From the Mongol Rally blog: "Lots Of Updates!"

We are now in Samarkand, quite a way into Uzbekistan. But since Mashad there are a hell of a lot of blanks to fill in, and that's without going into details on the gay Iranian drinking beach club I alluded to in my previous blog...

So in brief:

Thursday 6th - went from Mashad to try and cross the border. Nearly got killed by a bonkers Iranian reversing up the middle lane of the motorway - closest we've come to a major accident so far. Dilly dallied getting our cars jetwashed (with the loss of half of our black paint) and ended up on the border just as the Iranian guard decided he'd had enough for the day and fancied knocking off an hour early. Hung around for long enough to see a motorcyclist clothesline himself on the barrier, then dust himself off and hurl abuse at the border guard for having the barrier down. Camped in a nearby quarry amid breathtaking scenery, probably the prettiest campsite so far and had a stonking great fire.

Friday 7th - Managed to cross the border after about five hours of waiting around. Turkmenistan wanted $610 for 4 people and 2 cars to cross the border - bastards. Descended 1500m into Ashgabat, which is across between the Nazi vision of Berlin and Alice in Wonderland. The only real way to explain matters is to say that their cuckoo President Niazov (the man who renamed a day after himself and bread after his mother) decided that, as a great nation, they should have a stonking great marble capital city, and to hell with the cost. The resultant monstrosity is a bit like what you'd build if you'd seen Las Vegas, but only in a comic book. They have absolutely enormous white marble monolithic buildings, an Olympic Stadium (have you ever heard of the Turkmen Olympics?!?!) a University with no students (he just felt it should have a university) and about a million palaces, all of which have been built since the late 90s. They also have a whacking great gold statue of him on something that looks exactly like something from the next Austin Powers movie,which rotates to face the sun, and another statue of his book.

(If you read The Book 101 times you go to Heaven, and if you want to pass your driving test, knowledge of it is essential)

The city would be incredibly impressive were it not for the lack of anything useful! There are numerous impressive but empty public buildings, a strip of skyscraper hotels with about 5 of their 1000 windows lit, and one coffee shop, which was closed. And there's no point to any of it, because they discourage tourism at all costs, and won't even let you photograph any of the pretty buildings (we did anyway, obviously - we're Team Young Offenders).

The upshot of all this is that, after our dry week in Iran, we couldn't have the beer we were gasping for.

Saturday 8th - went to the biggest bazaar in Central Asia. Absolutely sodding huge - it sold all sorts, a kind of Central Asian version of a Wall Mart. All but Usget got dodgy kebabs from a vendor, and later regretted it. Then we headed out into the desert for the first time in the direction of Mary, but Usget, busy searching for a spot to erect the patented "poo chair", missed a signpost, and 120km later we were back on the Iran border again - ironically pretty close to Mashad! This was not Usget's finest hour. Camped in the world's dustiest layby. Still no beer.

Sunday 9th - We were joined in the morning by a brace of Sith Ifricins, Jean and Adina, who had made exactly the same mistake that we had, which made us feel a bit better. 120km later we were back on the right road again, but still managed to miss the ancient ruins at Merv due to the Turkmen inability to signpost ANYTHING AT ALL. The roads had by this time deteriorated into cart tracks and the petrol to 92RON, which, however, Jenny seemed to run OK on. Late in the day we came across a direct consequence of the shitty roads; a Mongol Rally Terios that had been rolled and ended up in a field.

Carmelle, the driver, had concussion, but other than that they'd had a very lucky escape. It was a crap thing to happen to two such nice people, and we wish them well; but they headed off into a world of trouble, as the Terios looked beyond repair and their visa expired that day. If you're reading this, chaps, let us know how you got on!

Camped in the Karakum desert under a tarp - far too hot for tents (so much for desert nights being colder!) Saw the whole of the Milky Way spread out overhead. This is the sort of thing the rally is all about.

The other thing the rally is all about (lager beer) was still conspicuous by its absence. Perhaps The Book forbids it.

Monday 10th - TYO and HTMT finally found the Uzbek border despite a complete lack of signage. After asking for directions several times, we came to the conclusion that Turkmen people have never seen maps before, as none of them can read them! The difference in education between Turkmenistan and Iran is striking.

