Every word is true though the trauma of this particular period means some of the chronology may have become distorted in my tormented memories. Those who know me would, I hope, not consider me a crank ... nor a religious fanatic.
However, this tale does concern an episode in my life when I was forced to wrestle with Satan. It was a bout of incredible personal torment and one I would ultimately lose, though the parting with the demon spirit that had taken control of my life was a joyous moment, despite the costs, real and emotional, I had suffered.
To those even just passingly familiar with tales of the Devil, his throne is seen by most to rest in the darkest recesses of Hell; a fiery domain forsaken by God and all that is righteous. This is the stuff of folklore. While I have no doubt the Devil can instantly create such a residence, I can assure you he has many others.
When I first encountered him in the late 1980s he had set up home in a factory in Mladá Boleslav, Czechoslovakia, a Bohemian city on the banks of the Jizera river, around 30 miles north east of Prague.
As with his domicile, Satan has many infernal names. There is Lucifer, Beezlebub, Mephistopheles, Prince of Darkness, the Antichrist … it is a long list and with many variations depending on country and culture.
In Mladá Boleslav, he answered to but one name – Skoda Estelle.
As one would expect with encounters with the Dark One, our meeting was not straightforward but the result of perverse machination where acts of kindness can be transformed into dastardly deeds; where generosity can, in the blink of an eye, turn to selfishness.
The key player, unbeknownst to her, was my own mother., manipulated into becoming the maternal maker of menace. That began with the rewiring of her house.
A friend had a family member who was trying to make his way as an electrician. Without a moment’s hesitation this young man was recruited for the project by my mother, and he too also became a player in the malevolent masterplan.
While the eager-to-please sparky knuckled down to the job in hand, his maternalistic employer fed and watered him, praising him for his diligence, skill and courtesy.
All was good and, when finished, his work had been exemplary, as had his attitude. My mother, delighted with the smooth running and finished results of what had been a major electrical exercise, paid the young man immediately and, with true Christian generosity, added a monetary bonus as her personal thanks.
This was all recounted to me shortly after as I never met the young tradesman, nor would I, but our metaphorical paths were destined to cross very shortly.
Blessed with his unexpected bonus, the young electrician chose to celebrate in traditional fashion - by raising a glass or two, toasting his good fortune, a job well done and brighter prospects ahead, founded on credible endorsement and recommendation.
Unfortunately, the young man’s relationship with alcohol was not that of bon viveur. The firewater consumed produced a red veil, igniting recklessness and rash actions.
Weaving his way homeward after a fill of hard liquor, he looked for some mischief, and happened upon an invitation he could not resist. This was a parked blue Citroen 2CV. Those familiar with motoring history will recall the Deux Chevaux achieved international fame when one was driven by James Bond (Roger Moore) in the 1981 film ‘For Your Eyes Only’.
This wee tin motor was quirky to say the least and most models came with a plastic roll-back roof, as did the parked one spotted by the inebriated electrician.
The seemingly bizarre question that went though the young man’s head was how much damage could a drunk tradesman in a celebratory mood do to a 2CV with a Stanley knife?
The answer to that is “a lot”, especially after the roof had been removed. And when the police car pulled up he was happily bouncing up and down on the seats, enjoying the winter moonlight from the roofless vehicle and oblivious to the blood he was splashing from unnoticed self-inflicted wounds caused by his wild knife-wielding frenzy within the interior.
 |
| The type of Citroen sacrificed. |
I was later informed he was mortified at the bizarre twist of fate that had weaved him from copious cocktails to that particular car, owned by the son of the generous client who had inadvertently funded his bountiful booze-fest .
It would seem the sheriff on the court bench had some sympathy with the young man’s inexplicable vandalism. Whether it was because the vehicle was French, had a silly roof, was parked in a public car park, or all three, he imposed a modest fine and an even more modest compensation order, equivalent to a sherbert dab once a month.
Given my beloved 2CV was only covered by third party, fire and the theft insurance, I was severely out of pocket when it came to repairs. Not only that, the replacement roof was faulty so at 30mph it billowed up a like an inflating balloon, slowing the car down and blasting all occupants with wind, rain and road debris. Travelling behind dung-laden tractors was repugnant and lorries squishing roadkill was unpleasant and messy.
