There are times in your life when you know things are never going to be quite the
same again. They say knowledge is power but I’m never sure. When I was 20 I got a
job behind the bar in the local pub. Having propped up the same bar from the
other side for 3 years I had gained a certain reverence for it. There
was always that line you never got to cross, a bit like actors and the fourth wall.
There’s a mystery there, a sort of respect for the distant promise of some kind of
higher knowledge you get just from stepping behind three feet of mahogany. You
work behind a bar and you gain some kind of elevated status. People talk to the barman in
hushed tones, seeking advice or consolation or reassurance of some kind that
everything is ok. It’s an attractive position to be in.
And it’s all bollocks. Only when you get there do you realise you aren’t
actually behind 3 feet of mahogany but about half an inch followed by some grotty
metal shelves, dusty pipes and a strip of ratty linoleum which is always either wet or
sticky no matter how many times you mop it. If Evostick could patent this material
they’d make a fortune. The only reason the drunks seek your opinion is because you
are the only one lucid enough to give them a half way sensible one and no one else is
duty bound to listen to their tales of self inflicted woe. Worst of all, the mystery is
gone and with it, that promise of some unearthly knowledge.
There are times in life when it’s best not to go through the looking glass. There are
times it’s best to preserve the mystery, stay on this side of the fourth wall.
I’m about to go crashing through it yet again.
You always remember your first Bond film. I remember my first attempted Bond
film. I was 7 and we drove 20 miles on a rain soaked night to the nearest cinema, only
to be told that View to a Kill had sold out. The first Bond film I actually saw was
Never Say Never Again which was closely followed the night after by The Spy Who
Loved Me. Of course purists will tell you the Never say Never Again isn’t a proper
Bond film, that it was made by a different production company and is actually a
remake of Thunderball and so technically my first Bond film was The Spy Who
Loved Me. I’m not sure, and in all honesty, over time they fused a little in my mind,
despite having different lead actors, but if asked what my favourite Bond film is I’d
have to say The Spy Who Loved Me.
And I know this statement will provoke groans and frowns. Many say there is only one
true Bond, but I just don’t agree. Oh I’ll agree that he’s more believable as a secret
agent, but I think it’s more of a generational thing. That said, try standing up in a pub
north of the border and informing your countrymen that you think Roger Moore is
was and always will be the best Bond. I have and the results are amusing, if slightly
frightening.
For me the film just has all the right ingredients, the eye-brow raising one and some
classic one-liners (“keeping the British end up sir” being a particular highlight) the
villain with the master plan to make all humanity live underwater, the henchman (I
love the word henchman) with the unfeasible metal teeth (and how come he never
has blood on his face when he bites someone’s neck), the theme tune (what man
hasn’t heard Carly Simon singing “Nobody Does It Better” and thought it could be
about them?), the incomparable Barabara Bach (is she real? my wife thinks she’s
made of plastic, nobody looks like that) and last but by no means least, that car, the
white Lotus Esprit S1 that turns into a Submarine. The whole film smacks of 70s
excess and madness and the Esprit backs it up with the sheer impossibility of it’s
transformation.
The car itself is testament to an era of changes, the crazy futuristic wedge shape, the
screaming engine and that madcap tartan interior so bright that for the film they had to
re trim the headrests to stop them clashing with Roger’s complexion.
Esprit S1s are rare. There were only 714 ever made. Many were shipped abroad and
they stopped making them in 1978. I had a look on line to see if there were any for
sale I could maybe test drive. There weren’t. So I phoned Lotus.
“Ello, Lotus.” said a voice at the end of the phone that sounded like it belonged to one
of the Wurzels.
“Ehm, hi, would I be able to speak to someone in your press department?” I asked
nervously.
“Think they’ve all gone ‘ome.” said the friendly Captain Pugwash voice.
I thanked him and said I’d phone back in the morning. It was about half past 5 and it
sounded like the place had just shut down. Lotus you see is not like other car
companies. They seem to have quite the local company feel about them. Based in
Hethel in Norfolk, this is a company that actually paints some of it’s cars “Norfolk
mustard yellow.”
