Operation: “Get Percy, Drive Percy Home" - Pt 1

Having bagged ourselves the Perodua, Mr Vauxhall naturally comes back to me offering me his Agila for the £500 price that I’d bid in the auction. But on condition it is collected within 72 hours from Telford, some 180 miles away. None of us can make it at such short notice and we’re not really in the mood to bust a gut just to save thirty quid. Besides, we’re already quite taken with our quirky little Malaysian steed that no one has heard of. So much so, we’ve already christened it ‘Percy’.

Thanks but no thanks Mr Vauxhall man. We’s Perodua people in these here parts.

No, Peh-roh-dua. Oh never mind.

Our Perodua. Sexy!

I call our seller to sort out the details and Matt at The Small Car Company turns out to be a most agreeable chap indeed. There’s no rush and he’s quite happy to wait until the weekend for us to come up and collect the car.

Having made the appointment for the following Saturday, I realise a small error on my part. As I’ve already revealed, the members of ‘TKOEB’ are all avid followers of our local football club and on a Saturday we’re usually a bit beered up and watching a game at some random place in the south east of the country. Even worse is that we’re due to be away in Ramsgate and it’s a venue we’ve never visited before. Which is quite important to sad twats like us.

Looks like it’ll be an early start for myself & Chalmers.

“Where’s this bloke again?” enquires Paul as we plan this life or death operation “Alderly Edge? Where the fuck is that?”.  He has a point you know. “Where the fuck?” indeed.

Once more, that internet thingy comes to our aid and a quick check reveals that the current home of our chosen vehicle is slap bang in the middle of the Peak District. Which could commonly be described as 'In the middle of nowhere'.

“The Peak District? That’s MILES up north! It’ll take all bloody day…” complains Paul. I assure him it won’t, as long as we’re off by 6am we’ll be up there by 10 and on our way by 11. Then we can ditch our new car closer to home and be in Ramsgate in plenty of time for the football.

At least, that’s the plan. And if there is one thing we’re absolutely chuffing brilliant at, it’s making plans. Sadly, the same cannot always be said for our execution of said plans. Like this one.

We’re both up late on that particularly foul December morning and we’re actually on our way closer to 7am than 6am. Despite this, it’s still dark as we head round the M25, heading north. The rain is incessant all the way round and most of the way up the M1 to Chesterfield where we’ll effectively turn left and wind our way over the Peaks to the mystical shire & Perodua corral of Alderly Edge.

Traffic of course intervenes and by the time we’ve got lost and driven through Alderly edge no less than 3 times without realising it, we finally locate Matt’s place of business on the local industrial estate shortly after 11. As we pull up outside, we spot our prize. Sat there in the steady Peak District drizzle is a little red car. Our little red car.

It's RED!

“Fuck me, I know you said it was small mate, but…” and with that Chalmers voice tails off. I sense my colleague is perhaps having some doubts about the choice we’ve made with regard to the vehicle that shall transport us roughly a third of the way round the world.

The Perodua is indeed quite small. And it’s slightly angular looks means it certainly wouldn’t have won any design awards. But it has a certainly silly charm and it's Red. I like it. Which is a bonus considering that as the only member of the team not to currently possess a car of my own, Percy is basically going to be my motor in the run up to the trip.

Matt turns out to be a sound guy and when we tell him our intentions for the car, he finds it quite amusing. Hilarious in fact. And it turns out that like us, he’s spent a fair bit of time trying to find out what the hell a ‘Perodua’ was.  Cash is handed over and the deal is soon done and with Matt’s good luck wishes, we’re ready to head back. And it’s gone noon.

“Doubt we’ll make the game now mate” I sigh. Chalmers seems optimistic however. “No worries! We just blast it back, no stops”.

Like I say, we’re good at plans. And the main flaw with this one is that I doubt the word ‘blast’ has ever been used in relation to any Perodua, ever. Unless someone used one for the delivery of a car bomb. And with that small boot, even that is seriously unlikely.

“Blast. It. Back?” I enquire of my colleague “Chalmers, the car might be red, but it’s not a fucking Ferrari. It’s only got a top speed of 85. And that was when it was bloody new!”

After a few moments pondering his response, a dismissive shrug is all Paul can muster in reply. To be fair to the lad, he at least knows when he’s beat.