Around this time, the Devil had moved from Mladá Boleslav to Broughty Ferry, and our relationship was soon to begin.
Given the Citroen was bearing what appeared to be unhealable wounds, and with a young family, I decided to borrow what I could, take out a finance deal and buy a car, not just any car but a brand new one.
Given an impressive rallying record, mileage of 40-50mpg and being the cheapest car in Britain, just sneaking that honour from Lada, and being endorsed by my boss who had an earlier model, the Skoda Estelle won out.
The night I made that decision, I am sure a demonic laugh echoed from a dealership in Broughty Ferry, rang out across the Tay, then down through North East Fife to rattle my windows, and my soul.
I must confess, I really liked my new car when I arrived at the dealership to collect it. It was orangey-red with make-you-go-faster stripes. Not only that it came with a fitted radio, real air vents and not a wire mesh opening like the Citroen … and it didn’t need a starting handle.
With my signature on numerous pieces of paper, the keys were handed over, and I eased out on to the main road, headed towards Dundee then across the bridge into Fife.
My registration plate was MSN 472Y which I now firmly believe is from an ancient forgotten language meaning ‘Carriage from Hell’.
 |
| A Satanic Skoda. |
And if there is one element you associate with the bowels of eternal damnation it is fire; it is not an association you normally make with a new car; my Skoda proved to be a rare exception to that rule.
I will admit I am not mechanically minded but even on the most superficial of levels I was not aware of any instances where a new car, upon leaving the showroom, could suddenly ignite.
To be fair, I exaggerate. It didn’t happen immediately and it wasn’t the whole car. I was half way home when I noticed smoke billowing out from the front nearside of the car. Given the engine was in the back even I was able to conclude quite rapidly this was not engine trouble. Then the flames appeared.
Quickly exiting the car I discovered my front left wheel was now on fire, not the tyre, but the wheel. Using my jacket I managed to douse the flames … and waited. These were the days before mobile phones, I was stuck in the country and closer to home than returning to Broughty Ferry. So, having weighed everything up, I opted for home and my brand new car limped through the remaining journey and, in perfect timing, ignited again just as I reached my door. Once again there was a frantic dousing of flames, followed by a frantic call to the dealership.
Everyone I spoke to was flummoxed. Front wheels of Skodas were not known to burst into flames, so could I please bring it back for further inspection? Any suggestion that one of Broughty Ferry’s finest Skoda mechanics should venture into Fife was quickly dismissed. It was my responsibility to transport the vehicle back across the Tay.
Today, I would not tolerate such a demand but, back then, I duly acquiesced and sitting warily behind the wheel, we limped back to the garage.
If I remember correctly it wasn’t that bad a day. My wheel was barely smoking when I arrived and I had a few hours to explore the back streets and the reading room in the library while the mechanics got to work.
It turned out to be a relatively minor mishap. It appeared that some careless Czech workman had left an oily rag in the wheel and the friction had simply ignited it. Just one of those things …
I will admit I am not mechanically minded but even on the most superficial of levels I was not aware of any instances where a new car, upon leaving the showroom, could suddenly ignite.
To be fair, I exaggerate. It didn’t happen immediately and it wasn’t the whole car. I was half way home when I noticed smoke billowing out from the front nearside of the car. Given the engine was in the back even I was able to conclude quite rapidly this was not engine trouble. Then the flames appeared.
Quickly exiting the car I discovered my front left wheel was now on fire, not the tyre, but the wheel. Using my jacket I managed to douse the flames … and waited. These were the days before mobile phones, I was stuck in the country and closer to home than returning to Broughty Ferry. So, having weighed everything up, I opted for home and my brand new car limped through the remaining journey and, in perfect timing, ignited again just as I reached my door. Once again there was a frantic dousing of flames, followed by a frantic call to the dealership.
Everyone I spoke to was flummoxed. Front wheels of Skodas were not known to burst into flames, so could I please bring it back for further inspection? Any suggestion that one of Broughty Ferry’s finest Skoda mechanics should venture into Fife was quickly dismissed. It was my responsibility to transport the vehicle back across the Tay.
Today, I would not tolerate such a demand but, back then, I duly acquiesced and sitting warily behind the wheel, we limped back to the garage.