I phoned back and spoke to someone in the press department the following day. He
told me they didn’t have one but gave me some email addresses for people at Lotus
owner’s clubs. I asked him if he knew any anecdotes around the production of the
Esprit. He thought for a few seconds.
“I do know that Don McLauchlin the PR man drove one of the cars in the Bond film.”
Legend has it that as preparations were being made for The Spy Who Loved Me the
Bond producer Cubby Broccoli originally noticed an Esprit parked at Pinewood
studios, and so the legend was born, Lotus PR man Don McLauchlin having had it
sneakily placed there upon hearing that filming was due to begin. On the set of the
film on location in Sardinia the stunt drivers had trouble finding the limits on the
Esprit and the second unit director, angry at the stunt drivers’ inability to make the car
look like it was going fast enough noticed Roger Becker, a Lotus employee driving
the Esprit quickly. From that point on he drove the Lotus in all the chase scenes.
McLauchlin drove the chase car, another Esprit with camera men perched
precariously on the back on either side of the engine and the director in the passenger
seat.
I email Alan at Club Lotus and Bibs at the Lotus Forums. I get a very quick reply
from Bibs who tells me he’s sure someone will be only too happy to let me drive their
S1 Esprit and that he has placed an advert on the forum with my details. I then get
emails from Phil Waymouth and Gordon Masson, both of whom own Esprit S1s.
I then do a small dance around the living room, narrowly avoiding squishing the cat.
This is all going so well.
The phone rings and Alan from Club Lotus is on the other end. He has a couple of
concerns he says. Firstly, it’s winter and all of these classic cars should be cocooned
in garages in order to protect them from salty roads and icy conditions, and secondly
but more importantly, am I insured to drive them?
Of course the answer to that is no. Why would I be insured to drive a car I’ve never
set eyes on, but of course I’ll be able to sort this out in some way, through day
insurance maybe. This theory doesn’t quite come out like that on the phone in the way
that theories never do. Alan says he has had trouble with this before, arranging cars
for magazine articles and they don’t have the right insurance. I assure him that my
intentions are of course honourable, but somehow feel like some kind of a fraud.
And so it is that 5 minutes after the cat was avoiding being squished he is now
looking at me wondering why I look too depressed to play with the feathery toy thing
he loves so much.
After an hour or so of feeling a lot like a tragic character from a Channel 5 afternoon
movie I decide to take the bull by the horns, tackle this head on and google “insurance
for motoring journalists.” After about an hour of this I get nowhere, aside from
finding the same question posed by someone on the Autocar forum, following which
is an entire thread where he is set upon and ridiculed for asking such a stupid thing.
Eventually I tire of the many different permutations I could come up with for a search
on motor insurance and decide to ask a proper motoring journalist.
I phone the Daily Record. I know they do the “Road Record” supplement on Fridays
so there must be some motoring journalists there. I eventually get put through to
Graeme Lennox, who sounds depressingly younger than me.
I explain what it is I’m trying to do and he asks what sort of things are on my list. I
rattle off a few of the classics I’ve selected and he asks the question I will be asked
again more than once. “Is the Veyron on your list?” I tell him it isn’t. I know this is
probably an unpopular decision but it’s just too obvious somehow.
Graeme tells me he’s not sure how I’ll get insurance. He does say he thinks it’ll be
obscenely expensive and that I may be best approaching a broker directly and trying
to get a good deal out of them. He tells me when I get a bit further along I should
contact him and he’ll give me some publicity if I need it to get finished. He asks what
my timescale is and I tell him 6 months. He laughs. “Six month’s. Six fucking
lifetimes more like! And you can quote me on that.”
So, which insurance broker to contact. I email Lloyds of London, they being the only
insurance brokers I know of.
I get an email back shortly after:
Robert,
Lloyd’s is a broker based market, therefore insurance brokers are the ones who bring
business in. I would suggest you contact some of the large brokers like Marsh, Aon or
Willis.
Regards,
Bart Nash
I have no idea what this means, other than the only insurance broker I know of isn’t
actually an insurance broker, but I contact all three immediately and receive the
following set of questions from a broker at Willis:
– what are the cars – specifically?
– who owns each?
– i will need to know of any modifications to each car – appreciate that this may be
hard to ascertain at this stage?
