- When saloons were still sexy.

Not just for Christmas.

The most fun I never had.

By Ted Melton.

Predictably, I had just melted yet another car and as Christmas was coming it was a fairly urgent thing that I get something to replace it with post-haste. This turned out to be a bright red Peugeot 405 turbo-diesel. Some considerate soul had fitted some nice, plain, aftermarket alloys to it. Five spokes each and of unremarkable design, no larger than the factory-fitted ones would have been but a little more stylish. Aside from a blown brake bulb and a missing interior light cover the car was in near-perfect order. For an entirely reasonable £500 I had achieved a comfortable, reliable, frugal and above all quite pretty car. Peugeot in those days really knew how to design something with real beauty in the car world. There were both fresh ticket and tyres, and the insurance was cheaper than I had expected. With a hundred bhp-per-ton, a great chassis and talkative steering I was predictably chuffed, as you can imagine.

Young as I was, I had driven some quick toys already but as I wound the engine up for the first time I was pleasantly surprised by the minimal turbo-lag and positive thrust when it came on-boost. The engine note too at full throttle was decidedly noisome. A bit Diesel-y yes, but very snorty and with just a little gasp of waste gate on the shift. Throwing it around country lanes was a joy too, the informative steering giving you warning and control under any circumstance. Like all Peugeots of it's era, it was designed with a certain level of longitudinal flex built it intentionally to work in concert with the suspensions system......at least that's their story. Aside from the slightly laggy engine, the rest of the handling dynamics of the vehicle were spot-on. Never before had I driven a saloon of that type, size or shape which was as responsive to my every whim. Before long there were plans afoot. By the following weekend not only had the minor trim parts been replaced but I had detailed the entire vehicle thoroughly and adjusted some of the parts for better performance. Being an older model as it was, the turbo spindle could be loosened and the wastegate and fuel pump similarly adjusted to apply more fuel, boost and power, all with only a couple of spanners! I applied everything and went off to manufacture some more worn tyres.

To me it was as time-warp as a tardis, sat on my drive glinting in the cold winter light. For 2 weeks I would work all evening delivering fast-food in it, then bring it home for a tidy up and polish. 2 weeks Lovingly applying little dribbles of oil stabilizer or cleaning out the injectors. Taking off tubes and wires which needed help and fixing or replacing them. After a lifetime of abusing cars, even the ones I was trying to make last, finally I seemed to have the right mix of risk and reward to keep both the car AND me happy, both ticking over nicely. It should come as no surprise then, that things started to go off-course.

At first the temperature seemed to be a getting just a tad erratic, taking a worrying length of time to warm up and then not stabilizing quite early enough. This crept up on me slowly too, barely perceptible at first, the apparent problem took a couple of days to mature. A review of the oil and water revealed nothing suspicious so a thermostat replacement was diagnosed and before long I was back on the road one wary eye on the temperature gauge. A couple of days passed and it was clear that it hadn't cured the issue, with the temperature now rising much more quickly initially but still slowly cooking the block in traffic. The water level was dropping too now, a disturbing amount of vapour being produced upon opening the header tank to refill it with water, and though there was still no mayonnaise to be found, the headgasket was definitely on it's last legs. Damn.

At this early stage of my driving career my parents are somewhat sympathetic to my plight and in secret go and purchase me a replacement banger to present as a surprise just a few days before Christmas. Aware of my troubled financial state, they have sought to avoid a panic over the Yuletide period and bought another diesel 405, this time a silver estate, to allow me personal vehicular freedom. Unfortunately from day one things are beginning to look problematic. The idea is that whatever problems I have experienced must have been a one-off. These cars are famous for their hardy longevity and towing prowess. Using the estate as tow car the rapidly expiring red saloon is pulled via the back roads to my friendly local scrap-merchant for monetary exchange. It is while climbing the first and only hill on this little adventure that the illusion is finally shattered.

