cnvolvd

Road Trip - Vintage Car Auction

I might be running 33 years late but Im certainly making up for lost time. I am undergoing a most demanding induction course into the automobilia world and steering me unflinchingly, while barely peering over the dashboard, is my eight year old son. Whisper it softly but I do vaguely recall a passing infatuation with cars at that age. The passing soon passed, however, and I became deeply immersed in footballing ephemera instead. It wasnt enough for me to simply play or even, from time to time, attend a big match. I can remember still the pinch of excitement as I opened my new packets of football stickers, sharing joy and pain with my friends, concocting shady transfer deals behind closed doors and wondering if I was ever going to see George Best again. This was but a prelude to a more sinister development, whereby I started recording the results of imaginary matches in my exercise books, complete with scorers, half times, crowds and league positions, if appropriate. Oh, I did things properly. If theyd handed out prizes for footballing obsession, Id have hoovered up every time.

There is often a thin dividing line between passion and obsession and my son is already starting to exhibit some disturbing parallels with his father. My relationship with cars hitherto has been strictly of the A to B variety. In other words, as long as I can reach my destination safely, securely and speedily, Im a pretty happy bunny. I am strangely unmoved by upholstery, sound systems, alloy wheels and other delights. I have never spent an afternoon washing my car. My son, however, spent an hour painstakingly polishing and sprucing his car yesterday. And as for the remote control, glad you asked, a solid ten minutes checking the electrics.

Yet it all started so innocently. An occasional reference to a car in the street was an entirely natural form of curiosity. My mumbled acknowledgement was usually enough and we went on our merry way but I felt a frisson of alarm as my son started to recognise cars hed seen before and ask me about them too. The first time this happened I thought he was talking to someone else until he looked me in the eye with a quite disarming sincerity and repeated the question. Dad, did you see that red Porsche, isnt that the one from the end of the street I showed you last week? That was so cool, how fast did it go? Can we go in one?. Well, theres off guard and theres on the canvas. As I groggily sought to compose myself, I nonetheless realised that my son had achieved a major landmark. Hed entered football sticker country.

No longer would my studied nonchalance suffice. My son was already in second gear while I was groping for the ignition. I could have handled simple car spotting but my son started to display a much wider repertoire, engaging in a running commentary on every journey and inviting from me, normally at a moment of maximum inconvenience, some expert analysis on the virtues of the latest BMW convertible

Frankly, I was rocking. I was all over the place when, quite serendipitously,echoing that unforgettable proverb that Ive unfortunately forgotten, I got very lucky indeed. I was sitting in a sushi bar intermittently dabbing at a proof I was reviewing while watching a conveyor belt, with all the contours of a Scalectrix track, pass before me carrying an assortment of dishes. It all looked pretty tasty but the tastiest thing of all was the ingenious billing process. Nobody took my order so I just helped myself as, indeed, did everyone else. As I munched away, while simultaneously tiptoeing around the proof, admiring the female population, worrying about Arsenals recent form and staring vacantly into space I believe its called multitasking I had a sudden epiphany. Each bowl was painted with a different trim around the rim. There were pink or green or blue or whatever stripes around each and they all had a different price, reflecting their contents. At the end of the meal, you might tot up three green for 3, two red for 4 and an orange for 5. As I ruminated upon this creative thinking, a familiar face sidled up to the stool next to me. It was none other than Robert Brooks, chairman of Bonhams and a doyen of the classic car auction market. We exchanged small talk before my eye was inextricably drawn to the catalogue he had evidently intended to read over lunch.

The catalogue related to a forthcoming sale by Bonhams of classic cars and related automobilia. As we chatted away, I hinted that my son was leaning that way and the conversation dramatically moved on to an altogether higher plane. I then let slip, accidentally on purpose, that my father in law had been a racing driver of some repute in the 1950s, notably for Jaguar and Allard, and that his old AC might still be lurking in the garage. Instantly, the catalogue was thrust into my hand as was an open invitation to join Bonhams at the next Festival of Speed at Goodwood. As this famous circuit is but a mile from our house in Sussex, even I may struggle to find any logistical obstacles to our future attendance, unless Arsenal obligingly have a home fixture that weekend. I suddenly felt a hot flush at the prospect of my son and I fighting off the groupies as we were ushered into the pits to mingle with the cognoscenti and talk race tactics. Then again, probably a belated reaction to those Japanese pickles.

