By Angus Richard
BACK in the early 1960’s I purchased a 1949 MG TC sports car. This was unimaginably cool for the time. No, not one of those MG badged Chinese electric devices that glide past you today, their only sound being that of terminal depreciation.
No, rather a no roof, racing screens, extractors, side exhaust, petrol powered, lowered projectile with twin bell mouthed inch and a half S.U’s and a Brooklands steering wheel.
It was all string backed gloves, white T shirts and Steve McQueen sunglasses. The MG presented in white with small Union Jacks either side and leather bonnet straps, it could not be termed fast, more accurately ‘alarming’! Put simply, I was the undisputed, gold standard, “Prince of Posers”!
This was of course many years ago when you could wander the city center on Sundays without having to contend with a rabble of masked extras from “Lawrence of Arabia”.
Indeed it was a time when men were not fighting to use ladies lavatories and years before Chris Bowen was rumored to have been offered a lead role in a remake of the Hollywood blockbuster “Gone with the Wind”!
In those days ‘conservation’ had yet to be invented. Snakes were believed to be a real threat to sports car drivers.
Those really ‘in the know’ would tell you that if you ran over a snake it could fly up into the driving seat, and you would die. It was thus critical that if running over a snake (which in those days was done at every opportunity) one should hit the brakes as you ran over it to ensure a successful “squish”.
So picture me belting home when startlingly I glimpsed a black snake writhing in the road via my rear vision mirror. I had not noticed it on approach but that was not surprising given that my driving style was usually like I had stolen something.
I slammed on the brakes and threw the MG into reverse. Hard on the accelerator I was back over it grabbing the ‘fly off’ handbrake to lock the rear wheels. Then off with the handbrake, foot down in first and back over the monster once more, then again and again and again!
Wreathed in smoke I had visions of an appropriate presentation from the great Clem Jones who was Lord Mayor of Brisbane. Perhaps a medal or at least a framed certificate to honour my courage and outstanding civic duty to be formally acknowledged at a tasteful Town Hall reception. Single handedly I had saved Trout Street from this reptilian horror!
As I came to a halt in a cyclone of burning rubber and brake linings I noticed the fellow who had been mowing his front lawn draped over the fence in hysterical laughter. I was deeply hurt by this significant affront to my noble intervention and bravery.
He got back his breath. Wiped his glasses and shouted…
“ Mate, bloody brilliant, you’ve just killed your broken fanbelt! ”