The Final Word: White van man

By Paul Moore

If one is a bit of a petrolhead it is a sobering task to sit down and think about the number of cars one has had over the years and the number of mistakes made by purchasing something which cost more than the price of a small house to keep running and hence was sold at a loss.

You will notice I use the term ‘think about’ because not even I could contemplate adding up the value of those mistakes, but I am fairly sure they would amount to an elegant retirement home somewhere exotic.

I know this because I was that petrolhead, never able to resist what looked like a bargain, and which in my defence, was actually a bargain to purchase but not to keep on the road.

My addiction was not helped by the fact of having an older cousin in the second hand car trade who consistently would call me and tell me he had just the car for me and would be able to ‘change me for just a few hundred pounds’. So I have had all the calamities: A Porsche I could not afford to buy tyres for; an Inspector Morse Jaguar that caught up with you at the petrol pump if you forgot to turn it off; a four-wheel drive Volkswagen Golf GT that consumed wheel bearings like a whale consuming plankton; a Jensen Healey that needed the petrol jets set in Castlederg every time it left the house – and would need them done again before reaching Drumquin; an MG Midget that was so midget I simply could not get in or out of it and that was before I ate all the pies. Believe me I am still only scraping the surface of what I would call my experimental phase but which others suggest was my madness.

Surprisingly, however, I am genuinely cured. Of course I still salivate over beautiful vehicles, most recently the Lamborghini, but I genuinely would not contemplate any kind of purchase even if the lottery numbers came up. The reason for this healing is simultaneously utterly mundane and gloriously fantastic and comes in the form of the humble Ford Transit van, which I discovered had its 60th birthday last week making it, technically, a pensioner.

The said Transit van in my life was originally bought as a workhorse to transport the more important two-wheeled examples of combustion engined vehicles. As the days passed, however, I realised I was driving it all the time, a fact that caused much consternation when I arrived in work settings where expectations were, let us say, different.

The transit is comfortable beyond any car, is the ultimate form of convenience, can double up as a restaurant and a mobile home, is unlikely to be stolen no matter where it is parked, makes one a better driver because all manoeuvres are done through the driver mirrors, and it makes you look as if you are a proper working person rather than, for example, a less than useful university lecturer. The only downside is that it is difficult to find one that is not white. More worryingly, realising the popularity and potential of the Transit van, Ford have developed a thing called the MS-RT, essentially a rally-pimped van with leather interior and a limited edition certification number. It even comes in a range of colours.

A BBC article on the 60th birthday celebrations of the Transit suggested it was beloved by bands and bank robbers.

I am awaiting an adjudication from Ofcom based on my complaint that the list should also have included reformed, penniless pedants. And when the lottery numbers do come up, expect to see a fast grey Transit MS-RT in the drive.