If I remember correctly it wasn’t that bad a day. My wheel was barely smoking when I arrived and I had a few hours to explore the back streets and the reading room in the library while the mechanics got to work.
It turned out to be a relatively minor mishap. It appeared that some careless Czech workman had left an oily rag in the wheel and the friction had simply ignited it. Just one of those things …
So, rag free and free from the likelihood of further unexplained fires, I pointed the car back towards Fife. The journey home was uneventful, and the radio worked. In my naivety all was good again, but I was now very low on petrol.
While my adventures with the Satanic Skoda were in their infancy, my mother had taken our two young children to a caravan at Tummel Bridge, near Pitlochry, for a wee break. We, and our new car, were to join them at the weekend.
Now this was the first real road trip for the Skoda and with our much advertised 40-50mpg economical engine, I was keen to see how these figures would hold up. It made sense to fill the tank up and avoid the extra pennies on the pumps that were common those days at rural petrol stations.
Of course I was also keen to see how much fuel it would hold so off I drove to Colinsburgh filling station, cockily strutting around my new car and proceeded to fill it up.
It took a long time, I remember that. The pump dials went round and round and I was in no doubt given the amount of petrol going into the car that we could easily make a return trip to Tummel Bridge and enjoy a weekend’s touring as well.
It was then I noticed people running and shouting, and most pointing open-mouthed at the car. For a fraction of a second I did consider it was admiration but I wasn’t sure why they all seemed to be shouting in unison and pointing to the other side of the car.
I moved to peek round the back and that was when I first noticed my feet were wet. An abundance of petrol had indeed gone into the car, literally, and it was now pouring out of the doors and running across the forecourt.
Eventually the panic subsided, the garage cleared and the manager joined me for a sorry inspection of the flooded floor. We found a couple of rubber stoppers into the chassis, pushed the car a safe distance from the pumps and I watched the petrol and my money drain away.
A couple of hours later I was again on the phone to the Broughty Ferry Satan nest, and the instructions were, again, the same. They needed to see it. That in itself was a complicated and logistical nightmare but eventually, with windows fully down to let out the fumes and dry the interior, I headed back across the Tay.
The weather wasn’t so good that day so I spent most of the afternoon in that library reading room, one I would grow so familiar with, while the mechanics tried to establish the root of this latest outbreak of malevolence.
Now this is where pragmatism and superstition run parallel. Was the Skoda indeed Satan mechanised or was it just a rogue car? Neither concluded the mechanics. The petrol tank, resting beneath the back seat, was topped with a secure plate. Unfortunately the wrong size of screws had been used so when the petrol reached the top, the lid buffered up, allowing the fuel to flow into the body of the car.
With the right size of screws now fitted, my new car was given a through examination and declared a healthy and worthy addition to the UK roads. The mechanics had not considered the ingenuity of the Devil or disillusioned automobile workers behind the Iron Curtain who were doing their very best to undermine the socialist system.
To this day I am not sure how damaging Skoda’s reputation by incinerating myself and my family would give the Czechoslovakian population freedom of travel, a summer retreat in Florida or ready access to Levi 501s.
But trial by fire and fuel flooding was just an introduction.
While my adventures with the Satanic Skoda were in their infancy, my mother had taken our two young children to a caravan at Tummel Bridge, near Pitlochry, for a wee break. We, and our new car, were to join them at the weekend.
Now this was the first real road trip for the Skoda and with our much advertised 40-50mpg economical engine, I was keen to see how these figures would hold up. It made sense to fill the tank up and avoid the extra pennies on the pumps that were common those days at rural petrol stations.
Of course I was also keen to see how much fuel it would hold so off I drove to Colinsburgh filling station, cockily strutting around my new car and proceeded to fill it up.
It took a long time, I remember that. The pump dials went round and round and I was in no doubt given the amount of petrol going into the car that we could easily make a return trip to Tummel Bridge and enjoy a weekend’s touring as well.
It was then I noticed people running and shouting, and most pointing open-mouthed at the car. For a fraction of a second I did consider it was admiration but I wasn’t sure why they all seemed to be shouting in unison and pointing to the other side of the car.
I moved to peek round the back and that was when I first noticed my feet were wet. An abundance of petrol had indeed gone into the car, literally, and it was now pouring out of the doors and running across the forecourt.
