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 Let me start by saying that the abject hilarity of me writing a motoring feature would not be lost on anyone who knows me. I’m not a polish-your-mags-and-adjust-your-spoiler kind of guy. No, I’m the guy who called the NRMA – after I’d left my headlights on and killed the battery – and couldn’t open the bonnet when requested. I simply didn’t know where the button was and couldn’t locate it. After the petrol cap and boot flung open rather inappropriately I had to sheepishly ask the man for assistance. I’ll never forget the look he shot me. I’m not alone in the SX office though – a colleague reminisced to me that he was once asked whether he’d checked the water level in his car. His reply? “Don’t be silly, my car runs on petrol.” I love a good walking stereotype…
Anyway, I’m off to ARQ to take a ride in Promotion Manager Jimmy Dee’s blue-green Mazda MX-5 convertible. He tells me he’s always had neutral-coloured cars – he likes being discreet; nothing too ostentatious like red or yellow. To be honest I find this claim slightly difficult to swallow. The man is sitting behind the wheel in a floral shirt, bug-eye sunglasses and a cap. The roof is down and he’s grinning like a Hawaiian caricature. Discretion or subtlety does not exactly ooze from his pores.
I’m glad he has the roof down though. I’m not vertically challenged and my head effortlessly clears the windscreen. As we hoon off up Oxford Street it soon becomes apparent I’m going to emerge from this drive in the sun with bed hair that would rival Sandra Sully. ‘Windswept’ does not begin to cover it…
Jimmy soon tells me his obsession with convertibles springs from his obsession with Magnum P.I. and Tom Selleck. Ah ha! That explains the Hawaiian shirt and the cap…
Like a couple of true queens the conversation quickly turns to sex; specifically, sex in the MX-5. Looking around I quickly identify a few logistical problems the modest proportions of the car would pose to any beachside carpark slap bang wiggle wiggling. No back seat for a start. The prospect of being gored by a particularly nasty looking hand brake (although…). Getting appendages snagged in the automatic roof mechanics. Jimmy assures me that, although challenging, with perseverance and the flexibility of a contortionist, the old MX-5 can give a Kombi van a run for its money. Apparently when the roof’s on it fogs up faster than the bathrooms at Bodyline – but at least the de-mister is an efficient worker.
I must admit that being a passenger in the trusty MX-5 made me feel as camp as a row of tents; gayer than Christmas. At certain points I had to fight an overwhelming urge to leap up in my seat and subject surrounding commuters to a choreographed routine of ‘YMCA’. This feeling was only intensified when we pulled over next to the entrance of the Paddington barracks and took happy snaps. And when we took a wrong turn and got deposited on a freeway I’m sure was determined to take us to Wollongong ...
Nevertheless, Jimmy was a gracious and accommodating driver. He dropped me off at Taylor Square – much like a taxi driver did on Friday night – and I walked back to the office with what was left of my dignity and my Sandra Sully hair intact.
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