Bernie Fineman, Original Motor Mouth

  Every time I think of my late mum and dad

  memories escape through my eyes and down my cheeks.

  Love forever, Bernie.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter One: ROSIE THE WELDER AND HARRY THE HUMAN CRANE

  Chapter Two: GROWING UP

  Chapter Three: A YOUNG T. REX

  Chapter Four: SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS

  Chapter Five: EARLY DAYS IN THE GARAGE

  Chapter Six: THE BLIND BEGGAR

  Chapter Seven: THE LADIES IN MY LIFE

  Chapter Eight: GOING PLACES

  Chapter Nine: BERNIE’S NO-NONSENSE GUIDE TO BUYING A USED CAR

  Chapter Ten: BERNIE’S GUIDE TO CAR SCAMS

  Chapter Eleven: BANGLADESH

  Chapter Twelve: FUCK ME I’M FAMOUS!

  Chapter Thirteen: THE SAMARITANS

  Chapter Fourteen: GORDON RAMSAY, EAT YOUR HEART OUT!

  Chapter Fifteen: CLASSIC COCK-UPS

  Chapter Sixteen: BERNIE’S TIPS AND TRICKS

  Acknowledgements

  Plates

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  My dad was a bare-knuckle boxer, my mum a welder. I got beaten up every day at school for being Jewish and got expelled for fighting, but really I was just defending myself. We lived on the breadline, rationing was still in and then, at twelve years old, I was sent out to work, unable to read or write. Dyslexia didn’t exist then, apparently; instead you got other labels, and mine wasn’t Gucci. It was only years later I found out that’s what I had and it made sense. I would see words but they were all jumbled up, I couldn’t make sense of ’em. If you’d have told me then, or anyone that knew me, that I’d end up writing a book, we’d have had a good laugh – what sort of mess would I have come up with?

  Thankfully, fifty years in the motor trade has not only given me my livelihood, but it also helped me learn to read and write: there’s a lot of exams to do along the way and I was fortunate to have employers who believed in me and helped me pass those tests. Now I’m here to pass on some of the things I’ve learnt in those fifty years.

  But first, a bit about me, just so you know who you’re dealing with…

  I’ve dealt with some of the most notorious gangsters in London, I’ve had to pull out my own tooth with a pair of pliers in Bangladesh, lived in the jungle in Guatemala, had a gun put to my head in South Africa, and nearly died more times than I can remember. Am I tough? No, but I’ve had it tough, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. So excuse me if I don’t mince my words. I don’t use poncey or flowery language, you’ll be glad to hear, the language I use is the language thrown around in East-End garages, so not for the fainthearted. It’s also the language of my upbringing. You’ve probably seen me on some of my TV shows like Chop Shop or Classic Car Rescue and wondered how on earth this foul-mouthed ugly bastard got on the telly! Well, let me tell you a story…

  I was born in 1945 to Harry and Rose Fineman, in the true East End, British Street in Bow, and lived in the Samuel Lewis Trust council flats. Poor, in fact very poor, we always scratched for a living. There was literally one job for every twenty people, so if you did not cut the mustard, you were out, and a line ready to take your place was already there. Rationing was still in, and that’s hardship, believe me. Bread, margarine, eggs, and ten ounces of meat a week (generally scrag end) for all the family was the norm and chocolate was at a premium. Mum worked six days a week, from 7 am to 6 pm, thirty-minute lunches and that was it. We had to pay for food, rent for the council flat, keep grandma and pa, all on her and Dad’s wages, which believe me did not amount to very much.

  Dad was also a bare-knuckle boxer, and Saturday nights my mum would carry a bucket of water to the centre square of the flats to sponge Dad down. Dad would slide down his braces in the centre of the square, take off his glasses and would face the so-called hard men from other council apartments for a bare-knuckle fight to see who would win the paltry sum of two pounds. I used to creep outta bed, peek out the window, and see the fearsome other guys, as determined as Dad, and see Dad take up position, as in those days it was all Marquis of Queensbury rules. I saw him knock down so many men, and he never lost a fight, and I knew as soon as he knocked the other geezer down, the prize money would buy a fresh chicken for Sunday, after Mum would get it from the market at 4 am. I can still taste that chicken, roast potatoes and veg. Most of the week we lived on potatoes, scrag-end meat if it was available, and bread and dripping, but we were always full, and felt secure.

