OTOSOT 75

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Hello, it's Richard.

Johnny's not here for this one, I'm afraid, because he's gone away for a few days

and we forgot to record an otter sock before he went.

So it's just me on my own, I'm afraid.

And worse still, I thought rather than answer questions,

I would instead shamelessly hijack this episode and use it to plug my new book.

I think I've mentioned it a couple of times on the podcast,

but in case you missed that, it's called Petrolhead.

And it's a collection of some of the columns that I've written for Evo magazine over the years.

I've been doing that column now since 2003, so that's a lot of words have piled up.

And for the past two or three years,

I thought I should really just cram a few of them into a book or something.

It's taken me until now to get that sorted out.

But the book's on sale now, you can get it from Amazon,

or you can get it from the Smith & Sniff merch shop.

And it's not just the stuff that you've read in Evo,

because I've written a little sort of introductory paragraph for each column.

Just to explain what I was thinking at the time,

or to clear up some references that have got lost to the mists of time in the last 20 odd years,

or sometimes just to explain the reaction that came after I'd written the column,

because there are at least a couple of them where some people got a bit angry with me.

Also in the book, there's a couple of longer features from Evo.

One of them I went and drove a Ford RS200,

and another where I went to drive a Bristol, Bristol Fighter.

So I've stuck those in the book, because I don't write a lot of features for Evo,

but I was fairly pleased with those two.

So what I'm going to do is just read out some extracts from the book,

and if you want to switch this off and put a different podcast on,

now would probably be a good time to do it.

The first column is one from 2019 that got quite a lot of reaction at the time,

and as I've said in my little explanatory paragraph in the book,

I had this horrible feeling that if I died the following week,

the only thing I'd be remembered for is that bloke who wrote that column slightly too much

about his testicles. It's called the Alpine of Agony.

You'll have heard how the Alpine A110's combination of likeness and rightness

has earned the admiration of Evo's Tillerman.

And that's all well and good, but what's it like if you've just had a vasectomy?

To find out, I went to a central London clinic and invited a large,

medically qualified man to have a good rummage amongst my underparts,

then realised with dismay that I'd booked to borrow a low-slung French sports car

almost immediately afterwards.

The first thing to cross your mind upon seeing the A110 is just how little it is,

and also how much your balls hurt.

You can immediately sense that this is a car from which all excess has been banished,

and this impression is reinforced by opening the featherweight aluminium door,

which is so lacking in mass that it puts no strain whatsoever on your mangled knackersack,

unlike its low-slung driving position, which is absolute agony.

Once in, you can take a moment to admire the bespoke seats with their one-piece backs and

upsettingly unpillowy cushions.

You might be interested to learn that these chairs weigh just 13.1 kilos each,

despite fine detailing including quilted leather and a grippy central section that

expertly rides your jeans up into the tenderest parts of your plum pouch.

The rest of the interior is perhaps a little less successful,

featuring a smattering of Renault Parts bin components,

including remote audio controls seemingly taken from the Renault 19

and the flat keyless entry card from the Laguna.

Though wrapped in a smart leather case, that makes it both more attractive to look at,

and better equipped to shift awkwardly across your pocket,

and nudge stoutly into your tenderised clacker hammer.

On the move, the A110 quickly makes its lack of mass known,

not least for the way it skips lightly over bumps in the road.

The suspension itself is reasonably firm, but with only 1103 kilos pressing down on the springs

and dampers, it isn't being smashed into every rut and undulation, and this really

makes a difference to the overall ride quality, which is firm but generally comfortable,

as long as you haven't recently had your family jewels neutered by a genial chap in a smock.

The dividends of the Alpine's aluminium construction and dedication to a low fat diet

really become apparent however when you get out on the open road,

and discover the effortless way in which it gathers speed,

and then sheds it again, both of which are guaranteed to put a smile on your face

and a strain on your nut satchel.

