October 27, 2014

Ey up, mi Ducks! Davey Sim ‘ere.

Now, I’m a fella needs no introduction. If I weren’t I’d say I’m a bon vivver, wit, raconteur and a man of many (mostly salvaged) parts.

Not to mention: I’m officially second greatest Derbyshire man ever, right after Henry Royce of Rolls Royce fame (and what with ‘im being dead, top slot’s fairly up for grabs).

I’m also Bankstone News’ new motoring correspondent. As such, I’ll be your guide to today’s hottest rides, from Mazdas to Maseratis, Bongos to Bugatis.

For kickoffs, Dickson Tystone has axed me to try out this sporty little runabout ower in Buxton. Belongs to some lass named Rachel who’s something big in lawyering ower Macclesfield way (i.e. outside sainted pale of Derbyshire – but let’s not ‘old that against her). He’s scribbled ‘er address on serviette. Says she’ll be out somewhere local but leaves keys on ‘all table.

When I get to ahs though, front door’s locked. I can see keys reet enough through letter flap, but I’m firkin mi ‘ed ower how to get at em. But then I have this sort of brainwave. I chew up a wad of spidge and whack it on end of cane out of Rachel’s yard. That ‘ooks em quick enough.

Rachel’s ride is an orange Audi A5 Cabriolet 3.0 tdi Quattro. Dickson says she ‘ad one like it before, but that was black or something. Keys work reet enough, and before you know it I’m in.

For a bit I’m just slorming about in plush shiny interior of this shonshy little machine, getting the feel of ‘er. Then I clock spidge wad’s found its way off cane on to mi kecks and off them all ower Rachel’s upholstery. Good thing it’s leather, I think as I scrape some of it off and stick it somewhere up under steering column.

Time to burn some rubber. I gun ‘er up and ‘ed out on Bakewell road for a nice pot of tea, a taste of the world’s finest regional tart, and a fair old stretch of prime Peak District tarmac along the way. God’s own A road!

Engine on this little beast is no way wanky. Quite a little rocket. So much so, I take a sheep or two out along way, and give this pair of old folks quite a scare. You should have seen smockravelled looks on their clecks as they stumbled back up bonk. Me yelling “Gerraht way!” and chuckling like a lallabiddle all the while.

It’s all going nicely, with the curvy little Audi purring away like a brimmin’ she-lion as I wang ‘er round bends, reet up til somewhere past Taddington where A6 goes all bendy through some trees and I may have left road just a tad and maybe clonked a tree or two, just lightly. Motor’s a write off, though. German rubbish.

I call Tystone on mobile to ax ‘ow long he’ll take to get ower and pick me up. All I get for reply’s this pitiful scraitin’ like a chuntering werrat. When ‘e finally gets some words out, e’s got a fair old munk on, and just keeps saying ower and ower: “Oh Dear, Oh Dear. Rachel’s not going to be happy.”

“Owd yer sweat,”I tell him: “Car’ll be reet enough for salvage.

The bits that aren’t orange at least!”

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