  Being Jewish in those days wasn’t much fun. You know what kids are like, anyone who is a bit different is a target, and so I was always being picked on, especially ’cos of my worn shorts and frayed shirt – I stood out like a pork chop at a Kosher wedding. So I got into fights. A lot of fights. I got expelled, so it was decided it was best for me to go out to work instead.

  What was I going to do? No contest. On the way home from school one night I passed Springfield Court Garage, a cab garage in Lower Clapton, East London. I used to stand there, freezing cold in the twilight, and watch the mechanics under the ramps doing work, and I was mesmerised. It’s funny, when you know something is right for you. And I knew one thing: this was going to be my world and, fuck it, why not be king? I learnt early that if you want something, ask – never be afraid to ask. That’s the best advice I can give anyone.

  Bollocks to it then, I thought. I boldly went into the reception, forgetting my school uniform and satchel, and asked, ‘Can I have a Saturday job, please?’

  The man, Mr Phillips, smiles at my cheek and says, ‘Cheeky sod. You’re so small I will fit you under the cabs and outta the bonnet like a monkey.’ He laughs. ‘Well sonny, what do you know about mechanics then?’

  ‘Sir,’ I replied, ‘I take things apart all the time and I’m good with my hands. Give me a chance, please.’

  ‘Can you make tea and use a broom?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes sir I can do both at once.’

  ‘Well son,’ he says, ‘go make a cuppa for the boys, clean the cups and sweep up for an hour, we’ll see how you get on.’

  I’m overjoyed! He finds me a boiler suit six sizes too big and rolls the legs nearly up to my waist – I look like an oily dwarf, but I’m in my element. I get all the filthy cups, scrub them shiny, ask all the mechanics how many sugars they take, and proceed to make them all tea. I get smiles, as the tea is so good, and for a change they get clean cups. I’m in, thank God, they like me! I sweep up, pass up tools and for the first time in my life I’m under a ramp. It’s joy! I can see under a car, it’s a maze, all rods, exhausts, so magical.

  I could not wait for Saturday morning to come in those days. I’d be up at the crack of dawn, trousers on, ironed shirt, with bulled black boots, kiss for Mum and off to work to get there for 7 am.

  The manager, Terry, greeted me the same way most weeks: ‘Right Bernie my son, get the bloody kettle on, make some tea.’ Off I’d go into the kitchen – it’s filthy, cups all over the place from the week previous, yuck. But I cleaned it all up, spotless, all the cups, the sink, then make a brew, and all the guys would smile at their little helper. I swept, cleaned and did anything asked of me, and slowly over the following months I’m showed how to grease up the taxis. It was great. My hands were dirty, greasy and smelly, but I was in my element, and I always felt sad when the garage door swung shut at the end of the day. At least I got me quid, which I always gave to Mum to buy some more food. She was proud of me and she would give me a little change for myself.

  The boy mechanic had arrived!

  Now I know that getting greasy hands isn’t ever
yone’s cup of tea. It takes a certain kind of person to work in a garage – some love it, and some don’t last five minutes. There’s some people who don’t even know how to open the bonnet of their car. And I can guarantee you these are also the same ones who don’t like garages, full stop. So what happens? They don’t look after their motor and they put off getting it fixed, so when they do finally take it to the garage they find themselves with a bill for hundreds of pounds.

  But believe me, there’s a lot of satisfaction in doing something that you know is going to help your vehicle run smoothly and maybe save yourself a bit of money along the way.

  Working on cars can be fun and really satisfying. I’ve certainly had fun in my time and a little bit of knowledge can go a long way. Here’s a story for you…

  As a young man there was an August bank holiday weekend coming up, and my mates and I wanted to go to Bournemouth. That was one of the places to aim for back then, but money was as tight as a duck’s arse. We needed wheels to get there and lying in the back yard of Springfield Court was an old Thames van – it looked totally fucked but what the heck? I asked my boss, Joe Phillips, what was wrong with it. ‘Bernie,’ he says, ‘it’s been there for about four months, the client’s disappeared, and it don’t run. If you can get that piece of shit going then you can have it for the weekend, son.’