Border crossing was relatively painless in a bureaucratic sense but painful in other senses, as Pepe had heat exhaustion and Usget had Us-gutrot. This paled into insignificance, however, once we reached the Uzbek side and found Jean and Adina literally stuck in No Mans Land. The Adventurists had cocked up their Uzbek visa, with the result that it wasn't valid until October 4th; and despite the Turkmen officials assuring them that it would be fine, the Uzbek lot were failing to see the funny side, and told them they'd best get used to their new home. They had camped the previous night and blagged food and water from the mile-long truck tailback, but the reality of their predicament was sinking in, and spirits were ebbing.

Uzbekistan, however, had reckoned without Charlie from Team Rasta Mouse, who went and made an utter nuisance of herself in the Uzbek customs until one of them agreed to try and help the South Africans out. Just as we left, with Rasta Mouse in tow, wheels started turning; and we ran into a grateful Jean and Adina in Bukhara that very evening.

Being a civilised country, Uzbekistan sold beer. Usget savoured his.

Tuesday 11th - Had a look around Bukhara in the daytime. Really enjoyed the city - it has no real sense of occasion, but it feels like a nice place to be. Tree-lined avenues lead to 16th Century fortresses and mosques which have, admittedly, been preserved; but which feel almost incidental, in somewhat the same way that Rome's ancient monuments do. It was a complete contrast to the stiff formality of Ashgabat, and Usget enjoyed it greatly.

We've also finally got into bartering country. The price they quote you for pretty much anything - from museums, through meals, to the slightly Mamas and the Papas-esque shirt that James bought - is up for negotiation, so we all bought some quality souvenirs from the fortress.

Once it got a bit cooler, we headed off to Samarkand, already loving the Uzbek way of doing things, a state of affairs which was not changed by the sight of a donkey pulling a cart with a cow in it on their equivalent of the M25! They aren't nearly in the same league as the Iranians for mentalist driving - they even give way at roundabouts! - but the sheer variety of vehicles on the road, only about 25% of which are cars, makes any long journey an interesting experience. What would be the fast lane of a motorway is fair game for cyclists, donkey carts, motorbikes, and the occasional bus, sometimes with, sometimes against, and sometimes through the flow of traffic.

Arrived at Samarkand expecting our sensor to have been delivered... only to find that it hadn't. But we got to camp on a roof terrace overlooking a courtyard of fig and apple trees in the charming Hotel Antica, which made up for it to a certain extent. They even let us park in the courtyard, much to the delight of the local kids, who spent most of the evening working out which of our panel gaps were large enough to insert their digits into.

Today! - Christ, we're finally up to date. Damn the Turkmens and their lack of internet, or this blog would not have been so longwinded! However, this is a short entry, as all we have really done today is chase our sensor. Pepe has spent most of the day on Skype to Suzuki UK, and after basically putting the entire staff of three companies on the case, we think we've tracked it down to a truck somewhere in Uzbekistan. At least it's in country!

By the time I click "publish" and leave the net cafe, there's a chance it might have been dropped off at Hotel Antica. If you have any charms, anything crossable or any other lucky item, please rub/cross/caress it as appropriate. One stupid piece of plastic and wiring could be the fulcrum on which the rest of our rally will pivot. Let's hope it tips in the right direction.

Is anyone still reading this!?

From the Mongol Rally blog: "Iran Loves Us!"

What can I say about Iran apart from "wow". This is an amazing place, not a pretty place or a modern place, but so overwhelmingly friendly that it blows your mind. We have camped on two beaches (behind one of which lay a story which I will post at a later date), been brought cakes by farmers, invited into the home of a fine gentleman called Mustafa for dinner, bed and breakfast, and smiled and waved at everywhere we've been as if we are some kind of celebrities.

The message the people have mostly had is this: do not confuse the Iranian government with the Iranian people. I feel that I owe it to Iran to repeat that message to everyone I meet. What you see on News 24 isn't the whole story, it isn't even 10% of the story. The vast majority of Iranians are polite, friendly, servile, and incredibly well educated. We could learn a lot from them. In short, Iranians all act as if they are ambassadors for their country - if I had a pound for every time I have been told "Welcome to Iran" in the past week, I would be a rich man.

I feel like I am a rich man anyway - a tank of fuel is setting us back 100,000 Iranian Rials, which equates to just over $10. My supposedly stealthy shoulder-wallet has looked like some kind of breast under my tshirt for the past week. We've still got most of the damn stuff left, too: I reckon a week in Iran has cost me and Pepe no more than $50 each.