Still, the fact remains that we’re in Alderly Edge and home is a couple of hundred miles away so we get on the road and head back towards Chesterfield with a quick stop to fill up the Perodua at the first petrol station we can find out on the peaks. With a quarter of a tank already in, I keep pumping until Percy can take no more. Which when I check the gauge on the pump, turns out to be not much at all.

“Eighteen litres? Christ, the tank can’t be more than twenty five in total” I mutter to myself. Still, I place such range based worries to the back of my mind and head off to pay.

“Now don’t you go pissing off and leave me on the motorway!” I call as I hop back into the tiny red box. Chalmers gives the thumbs up. Despite this, I remain unconvinced that he’s understood my request.

The Peak District

Confirmation of this is provided 5 minutes down the road as we come across a Ford Fiesta being driven very slowly along the lanes back over the peaks. Naturally, after about a minute Chalmers loses patience and at the first opportunity tears past the slow moving Ford.

“You fucking twat!” I shout at the windscreen. Oh well, I guess we need to find out what this baby can do at some point, may as well get it over with now! So, with the road still clear ahead  for a good couple of miles I drop from fourth to third gear, whisper some prayers to whatever god type people who may be listening at this moment and floor the accelerator.

The Perodua seems to take a moment to consider the request, probably a little startled at the urgency at what I’ve just asked it to do, before it finally decides “Fuck it, I’ll have a bash!” and approximately two feet in front of me three cylinders finally react and to their credit do their best to respond.

RrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Now it’s my turn to be surprised, as the little car leaps into action and zips past the ambling Fiesta. Up ahead, the impatient Mr Chalmers has slowed a little, no doubt realising his minor faux pas. He’s also no doubt expecting to have to chunter along at 10mph waiting for me to find a long enough stretch of road on which to build up enough courage and speed to bypass the obstruction.

With that in mind, he’s probably as surprised as I am when he looks in his rear view mirror and finds a Red Perodua filling it, with a grinning idiot at the wheel flicking him the v’s.

Percy Power!

The rest of the drive is uneventful and we’re making good time, but then we hit Chesterfield again and the Saturday lunchtime traffic is in place. Which all but kills our hopes of making it back to Ramsgate in time for our game. Still, I use the stationary minutes to explore the finer points of the Prodder’s interior. To say it is basic is pushing it somewhat. For starters, there’s not even a roof lining, instead there is a sheet of cheap grey vinyl which appears to have been haphazardly glued in place by some bored Malaysian ‘artisan’, no doubt at about 4.55pm on a Friday afternoon.

Bizarrely, given the total lack of creature comforts like a roof lining, some nut has decided that electric windows are an absolute must. These are controlled by two huge rocker switches in the middle of the dashboard and look like they’ve come from a late 80’s Vauxhall Astra. Still, at least they work, which a quick fiddle with the huge buttons confirms as the glass whirs noisily up and down next to me.

There is also a stereo. Which looks quite modern and utterly out of place with its fancy looking silver facia, so it’s clearly not standard. It has a front loading slot for CD’s and most importantly a plug that looks like it will allow us to run an iPod through it. However, I have no cable to do so let alone an iPod to connect, so instead I try to test out the no doubt cutting edge ‘ICE’ system with a two CD compilation album I’d ponced off Paul before we left the dealer.

Less traffic than when we visited.

I feed the first disc in and get 30 seconds of static through the speakers, accompanied by some rather loud whirring noises coming from the general direction of the stereo.  “Oh please play! I’ve got a couple of hundred miles to do here. I need sounds!” I whimper, to absolutely no one. As if making a mocking response to my pleas, the stereo gives up and spits out Chalmers CD.

“Oh yoooou bastard”

Still, all is not lost as I have the other CD. In it goes and 40 seconds later that too has been vomited back into the cabin by my unco-operative in car entertainment system.

As the rain once more turns from incessant drizzle to full on downpour making the interior of the Prodder sound like I’m sat in a filing cabinet being pelted with gravel, I’m left to contemplate my music-less fate, sat in a traffic jam in Chesterfield in the cheapest car model ever sold in the United Kingdom.

Tell you what, this Mongol Rally lark, it’s all glamour innit?