  Spanners in hand, I worked the night shift to get the old girl running. It was a real dog, but I found the fault, cleaned it, serviced the brakes and tidied it up. So on the Friday of the bank holiday I called my mates, telling them, ‘Geezers, comb your hair, iron a shirt and wash ya cocks – we’re off to the coast!’

  Slight problem: as always there’s no petrol in the van. What to do? No worries, I craftily drain a gallon off each car in the workshop, and that gives me six gallons, I’ll worry about getting back when we’re there. We all packed our overnight cases, aftershave (Old Spice, of course) and having met up with my mates, headed onto the motorway at 5 am, two hours away from heaven.

  Between us we had the total amount of six pounds and ten shillings – my God I hope the beer’s cheap, I thought! My mate Ron said, ‘Where we all going to sleep when we get there?’ The Thames Hilton of course, where else? It was the only hotel that runs on four stars, has its own en-suite spare wheel and a butler called Jack. Well, I mean, where the fuck did he think we’d stay!

  We arrived at Bournemouth around 7 am, and parked up at a ‘one penny wash and brush up’. That’s a toilet where for one penny you got a bit of soap, a clean towel and toilet facilities. You could shave and wash yourself – ahh so good! We found a small breakfast place on the front and ordered three large breakfasts and split ’em. Three between six: one cuts and one chooses!

  Several cups of free tea later and all’s lovely jubbly. Stomachs tended to, with balls raring to go, we were off on the hunt to find some very obliging girls, hopefully some who were staying in a hotel, so we can ‘bed down for the night’ if ya know what I mean.

  We all got ready and went to where all the IN girls and guys hang out: The Frothy Coffee in Bournemouth Central. I park up the Thames outside and what do ya know? We’ve hit the jackpot! The place is crawling with girls. We were just getting out of the van and giving it the eye and what’s pulled up behind us? Oh fuck, it’s only the latest TVR, a Grantura motor, all spanking in racing green, just come out, we reckon it must be some rich git that owns it. And out jumps James-fucking-Bond!

  Now we’re looking like right geezers, all clean and shiny, collars up, fags in our mouths, but as we walk in, there’s one guy who has all the girls around him, yep you’ve guessed it, it’s Golden Bollocks, the flash git with the TVR. Lucky bastard, he’s got all the good looking girls, and they just keep coming. He keeps going out to his car, and sits and revs it for three minutes or so, then goes back in the coffee bar and sits down again. Bloody hell, he was getting more birds than Bernard Matthews.

  Dave, one of my mates, is getting the arse with Mr Bond. ‘What we gonna do, Bern?’ he asks me.

  ‘Well, don’t thump him,’ I tell him. ‘I got the answer my son. Keep your eye out mate, I’m gonna teach this flash sod a lesson.’

  I popped into the van, undid the back doors, and just like an army commando, slid under the back end of Golden Bollocks’s TVR, brake adjuster spanner in hand, with my mates keeping an eye out, then I proceeded to lock on the rear brake adjusters – he’s going nowhere! I’m nearly wetting myself, and my mates come over to the van, going, ‘What the fuck you done, Bernie?’

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘he wants to be flash, let him drive with locked-on brakes then.’

  Out came ‘Mr Bond’, telling all the girls, ‘Come and see my car darling, and I will give you a drive – it puts all these peasants’ cars to shame.’ More cheek than a bullfrog this one.

  I have to literally hold Dave back – he’s still not happy and wants to crush this prat for calling us peasants, but hey, he who laughs last laughs longest, and trust me the laughs are about to start, big time.

  Well the geezer’s got into the TVR giving the birds the spiel, and three absolute stunners get in with him. Ignition on, bit of a roar, a smile from the girls and Mr Bond revs the motor so everyone can hear. First gear engaged, wait for it. Wait… And he tries to pull away. The car cuts out instantly. Embarrassed, he starts it again, puts in more revs, and nothing. Now, we are wetting ourselves, Dave is nearly hysterical, and the crowd, they are in fits, watching this prat revving the nuts out of his car, trying to make it move.