Eventually the panic subsided, the garage cleared and the manager joined me for a sorry inspection of the flooded floor. We found a couple of rubber stoppers into the chassis, pushed the car a safe distance from the pumps and I watched the petrol and my money drain away.
A couple of hours later I was again on the phone to the Broughty Ferry Satan nest, and the instructions were, again, the same. They needed to see it. That in itself was a complicated and logistical nightmare but eventually, with windows fully down to let out the fumes and dry the interior, I headed back across the Tay.
The weather wasn’t so good that day so I spent most of the afternoon in that library reading room, one I would grow so familiar with, while the mechanics tried to establish the root of this latest outbreak of malevolence.
Now this is where pragmatism and superstition run parallel. Was the Skoda indeed Satan mechanised or was it just a rogue car? Neither concluded the mechanics. The petrol tank, resting beneath the back seat, was topped with a secure plate. Unfortunately the wrong size of screws had been used so when the petrol reached the top, the lid buffered up, allowing the fuel to flow into the body of the car.
With the right size of screws now fitted, my new car was given a through examination and declared a healthy and worthy addition to the UK roads. The mechanics had not considered the ingenuity of the Devil or disillusioned automobile workers behind the Iron Curtain who were doing their very best to undermine the socialist system.
To this day I am not sure how damaging Skoda’s reputation by incinerating myself and my family would give the Czechoslovakian population freedom of travel, a summer retreat in Florida or ready access to Levi 501s.
But trial by fire and fuel flooding was just an introduction.
From here I could cite many other niggles and nasty surprises that involved repeated trips to the library reading room. The car came with a good warranty but after a few months I abandoned that in favour of the services of a champion stock car racer who also ran a repair garage. The reason for giving up on the warranty was that the Broughty Ferry crew couldn’t always work out what was wrong, or if it was covered, which meant bills, lots of them.
So ‘official’ repairs were restricted to those that were only absolutely necessary. When I had to accelerate sharply up Scoonie Brae my wife suddenly disappeared into the back as the passenger seat sheared. That was remedied by using clothes rope to tie it to the supports and the chassis.
But the Devil had two persistent faults that the Broughty Ferry repair pit or my stock car driver could never resolve. The first was the car would suddenly die on you. There was no warning and often a push start, or a roll down hill, would get the beast going again.
I’ve hitched, sometimes with two young children, on a variety of Fife roads after the car suddenly cut out and we trekked home. The police were regular visitors as someone had reported an abandoned Skoda, and it also became local entertainment.
Once, as I prepared to leave for work, it died on me again. I pushed it to the junction at the end of the road and leapt in for the run down the steep hill to the harbour that usually sprang the car back into life. Not this time.
Now stuck at the bottom of a hill I had no option but to try and push it back up. This was a challenge and one that attracted a lot of attention. Not a single person offered to help. One or two shouted enouragement but most aired their views that I “wouldnae mak’ it”. I did but permanently damaged my back.
The second fault was a combination of airlock and draining of the radiator. No-one could work out how this happened or why, never mind how to fix it. The one option was never to leave home without loads of two-litre bottles of water.
This became my life. A car with a roped-in passenger seat, that would stop without reason or appeared on the brink of blowing a gasket through thirst. Every single journey was an unwanted adventure, never knowing if you would reach your destination, or when.
With still nearly two years of a three-year warranty left, I was beaten, broken and bewildered as to what I could do.
Then a gentleman shared my pain, though I not his.
I was sitting at the front door, staring at the make-you-go-faster stripes when I spotted a fellow resident waddling towards me. He stopped at the car, leaned on my wall, fixed me with a stare and asked: “What do you think of your Skoda then?”
I gave him my honest opinion and he nodded in sympathy as he was an owner of the same model. He then let out a stream of abuse over the Estelle and, gathering breath, in almost a whisper, peppered with obscenities, he asked: “Have you had problems with the radiator?”
This being confirmed he confided that he had foolishly made a trip without any bottles of water. He and his wife were returning from Edinburgh late at night and as they approached Kirkcaldy the gauge shot to red and the radiator started thumping.
They had no option but to pull over and he knew the only remedy to the problem was water in the radiator, and he had none. It was late, it was dark, it was foul weather, and there was no help around.
Not only that he was desperate to empty his bladder.
