End Of a Volvo Era in Watford

When we are young, we feel immortal and hearing the wrinkly old grunters chatting on and on about who has died, gets really old, fast. Young people do not like old peoples’ topics of conversation, as they seem too bothered only about who has bred and all that Circle of Life stuff.

I have been the most absurdly stubborn car audio journalist. I love it too much to want to write about grown up things instead. I could never review toasters. And it has meant that I have been part of one really cool generation of car audio nutters in the Eighties, became employed in the scene in the Nineties and seen eight generations of what are mostly now ‘˜kids’ to my 55 years self, grow up through the scene and leave every five years or so, as they breed and get sensible cars. There are a few Lifers are out there, like Ian Pinder and any car audio dealer actually still standing, as there is no such thing as ones that ain’t.

And seeing the passage of time, with all the memories stacked in heaps, enshrined in golden amber (or else buried in a subconscious horror pit for the times I screwed up) is like being a human time machine. And today, I popped over to Croxley (near Watford) to finally have a look at the spot I used take my car to be fixed. Called Darryls Motors, it was a Volvo specialist garage that charged literally half the hourly rate that the main dealer did. And since my 960 estate was out of warranty as I bought it at 55 thousand miles, she was serviced eventually by Larry and the boys, for the 100,000 to er 375,000 mark! I did have some recurring problems and was once told by Larry as I said to replace the radiator again, ‘You can’t fall in love with a CAR, Sir!’ I recall the indulgent look on his face as he said it with a grin. I just learned he was called ‘˜Lovely Larry’ by everyone.

Larry’s was an old school operation. Just an office with two waiting chairs as well as the chair opposite the boss’s desk that looked out over the tarmac. The walls had posters of old Volvos. Copies of the Owners Club magazine lay around. It was a bit oily on the concrete floor. Darryls was behind a Shell garage, after moving house a decade before and after hours, you could collect keys for your car, from the petrol station cashier. It had 24 hours key concierge services. But the most hilarious thing was the ancient old stagers Larry would have as loan cars. Like the joke ‘˜loaner’ in the Jim Carrey epic The Mask, they were old and tired but went.

One big old red estate was called ‘˜The Beast’ because its knackered old auto box made it drink like one. It did something like Rolls Royce ‘˜economy’. Others were redolent of old sin and spilled awfulness inside. All made you fret they would break down but being Volvos, they never, ever did.

But today, the sign is dirty and rubble and leaves pile up in front of the shutters closed for ever. I filled up on the mad 97 octane and went in to pay. I asked the lady behind the counter and she looked out at my Volvo and her face clouded as she told me that Larry had died last July almost exactly a year ago. I knew he had a heart condition and had had an operation that bought him four more years. He was of course worried.

And that was the time that my life changed a bit, my old car died underneath me, like a faithful old horse unable to bear the burden any longer (..you can’t fall in love, with a car, sir..) and she was scrapped, Max Power Bass In Your Face sticker and all. (I will pay good money if any old mint Max Power magazine collectors still have those sticker sheets, by the way.)

That was at the Volvo dealer’s that sold me my Unicorn. One of the damn rarest recent model cars on the road. A petrol XC70, as most all were the diesel. Mine is a T6 and it is still able to startle me. I had loaded it right up with a half tonne of kit and with brand new posh tyres on it, she accelerated a bit slower and needed even more respect than normal on the braking versus the mad end BMW/Audi/General ASBO motor brigade but the damn car is absurd. It could tow a mountain up itself.

As I came out of the shop, I was going to go take a snap for the header for this item I felt moved to write and realised I had left my phone in my car. But bizarrely, a Ford Zephyr Mk3 had stopped at the pump at the very front door. In purple, it was clearly as old as me. I did the research just now and found that the car was made from 1962 to 1966, so was maybe made the year I was born. I simply said, ‘Your car is magnificent, sir!’ to the owner, a tall well dressed black man with twenty inch dreadlocks with plenty of grey in them and more under a well filled red gold and green hat. He just nodded an acknowledgement. After all, he must get heaps of praise for his absurdly well kept classic every single damn time he stops and seemed not to want to start chatting with a random emotional fat man. I muttered about my camera and went back to the car. All that bastard Circle of Life shiznit was getting to me, so I just aimed my ridiculous chariot gently out of the forecourt and came away slowly, filled with thoughts of sadness and getting old and the inevitability of our mortality.

Which is nothing new, now I am a grey-templed old git but is also another really potent reminder to have a blast while you are here. Yep, life is for living, so try not to do the stupid stuff that’s so risky you get dead really easily and save it for daring to tell important people that you love them. Dare to try some mad foodstuff that scares you, or even just go for a swim in the sea and whip yer knickers off!

And what a lovely and tremendously BRITISH Summer we are having, are we not? From so hot we whinge, to massive downpours that can wash away Cornish villages.

Check your tyres, drive safe and enjoy your tunes..

Adam Rayner On Line Editor!