It was back in 1970. I was 22. I’d just graduated. I’d had my Morris 1100 for four years. It was going well. And it was a sensible car for me. But I traded it in. Yep. I did. For a Mini Cooper S. Dark blue body. White roof. Pinstripes. Flared wheel arches. Mag wheels. Sunroof. Wooden steering wheel. Second-hand. Beautiful. Fast. Pocket rocket. Not sensible. Why did I buy it? Maybe partly an image thing. Partly to express my independence after my dad’s death the year before. And partly because Sweetheart Vivienne’s car was a Mini. So we were a young married couple who drove a couple of Minis. Whatever the reason(s), I adored my Cooper S. Driving it, I felt like the bee’s knees. Especially on a sunny day with the sunroof open and a Simon & Garfunkel song blasting out of the tape player. So young. So care free. Like in The Italian Job. In early 1972 I sold it. Reluctantly. When I left Australia to study in London. I’ve not owned a sports car since. I won’t again. So my beloved Cooper S was my first and last. Five days ago – 26 August – marks 50 years since the first Mini was made. Designed by the engineering genius Sir Alec Issigonis (1906-1988), it was ground breaking due to its side-to-side (‘east west’) engine. The so-called new MINI’s made by BMW. It lacks the old Mini’s ethos. Doesn’t cut it. Oldies are often goodies. I think so, anyway.
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