Foolish Cinquecento Moments

S

t Valentine’s Day, 1998. I was living in Stoke on Trent, and we had hard frosts every night. I’d gotten home from work on the Friday (the 13th, heh!), and parked the car at the end of our second drive, which was on a slope, with Karl’s Orion behind it. Karl was away for the weekend, so I knew I’d not have to move Melissa for him the next morning: perfect.

I didn’t use the Cinquecento all day, but because of the positioning of the car, she was in sunlight for about three hours from late morning. This meant that she’d defrost, at least partially, so I took the opportunity to give her a quick wash (I kept Melissa clean, because she looked awful when dirty). But anyway, once the sun moved around, and darkness descended on the land, she froze over again. As you would expect.

Well, I had a date with a girl I knew in Manchester that night; I was to pick her up at 20:00. Manchester is about an hour from Stoke-on-Trent, so I was planning to leave at 18:45 “just to be safe.” So once I’d finished washing Melissa, I spent about three hours in the bathroom, then an hour picking my clothes, so on and so forth. I wanted to look bosh! Anyway, about six thirty, I was almost good to go - just a few final touches! - so I figured I’d go out and get the car defrosted, and drop off all of my usual junk that I carried (a little carry bag that contained my “essentials” - cell ‘phone, PDA, Mars bar).

Now Melissa had a duff handbrake. It’s a Cinq thing, well so I was told. It would freeze on when it was cold so I used to leave her in first gear. However, my plan was to start the car, leave her to defrost herself, go in and comb my hair for the thirty eighth time, clean my shoes again, that sort of thing. Because the drive was on a slope, us chaps had some wooden chocks that we’d use for this very same task.

So, armed with a couple of chocks, I went outside, slapped them down, got into Melissa, started her, then locked her with the spare key. Cunning, heh? She merrily hummed away, as only a 900cc Cinquecento can, defrosting herself. The Cinq’s ventilation system wasn’t the best at defrosting - unlike my Fords, windscreen meant just that - with no air to the side - whereas in a Ford, you get those natty little side window vents, too. A compromise was to set for windscreen and face level vents, and then carefully position the side vents, but it did take ages to clear because these side vents were not really designed for that sort of thing.

After the requisite ten minutes, or so, and having been confirmed as looking “most bosh” by the gaggle of friends that would usually appear on a Saturday early evening, we all went out, apart from my housemate Scatty. They caught the bus, I went to the Cinq. The time was 18:40.

As I walked behind Melissa to get to the drivers’ side, I kicked one of the chocks! Oh no! But it was okay, because there was another chock, so alls’ bosh that starts bosh. /suspicious cracking noise, like that of a car slowly driving along an icy, frosty road/ Shoot! The other chock wasn’t holding!

At the time, my next action seemed incredibly brave, and cunning, and even intelligent. I put myself between the Cinq and the Orion (four feet, maybe five) to stop her from sliding down the drive.

Almost immediately afterwards, I regretted it. The drive was very icy, and I had rather limited grip. So there I am, sliding down the drive, trying to stop my Cinq from crashing into Karl’s Orion. I found some purchase, and managed to stop there.

Now what do I do?

My ‘phone is in the car, which by the way is locked, and the only person in the house is Scatty, who was (by this time) snug in his bed with a nice cuppa tea, watching Coronation Street on video, and therefore dead to the world until it’s over. So I shout. And again. Nothing. So I try to get into the car via the tailgate, which results in me losing grip once more, and sliding back down the drive so that I’m pinned between the two cars. Now I can’t move! And the tailgate has frozen, so it won’t open anyway.

I shout again. Scatty later reported that he heard an enfeebled, “Scatty!” whilst enjoying his Corrie. The git! He went for a leak during an advert break, and whilst doing his business, casually looked out of the bathroom window. Legends will tell of how Scatty bravely kept everything pointing in the right direction, whilst laughing so hard, I heard him outside through the open window. The git!

When he eventually got outside, all he could do was laugh at me again. And again. It was now around 19:15 hours, and I was pretty hot. I managed to get my keys, so he unlocked the Cinq, and drove it up the drive, parking it with the handbrake. Sorted!

Or so we thought! Well, Scatty went back inside, I looked at the clock and thought, “oh ‘eck!” Got into the Cinq, engaged first gear, waved good bye to Scatty, and off we . . . didn’t.

Handbrake stuck on. Well, my poor Cinq dragged her butt about a quarter mile down the road before, with a metallic twang, something snapped open and off we went. A metallic red Cinquecento was seen racing up the M6 at about 85 mph, to get there half an hour late, and to be told, “oh, she didn’t think you were coming, she’s gone out with somebody else.” The git!