally.

What we both lacked in fiscal prosperity and worldly-wisdom we compensated for by way of our uncanny eye for a bargain vehicle.

Or at least, that’s what we told ourselves en route to the motor auction in (shockingly) Big Ade’s mum’s pale green metallic Grannie Ghia estate. 

The idea being, if something tickled Big Ade’s fancy, I could drive it back to ‘his’.

His parent’s gaff, that is. There was no ‘his’ (place of residence) yet.

Collectively possessing a scant concept of punctuality we arrived with no time to peruse the auction stock before the hammer-wielding got under way. This was pre-internet landscape remember, where you had to walk/drive places and use your eyes in all weathers. Not just scrolling a smart screen and doing that thing with your finger and thumb which enable you to zoom in on images which pique your interest.

As luck would have it, the first vehicle that entered the promised land was, miraculously, an unseen 1982 Ford Granada 2.3-litre LX sedan in silver. Unseen by us, any road.

Although we could barely get visuals on it once it was driven through the auction on account of the sea of sheepskin coats.

“Do we have someone starting us off at £100 pounds?!” enquired the evening’s auctioneer in tones so dour that we should really have seen what was coming. Which for reasons I still don’t know to this day, I duly obliged by sharply raising my right arm. Like a school swot would do to garner the attention of a teacher when they desperately knew the answer to something asked of the class.

Big Ade was bemused by my previously unobserved, primeval display of physical Tourettes, yet wasn’t at that point overly concerned that I was about to spunk his entire new car budget on an absolute dog.  

On the off chance he did and he was hiding it, I quickly moved to reassure; “Don’t worry, dude. Obviously someone will offer more. And then someone else (not you or me) will offer more still. As that’s how this shit plays out, right?”

Less than 60 seconds later I, or rather, Big Ade, was the proud owner of an unseen 1982 Ford Granada 2.3-litre LX sedan in silver.

Which we were (almost) politely instructed to ‘go round the back’ to collect at the end of the auction.

Oops A Fucking Daisy

What neither of us had banked on was a car with a dead battery.

Or indeed, a car we hadn’t first looked around and poked at.

Which must have been hastily jump-started prior to entering the show ring earlier that evening.

Still, the auction house (if you can call a glorified series of lock-ups on a provincially-located light industrial estate that) had thoughtfully thrown in a commercial-spec tow-rope for us to get our new acquisition home with the help of. 

What I’ve neglected to mention at this juncture is Big Ade’s ire.

Which had rapidly advanced from ire to incandescent rage on the old PH scale of anger management. And broadly directed at me for my unexpected kneejerk arm-raising fuckwittery which had resulted in the purchase of a car which nobody wanted.

Bemusement was but a distant memory right now.

Cue an uncomfortable journey home. Big Ade had zero towing experience to speak of, and if you recall, prone to crashing into slight road deviations, and Glossop. 

On the plus side, thinking ahead – a very un-Big Ade-like thing in itself – my friend had quietly acquired a council garage on a nearby housing estate a few weeks beforehand. Which to say was suspect, was something of an understatement.

Nonetheless, the silver Granada required housing out of the way. And sight of his parents, who we doubt would be particularly enamoured with our shenanigans. 

To Cut A Long, Tedious Story Short….

Top and tale of vehicular woe being the tragedy that Big Ade never got to pilot his wedgy silver 2.3-litre Granada saloon.

Because he never managed to determine what was wrong with it during his relatively brief ownership tenure.

Replacing the battery achieved nothing.

Nor the spark plugs.

Whilst Big Ade’s mechanical prowess was not quite Fuzz Townsend-esque, that didn’t stop him wiling away countless days fettling the car, before deciding he should use his time more productively.

By filling his recently bequeathed bungalow with cardboard boxes brimming with other people’s rubbish.

Bequeathed to him by his parents as they were moving to the Lake District. Not deceased like his silver Ford Granada.

Pensionable Bungalow

A number of years passed by when Big Ade and I ‘lost touch’ with each other as I moved on with my life and he trained to horde.

Until one day I received a text message on my Nokia 3310. Which, between the accidental wingdings, said something about a garage fire.

Turned out local scallies had torched Big Ade’s garage for shits and giggles. Whether or not they were aware of the contents, we’ll never know.

The only thing that was certain was that the 1982 Granada finished in silver metallic paint was no longer finished in silver metallic paint. More of a charred grey exterior hue and saturation. In matte. And without question, beyond repair.

Of course this was my fault too. Just like the purchase of the car he never got to physically drive on the road. 

I don’t think there’s a moral to this sorry story/blog. Other than CB’s were pointless and watching porn gives you square eyes.

I’m told motor auctions are better governed and organizers more accountable these days. 

I’m pleased to inform you that Big Ade and I reconnected, and to this day his mum’s Granada 2.8-litre Ghia estate serves as a chicken coop in the back garden of his pensionable bungalow.

As you were.