Pablo Picaro January 13, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
So there I am, over at Wynders’s gaff, having a bit of a pre-dinner mosey, and I click on this link from this entry and my attention suddenly, surreptitiously, and by the mystery of unintentional clicks, finally ended up being snared by this little tale of stunning arrogance and conceit.
Now I can well understand the Picasso clan wanting to protect the family name and only have cars called the Citroen Picasso darting niftily round Paris and other glamorous locations. Aber to try to stop other manufacturers from using quite a different word altogether… well, that’s just a touch wank, isn’t it? It’s not as if Daimler Chrysler wanted to call their car the Picasso. They wanted to call it the Picaro. Quite another noise altogether. Which makes me think the Picasso clan might just be suffering from a slight overdose of haughtiness to have taken Daimler Chrysler to court (and lost, and then lost the three appeals). I hope Monet’s heirs and descendants are on to Ford to have the Mondeo renamed and that the van Goghs are making sure all those Vauxhall Vivas are taken off the road with immediate effect. Actually, even Vauxhall sounds a bit like van Gogh. And now you – or, rather, I – come to mention it, even the word ‘car’ sounds a bit like Caravaggio. Is there no end to this exploitation of artists (whose names have already been sold by their estate)?
Anyway, back to Wynders and that car. Unless it’s the drink typing, I’ve got a feeling, somewhere in the comments to that post, folk said you’d never be able to sleep – or something like that – worrying that the bastard would be nicked. Which leads me beautifully into a little story. Many years ago – well, 1992 – I was living in the lap of luxury – not – in good ol’ Kentish Town. The ex – excuse the frequent mentions. He’s still a majorly good pal – had a job to do with cars, meaning he often came home to our hovel with a brand, spanking new motor. This was all well and good, and as we were young and poor, we’d revel in the chance to go out for a bit of a spin. But one evening, the ex was given an Aston Martin to drive home in. And we weren’t in the posh bit of Kentish Town. No, we were in the majorly dodgy, bloody ugly, quadruple-buggy part of town. Living above a betting shop. (Oh the glamour.) We had even expressed an interest to our landlady in buying her flat and had had it valued and knew – those were the days – that it was 30-something grand. And the Aston Martin – dunno what type. Sorry – was valued at 140 grand. Which means, just as Wynders’s commenters rightly suspected, we were frantic with worry and spent half the night getting up to check if it was still there. And, of course, it was, and no ill befell it at all. (Although we were called wankers as we took it for a spin by random folk, even in Hampstead!)
The ex likes to recount tales – I think apocryphal – of how I became so inured to luxury that I would sometimes sneer out the window from above the Kentish Town betting shop and say, “I’m not getting in that,” if he drove home in, say, a Lexus. My brain is too wine-addled to come down on either side regarding the truth of these allegations. But, amusingly, almost, the only cars that did get broken into as they sat nicely outside the hovel were utter pieces of shit. Cor blimey. They knew their place, those thieves, back in the early 1990s.
Anyway, as classy as I think the Aston is, I think my heart would still take me to one of these little beauties. Home is where the heart is…
(Photo taken from Jordi Gaya-Gallofré.)