Bernie Fineman, Original Motor Mouth

by Bernie Fineman

  I hope it has.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FUCK ME I’M FAMOUS!

  Because the Discovery Channel is in almost every country in the world, it seemed that I was known the world over and soon offers were coming in from all sorts of places. One of the most memorable was from the Castrol Extreme show in South Africa. They asked if I’d like to be their headline guest and for this they’d fly me out to Johannesburg, put me up in a fancy hotel, pay for all my food plus £850 a day for ten days. I have to admit I was struggling to find a reason to say no!

  I had no idea how big a deal this event was until I got out there – the main auditorium alone held 3,000 people. Four times a day I had to go on and talk for twenty-five minutes in front of all these people – but I’m no showman, so what the bloody hell am I meant to do? I had no idea if anyone knew who I was or what I was doing there, so when I came out for the first time I was relieved and stunned to hear a huge roar from the crowd. People were chanting my name and asking where Leepu was, it was crazy! I had nothing prepared so I just blagged my way through it.

  So I asked who had seen Chop Shop and about 80 per cent of the audience put their hands up. I then asked who hadn’t and a few brave souls put their hands up too, so I said ‘You haven’t seen Chop Shop? Well there’s the door, now fuck off!’ This got another huge roar from the crowd and from then on they were on my side. I’d tell a few stories, answer a few questions, but I realised after a while it didn’t matter what I did – they were all petrol heads and they were just pleased to see me. The event normally finished at 6.30 pm but sometimes I was still there at nine o’clock at night still signing autographs and chatting to people. The organisers were so pleased they invited me back three years running.

  After the third year, Graham, the organiser of the show, called me and said he was friendly with the owner of a magazine out there called Modified and would I be interested in writing some articles for them. Me, with my literacy skills? I ask you! All right, I said, I’ll give it a go. So in my spare time I started writing about various aspects of mechanical work, modifying cars plus a few choice stories from my career.

  As the months went on people would send in questions to the magazine for me to answer and my contributions grew and grew, until eventually they made me Editor-in-Chief! This I was still able to do from the UK, but after a while they called me and said they’d sorted out a regular spot on the local radio station in Durban and they wanted me on it. It was just a week so I said I was happy to.

  They put me up in a hotel for the week, I met the team from the magazine, did my radio spots as the ‘Car Doctor’ and, just as I was due to leave, the owner of the publisher asked if I could stay a little longer. He felt that to really get the magazine going it would be good for me to stay for a few months and work with the team. They were paying me nicely and it was another little adventure so I agreed.

  All was going well until two months into my stay, when something happened that changed my life, though I’ve never told a living soul about it before now. This is going to be news to everyone who knows me, even my wife. Despite the great strides South Africa has made since the days of apartheid it is still an incredibly dangerous country, particularly Durban where I was staying.

  I was told never to drive after dark, but if you have to do so, then don’t stop at traffic lights if you can help it, lock your doors and keep your windows wound up. One night I was driving home after seeing some friends and even though it is 11 o’clock at night it’s still sweltering, but I can’t be doing with air con, it dries my throat, so I always drive with the windows down.

  So I pull up to a set of traffic lights and just as I’m checking to see if the coast is clear, I feel something pressed to my temple. It’s cold, hard and I know immediately what it is. I keep facing straight ahead but out of the corner of my eye I can see it’s a young black guy, skinny as a runt, with wild eyes. He’s clearly high on something. He starts screaming at me: ‘GIVE ME YOUR MONEY MOTHERFUCKER, I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU, GIVE ME YOUR MONEY!’

  I realised it was fight or flight. Out there they’ll take your money and still kill you, so I had to do something and do it quick. ‘OK OK!’ I shout, ‘Take it easy, you can have my money.’ I move to get my wallet out of my pocket and then, without really thinking what I was doing, as if I’m on autopilot, I just lean right out the car and punch him harder than I’ve ever punched anyone before. This gave me the split second I needed to put my foot down and speed off as fast as I can.

  Quarter of a mile down the road I turn off, make sure I’m out of sight, and pull over. I scramble out of the car. My heart is beating, I’m dazed, and I’m sick right there by the side of the road. After a few seconds of catching my breath, I got back in the car and drove straight back to my hotel, threw my belongings into my suitcase and headed straight for the airport. I was on a flight home the following morning.

  I couldn’t tell Lisa what had happened – she’d have belted me for being so stupid, but would also have been worried sick about what could’ve happened. Even though I was now safe, she’d still be having nightmares that I was killed. I didn’t want her to worry about me going away in the future and, to be honest, I didn’t want to think about it myself. Talking about it would’ve brought it all back, so when I got home I just said I’d wanted to surprise her and was always planning to come home after two months. The longer I left it the more difficult it would’ve been to come clean, so I never told anyone.

  Until now.

  After Chop Shop finished, and in between my stints as a South African celebrity and motoring journalist, I went back to the day job. But I’d got the bug. The three series I’d made for Discovery were so well received, I was getting Facebook requests and recognised in the street all the time. I knew people liked what I did and so I never thought for a second it would be over. So I decided that if I was going to do any more TV I needed to do it properly, and I decided to get an agent.