Now it may be that I was simply monumentally unlucky and that what happened next was really just an unfortunate confluence of circumstances but as we neared the crest of the slope, my engine's temperature started inexorably to climb. A long, straight run immediately afterwards got things nice and even again but already I knew what was in store. I made my decision then and there. Get through Christmas and then bite the bullet and move on. Thus began the longest, most depressing week of my driving life followed by the 5 days that were most fun, in immediate succession.

7 long days I toiled behind that chunky black plastic wheel. Every change of gear was an event planned long in advance and never would the revs rise above 2000. Every stop in traffic the engine would be switched off and every journey the water and oil meticulously re-administered. No longer would I brake with the left foot. No longer would I keep revs screaming as I power shifted between gears. For a whole week I would drive like every other damn Peugeot driver on the road. Leaving enormous gaps as I crawled away from, and up to, traffic lights. As the days until new year's day slowly elapsed my driving was more hesitant and cautious until finally, Christmas done with I could start the search for new wheels. Boxing day arrives and already I am on the phone with a personable young Polish chap called Jarek, desperate to swap his fusty old Accord for my hard earned English currency. A meeting is planned for new year's eve and so for the next 5 days i have nowhere particular to be and a car already on its way to the big scrapheap in the sky. I do not continue to take things easy.

The events of the following 5 days need not be recited in such excruciating detail as I am usually prone to. Needless to say every gear change was taken at maximum attack, rev needle bouncing off the pin at the end of the dial while I literally wrestled the wheel in a ton-and-a-bit of highly engineered (probably) French estate doing it's best impression of a Dakar Rally-car. Only a couple of important points should be noted here regarding this little hiatus from reason; firstly, that a car designed to be able to run 30+ mpg figures regardless of circumstance is actually capable of burning through Satan's jungle-juice at a genuinely impressive rate that is sub 10 miles per gallon. Secondly, the fully adjustable seat and wheel are best left in the lowest possible positions because even though in this position a 6-footer like me can barely see over the wheel it gives you a delightfully low and racy feel/view of the road. With more and more white smoke mingling with the grey at start-up and longer and longer before the compression-ignition took hold in the first place, when the day came to collect my new Honda I had arranged a ride with a friend in case I couldn't make the big Pug last the full 5-day stint. As it was though I had made it, so with a tow rope and booster pack in the boot we both set off in the 405 to view the (thankfully) very nearby Honda.

The former owner must have been quite surprised to see me immediately hitch the 405 to the car I had just purchased from him. I remember him coming out to ask if we needed any help having been inside for the interlude in which the 405, with an unerring sense of timing, had finally expired. A drained battery and booster pack had failed to ignite the fuel so it was with a bemused smirk that I towed my old car home. A phone call and short wait later revealed a flat-bed lorry with a Hi-Ab approaching. Mere minutes pass and a now entirely crumpled Peugeot estate is seen disappearing around the corner looking forlornly from the back of it. My heart is tugged for just a moment but the new car awaits so the feeling is soon gone.

The French Diesel types, both turbo- and non- are world renowned for their longevity and reliability. I am certain this is so. As long as the uses you intend them for never push too far to the extremes of the rev range and the occasional oil change is effected, these things and the cars they are planted in will last until the Sun burns out it's nuclear fuel. Unfortunately the moment you begin to use them spiritedly, though they will plough through the landscape with a dexterity and aplomb that is remarkable and enticing, sadly it can only be managed for about a fortnight before it shakes itself to pieces. The vibrations and heat put through the engine will blow coolant pipes and shred pump vanes, carbonize oil into chambers and wear bearings and pistons out completely. If you make the mistake of turning off the motor immediately after a vivacious drive without letting it idle for a while, like many other turbos, the heat-sink will potentially permanently kill the engine while you're watching The Grand Tour inside. It seems almost perverse to say it, but the problem with these French Diesel engines is that they are just a bit too fragile.

Pity really, and I was just starting to really like them too...

Not pictured, huge cloud of steam.

Not pictured, huge cloud of steam.

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