I could tell my son was very impressed. His knowing look told me Id found first gear. He pored over the catalogue, enthralled by the wonderful photographs, and I had to admit that there were some fabulous motors. The mechanical aspects left me stone cold but the voluptuous lines of many of the post war sports cars warmed me up considerably. Although I wouldnt recognise a camshaft if it introduced itself to me personally, I can certainly recognise a thing of beauty when I see it. I could quite understand why so many of these models, with their gorgeous styling and lush interiors, have become design icons in their own right.

Then I took a quantum leap. I bought a copy of Classic Car. There was plenty for the obsessive, ranging from the rebuild of some obscure, but paradoxically important, car to fantastically detailed classified advertisements. The most interesting revelation for me, however, apart from my conspicuous failure to correctly identify two cars in succession, was the coverage of auction activity. I discovered that Coys were conducting a sale in ten days time but a mile or two up the road in the grounds of Chiswick House, formerly a family home of the Duke of Marlborough and now owned by English Heritage.

The sale started at 10am. I had loosely intimated to my son that wed aim on a 9am departure but, in the manner of excitable eight year olds everywhere, he took it all too literally. As ever, morning had arrived about three hours too early for me and, when I eventually stumbled downstairs, I found him almost consumed by anticipation. I gathered my bits, took a bottle of water to cool his engine and we were on the road. I had a reasonable idea of the location of the house which was just as well, since the map I had printed off told me everything and nothing at the same time. It was a largely uneventful journey, punctuated only by my impatience with sleepy drivers and my sons impatience with sleepy me. Then, lo and behold, a sign and we were there. We followed a dribble of middle aged men walking along a wide path to nowhere whereupon, looming beyond the trees, we were confronted by two enormous marquees. There were cars dotted all around and my son was so enraptured that I almost had to frogmarch him inside for the main event. I buckled under the weight of the catalogue, truly a labour of love, gathered myself and entered.

There must have been some twenty five cars in immediate view. The vintages were redolent of museum pieces and, though we prodded and probed, I cant say we lavished them with attention. Conversely, I was intrigued by the rows of old bicycles while my son, realising you were actually encouraged to handle the goods, was caressing a silver Aston Martin as he cast his eye at all the other wonders that awaited him. I decided to register as a bidder as even the wildest optimist in me knew that it would be nigh on impossible to leave unscathed with an increasingly passionate eight year old by my side. I picked up my paddle, scanned the horizon for my son, and salvaged him from the undercarriage of an admittedly dashing Jensen.

Admiring, touching, caressing, yes, that again, we ambled into the auction itself. I wouldnt say the joint was jumping but the sale moved pretty swiftly. I looked at the catalogue and it dawned on me that this would be an all day affair. The main event later in the afternoon would be the sale of some fifty cars and I expect the arena would then have filled out appreciably. We were participating in the undercard but it was entertaining enough simply being there. My son pottered about viewing memorabilia, cups, toys and so forth while I took the opportunity to properly read the catalogue, enjoy the banter in the room and vainly hope that I might pick up some pearl of wisdom from the assembled enthusiasts.

As one lot followed another and I resolutely clasped my paddle to my breast, I sensed my son was becoming a little agitated. There were still about 700 more items to go under the hammer but, after numerous skirmishes, including a very near miss with a replica piston pump, a cock up of Berlusconiesque proportions, I ultimately succumbed. My son was the proud owner of a 1970 odd limited edition Ferrari. I was much more fascinated by its accompanying box that not only further legitimised its authenticity, as does a dust jacket to a book, but also told me that it had been cared for by its previous owner. I liked that.

Two further lots invited particular scrutiny. The first was an exceptionally scarce game dating from the late 19th century, formed around famous cyclists of that era. It was circular and painted and possibly French but my lingering thought was that, much as I could not afford it, it should go to a good home. The other lot I could afford and I bought it with my father in mind. This was an amusing and uncommon promotional pamphlet from the late 1920s for Alvis that adapted the style of The Man Who series by H.M.Bateman. It is one of my fathers understated regrets that he sold the Alvis he owned some thirty years ago and that, when he came to reverse that decision, he discovered the car was no longer in production. It struck me as faintly ironic that the pamphlet was entitled The Terrible Fate Which Befell The Man Who Did Not Buy An Alvis. As we wandered back to the cashier to settle our purchases, my son insisted on sitting in virtually every car we passed. He was in his element, joy unconfined, as he twiddled with the knobs and spun the steering wheels, while luxuriating amid the resplendent wood panelling and upholstery. His joy became my joy, his beaming smile suffused with the magic of the moment. Wed come a long way together.