  I had no idea how TV was made, no idea what it costs or how much I should be paid. Raw Television had made me an offer, it was a decent wage and an experience so I thought I’d go for it, I had nothing to lose. But making Chop Shop made me realise I had a lot to learn when it came to the world of TV and I needed help.

  With a view to getting an agent we set off on rounds of meetings. You have no idea how many different production companies there are until you are in the business. It seems there’s one on every street corner. Everyone is very friendly and enthusiastic and assures me that they can get me back on TV. But it isn’t just a matter of having a great character and a great idea; in the world of television there are millions of variables that make the difference between a show being commissioned and one that ends up in the bin.

  During this time there are two little projects I did that I’m incredibly proud of, even if they’re not the things that most people remember me for. The first, in 2009, was a show called Young Mechanic of the Year for BBC Three. It was hosted by George Lamb, son of the actor Larry Lamb from EastEnders and Gavin & Stacey and I was a judge alongside a guy called Dave Massey.

  As the title suggests they’d assembled the best young mechanics in the country and we were to put them through their paces in order to crown a champion. As you can imagine, my mind went back to some fifty years previously when I was sitting my mechanic exams as a teenager and those practical tasks they made us do. It was very satisfying to turn the tables and suddenly be the one in charge of setting the faults, holding the stopwatch and checking their work.

  And I really was so pleased with the standard of contestants. I love working with young people who are eager to learn and the talent on display was fantastic. It warms an old fart’s heart to know that his industry is in good hands after I go to the Great Garage in the Sky.

  The next programme I did was a series of short films for SuperScrimpers on Channel 4. This was just after the financial crash and for a lot of people money was tight, as it still is, so the show gave viewers clever little tips on
how to save money on all sorts of things. It was mostly old ladies who grew up in the time of rationing after the war and I suppose it was similar for me. We live in a throwaway culture these days: if it’s broken just chuck it and get a new one, but when I started out in garages you made do and mended. So the production company, Endemol, were delighted when I gave them a long list of things people could do to help save them money on their motoring. You can find some of these in Chapter Sixteen of this book.

  After I’d recorded a few short films with them they asked if I would run a masterclass. They invited a group of young women down to the garage for me to give them an introductory lesson in the basics of car maintenance. These girls were all in their teens and twenties and some of them didn’t even know how to open their bonnet, let alone ever having looked under it before.

  But I was amazed at how quickly they picked things up. I had them replacing radiator filters, changing the oil, checking tyre pressure… everything you need to know to keep your car safely on the road and avoid unnecessary bills at the garage. If these girls could do it then anyone could. It made me realise that there’s simply no excuse for anyone not to know this stuff. So if you bring your motor into my garage with a clogged radiator filter, you’ll get no sympathy from me!

  Then I got the call I’d been hoping for. Channel 5 were making a new series about restoring classic cars and they wanted me, once again, to be the man to make these old bangers run. And once again they wanted to pair me with someone who made me look slim! After two years with that fat Bangladeshi Leepu, I was now going to be working with a fat Canadian-Italian called Mario Paceone, who also had an attitude problem! I don’t half fucking find ’em, I tell ya.

  Mario is a lovely, lovely guy, but what he knows about mechanical work you could probably write on the back of a stamp. He loves to wind people up, but he was a really charming guy, though, and could use his charm to wheel and deal like no one I’ve met before or since. His motto was, ‘I never pay what anyone ever asks.’ He loved a bargain, old Mario, and he usually got it.

  The first time we were introduced was when they filmed a ‘taster tape’ to see what we were like on screen together. He came up to me and said, ‘Hello Baldy.’

  ‘Fat cunt,’ I said in reply, with a smile. And it all went downhill from there! We were always having digs at each other, but it was all in good spirits. I knew from that first exchange we would get on – we could give and take it and were always making each other laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in my life as when one of the doors jammed on one of the cars and Mario had to climb in through the window. He got wedged in at the hips, feet waving in the air, and it looked like the car was giving birth to a fat, hairy baby!

  He was another one who enjoyed the London life and went home about 20 lbs heavier than he arrived. All he did was eat and shit, he certainly never did any bloody work. And as if to prove the point, every day he would go to have his nails manicured. Fucking manicured! One that’s never done a day’s work in his life, that’s who. His hands were softer than the cheeks on my arse.

  By this time I knew that in TV there is never enough time or money to do what you want to do, and once again the budgets and timeframe to get the work done were unrealistic, we all knew that, but as ever we worked our arses off and got some pretty extraordinary results in the process. Of course, working in such close proximity meant that me and Mario had our ups and downs, but we always came out smiling in the end.

  The series was a co-production between Channel 5 in the UK and Discovery Canada. In the first series we made four cars in Canon’s Park, Edgware, Middlesex and two more in Toronto, Canada. So we were doing twice as many cars in the UK, but had the same amount of time in both places to do the cars. It seems a different pace of life over in Canada. Whereas here we would be working until two, three in the morning to get things done, over there they started at 9.30 am and at 5.30 pm on the dot they would say, ‘That’s it, we’re off.’