Iranian drivers are worthy of a blog all to themselves, so I'll save that rant for another time. Suffice to say, the first two paragraphs go flying out of the window the minute you put an Iranian behind the wheel of a car. I have never experienced such collective lunacy: they absolutely positively cannot queue for anything, and there is no priority at either junction or roundabout, save for the basic "survival of the loudest horn". Here at Team Young Offenders, though, we are all for adopting local customs, and have been leaving towns dazed and confused with liberal use of our rooster/police siren PA system.

Turkmenistan tomorrow with our legendary convoyers Tom and James. They're with us all the way to Samarkand and are subbing us for our Turkmen visas as neither Pepe nor I realised you couldn't withdraw cash in Iran with your Visa card. Note to self: buy Lonely Planet next time.

This is the last update until Uzbekistan as Turkmenistan isn't too hot on the old Net Cafe scene.Hopefully the next blog should be something along the lines of "Woohoo!!! We've got our sensor and can now do the Pamir Highway!"

Kind regards from Mashad,

Usget

Mongolian Death Worm versus...

I found out today on the growing Mongol Rally Forum about the rather terrifying Mongolian Death Worm, reported to live in the Gobi Desert. At 1.5m long and possessing a ready supply of sulphuric acid to burn its victims before it drinks their blood, it doesn’t look nearly so cuddly as, say, Paddington.

However, I find myself wondering, how deadly really is this beastie? To find out, let’s have a bit of a comparison, between the aforementioned Mongolian Death Worm and the most fearsome creature mainland Britain can offer up – the Greater Spotted Midlands Chav.

For reference:

WORM

CHAV

Strengths:

The worm could be considered impervious to attack, being both strong and fast. It has also been suggested that it can electrocute its victims to death as a nice change from burning them. However, what it gains in viciousness it loses in enthusiasm: not a single injury has been chalked up to the Death Worm for years, whereas go out in Coventry late at night with your mobile on display and you’re in line for a shoeing. What the chavs lack in sulphuric acid and supercapacitors, they make up for in belligerence, mindless aggression and sheer numbers.

Weaknesses:

There is no empirical evidence to suggest the presence of any chinks in the Death Worm’s armoury. Try and run it over and it will melt your tyres, and subsequently your face, with acid; try and spray it with bug spray and it is likely as not to take it off you and shove it where, even in the Gobi Desert, the sun is unlikely to shine. Both of these defences are effective against the Greater Spotted Midlands Chav – however, a far more apparent weakness lies in cheap, fluorescent alcoholic beverages. Whilst a steady flow of these will actually increase the danger for the reasons mentioned above, before long the attack will be nixed by means of the perpetrator passing out in a bus shelter.

Rarity:

This is the category where the Greater Spotted Midlands Chav takes a strong lead, being almost omnipresent in the provincial towns of the Midlands. Meanwhile, whilst the existence of the Mongolian Death Worm has never actually been disproven, nobody’s actually managed to take a photograph either*. Perhaps they were too busy being killed to death, or perhaps he’s shy. In any case, there’s between none and one of the blighters, meaning that the prize for terror in this category must go to the home team.

*Hence the somewhat terrifying but definitely blurry image above: I suppose it must be hard to do accurate brush-strokes when you're being electrified, dissolved and eaten all at the same time.

Likelihood to vandalise your Reliant Rialto:

This final category could be the clincher. As the Rialto has a fibreglass body, it is likely* to be quite resistant to the sulphuric acid which would quickly take the lustre off a metallic paintjob. For the same reason, the Worm’s electrocution attack will be blunted, and with a 2200mm wheelbase, the Reliant could be a smidgen long for the Worm to swallow whole. The chavs, meanwhile, will use their only major advantage over the worm – opposable thumbs – to bring every implement they can lay their hands on to bear against the defenceless Tamworth tricycle. This is especially worrying if, like us, you’re going to be transporting your Rialto to Coventry this weekend; and more worrying still if that Rialto has no side window and only a rudimentary ignition barrel.

*based on no knowledge whatsoever.

Conclusion:

Whilst the Mongolian Death Worm may be fearsome, it will be a breath of fresh air (laced with H₂SO₄) compared to the Greater Spotted Midlands Chav. Let’s just hope that we can fend off the menace of the latter before we head for the relative safety of the Gobi Desert in July!

