Dad's Bentley

One of the most humiliating things about living in a country in postimperial decline is that many of our most prestigious brands, brands that have become synonymous with British style and grandeur, have been bought by foreign companies. To add insult to injury, many of these companies are German! We may have beaten the Jerries in two world wars?with a little help from our friends?but Germany's gross national product is significantly higher than ours. Like Japan, Germany benefited from having to rebuild its economy more or less from scratch after being beaten in World War II. Ironically, if the Krauts had beaten us in 1945, British companies would probably be snapping up their most prestigious brands round about now.

The most egregious example of this trend is the purchase of Rolls-Royce and Bentley by Volkswagen in 1998. (BMW bought Rolls-Royce shortly afterward.) The first BMW-built Rolls-Royce, code-named RR01, will be unveiled in 2003 with a price tag of about $300,000, and promises to be "a Rolls fit for royalty," according to London's Sunday Times. However, Volkswagen will be first out of the gate with a new Bentley limousine that it plans to present to the Queen next year on the 50th anniversary of her reign.

The fact that Bentley, in particular, has fallen into German hands is a source of much sadness to me. Bentleys strike a deep chord in my psyche because when I was a little kid my father used to own one. It's one of the most vivid memories of my childhood: a 1935 Bentley three-and-a-half liter. I remember the long, upward sweep of the wheel arches and the silver hubcaps, so shiny you could see your face in them. My father's a socialist and not at all rich, so it was a little odd that he owned such an arch-capitalist's car, but who cares about consistency when you can be behind the wheel of a BENTLEY? The elegant silver-and-black saloon was a monument to prewar luxury. In the rear, where I always sat, it had little trays that folded out of the seats in front, just like on an airplane. My father promised to give it to me when I was 21.

This was a source of great pride. My very own Bentley! I'd be able to drive it up to Cambridge on my 21st birthday (I always assumed I'd go to Cambridge). Better yet, I'd get my best friend to drive me up wearing a peaked cap while I lolled around in the back drinking champagne. Little Lord Fauntleroy! The Young family isn't exactly what you'd call posh?my father's father was the music editor of the Daily Express?but the car fueled my fantasies of being a toff. Tooling around in a Bentley, age 21! It was so aristocratic.

Unfortunately, it wasn't to be. My father couldn't afford to keep the Bentley in London, so he asked his father-in-law if he could store it in his garage in Hampshire. The old skinflint said no. He was a bit of a hoarder, and the garage was full of treasures that he regarded as far too valuable to throw away?old clothes pegs, coathangers, stuff like that. My father looked into keeping it at a professional storage company but it was prohibitively expensive. When he announced that he'd have to sell it I was heartbroken.

"But you promised!"

"Don't worry," he said. "You can have the next car I get when you're 21."

I took some comfort from this until I discovered what his next car was: an Austin Maxi. That was like trading in a yacht for a rubber dinghy. It was hardly the ducal carriage I'd dreamed about. More like a chauffeur's car. He could keep his sodding Maxi!

As time passed, and the Maxi was traded in for a Renault 16, I forgave my father. You'd expect cars to have been a sore point between us after that, but they never were. I loved nothing more than sitting beside him as he took me through the advantages and disadvantages of his latest purchase. The ultimate test, apparently, was to point it at a spot on the horizon and take your hands off the wheel. If it continued in a straight line that meant it was perfectly balanced.

Throughout my childhood, Dad talked a big game when it came to cars. He was always on the verge of getting something really cool, like a Morgan or a Bristol; then I'd come home from school and see a Vauxhall Cavalier parked in the driveway. The only time he came close to owning anything as flash as the Bentley was a red Ford Capri. When my grandmother saw my mother in it for the first time, she said she looked like "a chorus girl." Vroom, vroom.

About six months ago I bought a car of my own for the first time. Naturally, I sought my father's advice. What did he think about a secondhand Porsche 911? Admittedly, it might look a bit incongruous outside my bedsit in Shepherd's Bush, but even so. Not a good idea, he said, given the running costs. No, the car he'd buy if he were in my shoes would be a Skoda Fabia.

A Skoda! Surely not? But, actually, it turned out to be good advice. I'm delighted with it and I felt completely vindicated when Catherine Zeta-Jones' Mum bought one. Still, it's not exactly the car of my dreams. There's a sticker on the back windscreen that says: "It's a Skoda. Honest." That's a little too try-hard. After all, it's not as if anyone's going to mistake it for a Bentley.