  The smell of burnt clutch lining is in the air, there’s smoke from the transmission housing, and he’s cursing and swearing, then there’s an almighty explosion as the clutch disintegrates! We are all pissing ourselves along with the rest of the crowd from inside the bar. Mr Bond is outta his car, and slams the door. The girls, crying with fright from the noise, rush back into the bar to the waiting peasants! We are still in fits of laughter, and chat the girls up, who are staying in a local hotel with their friends. After the usual pre-mating chit-chat we all go with them to their hotel.

  The following morning, my lay shaft’s nicely serviced, and I’m complimented for my efforts with a great breakfast in the morning. Job done, I was happy! We stayed until Monday night, going to all the local haunts until it was time to return to London.

  Would you believe it, the next day at work a car transporter brings in a car, wait for it, yes, a TVR ‘That’s broken down in Bournemouth’, and its Joe Phillips’s cousin’s son, a.k.a. James Bond. Cockily I look at it and immediately say, ‘Bet the clutch has exploded and the brakes locked on. Common fault on these!’

  Joe looks at me quizzically. ‘How do you know that, Bernie?’ And he looks deep in thought. I shouldn’t have opened my big gob.

  ‘Funny thing,’ says Joe, ‘it’s come in from Bournemouth where you were this weekend, and the AA breakdown service also says that the clutch has gone, and they suspect the rear brakes were locked on.’

  The grilling started and I admitted to Joe that I had I locked the brakes on. He’s already twigged it and I’m in a corner.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘you fix it, service it and valet it, it’s coming out of your wages – and you do the repairs at night when you’ve finished work as well!’

  It was four solid nights’ work: engine removed, new clutch fitted, valeted, and three weeks’ wages down the drain, as well as a written apology to the flash sod of an owner. That little incident taught me never to be jealous of anyone again and not to touch what’s not yours. If you’re reading this now, Mr Bond, I apologise, but you’ve got to admit that you were a bit of a flash twat, weren’t you?

  That was the first and last time I played a prank like that. I was young and when you’re a kid you don’t think about consequences, you reckon you’re indestructible. Now I know how dangerous cars are, because I have worked for the Metropolitan Police, attending the scenes of accidents and seen what damage can be done. More people die by the wheel of a car than the trigger of a gun in Britain,
so you don’t mess about with them. That’s why when you see me getting angry with my mechanics ’cos they’ve done something wrong it’s because they’re responsible for that car going back on the road. If something they’ve done fails then it could be the difference between life and death. You don’t dick about with cars, safety is the number-one priority.

  I’ve attended the scene of many an accident, from the days working in the East End with what people would call gangsters – for instance getting a call at three in the morning saying, ‘Bernie, you need to come out to such-and-such, you’ve got to get this Jag going quick’ – to working for the Met and it’s no joking matter, believe me. If people knew how their cars worked, they would be more likely to take care of them, and if they take care of them then they’re less likely to crash and they’ll save themselves a lot of money in the long run too. And if there’s one thing I love more than cars, it’s money! And my family, of course…

  I’ve got fifty years’ experience in garages, and I’ve seen the business and the people in the motor trade change beyond all recognition. I think I’ve seen it all but every day there’s a surprise.

  I hope I’ve written a book that gives you a taste of what it’s like to have worked in the motor trade from the 1950s to the present day, the characters I’ve come across, the TV shows I’ve made, plus practical tips that you can use to buy the right car for you, maintain it and how not to get scammed. I’ve got a story for every aspect of car maintenance. Some of them you just couldn’t make up, so I hope you enjoy some of these ‘tales from under the arches’.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ROSIE THE WELDER AND HARRY THE HUMAN CRANE

  My grandparents were Dutch, Italian and Russian on my mother’s side and Russian and Polish on my father’s side. The reason I’ve got no family is because in Holland they refused to hang a picture of Hitler in the window, so all that side of the family was taken to concentration camps.