Theft... and Daylight Robbery

“It’ll be fine.” Possibly the three most dangerous words in the English language. You use them when you’re busy ignoring everything that your intuition is screaming at you and, whilst nine times out of ten, ‘it’ really WILL be fine, that tenth time can often prove to be expensive.

Low on fuel and have to make a short motorway hop? “It’ll be fine…” Car tax expired two days ago and need to run the kids to school? “It’ll be fine…” You get the picture.

My “It’ll be fine” comeuppance was delivered on Christmas Day when I left the fascia attached to the rather nice Pioneer stereo in my newly acquired BMW E30. Realising that this left the car as a somewhat tempting target for vandals, I thought long and hard about venturing out into the cold to remove the fascia. Then I had another beer.

By Boxing Day morning, the car was gone.

They found it not twenty-four hours later, minus stereo, on a garage forecourt, with two lads trying industriously to steal more cars. Presumably, it had taken about that long to discover that a 1.8 8v, 189,000 miles and a heavy Touring bodyshell don’t make for the ideal getaway car… but I digress.

The car was recovered by Mansfield Group, a vehicle recovery sub-contractor tasked by the North Staffordshire police with securing any stolen or burned-out cars in the region. “Great!” I thought, when I was told the news, “I’ll simply pop in, collect my car, and see about repairing the damage.” Oh no I wouldn’t – not without paying the £150 recovery charge first. Oh, and the Scene of Crime Officer had to examine the car - he’d not be available until Monday - and there was a £12 per day “storage fee”.

Now, I appreciate that the recovery of vehicles is not a cheap operation. I further recognise that police budgets are stretched. But since when has policing been “pay-as-you-play”? And why, if we’re going down that route, doesn’t someone OTHER THAN THE VICTIM have to pay for it? “Well, it’s policy”, was the best response I could ascertain from North Staffs Police but it is a policy that seems utterly, utterly unfair.

It is also, arguably, unlawful. After all, they are providing a service which I could have procured by myself, either cheaply or (via the RAC) free. They have provided this service without my knowledge or agreement and then sent me the bill. Come on, at £150 for a tow of just under ten miles, I could probably have procured Elton John to drive the tow-truck.

Angry with the police, I set about claiming on my insurance, which was a TPFT policy with the people who wish to “Quote You Happy.” It transpired, though, that making a claim would double my resultant premiums and I’d also have to pay a £250 excess. This meant that a settlement figure on my car would have to be more than £850 for me not to make a loss, let alone get any money towards repairing my car. How likely was this, I asked? “We can’t say without sending an assessor, sir,” they responded. And you can’t have an assessor sent out without making a claim. My future finances thus depended on a gamble and, having tried my luck once this holiday and lost, big time, I was reluctant to take a second chance.

At this stage, I doubt they would be quoting me anywhere for fear of breaching OFCOM rules on offensive language.

My options, then, were threefold. Choice one: claim on the insurance, pay out £850, and hope the car was valued at more than £850, then spend the difference on the repairs (bearing in mind market value for my car was £750, and I’d paid just £550 for it). Choice two: pay for the repairs myself and stump up for the police fee myself too (which, by this time, had reached £210). Choice 3: Mansfield offered to waive the recovery charge if they were allowed to “dispose of” the vehicle themselves - after careful consideration, this turned out to be the simplest and least expensive option.

So a mint condition (well, it was before it was stolen) rare, very late BMW E30 is going to the crusher because of a combination of an unfair police policy and an even more unfair insurance policy. Of course, it is sour grapes to cry foul now, and I accept at least partial blame for leaving valuables on display. However, the feeling of helplessness, of having nowhere to turn, has been one of the least pleasant experiences of my life and one which I can’t help feeling that I don’t quite deserve.

So here’s a tip. Check your car security, check it again… and then check it a third time. Remove your SatNav holder before you leave the car and make sure you wipe off the tell-tale mark it leaves on the windscreen too. Buy a Crook-Lock. And for God’s sake make sure your No Claims Bonus is protected. In other words, do all the things you’ve always considered doing, but have dismissed as too much hassle. “It’ll be fine…” you’ll have thought.

It won’t be fine. It’ll be expensive.

Face to Face with William Riley of XPower

(Author's note: this piece was reprinted in part in CAR Magazine, 15/04/08)

"I've seen Bentley, and I've seen Aston Martin, and I know what they can do in terms of quality. We can do better."