With such a slender frame to move about, the little A110 gathers pace with deceptive ease,

sometimes feeling almost frictionless in its acceleration,

though it's under hard braking that you really begin to wonder if this is medically dangerous.

Speaking of acceleration, mention must go to the Gutsy 1.8-litre turbocharged

4 mounted just behind your back. This modest unit delivers a power output that,

like the number of children I already have, seems absolutely plenty.

Any less might seem disappointing, and any more would be overwhelming,

and the same is true of the Alpine's horsepower rating.

Though this motor can sometimes sound a little flat,

harder application of the throttle causes an unusual gargling sound to emerge from the exhaust

and indeed driver, though only one of these things follows it with a shout of agma bollocks.

Of course, a small sports car is ultimately only as good as it's handling,

and suffice to say, the A110 absolutely crushes expectations and your berry hanger.

Once more, it's the rigorous diet program that comes to the fore here,

as the Alpine darts into bends with an agility and alacrity

that is sure to bring an alarming swelling to your nether parts.

Grip on dry roads is plentiful and the steering reasonably quick,

though being electrically powered, I'm afraid there's not much feel

beyond the sensation of having a soldering iron pressed into your hacky sack.

Having praised the Alpine's lightweight and all the benefits that brings,

I should add that occasionally this little car can feel somewhat flighty

over rough and unfavourably cambered roads, and this writer certainly experienced one moment

over a tricky crest that could have become rather lively if I'd been driving balls out,

rather than keeping them within some extremely supportive underwear.

Ultimately, however, the Alpine A110 is an absolutely brilliant sports car,

managing to be simple without seeming spartan and exciting without being overpowering.

In fact, aside from the minor flaws mentioned above,

the biggest issues with it are the seemingly hefty £47,000 plus price tag,

and the absolute agony it wrought on my spuds.

However, while the price may seem on the high side for a small,

relatively low-powered car, when you take into account the sheer delight it brings

from its intelligent design and the way that it drives,

I would argue it's an absolute snip.

This next column is just idiotic. I mean, it is a made-up thing that was sort of inspired by

Peter Jackson's Get Back documentary about the Beatles,

which was being talked about a lot at the time.

And I just wrote this because I felt like doing something different

rather than just the usual column where you go, I think this.

I'd later noticed some people on the internet were really confused and thought they were missing

the joke or an explanation, but there wasn't one.

It's just daft, and I kind of liked it that way.

This one is called The Brown Cords.

There was excitement amongst music enthusiasts last month,

with the release of Sod Off, a brand new documentary series charting the troubled recording of

Are You Hearing That, the eighth album from legendary British group Brown Cords.

As fans will know, the chords lurched to fame in 1966,

rightly taking their place as one of Great Britain's top 11 bands.

Soon afterwards, they broke America and then spent four years revisiting the place trying to fix things.

By the start of the 70s, all was not well in the chords camp,

as this punishing transatlantic travel schedule left the so-called Super Six exhausted.

To the extent that lead singer Pete Banjo-Straddling

once tried to get off a Pan Am 707, which hadn't finished flying.

Adding to their woes was the infamous dispute between guitarist Mickey Biscuit

and bass player Ned Ketters as to who had the biggest thumb.

The band realised they needed a breather,

and in autumn 1970 put out a statement saying they were

taking a break from making great music.

Prompting Tidge Bixon from rival group G-String to Quip, I didn't know they'd started.

Shortly before he died of an undiagnosed laminology.

The six brown chords intended to remain apart for a whole year,

but when rumours spread that drummer Shib slipped and might start a solo career,

they agreed to reform early just in case.

That reformation took place at Tone Deaf Studios near Marlowe,

in the presence of a film crew from music show Pop Sound,

which was permitted access because lead singer Straddling

was doing sex things with producer Lirsty Van Hurstenberg and most of her team.

The crew filmed constantly during the two-week recording session

because nobody could be bothered to stop them.

