Dream car...

I’ve seen this old heap around a lot in Pwhelli over the last few months. It’s rusting and filled, but someone has taken the trouble to find it some whitewall tyres and paint an intricate embellishment on its hood. It’s sometimes parked outside the tattoo shop and I want it to belong to one of the tattooists. It’s a very tattooist type of car, the type of car that Sailor Jerry might have driven, a bottle of rum on the dash and a pin up stuck to the windscreen.

I’m not great with cars and I don’t know exactly what it is. But I remember these Americanesqe vehicles being around when I was a kid. I loved the fins and the shiny chrome bumpers, the solid wing mirrors, the red leather seats. It’s the type of car that has a trunk and is filled with gas, not petrol. It’s the type of car guys in white T-shirts with kiss-curl hair drive one-handed, leaning out of the rolled-down window to flick the ash from a Marlborough as the drive down Route 66.

This type of car has a radio that is tuned to R&R/R&B, a station that only plays Chantilly Lace. Summertime Blues, Be Bop a Loo Bop and Good Golly Miss Molly. It’s the type of car that you give a girl’s name, maybe your first girl, the one that you gave your baseball jacket to – Sally or Peggy or even Christine. A car that might, late at night when nobody is around to watch, repair itself and make each and every one if its panels shine as good as new.

This car is the stuff of dreams.

I hope that whoever owns it realises this dream. They deserve to.