This was the bullish message that William Riley, holder of the MG Xpower trademark and resuscitator of the MG SV project, gave out at the Pride of Longbridge rally today. The founder of MG Sport and Racing Europe limited said that he plans to expand his operation to produce between 1500-1800 cars per year, despite fierce competition from the likes of Aston Martin and Porsche.

Riley claimed that MG Xpower had already delivered seven customer cars, and that eighteen new shells had been produced by the company's subsidiary in Droitwich, West Midlands. He dismissed claims that the company was merely bolting together old MG-Rover cast-offs, stating that both the engine and bodyshell supply chains were strong. Despite this, the car at Pride of Longbridge (the same one which has been used in recent press photos) was on an 07 plate. "It's a demonstrator, and yes it is one of our own shells," retorts Riley.

It was obvious to an observer that the standard of fit and finish inside the cabin was not up to Aston Martin or Porsche standards. Exposed screwheads were visible, and various pieces of door trim were missing. "That is because this is the CS version, 150kg lighter than the standard car," claims Riley. He also claimed that by lowering the compression ratio and raising the supercharger boost, the MG Xpower SV WR CS (to give it its full name) produces nearly 600bhp, but no documentation was available to substantiate this claim.

To raise the car's almost unknown reputation, Riley plans to enter the CS into several hillclimb events, of which the first will be Shelsley Walsh in May. But the buying public will be more interested in how well the car functions on the road. If Riley is to sell even a fraction of the 1800 cars per year that he so boldly targets, he will need to convince a potential Aston Martin Vantage buyer that the SV WR is an attractive alternative. Put simply: if the standard of fit and finish is less than exemplary, the car is unlikely to sell, hence the brash claims about the competition.

Whether Riley can back up words with actions remains to be seen

LPG - Is It Really All That?

Christmas is done and dusted, then. You’ve drunk the sherry, recycled the packaging, made up with everyone you fell out with during the enforced period of bonhomie, and suffered the inevitable hangovers.

If you’re anything like me, you’ve also made some entirely fallacious New Year’s resolutions, all noted down meticulously in your new, hideously garish diary; bought in a last-minute panic by someone who doesn’t know you very well. The same as they did last year, in fact. And the year before that.

So come on then, hands up who can remember what resolutions they made last year? Anyone? How about 2006? I know I damn well can’t, for one simple reason: New Year is quite the worst time anyone could choose to make resolutions. Because, even if you were planning to get an Olympic-standard torso in the gym and a concours-winning classic in the garage, your good intentions will be blown to smithereens by the postal equivalent of an AIM-9X Sidewinder – January’s credit card bill.

Instantly, all thoughts of self-improvement evaporate in a fit of frugality. Let’s face it, we all get a bit drunk on the intoxicating liquour of shopping at Christmas, and in the credit card capital of Europe, the hangover comes later. Nobody eats turkey curry in February because they enjoy the taste – we eat it because we’re bloody skint!

Let’s just suppose, then, that I could offer you a way to halve your fuel bills. A way for the pump to read '60 litres - £30,' at every fill up. A way to smirk mercilessly at those whose 'exclusive' gold Visas spontaneously combust at even the mention of the word 'Shell'.

Well, I’m pleased to report that I can, and the solution comes in the form of three letters: LPG. In recent weeks, as you might have read on these pages, I have been running a 1989 Range Rover at an average of 12.8mpg, which, at £1.05 per litre, would have been crippling. But at just £30 for every 200 miles, its drink problem almost seemed manageable. In a car without a Frankenstein’s Monster of an engine (an old Sherpa 3.5 low-compression carbed V8 with a 3.9 EFI system bolted on top) one could achieve some ludicrously good pence-per-mile figures.

So you’re tempted, and you head down to your local filling station to check out this wondrously inexpensive fuel. And then you head to another filling station which isn’t local at all, because the nearest one to you has never heard of LPG and points you towards the Calorgas refill bottles. Well, mine did. By the time you’ve realised that they all call it different names – Autogas is the most common – you’re fed up and head home in a huff, resolving to stick with petrol until you have taken a crash-course in orienteering.

