104 | June• 2018DRIVEN TO DISTRACTIONadulthood. I mean, I enjoy a Sunday
drive – if the scenery is right and I’ve
chosen the soundtrack. I took a role
in selecting our family car (I checked
it had a Bluetooth connection). I
can, after a couple
of beers, endureTop
Gear. I do appreciate
the form and function of
motorcars, in the same
way I admire the slick-
ness of Amazon’s sup-
ply chain – it’s just not
something I think about
much.
When I hear other
men (it’s usually men)
yapping about carbu-
rettors and crankshafts
and brake fluid, my
mind wanders to a list of
to-dos, like Homer Simpson dream-
ing about doughnuts. Cars aren’t my
thing.
But apparently the motoring gene
can skip a generation. My son Harvey,
who has just turned two, is infatuated
with all things vehicular. Initially it
was construction vehicles: his first
word was “digger”, employed when
pointing at anything yellow. His next
interest was homas the Tank Engine,
a ‘character’ who, let’s be honest, is
just a train with a face drawn on it,
much like those infuriating anthro-
pomorphised chocolates that adver-
tise M&Ms. Now it’s matchbox cars- ambulances, ire engines, Porsches,
Minis, whatever. He carries half a
So, when I came along, there was an
expectation I’d like cars too. My bed-
room was plastered with Bentley wall-
paper, which, as a teenager, I painted
over (I had to paint it racing green,
the only colour we had).
My bed was in the shape
ofacar.Ievenhadalit-
tleBentleyofmyown–a
standard kids’ ride-on,
I guess, to which a be-
spoke body had been
added (but I can’t be
certain, because it scared
me, so Dad sold it). I
was very nearly actually
called Bentley – a fate
I escaped only thanks
to my mother, who pre-
sumably recognised that
such a name would only
be acceptable if I were an aristocrat
or a rap artist. Or both.E
venwhenmyowninterests
cameintofocus–filmand
drama–Dadwouldsurrep-
titiouslysneakinamotoring
angle. My primary school show-and-
tell, delivered to the whole school at
assembly, was about the evolution
of the four-and-a-half-litre Bentley.
Noprizesforguessingwhowrote
it.(Andnoprizesforthespeech,
either:Ideliveredthetalkadequately,
but f loundered spectacularly on
theQ&A–Ididn’tevenknowwho
W.O. Bentley was.)
My disinterest continued intoWhen I hear
other men
yapping about
carburettors and
crankshafts and
brake fluid, my
mind wanders to
a list of to-dos