Unfortunately, when Van Hurstenberg returned to London,

her TV bosses told her the footage was unusable,

mainly because brown chords manager Gloucester Macnockless

had an on-camera habit of using foul language and also heroin.

As a result, the film from that fateful fortnight spent 50 years in a vault

until 2020, when Michael Crises, best known as Director of the Deep Agony Action Movies,

spent six months of his own money editing the lost footage into a revealing documentary series.

There are many great scenes in the programmes,

from Mickey Biscuit playing a guitar with his penis,

to Ned Ketter's getting attacked by a duck.

But the real joy is discovering what the musicians were driving

during that confusingly windy summer of 1971.

The first band member we see at the wheel is organ player Mick Reasons,

the quiet one, who in episode one pulls up to tone deaf in a mini clubman 1275 GT,

which looks standard, though the interior turns out to be full of liquid.

Moments later we see percussionist Ken Frisbee, the even quieter one,

zooming into the studio courtyard in a mini-base one-seater sports car,

called a Spigley Special.

Frisbee then struggles to release the Spigley's distinctive goose-wing door.

It becomes clear he is trapped inside, and he remains there for the rest of the series.

Episode two brings a sequence in which guitarist Mickey Biscuit heads into a local town

to buy some genital ointment, at the wheel of his beautiful 1969 Cieberato Falco,

the rare Italian-designed American-engined Dutch upholstered coupe he was given by his late wife,

the Spanish artist India Brazil.

The other highlight of the second episode is a brief glimpse of the purple Jacks Manhammer,

driven by lunatic manager Gloucester McNockless, a remarkable machine

created by slicing an iso-grifo in two directions and then mostly leaving it like that.

Exactly the machine you'd expect of a music industry legend, famously described as having

the soul of a shark in the body of an even worse shark.

Episode three is rich with cars as we see Biscuit driving his Falco back to London

to fetch some more women, and observe a studio employee's brief attempt to get Frisbee out

of his Spigley using a spoon. The real treat, however, is a whole section in which drummer

Shib Slipton proudly shows off his brand new Speedwall Drumtron, a glorious custom car built

for him around the chassis of a Jaguar Mark X, and fitted with not one but two Ford SX-V6 engines,

bits of which are supercharged. The joker of the group, Slipton ends the segment,

winking at the camera and quipping, it's not much, but it gets me where I need to be,

as fire visibly rages in the rearmost engine. The episode concludes with a delightful glimpse of

Ned Ketter's at the wheel of his Marchfield modified Jaguar E-Type, its notorious quartet

of front wheels, clearly making it difficult for him to reverse out of the situation in which he

finds himself, which is a lake. Sadly, the rest of the series concentrates on the recording of the

album, which was torturous, sometimes literally. When Are You Hearing That was released in March

1972, it was slammed by the NME for having not enough percussion on it. Brown cords broke up

soon afterwards. Though lacking in cars for most of the 27 episodes, Sodof is a fascinating look

at musicians clinging to glory, and sometimes a floating jag, and is highly recommended for

anyone with 91 hours to spare and access to the subscription version of Channel 5.

Well, thanks for sticking with us so far. This last column was meant to be a sort of epic poem,

which is kind of pretentious than it was, but then I ran out of time, so I sort of rushed it,

but hopefully you get the gist. This one is entitled The World Turns. Fingers of sunlight

creep across the fields, slipping over hedges and sliding up walls. A blackbird sings, a dog barks,

the cat gets shoot off the duvet. Alarm sound, phone's chirp, the early train clacks out of

the station. That warm security blanket smell of toast permeates the house. Butter is spread,

milk is spilt, the minister for something or other purrs superciliously from the television.

The kettle boils. The school tires found, the keys are lost, a thousand front doors close

on the words, don't slam them! Work shoes click and school shoes scuff across a million miles of

pavement. Pigeons flutter, leaves rustle. Alpha Romeo has a new comeback plan. Noisy knots of

pre-teens board the bus as one excitable ball. Car doors slam, starter motors turn, that ubiquitous

tune tumbles from the speakers. Drilling, always someone drilling. The van hoots, the cab driver

swears, the man on the pavement exhales a cloud of vape. A lady florists smiles at a passerby.