Just supposing you find a garage local to you which does stock Autogas, don’t expect the picture to be any more rosy, because the refill procedure makes the launch of the Space Shuttle look simple. Firstly, you have to screw an adaptor to the side of your car, which will cross-thread and get stuck. Then, you have to make a ludicrous bayonet-fitment click into place, and lock it in place with a third fitment. Then you press the button on the pump, and no gas comes out. You’re confused, so you unscrew the bayonet fitting to see what’s gone wrong, and PSHHHHHHT!! You get a face full of LPG. Did I mention it was refrigerated to 20 degrees below zero, and can cause severe burns?

Meanwhile, taking your hand off the button has deactivated the whole pump, and no amount of swearing will get it to work again. So, with a heavy heart and much apologising to the chap behind, you trudge inside and ask the assistant to reactivate the pump, who then asks you to pay for the £0.00 worth of gas you have so far managed to unleash. After you’ve argued the toss on this one, you head back outside and try again: bayonet, click, and AH, there’s a locking lever as well. So you pull that back, and cautiously hit the button, waiting for Hemel Hempstead to repeat itself.

But no, this time, miraculously, gas flows, just ten minutes after you first arrived! Do not, however, get complacent: remember that, once released, the trigger button will not re-activate. I developed a technique for a mid-fill up hand-swap, which I have called 'The LPG Shuffle': doubtless, you will develop your own.

The tank will let you know that it’s full (and presumably about to explode, turning you and the entire forecourt into that bit from Bullitt) by vibrating the hose violently and making the kind of noise that a duck would if you fed it into a food blender. At this point you must release the button, unclip the locking lever, turn the bayonet fitting, and get another face full of gas. Cold, exhausted, freeze-burned and smelling unpleasant, you join your place in the queue, questioning why the hell anyone would choose to save a few quid this way when they’ve got two perfectly good kidneys to sell first.

This is just what they want you to think.

You see, I believe wholeheartedly that the LPG filling system has been designed deliberately to put off all but the most committed of motorists. Nothing can have ended up this complicated and unpleasant by accident – it must have been engineered in. Whoever came up with the infernal thing obviously had a brief to make it as useless as a wind-powered submarine and as annoying as the Eurovision Song Contest. It is just a rumour, but apparently the Wembley Stadium contractors were involved somewhere in the process.

So who came up with the brief in the first place? Why, the government, of course. With excise at nearly 70p for every litre of petrol you put in your tank, why would they want everybody to switch to something from which they receive only 20p per litre? So they make the process as unpleasant as a trip to the dentists, in the surefire knowledge that the almighty faff involved will put off 95 per cent of potential money-savers. I know for sure that my mother, who drives 12k per year and could theoretically save £700 per annum on LPG, considers the cons to outweigh the massive financial pro.

Consider this: can it be a coincidence that the only three nations to use our ridiculous LPG filling system are Switzerland, the Netherlands and us – three of the most tax-hungry nations in Europe? I think not. They want your money, they want you to stay on petrol, and short of a revolution, there’s nothing we motorists can do about it. In other words, then, LPG is unlikely to prove the answer to your post-Christmas money woes, and I've wasted your time. Sorry and all that.

But look on the bright side – at least, now, it’s not your fault that you’ve failed live up to those resolutions for another year. As usual, you can lay the blame squarely at the door marked Number 10.

The Cold Car Caper

As you will all know, there are two types of car enthusiast: those who have experienced a Crap Car Caper, and those who have not. Myself and Tim Colley most definitely fall into the former category.

In May of this year, when Caper #1 occurred, when Scott Woodcock and I joined Tim in his coupe for a jaunt up to Nottingham to purchase a Rover 820 Tickford. The journey home was punctuated by some high-speed class-spotting and by the surprise of a Scooby driver at the guerrilla assault he received from said turbocharged convoy, which, to the untrained eye, might have looked like a couple of lethargic old knackers. Then in June, Tim returned the favour. Caper #2 involved two days, the Tickford, Keith Adams, several laybys, a knackered and misfiring Rover 820i and a lot of Red Bull, and resulted in my ownership of probably the worst car I have ever driven... until now.

Time passed, as is its wont. Both Tim and myself were desperate for Caper #3, so when Keith offered to loan me his Range Rover for a week to provide transport for my work experience placement, I jumped at the opportunity - and Tim kindly agreed to help out, on the agreement that I'd lend him an amp and a sub I had spare later in the day. So at 9am on a Saturday morning, after a refreshing 4 hour sleep, Tim picked me up from university, in (as has become customary) the Tomcat Turbo.