– how many of the cars are you likely to have in your possession at once?
– when in your possession, where will they be kept – postcode, driveway/garage,
security at the location?
– how long are you proposing to use each car
– i assume that they will be used on the road for pleasure use only – we will struggle
to get you cover for racing/time trailing and track use.
– Presumably all cars will be UK registered and will only be driven in the UK
– i imagine that some of the cars will be defined as “super cars” – i will need to know
what experience you have in driving such vehicles?
– i need you to confirm that you have a full UK driving licence, i need details of any
accidents regardless of blame, and any motoring convictions that you have had
within the last 5 years and your date of birth. For your occupation can i assume
you’re a journalist?
– how long is it likely to be before cover is needed.
Precisely how I am supposed to know all of this just now I have no idea. I can only
assume this particular broker has a fondness for crack. He sounds edgy, quite a lot
like someone’s overprotective mum about to send the offspring away on a camping
trip. “Have you packed clean underwear? Do you know the country code? You do
know it’s safer rubbing two sticks together than using actual matches to start your
camp fire?
The other two send back emails with phone contacts, and after a brief phone
conversation with Roger Clark at AON, I was sorted, albeit for the somewhat pricey
sum of £1491.00. Pricey yes, but I’ll guess it’s less than my 20 year old cousin pays
on his Citroen Saxo.
And he doesn’t have the ability to drive anything in his possession up to the value of
£100,000.00 fully comp, I say anything, but as I look closely at the wording I now see
that I’m not actually allowed to drive a steam roller. Still, you can’t have everything.
And all of this is how I now find myself standing talking to Phil Waymouth, about to
step or rather drive into the hitherto unknown.
He’s a mild mannered type, Phil. He’s one of those people you talk to and within
about 30 seconds realise is a lot more intelligent than you are. Admittedly this might
happen less often if you are not me, but nonetheless, you can tell Phil has some brain
power. Merely on the face of it he has the intelligence to own an Esprit S1, a white
one, with the number plate which isn’t PPW306R but isn’t far away. He could cause some serious confusion with one piece of strategically placed black insulating tape and the nation’s speed camera network. Ok, they probably wouldn’t think it was actually Jimmy Bond buzzing the GATSOs but it’s a nice idea and one I’ll cling to. The first thing you notice about Phil’s car is how low and long it is. In the metal it seems much flatter almost than it does in pictures. The overall shape is much more angular than anything rolling off a production line today. Five, and then ten minutes pass as we talk and I’m still just captivated by the fact I’m actually staring at a real live Esprit S1, a white one. There was a black S3 in John Player’s Special racing
colours (half Esprit half fag packet almost) parked near my old flat in Glasgow but it
was never as striking as this. I’ve seen later versions on the road and they always put a
smile on my face. Different versions of these cars have wowed countless movie-goers
over time. Julia Roberts drove one in Pretty Woman and Sharon Stone’s girlfriend
tried to use one to off Michael Douglas in Basic Instinct before plummeting to her
death from a bridge.
It’s the purity of design of the S1 that’s so captivating to me, the smooth clean
jaggedly harsh lines of that origami shape contrasting those shiny Wolfrace alloys.
(Giorgio Guigiaro, the designer, wanted to call it the Kiwi. Thankfully all Lotus
names, by tradition have to start with an e.) In 1976 it must have looked like it had
breezed in from a galaxy far, far away. Time of course would see it grow extrusions
and eventually a Peter Stevens restyle would round off those jagged edges, but in the
beginning this was it.
This is what the future used to look like.
The view from the inside is equally angular. It’s not easy to get there. There is no
graceful way of entering or exiting an Esprit. You may require the help of a push from
a friend or even a swift kick just to get into the bucket seat and there’s no guarantee
you’ll get make it at all. I’m 5’11” and I can feel my hair touching the ceiling.
Anyone over six feet will be stuffed. You don’t sit up either, more semi reclined as
though in a racing car. The transmission tunnel is high enough to rest your elbow and
the dash stretches off into the distance at a steeply raked angle on the passenger side
where I am now. The instrument binnacle is a sort of pod, pure 70s sci-fi, like
something stolen from the set of space 1999. The stumpy gear stick is topped off by a
minimalist round wooden ball and only the steering wheel gives a clue to the era and
automotive surroundings this car came from. This car was produced the same year I
was.