So ‘official’ repairs were restricted to those that were only absolutely necessary. When I had to accelerate sharply up Scoonie Brae my wife suddenly disappeared into the back as the passenger seat sheared. That was remedied by using clothes rope to tie it to the supports and the chassis.
But the Devil had two persistent faults that the Broughty Ferry repair pit or my stock car driver could never resolve. The first was the car would suddenly die on you. There was no warning and often a push start, or a roll down hill, would get the beast going again.
I’ve hitched, sometimes with two young children, on a variety of Fife roads after the car suddenly cut out and we trekked home. The police were regular visitors as someone had reported an abandoned Skoda, and it also became local entertainment.
Once, as I prepared to leave for work, it died on me again. I pushed it to the junction at the end of the road and leapt in for the run down the steep hill to the harbour that usually sprang the car back into life. Not this time.
Now stuck at the bottom of a hill I had no option but to try and push it back up. This was a challenge and one that attracted a lot of attention. Not a single person offered to help. One or two shouted enouragement but most aired their views that I “wouldnae mak’ it”. I did but permanently damaged my back.
The second fault was a combination of airlock and draining of the radiator. No-one could work out how this happened or why, never mind how to fix it. The one option was never to leave home without loads of two-litre bottles of water.
This became my life. A car with a roped-in passenger seat, that would stop without reason or appeared on the brink of blowing a gasket through thirst. Every single journey was an unwanted adventure, never knowing if you would reach your destination, or when.
With still nearly two years of a three-year warranty left, I was beaten, broken and bewildered as to what I could do.
Then a gentleman shared my pain, though I not his.
I was sitting at the front door, staring at the make-you-go-faster stripes when I spotted a fellow resident waddling towards me. He stopped at the car, leaned on my wall, fixed me with a stare and asked: “What do you think of your Skoda then?”
I gave him my honest opinion and he nodded in sympathy as he was an owner of the same model. He then let out a stream of abuse over the Estelle and, gathering breath, in almost a whisper, peppered with obscenities, he asked: “Have you had problems with the radiator?”
This being confirmed he confided that he had foolishly made a trip without any bottles of water. He and his wife were returning from Edinburgh late at night and as they approached Kirkcaldy the gauge shot to red and the radiator started thumping.
They had no option but to pull over and he knew the only remedy to the problem was water in the radiator, and he had none. It was late, it was dark, it was foul weather, and there was no help around.
Not only that he was desperate to empty his bladder.
Suddenly that offered the solution. He could urinate into the radiator and that would be enough to get him to an all-night garage in Kirkcaldy.
It was a plan right enough, but given the conditions and his state of mind, he didn’t iron out the finer details.
Without thinking he prepared to relieve himself and unscrewed the radiator cap.
Exactly what transpired after that he never explained but the initial act was such that his story ended in the A&E department of Victoria Hospital with scalds to his manhood.
As he waddled away I thought that despite the financial commitments there was no choice but to part company with the Satanic Skoda.
It was a plan right enough, but given the conditions and his state of mind, he didn’t iron out the finer details.
Without thinking he prepared to relieve himself and unscrewed the radiator cap.
Exactly what transpired after that he never explained but the initial act was such that his story ended in the A&E department of Victoria Hospital with scalds to his manhood.
As he waddled away I thought that despite the financial commitments there was no choice but to part company with the Satanic Skoda.
After another limping, stuttering journey into Leven, I passed Links Garage and there, down the side of the lock-ups, was a beat-up old Saab. I marched straight across and although this car was £1000 less than the book price of the Estelle, I made the deal before 9am and had to pay an extra couple of hundred quid on top of it.
I left the Skoda there and walked to my work, picking up the ramshackle though more reliable replacement that evening.
Although out of pocket I still have no regrets. The Saab, soon to be beyond repair, never once let me down before it had to be scrapped.
A few years later I was buying a bacon roll from a catering caravan on Mitchelston Industrial Estate in Kirkcaldy and went for a stroll. There outside one of the factory units sat MSN 472Y.
The demon lived on.
A few years later I was buying a bacon roll from a catering caravan on Mitchelston Industrial Estate in Kirkcaldy and went for a stroll. There outside one of the factory units sat MSN 472Y.
The demon lived on.
No comments:
Post a Comment