I should explain at this point that, after borrowing it for Caper #1, I am in love with this car. The first boosted kick-in-the-back was enough to cure my hangover, and despite the miserable weather we made swift progress down the road to Peterborough and the Practical Classics workshop.

Leaving a car unattended on a seedy industrial estate is brave. Leaving a car unattended and unlocked on an industrial estate is almost asking for trouble. Leaving the keys to said unattended, unlocked car in the boot could almost be said to be foolhardy. It is a measure of the sheer sheddiness of this Range Rover that it was still very much present and correct when we arrived to collect it. A G-reg Vogue SE, with all the toys and a leather interior, a stonking great V8, and an LPG conversion to boot? 'Ooh sir, suit you sir,' you might be thinking. Suit me, my behind.

I won't beat around the bush here - me and the Rangie didn't instantly hit it off. Much of this initial grumpiness was due to something Keith had warned me about - the lack of a heater. This forced me to wear so many layers of clothing I resembled the promotional tool of a well-known tyre company, but as this photo demonstrates, I still couldn't control my shivering...

I will transcribe, in full, the text of a voice-memo I recorded, half an hour into the journey home. For best effect, shout these remarks in a force-9 gale, to the accompaniment of a skipping Mark Ronson CD, in a voice somewhere between Harry Enfield's Kevin and Mariella Frostrup...

'Right, these are my thoughts on the Range Rover so far. It's probably about, ooh, five degrees outside, it's raining, verging on the sleet, and... I am sat in a car with no heater. I've got a hoodie on, I've got a jacket on, sadly I don't have any gloves. My hands are freezing. Erm... and because the windscreen keeps misting up from the rain, I'm having to drive along with the window wide open... hence why I'm being forced to SHOUT. We've been for a performance run - top whack was seventy miles per hour... nearly killed somebody in a Renault Clio when I was making a lot of noise and... erroneously assumed that I had overtaken them. I'm so cold.'

For despite a supposed 182bhp (this was later proved to be utter bollocks, but was my supposition at the time), this car's auto box was trying its hardest to ensure that not a single gee-gee got as far as the actual wheels. I did once see eighty, but just as I had been warned, the lack balancing on the front right-hand wheel made such reckless speeds undesirable. Meanwhile, Tim 'Smug bastard' Colley turned the heater up a notch in his coupe, but soon penance was to come in the form of a shower of LPG. Neither of us had ever experienced the fuel before, and while it is satisfying to see the meter read '30 litres - £14.00', it's a serious faff! A blog on the subject will be forthcoming soon.

The normal loveliness of the A429 provided the Rangie with a further opportunity to piss me off. Without the power to overtake, I was forced to sit back and try to catalogue the interesting selection of noises emanating from various distant corners of the beast. There was the whirring when I pressed the brake pedal, the tappety hiss of the engine, the occasional groan from God knows where, a clonk from the transmission and a harmonious clank from the right-hand CV joint. Next on my list of gripes came the hardness and lack of travel of the brake pedal, and the the dim-witted auto box which seemed grimly determined to prevent me from cresting hills altogether.

Parking it in my mother's street was a ten-minute affair owing to the sheer bulk of the thing, and the fact that the auto box had by this time gone into "sulk" mode, refusing stubbornly to engage reverse gear for minutes on end, then suddenly CLUNK! And you've hit number 38's Merc. Despairing, I went to play with Tim's coupe instead, and spent an evening defrosting.

So I've got 140 miles to do tomorrow to my jumping-off point for the work experience - then 60 miles per day for five days. A total of 550 miles including today's jaunt, this Caper is longer than most. Given the above, I should in all honesty be dreading it. And yet... I can't help but warm to the Coldest 4x4xFar. It's pushing me away, yet for some reason I'm coming back for more. Without a shadow of a doubt, it's the worst car I've ever driven (and I've driven some snotters in my few short years on the road), but I find myself with an irrational hankering to drive a good example of the breed.

Glutton for punishment? CHPD victim in the making? More importantly, is there a cure? I guess I'll find out over the coming week.

Cheers to Tim for Caper assistance, great company as ever, and a quick blast in the Turbo. Cheers (I think...) to Keith for the loan of the Rangie - hope I don't sound TOO ungrateful and spoiled. It's 3 degrees outside. I'm going for a drive. I might, as a better man than me once said, be some time.