I have never owned a nice fiesta. I am sure you will tell me in ravenous terms how dreadfully wrong I am but allow me to riposte. There are probably fiestas which are fine. Comfy, roomy, not-boring, whatever. But there has never been a properly special one. They have charm, yes, character by the bucketload, and those early XR's were one hell of a giggle at times. But the whole thing was always built to a cost, and not a great one either. Always outclassed, no matter the generation, don't even start on the new ones....20 grand for a hot hatch? I could buy 5 better ones than that and still have enough money left over for insurance. Ridiculous. Maybe in time it will come to be worth the money but for the moment we'll just have to wait and see won't we? Aware of the hype I have owned a number of the little tykes but have always slightly expected them to be awful. I have never been disappointed. Having bought one in a rush and for a pittance in what I would describe as an emergency of dire proportion, I was now the extremely unsatisfied owner of a Mk3 fiesta in rust-white. Within weeks I loathed it more than any previous Fiesta and was convinced something was wrong with this one a decided to get rid of it before it had even died. Aware of my hatred, but himself a fan of the feisty ol' fiesta, my good friend and colleague here at Worn Tyres decided to throw me a bone and take it off my hands.
At first he tried to defend it, obviously seeking to mitigate my distaste. But soon his responses became less sincere, more forced. Before long he was prepared to admit that this particular example was less than spectacular, and, in fact, if you must know....bloody terrible. The 'words' mind-bendingly and craptastic spring to mind. My memories of other fiestas up 'til that point were of paste-grey boring-mobiles with uninspiring absolutely everything. Now it was hardening into something more like true loathing. Soon my hatred became infectious and he too thought dark and immoral thoughts concerning the demise of the little fi-fi, for he too was tiring of the hateful lack of feel or flavour. He had now the means to replace the car and so it became his obsession and mine also to destroy the car once and for all. We had concocted a plan.
Our dreadlocked friend arrives at 8 a.m. sharp. His little 309 bouncing into the stony driveway. He is not a sympathetic man by nature. We climb in with a clear instruction. "Drive to the scrapyard, Kill the car." He smiles, a rare event, and we take this as assent. I am a seasoned and steely-eyed motorist with little doubt and less fear. I am not scared at great speed, either at the wheel or in the hands of another expert. But nothing is more terrifying, more pant-shittingly, flat-out scary, than being passenger in a weak and tiny car being intentionally thrown into and out of the wrong gear by a flagrant and unapologetic amateur. Having the brakes stamped on arbitrarily with hands braced on the wheel and taken from somewhere in the high 70's right down to 0 for the plain old hell of it. Just generally being abused with no regard whatsoever for personal safety. It is a nightmare. It is fear incarnate. The Devil himself is at the helm and he's smiling, eyes agleam.
-Later.-
Steam and oil escape from the bonnet and the condition of it's various components have dramatically worsened. A tyre is flat. The dead zone in the steering arc is a full half a turn. Many sounds emanate from within, too numerous to count but all deeply upsetting and very very bad. Some gears no longer engage, or perhaps even exist at all, after all, the brakes certainly don't. Miraculously the windows are intact despite some close calls with the local scenery. Despite this apalling treatment the car is still operating after a fashion and the destination creeps into the far distance. The road is straight and clear. The gates to the yard a mile yonder are open invitingly. Despite already having several failed attempts to blow it up, and somewhat in desperation, the recalcitrant bitch is wound up to about 70mph, then dumped heavily from 4th into 1st as the gates loom close. The clutch slides and the revs wail. There is a clang like a piece of metal snapping, which, in fact it has. Later inspection reveals a fractured crank and thrown rod, the burst engine having poured oil and metal onto the road as the car coasted lazily into the scrapyard. A short time later, an amused scrapman fills out details in the V5 and hands us pathetically few funds before taking the key and waving goodbye. We have a long walk before us and already the images of the day are settling to the fore of my mind. There were smiles, and nearly tears. That car, on that day, got treated with less mechanical sympathy than on any other day in out collective ownership of it. Three times round the clock and on the very last journey, it finally went out with just a little style.
It's a funny thing, now I come to think about it, but the Fiesta I hated above all others, might just be the one I miss the most...
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