Bristol 411 Series III

When I was nine or ten I started hanging out with a kid in my class who was into all the same things I was: radio-controlled cars, football, rugby, fireworks, BMX's, air rifles....we did it all together. After school on Thursdays, was the 'Modelling Club', where we'd sit in an old classroom, and glue and piece together Tamiya kits of Chieftain tanks, or replace the bushes on his 'Fox' or my 'Avante'.

Anyway, for whatever reason we were mucking around with this paint pot. You know, those little ones from the hobby store, and I couldn't, for the life of me, get it open. I needed to open it quite quickly as I my paint-gun was starting to dry and I didn't want to wash it out before giving whatever I was doing, one last spray.

So we went round the back of the hobby hall and took it in turns to chuck the pot as hard as we could at the wall. Three, five, fifteen times we did it. Nothing. Then it exploded all over his school uniform. Ha ha!

When his mum came to pick him up, she went nuts. Called me everything under the sun. To cut a long story short, his dad ending up talking to my dad, and before things got better they got worse. But it solidified our friendship. Over time, our parents talked to each other and they carted us between our houses (we lived quite some distance apart).

One day though, my mate's dad came to pick me up, as we were off to the cinema. Whilst my friend lived in the most gorgeous eight-bedroomed mansion within acres of it's own land, we lived on a modern estate, in a little three-bed house. It never, ever was something that was contemplated, but we just came from different spheres, that was all. But that day, his old man turned up in a Bristol 411 (Series I) with my mate in the back.

I'd never seen anything like it. My dad knew what it was of course, and the two parents shared a joke or two, as I got my stuff together, but that ride in the back away from my house just stayed with me. You know when you're surrounded by supreme quality. It's like being walked through a stately home and delicately running your fingers over the Chippendale furniture. It's an intangible and imperceptible thing trying to justify why an entity formulated from some wood and metal is so special and worthy of awe. It just is. A little bit of magic resides in cars like this, handbuilt and crafted in tiny numbers.

No-one buys a Bristol to be cool. No-one buys one because anyone they know has one. No-one buys one so people know what they've bought. Bristol owners tend to like operating a little under the radar. There's nothing remotely 'nouveau' or 'arriviste' about Bristols. Nope, they tend to be owned by people who are content that the decisions they make, suit them first and foremost. Bristol owners tend to like their car for it's own sake. Not because of what it says about them, unlike many other Marque owners.

We're still massive pals, but his old man sold his Bristol a long time ago. But that matters little. We still laugh about how that grand car serenely toured through my estate. But whenever I see a Bristol, I just can't help but feel that they are owned and run by people who take things as they see them. They aren't fussed if other people feel the same, just confident in what they themselves believe.

Bristol 411. 287 made over seven years from 1969 to 1976.