Reliant Robin

Technically the Plastic Pig (aka The Yellow Peril) was a motorcycle with sidecar. I had decided to buy a yacht, and I needed something to carry vast quantities of kit. I couldn't see myself fitting an Avon inflatable (dingy) and outboard on the back of an XS750. My Australian car licence had expired in 1974 and I hadn't bothered to re-sit the test.

It is difficult to admit to driving one of the most reviled vehicles on the road. On a scale that includes Ladas, Trabants, Wartburgs and milk floats, the Reliant Robin is the vehicle that says more about you than money ever can. In my case it said, "I don't give a f***, and all car drivers are twats anyway".

An extreme view, slightly ameliorated by time, children, growing up, and rheumatics, but not by much.

I had been fantasising about having a yacht for years. I'd never sailed a yacht. I'd never been on a yacht. However, I had sailed on liners, from London to Mozambique down the West Coast of Africa, from London to Mozambique down the East Coast (through the Suez Canal), from Mozambique to London twice, from London to Australia via Cape Town, and from Glasgow to Norway, Denmark and Finland. I'd spent several months at sea. I wanted to buy a sea-going yacht and sail around the Mediterranean. My bank manager had said yes. It was just a matter of finding a yacht and a mooring. The latter difficulty vanished when a colleague at work discovered that the London Port Authority had deep water moorings at Wapping Steps, only ten minutes from where I worked, and only about a quarter of a mile downstream from Tower Bridge (see below right).

The Lady Chrystal (sic) was a Halcyon 27 foot, long-keeled diesel sloop. I bought her in 1982. We hauled her out and stored her at Burham-on-Crouch over the winter, and at Wapping in the summer. She was a British registered craft, which meant we were entitled to fly the Red Ensign. I sold her in 1985 after Owen was born. It broke my heart.

Owning a yacht has been likened to standing in a shower of rain tearing up five pound notes. The only way I could afford her was to do most of the maintenance work myself. There was a lot of it. Young kids and boats don't mix well, and it didn't make sense to keep her on only to sail her twice a year.

The Plastic Pig? Contrary to expectation, a rudimentary but functional vehicle. With the rear seat down there was more usable space than in the Mark 1 Golf I replaced it with. I have driven up from Exeter to London with two Avon dingies, two outboards, Jan, and a weekend's clothes and food. The bodywork was fibreglass, and the acceleration was comparable to a Golf GTI. The Pig went up to 95 mph, and although there was still some throttle travel left, I lost my nerve when the front wheel began to rise off the ground. It didn't turn over when thrown into corners, but the rear end did an amusing hop-skip-jump sideways (to the horror of my passengers).

There is a vindictive pleasure to be gained from driving a Reliant Robin like the proverbial man in a white van. The Pig went everywhere at speed. No deep psychological theories of sexual inadequacy are needed here - it was a fun car to drive, more than can be said for any car I have owned since. It was while driving the Pig that we had our first encounter with a Volvo.

The Volvo had followed us all the way from Stamford Hill. The driver was a Chassidic Jew. According to a Jewish friend, their driving is a little erratic because they spend their time saying prayers. If they all drive Volvos (and a lot of them do), then they are not the only ones who need to say prayers. The Volvo ran into the back of us at the Elephant and Castle roundabout.

There should have been an explosion of fibreglass similar to a demolition ball hitting a packet of cornflakes. There wasn't. The Reliant was so light the Volvo pushed it forwards, brushed it aside, swatted it like a fly. There was a little crack in the fibreglass which I repaired in an hour. I had become an expert in fibreglass work since buying the Lady Chrystal.

But what about sailing the Mediterranean? It never happened. Some day ...

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