In the cafes and coffee shops, the machines that grind the beans and drip drip the liquids run fast

and hot. Laptops plugged in, accounts checked, posts liked. The drink is to go, the pastry is to

eat in. Do you have a loyalty card? Office lights flicker on, monitors power up. Jaguar has a new

marketing campaign designed to attract a younger audience. Machines are turned on, gossip is shared,

last night's mistakes are reviewed. Log in, log on. Lift doors close and lift doors open.

The robots keep working. The minute hand of the conference room clock in stasis as the meeting

grinds on. The parents meet at the soft play. The plumber says the parts will take two weeks.

The kid at the back isn't listening. Plains land, boats dock, tractors trudge across the fields.

Rain falls, clouds part, red kites cruise above the motorway.

The police helicopter overhead. On social media, people asking why the police helicopter is overhead.

The clock chimes, the lunch is served, the train is late. Could this be Ferrari's season?

Sandwiches at desks, cigarettes by fire exits, problems with the zoom call.

A familiar rift drifts on the wind. Mangy pigeons, busy bees, wasps bother the yoga mummies.

An unexpected item in the bagging area. Traffic lights change, bus breaks squeal.

The big issue lady isn't in a normal spot. Your package has been left with a neighbour.

Bins are emptied out, forms are filled in, a broken tricycle in a skip.

A baby cries, a grandfather dies. Maserati has ambitious plans to increase sales.

Someone falls in love, someone falls out of it. Someone's moved the phone charger again.

Messages are sent, pictures are taken, the wind turbines turn, a tear trickles down her cheek.

The old banks become a juice bar. The bell rings. Preteen feet stampede through playgrounds.

Keys indoors, bags on floors, homework gets ignored. The kettle boils.

The ball's gone over the fence again. A wistful face at the window, a lone pony in the meadow.

They're putting flats where the petrol station used to be.

The warm, tangy smell of a pub in late afternoon. The fund manager is stuffed.

The child goes hungry. Would you like fries with that? Packed trains, hot and sweet from body heat.

Empty church halls, dry like the rust on the t-ern. Glasses chink, like the weights at the gym.

The kids don't care. A woman cuts hair. The AMG one will be ready soon.

Bedtime stories, cocaine tories. Oh go on, I'll stay for one more.

The moon slides like a seraph from behind grey cloud. In the distance, an owl.

Torch light coming across the fields. Lorry drivers bedding in for the night.

Security guards staring at phones. The kettle boils. Footsteps behind her.

A final cord. The audience applauses. The predictable thrill of an encore.

Doomed first dates. Failed flotations. Hotels on the company card. That bloody fox has got into the

bins again. Larga lads, Donna kibabs. You are being connected to your driver.

Doors are locked, shelves are stocked. In the trees by the old railway line, bats.

Teslas will be fully self-driving within the next year.

All right, well, that's quite enough of that. Thank you for making it this far.

And once again, I apologise for the hijack. We'll be back to normal service next week.

Until then, please buy my book. It's called Petrolhead.

If you've already bought it, thank you ever so much for doing that.

If you haven't, once again, please do or not. Maybe you didn't enjoy this at all.

Either way, thank you for listening. Goodbye.

OTOSOT 75

About this episode

Ford RS200

Bristol Fighter

Alpine A110S

bespoke seats

Renault

Renault Laguna

suspension

aluminum construction

acceleration

turbocharged

horsepower

handling

electrically powered steering

lightweight

flighty

Mini Clubman 1275 GT

Mini Base one-seater sports car

Cieberato Falco

Jacks Manhammer

Iso Grifo

Jaguar Mark X

Ford SX-V6

Jaguar Mark

Jaguar Etype

Volkswagen Bus

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