More prosaic matters then presented themselves, over a somewhat shorter distance, as we contrived to get lost seeking the car park. My legendary sense of direction ensured we had a very pleasant walk through the pergola but took a most circuitous route back. By this stage, I was ready to lie down, preferably in a darkened room, somewhere quiet and remote. Instead, I had to grapple with the fact that we were on the wrong side of the dual carriageway and needed to be home for the rest of the clan in the next fifteen minutes. After executing a quite masterful three point turn which surprised me, let alone my son, we were off and running. I had a nagging suspicion, however, that I might have peaked a little too early in my induction course and, boy, were my instincts hot.

A week later came another day of reckoning. Acknowledging that his recent acquisition was not equipped for a run in the park, especially minus any batteries, my son decided we should take his other model instead. It was supposed to be a quick twenty minute spin around the park, testing it for speed, durability and a few fancy tricks. It was all a bit humdrum after a while so I decided to spice things up a bit. In what I can only describe as a moment of madness, I suggested a game whereby we had to direct the car along the pavement towards the nearest lamppost within a specified time. My son made it look easy. I made it look very difficult.

It was difficult enough remembering which way the controls moved without having to contend with divots, litter, pedestrians and sundry other obstacles. Although my son generously extended my handicap, I was already 5 0 down by the time we were alongside the tennis courts. And it was precisely here that I delivered my coup de grace. My abject performance thus far encouraged me to at least sign off with some aplomb and so, at full speed, I charged off. I was actually making a decent fist of it for once when my concentration was shattered by a whoop of delight on Court Six. A pulsating rally was over and, distracted by the hubbub, I witnessed the car pirouette and turn sharply. As if transfixed by this remarkable manoeuvre, I watched, disbelievingly, as it rotated a full 360 degrees and trundled, almost apologetically, under the wire and straight on to the aforementioned court. I wasnt sure if the applause was directed at the players or at me but then my sense of direction, as you may be aware, leaves much to be desired. Ill be wearing my L plates for a while yet.

posted by uzqqkdq @ 11:15 PM 0 comments

George Best - A Profile of the Manchester United Players Career

In 1961 Manchester United's scout in Northern Ireland, Bob Bishop, telegrammed the clubs' legendary manager Matt Busby in a state of unusual excitement.

"I think I have found you a genius," he eagerly explained.

He had indeed. But neither Bishop, Busby nor anybody else could have imagined the impact his skin and bone, fifteen year old discovery would make on Manchester United, football throughout the world and society as a whole.

On the recommendation of Bishop this "genius", George Best, was packed off to Manchester along with another prospect, Eric McMordie, for a two week trial. Fazed by their journey into the unknown and immediately homesick the youngsters scarpered back to Belfast before the first week was through.

Busby had already seen enough to know that one of these youngsters was worth pursuing and the United boss wrote to George Best's father urging him to send his boy back to Manchester, assuring him that George had what it took to enjoy a bright future in the game.

This was a very strong early indication of Best's outstanding ability. Manchester United Football Club would not usually go running after a fifteen year old kid who bunked out on them. George Best did return and, you could easily say, the rest is history.

The young Irishman was naturally shy and somewhat ill at ease, as his earlier bolt for home had demonstrated, but it did not take him long to settle down more happily in Manchester on his return.

Once he had a ball at his feet George Best was a different person. Not just confident, he was arrogant. Supremely sure of his own ability he demanded centre stage and revelled in having it.

This attitude did not cause resentment among his colleagues as they instantly recognised his incredible gifts and naturally deferred to them. Besides this, off the field he was quiet and popular with everyone. At once he was accepted and respected. As word quickly filtered through to the first teamers at Old Trafford about this unbelievable kid in the youth team they would sneak in to watch him train and left shaking their heads at his ability.

Matt Busby was anxious not to blood his latest wonder boy too soon but it was impossible to keep him out of the side for long. Having just turned seventeen George Best made his first team debut early on in the 1963-64 season and played a blinder against West Bromwich Albion.