Phil fires up the engine and the noise takes me by surprise. It’s a rumbling burbling
noise, a meaty growl you just don’t expect from this car.
The Esprit has only a 2 litre engine generating 160 brake horse power. To put that in
context, you can buy a 1.4 litre Golf with that these days but it will weigh half a ton
more and you won’t be ten years old again.
We pull away and Phil talks me through the car. The gear stick he says has a long
throw and is fairly decisive, the steering heavy at low speeds but loosens off. He tells
me it isn’t like anything he’s ever driven. It feels very unreal being this low down and
in this seating position as the engine growls behind us.
Phil pulls up in a car park and we swap places. “The thing is just to treat her like the
old girl she is.”
I assure him I will and then immediately knock the wiper control stalk with my knee
sending it and the spring inside flying.
This is not a great start.
I nervously edge out into the unknown. The gearbox, as Phil says has a long throw.
It’s very decisive though, with none of the cushioned give in a modern gear box just a
very solid sense of where the stick is. The only gearbox I’ve ever encountered that
would compare belonged to a tractor. It’s hard work changing gear and the lack of
power steering means it’s hard work at low speeds generally. As Phil points out, in
the 70s people must have had muscles just from driving to work. I try to imagine who
might have owned this car when it was first registered. It had a crushed velvet interior
when it was first made. Apparently not all S1s had tartan upholstery. The picture I get
is of some 70s cad or bounder (probably the cad and bounder were dying out then but
you know what I mean) most likely with a moustache and a liking for chain smoking
and hard liquor, All three of these things were not frowned upon but actually
mandatory in the 70s by all accounts. I feel like smoking just now, but of course I
don’t anymore, which is a source of constant disappointment to my subconscious in
these situations. This car just makes me want to behave badly.
As we leave the village we’re in I put my foot down and then change up as the engine
begins to scream. Phil laughs at this as it was probably only at 4000 revs. We clear
another village and I push it harder and change up again too early, this time probably
doing about 5000. We go round a roundabout and double back. The suspension in this
car is like no other I’ve ever felt. It’s solid on turns yet there’s a certain amount of
give when it hits rough road. I have no feeling of how far I can push it and hitting
bumps makes me nervous. When I finally accelerate harder coming back the way we
came the engine rewards me with an amazing whine from behind my head somewhere. The cam shaft is right next to the wooden bulkhead behind the seats. It just keeps going, screaming as it does. Phil tells me that when an engineer did some
work the head he said that if the Esprit S1 was being tested today it is so loud that to
meet health and safety regulations the test drivers would have to wear ear defenders.
We pull up at some lights and the right hand side I’m suddenly aware of an imposing
presence. In the lane next to me is a black Ferrari 348. As I pull away he stays level
with me. I hang back a bit but so does the Ferrari. There’s no way in hell I’m about to
race him. It’s at that point that I realise here I am in a Lotus Esprit pulling away from
the lights with a Ferrari. It’s a childhood dream come true. Whether he wants to race
or not he’s more interested in the Lotus than we are in the 348. It’s quite a feeling to
know you’re driving something that turns everyone’s heads as it passes.
Eventually the Ferrari takes off and I do a couple more straights and roundabouts just
marvelling at the fact I’m actually driving this car and then we swap places again.
My God it goes. There was no way I’d have found the limits in an afternoon or on a
road but what it can do in the hands of the more experienced owner is quite
phenomenal. It just sticks to the road like the tyres have some kind of adhesive quality
and as for the acceleration. It just keeps going and going until your ears bleed.
So it’s difficult to master, physically hard work to drive and I actually have a
headache right now which is at least partly due to the noise I’m sure. But I’m also
sure that same headache is due in larger parts to the sheer excitement of the thing, to
the sheer reality of it. All these things are what a supercar should be.
This car doesn’t drive the way I expected it to. It doesn’t even look the way I expected
it to. But it’s just as amazing. This car is an equaliser. It makes small boys and Ferrari
drivers alike stop in their tracks.
I take my hat off to Phil for owning it.
Robert M G Parker 