I submitted the following article to Jalopy magazine, and it appeared in issue 4 (Volume 1) in August 1992.

An Estate of Financial Decline

MY MOST RECENT ENCOUNTER WITH jalopydom - in the rather bland shape of a decrepit Cortina Estate - came after six relatively blissful years of new car ownership. This was not my first dalliance with an ageing estate; on passing my test I spent over a year in the company of a Corolla, but that's another twenty-five quid's worth...

So what was my motivation in re-entering the realm of sky-high mileages, non-existent service histories and multi-tone paint jobs? My mission was to get two non-driving parents, one brother, one (large) dog, myself and two-weeks' worth of luggage from our home on the western out-skirts of London to our holiday destination on the west coast of Ireland, and back again, in one piece. And as cheaply as possible. Oh, and to do a fair bit of to-ing and fro-ing while on the Emerald Isle. 'Time to enlist the services of Mr Hertz,' I mused to myself, as I set about enquiring as to the cost. It was not long before I realised that the odds were stacked against me: my age and the need to take the car out of the country attracted punitive loadings. As the tally whizzed into four figures, I wondered whether a smaller local firm might make more sense. The answer was yes, in the same way that it makes more sense to jump off a 100ft cliff than a 150ft cliff. Still faced with a bill of almost £700, before even thinking about petrol and the other costs a holiday would naturally incur, I explored the alternatives.

The benefits of hiring a car in Ireland would have been outweighed by the resulting cost and inconvenience of getting there. Then I had a bright idea: purchase a sound-if-non-too-pretty car - you know: the sort that has depreciated so much that you can no longer lose money on it - and then sell it after the holiday. Confident that I could acquire, tax and insure a suitable jalopy for around half the cheapest rental quote and look forward to a return upon my return(!), I started to scour the local papers and 'trader' mags for the ideal specimen.

With a week to go before our intended date of departure, the ideal specimen was proving elusive. At this point, a mechanic friend of the family came to the rescue with the news that a friend of his had a Cortina estate available for 'around £300', which would include a year's MoT, a newly fitted propshaft and at least some degree of assurance as to its integrity. Having little alternative, and even less time to play with, I agreed to the purchase sight unseen; this proved to be a victory of blind faith over common sense.

Attempts to insure the car for just the two-week duration of the holiday drew a blank, the minimum period on offer being three months, at a cost of £69. Never mind - even after adding the cost of six month's road tax and a 'thank you' to the mechanic friend, I was still saving over £250. It was therefore with a happy heart that I went to collect my acquisition; and there it was: 174 inches of decomposing metal, with a hand-applied beige paint job highlighted in places with red primer - and a rather misleading set of 'Ghia' badges attached to what was left of the bodywork. Don't get me wrong, for this was a genuine Ghia model; it's just that in 1979, Ford's vision of top-of-the-range luxury did not run to electric windows, central locking or a sunroof. This is probably just as well, as the chances of such items still functioning after twelve years of abuse are somewhat slim. Instead, you had to slum it with tinted glass, over-riders, velour upholstery (by now disintegrating in sympathy with the exterior) and low-grade wood veneer trim. Miraculously, the engine started first time, and having said a quiet prayer, I ventured out on to the main road for the journey home. Needing to stop en route for petrol posed the first problem: would it be sensible to expect the thing to start again, or had it just been a fluke? Realising that without petrol it was going to stop anyway (no fool, me) I took the chance. My fears turned out to be groundless, and petrol in tank, I completed the homeward journey without incident, having adjusted to the vague steering and wallowy handling.

And now for the real surprise: we made it. We covered nearly 2000 miles in relative comfort, if not style, and with hardly a hitch. So what did go wrong? On the way over the car began to wallow more than usual, due to a puncture in the nearside rear tyre. Retrieving the spare wheel from its lair involved emptying the boot, which was packed to capacity, onto the pavement. Fond memories of the Corolla, with its spare carried in a cradle behind the rear bumper, drifted through my mind. One puncture - is that it? Not quite: while changing gear during the second week, the lever parted company with its housing. Removing the vinyl gaiter revealed that the thread at the base of the lever had sheared. Necessity being the mother of invention, I developed a technique whereby I could change gear by pressing down and hoping for the best. This worked well provided the movements were smoothly executed: any jerkiness or haste would see the lever floating in space. Apart from that, I honestly could not fault the car: it always started first time, and in return for a steady (but not excessive) supply of petrol and oil, ran without complaint. The trip back to London was completed without the apprehension which had accompanied the outward journey, and by the time we arrived, the gear lever seemed to have fixed itself.

Selling the car was to prove more problematic than running it. A commodious estate car in running order for around £250 seemed fair enough. The numerous calls resulting from my advertisements revealed a distinct air of optimism on the part of the callers. 'Has it got any rust?' asked one, while another turned his nose up at the paintwork and 80,000+ mileage. At one point a deal had virtually been struck, until during a test drive the rogue gear lever came away in the prospective purchaser's hand. My assertion that the car could still be driven satisfactorily failed to restore his confidence.

I had the gear lever repaired and re-advertised the car at £200. A call came from a chap who bought and sold cheap cars. He came to look the car over, and made a firm offer of £100; my reaction was 'Thanks but no thanks', but I took his number just in case. It was just as well, for three weeks later, with my insurance expiry date looming, the car was still loitering outside the house. In desperation, I called the guy to accept his offer of £100. I should have known better. The passage of time and his realisation that I needed to shift the car saw the offer drop to £75. After a moment's hesitation I said 'Yes, take it!' and was consumed by a sense of relief.

So was it all worthwhile? Well, yes, of course it was. Firstly, it made the holiday far more of an adventure than I could have hoped for had it been undertaken in a late model Sierra or Montego. The total cost of ownership came to just £630 including petrol; yes, that's less than the cheapest car hire rate; and with no requirement to surrender the car 'on the dot' after two weeks, it saw service on a couple of trips to the local refuse site. Furthermore, it has provided me with the content of this article.

Jalopy magazine was launched in May 1992 as "the world's first motoring monthly for people who can see past the end of their own egos". Readers were paid £25 for articles of around 1200 words on cars which were for "driving and having fun, without denting the wallet too much along the way".

Jalopy was usually entertaining but never widely available, and it fizzled out after about 30 issues; its founding editor, Rod Ker, was last seen writing for The Telegraph's Motoring supplement.