Perhaps wooried about the fuss his introduction had made, Busby then left him out of the team before recalling him for a christmas fixture at home to Burnley. Burnley were a top side at the time and had hammered United at Turf Moor only two days earlier on Boxing Day. With Best scoring his first United goal the drubbing was returned and the youngster was here to stay.

The remainder of that season saw George Best confirm his incredible talent and by the end of it United finished runners up in the league. Best's impact was amazing.

Crowds everywhere marvelled at this skinny winger who fabled hard men could not knock off a ball, tackle or even foul on most occasions. A boy who could appear in the middle and outjump international centre halves to head goals past international goalkeepers and who could rip shots into the back of the net in a blur that almost defeated the eye.

His appeal was not confined to the football pitch. Best was an exceptionally good looking young man as well and all at once girls all over the country began taking an interest in football, at least to the extent of having pictures of Georgie Best plastered across their bedroom walls.

Within a couple of years this interest would turn to something approaching hysteria and George Best, the footballer and the man, would start to crack under the pressure.

Best's first full season in the United first team was a thrilling one as the club captured the first division championship and reached the semi finals of both the FA and Fairs Cups, losing to Leeds United and Ferencvaros of Hungary, both after replays.

He had not yet turned nineteen but Best was already perhaps the most talked about and recognisable figure in British football but it was the following season that his fame really exploded and became international.

On a balmy night in Lisbon, George Best turned in one of his greatest ever performances as United slaughtered Benfica 5-1 on their own ground, the first time they had ever suffered defeat at home in European competition. Best provided two of the early goals which set United on their way, leaping in front of the keeper to head the first before slicing through the defence to slide home his second.

Captured strolling through the streets of Lisbon the following morning in a massive sombrero a newspaper caption dubbed Best "El Beatle" and the legend moved on apace.

United missed out on further glory that year, losing in the semi finals of both the FA and European Cups after Best was injured in the first leg of their European tie with Partizan Belgrade and missed the remainder of the season.

The following season United once again won the league championship which earned the club another crack at the European Cup, the trophy which Matt Busby coveted above all others.

George Best was undoubtedly at his best during this season and although United were pipped to another title by neighbours City, George topped the first division scoring charts with 28, alongside Southampton's Ron Davies, an incredible tally for a winger.

European glory did come United's way, however, in suitably dramatic fashion. Paired with the Spanish giants Real Madrid in the semi finals it was a Best goal that gave United a precarious 1-0 lead to take to Spain for the second leg and proved ultimately decisive after a typically extravagant 3-3 draw in the Bernebeu.

In the final, again against Benfica, Best scored perhaps his most famous goal, skipping round the last defender and rounding the keeper before tapping into an empty net. This goal put United 2-1 in front early in extra time and Busby's dream came true as his side marched on to a famous 4-1 triumph.

This was in 1968 and George Best, approaching his 22nd birthday, was crowned Footballer of the Year and European Footballer of the Year. The footballing world was well and truly at Best's feet and yet this would prove to be the pinacle of his career.

United never finished higher than 8th during Best's remaining years at Old Trafford and although they reached the European Cup semi finals again in 1969 and the FA Cup semis a year later the clubs' glory days were coming to a bitter end. Matt Busby had allowed his squad to grow old and left at a time when his fabled youth system was producing non entities.

Wilf McGuinness and Frank O'Farrell both found Busby's shoes too big to step into and United continued to deteriorate before Tommy Docherty arrived at Old Trafford determined to stamp his own personality and authority on the club.

All this time George Best had been deteriorating likewise. It was scarcely noticable in his performances on the field, especially as his genius was now largely surrounded by mediocroty, and he remained United's leading scorer for six successive seasons between 1967 and 1972.

His social life had started to spiral out of control, however, and by the time of Docherty's arrival at Old Trafford Best was already drinking heavily, would occasionally miss training and was, basically, a sitting target as the new manager looked to wield his axe, all at a time when he should have been untouchable. Therefore one of the greatest players ever to grace Old Trafford left in shambolic circumstances at the age of 27.

Docherty has taken a lot of criticism over the years for his treatment of George Best, particularly from the fans, but it would seem to be one of the wisest things he ever did.

Although United were relegated at the end of the season in which Best made his final appearance for the club, a 0-3 defeat at QPR on New Years Day 1974, Docherty quickly put together a hungry young team which returned instantly to the first division and came back much stronger.