  The most memorable one from the first series was the Mini, which was as rotten as a bloody pear when we bought it. So the first thing we had to do was make the car safe, so we proceeded to cut all the old panels out, put new panels in, then needed to check that the car was straight after all the chopping and banging that had been done to it. So we call these recovery vehicle guys to get it taken over to where it was going to be tested. These three herberts turn up, load it onto the back of the truck, then say, ‘Right, we want paying now.’ Fat chance! I want to make sure it gets there in one piece first. They’re having none of it, and I’m having none of it!

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘this garage has been here thirty bloody years, we’re not going anywhere, I want to know the car gets there before you get your money.’ They said they didn’t work like that so I told them to take the car off their vehicle and said we’d call a proper company instead. They’re fuming by this stage, saying I’m wasting their time, so rather than drop the back of the truck to wheel it off they pushed it straight off the back, straight onto its fucking roof! I chased them out of there sharpish, I can tell you!

  The VW Camper we built in Canada is one of my favourite cars I’ve ever worked on. I’d go as far as to say it was the best Camper I’ve ever seen, even if I’m being slightly biased. I was working with two guys Diego and Satnam in the Toronto garage and it had some of the finest workmanship I’ve come across. It was finished superbly, in silver and blue, with lots of chrome and beautiful curves – and it even had its own fold-out barbecue in the back! I must say, it looked a million Canadian dollars when we’d finished.

  At the other end of the size spectrum the little Fiat 500 we worked on in the UK was a beautiful little motor, the attention to detail was amazing, and restoring that to its former glory and then some was a pleasure. I mean, it still only did 0–100 mph in 5 minutes 10 seconds. Sorry, I exaggerate – 25 minutes and 10 seconds – but it really was a lovely little car.

  In contrast, the E-Type we bought was one of the worst examples of the E-Type I’ve ever come across, and just remember I’ve been working on these things virtually since the day they came out, and I’ve seen some shit in my time. This one, though, was the pits. Left-hand drive, sunroof, automatic… Everything you don’t want on an E-Type, this one had, and it still cost us £13,000! It was the cheapest we could find so we had to make do with what we could afford. Any decent E-Type will cost you a minimum of twenty grand, if you’re lucky. Meanwhile we had to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. We did it, I think, but only just.

  My favourite from Series One was the MGB – so much so I tried to win it! The idea of the show was that at the end the viewers had the chance to win the car we’d made in that episode. You dial a premium rate number and you go into the hat. Well, I really fancied that MGB so I called up about ten times, it cost me a bloody fortune. Then my agent pointed out to me that under the terms and conditions, no one connected with the programme was allowed to enter, so I’d wasted my money.

  He could’ve told me that earlier, clever-clogs!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE SAMARITANS

  My father was ill. I’d just dropped him off at home after coming back from the hospital where he’d told the specialist in no uncertain terms that he was not going to have his testicles removed.

  I sat outside the house in my car, and I felt completely lost. I knew in my heart I was losing my dad. I didn’t want to burden my family, I didn’t want to burden anyone with it, but I was a wreck, I didn’t know how I was going to cope without my dad. For once in my life I didn’t know what to say and didn’t know what to do. I just sat in my car for hours and hours and cried my eyes out.

  Eventually I drove to the shops, got myself something to eat and picked up a paper. In the paper there was an advertisement for the Samaritans that said: ‘Call us if you feel lonely, despairing or suicidal.’

  I thought, well I’m lonely and despairing, two out of three, that’s me. I had a car phone then, and so I sat in the car and dialled the n
umber. I didn’t really know what I was going to say, I had no idea what I was doing, but found myself calling them. The person at the other end of the line said, ‘The Samaritans, can I help you?’

  I couldn’t talk for a minute. I wanted to speak but couldn’t. The person said into the silence, ‘Take your time, talk to me whenever you’re ready, I’m here to help you.’

  For five minutes, I said nothing.

  ‘Can I ask your name?’ the Samaritan asked.

  ‘Bernie.’

  ‘Bernie, what’s troubling you?’

  Then all of a sudden it was like a dam breaking, it all came out. I was on the phone for two, two-and-a-half hours, and told them everything. I couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop crying.

  Afterwards, I just felt better. I can’t describe the feeling, but I felt better. I knew I had someone I could talk to, someone who couldn’t see me, knew nothing about me, wouldn’t judge me, someone who would just listen.

  For the next few months while my dad slowly passed away I called them two or three times a week, sometimes very late at night, and they helped me through it. When my dad finally died I was able to accept it and I don’t think I’d have been able to, had I not been able to get it all off my chest during that period. I promised myself then that once I’d sorted myself out, I wanted to give back what was given to me.

  A few weeks later I applied to become a Samaritan. I had no idea what the training would be like, and it was incredibly in-depth. You had a Samaritan psychologist assess you and they wanted to pull everything out of you that might be troubling you. They wanted to see if you were depressed. They wanted to know if you had any prejudices. They delved into my background, my private life, made sure I had no criminal record. I went back three or four times and once they were satisfied they’d heard everything they did an evaluation and I passed, though every time my dad was mentioned I cried, I couldn’t help it. I still cry now.