Best, on the other hand, descended into a series of unsatisfactory, and mainly shortlived, dalliances at a string of unlikely clubs while becoming a confirmed alcoholic.

It is often suggested that George Best became disillusioned with life at Old Trafford as the great players he had grown up with left and were replaced by men not fit to lace their, or his, boots.

There is no doubt that this did happen but Best did not stop playing football on leaving Manchester United and surely the players at United were better than those at the places he ended up going to.

His course of action was simply the easier one, always favoured by people with a drink problem.

Therefore when Best should have been playing for Manchester United he was representing the likes of Dunstable Town, Stockport County, Cork Celtic, Los Angeles Aztecs, Fulham, Fort Lauderdale Strikers, Detroit Express, Hibernians, San Jose Earthquakes, Bournemouth, Brisbane Lions and Tobermore United.

This is the rightful CV of someone like Sammy Morgan, not the man who many regard as the greatest player to ever live.

Best was an unqualified success during his time in America but this hardly represents a claim to fame. In a league peopled by a handful of ageing superstars and a host of journeymen Best was at the age when he should have been at his peak.

The early eighties became a circus of rumoured comebacks, testimonial appearances and lurid stories about Best's drinking.

George Best played his last Football League game for Bournemouth in May 1983 in a 2-2 draw with Wigan Athletic and his last recorded competitive appearance was for Tobermore United in the Irish Cup the following February. Typically the tiny ground was bursting at the seams for Best's appearance but his team lost 7-0 to Ballymena.

Given this personally induced destruction of his own career and his God given talent it is easy to judge George Best harshly and yet it has to be remembered that during his time at the top he managed to influence a generation of football supporters perhaps more profoundly than any other player in the games' history.

It is not just those who followed Manchester United during George Best's time there who name him as the greatest player of the period. Throughout Britain, Europe and all across the world his performances captivated millions and his legend lives on today as subsequent generations look back and see him flicking the ball over Gordon Banks' head for the greatest disallowed goal ever scored, riding Ron Harris' crude assault on a muddy Old Trafford pitch before casually rounding Peter Bonetti with consumate ease, lobbing Pat Jennings from the corner of the six yard box with his international colleague standing on his line and leaving Bobby Moore on his backside before scoring against West Ham.

You cannot create such a deep and lasting impression unless you are seriously good and there is no question that George Best was up there with footballs' all time greats.

He had been born with all the attributes a player could wish for. His ball control was immaculate and his dribbling skills perhaps unsurpassed. Best could also pass, shoot, head and tackle superbly and was naturally two footed.

Above and beyond this Best was blessed with natural gifts which could not be taught or coached. He was lightning quick, especially off the mark, had unlimited stamina and possessed an incredible flexibility which allowed him to ride tackles and avoid injury despite the punishment, unimaginable these days, that defenders were permitted to inflict on him week in and week out.

It should also be remembered that although George Best cut off his Manchester United career in its prime he made over 460 appearances for the club in all competitions, a healthy career for most mortals.

Where Best stands in the list of all time greats is, as always, a matter of opinion.

It was not easy for Best to make a mark in international football coming from Northern Ireland and he never had the chance to perform in a major finals.

His performances in Europe for Manchester United were invariably scintilating, however, and there is no doubt that he was the single biggest attraction in British football during the 1960's and early 70's.

Interestingly though, although his contemporaries speak now about him being possibly the greatest ever, comments concerning Best while he was playing tended to mention the room for improvement possible in his teamwork, something Best chose never to fully address.

Indeed it can only be assumed that had Best deigned to channel his talents more towards the team then he would have ended his career with more than three winners medals and might well have led Northern Ireland towards international recognition.

Of course when people such as Bobby Charlton were passing such opinions they were talking about a young man in his mid twenties who they assumed had another ten years at the top in him. In the normal course of events Best would surely have added these facets to his game and made an even stronger claim to being considered the greatest player of them all.

One of my favourite assessments of George Best came from Jimmy Greaves who said that he did not know if George was the best but added that "there was no-one better."

It seems a touch sentimental to put Best forward as the greatest footballer ever, surely that accolade can never go to someone who was playing for Stockport at the age of 29, but it does not seem too extravagant to claim that he might well have been the most naturally gifted man ever to kick a football.

posted by uzqqkdq @ 6:56 PM 0 comments