"A load of Bulls"
(Working title)
Chapter 1 - 1st June 09
With the help of my Diners card, Nick Van der Steen
and I found ourselves in the showroom of Achilles
Motors the Lamborghini Dealer in Rome. If I had
known then how many times I would have to again
suffer the indignity of flying with Alitilia “Always
Late in Take Off Always Late In Arrival”, I think I
would have started hitching home, however, here we
were on a beautiful summers morning in 1971, with
nothing much more than hope in our wallets, and
enthusiasm in our hearts.
The showroom, beautifully designed in fine Italian
marble and chrome furniture, enhanced the fine
display of a Muira S, and an Espada II in pride of
place. They also had a Maserati Ghibli, and a
selection of Alfa's, all beautifully prepared and
presented. The showroom was set high on one of Romes
famous seven hills, and the view was stunning,
offering my first view of the Colosseum.
We were offered espresso coffee, another first, the
start of a lifetime love affair with this elixir
which only the Italians seem to get completely
right.
Guildo Paione the proprietor of Achilles motors had
been kind enough to get a new camshaft for a
Maserati Ghibli I had in stock. The car was a
beautiful canary yellow with black leather interior
it had at one time been owned by Brit Eckland, a
present from Peter Sellers. It was a 'little bit
left hand drive' which did not help its value but
did nothing to detract from its aesthetics. Achilles
motor had Nick that Lamborghini were unhappy with
their current UK importers and would be pleased to
talk with us. We were anxious to explore the
possibility of taking over the franchise without
delay. We were to learn, however, our first lesson
of Italian business – nothing happens until they are
ready.
Thus we adjourned to a nearby trattoria for a
typical Roman lunch, salted bread with a drizzle of
olive oil, a large shared bowl of tagliatelle in a
tomato sauce with olives and a piece of fried fish.
I have no idea what kind of fish, and the language
barrier left me none the wiser. The table was
further decorated with a bottle of red wine, and a
bottle of water. I was surprised to see our
host,Guido mix his wine with water. This was a most
civilized meal befitting the City we were in, and at
a cost that was laughable. I asked what the plan of
action was, Guildo beamed. He had booked us into a
small hotel a few kilometers away, and suggested we
have some rest then sample the delights of Rome in
the evening. He regretted not be able to meet with
us but one of his most important clients had called
that very morning and he had to entertain him. He
did, however, promise that in the morning he would
be pleased to collect us, and take us to the factory
at 8, or 9 – probably.
We thanked Guido profusely, and asked if he could
give us an idea of what we should expect from the
visit, he said we could chat about it on the journey
as he had to return to the office.
We trailed along, and collected our luggage which
was piled into an Alfa 1750, and thus we were driven
to the hotel by one of Guildo's mechanics. The ride
was even more frightening than the one from the
airport that morning. We were introduced to the
Roman style of driving which seemed to owe more to
driving in the shade than obeying road signs, or
traffic laws. The Italians drive on the edge as an
art form with total concentration and skill. After a
few minutes we arrived at the hotel, another
revelation. How could a city as fine as Rome allow
such a monstrosity to be built anywhere, let alone
within sight of Vatican City? ... an enduring
mystery. The style, if this the right word, can only
be described, as 1940's Pill Box for all I know it
may have been converted from one. The rooms were
however clean bright, and the cost, as always,
clearly shown on bedroom door was as good as the
architecture was bad.
After a quick shower I met up with Nick in the small
bar and we enjoyed another espresso while sorting
out what to do next. I had met Nick a year, or so
earlier while running Silvertune, a small garage and
work shop at the unfashionable end of the Kings
Road, Chelsea. I was dealing in used Alfas, Reliant
Scimitars, Marcos and Lotus. I usually had at least
one exotic car in stock more for my personal use
than as a profit generator. I would also often take
cars on sale, or return thus expanding the stock
without contracting the wallet.
Nick was more of a 'trader in the trade' finding
cars for other dealers and supplying his own loyal
and growing client base. He operated from a room
above a mews garage in Notting Hill Gate the stock
parked in the mews, except the one he most needed to
get rid of, which was closeted in the one car
garage. Neither of us had much capital behind us
certainly not enough to consider taking the UK
franchise for one of the worlds most prestigious car
marques. One of Nick's clients was Robert Harris an
old Etonian the same age as me, at this time I had
never met him – we all jealously guarded our
clients. Nick was very optimistic that Harris would
provide some financial backing.
So it was with this rather tenuous potential backing
that we sat in the small garden at the rear of the
hotel sipping cold Peroni beers and considered our
position. Neither of us fancied sampling the
delights of the great metropolis that is Rome,
rather to get our thoughts together, before what
promised to be a life changing day ahead of us.
We agreed that the first hurdle was to get the
factory to believe in us. We hoped that perhaps they
would grant us credit on the stock in a similar way
that franchised dealers were offered by finance
companies in the UK. In the UK the quid per pro was
that the finance company would charge a very low
rate but gain from getting the hire purchase
business. Perhaps the factory would offer a similar
deal with the lure of increased sales as the bait,
or perhaps not.
Our next concern was the existing owners of the
concession. What was the contract and could it be
broken? We had not met the current concessionaires,
Roger Windsor and Stefan Wingate and did not know
much about them. They were not from the motor trade,
Then there was the problem of where would operate
from? Silvertune was way to small and scruffy as was
Nick and his mews lock-up – only the quality of the
beer stopped us from getting very depressed.
It was decided that I would fly the flag of sales
and Nick would provide the assurance that finance
would be available. Well at least I had driven a
couple of Lamborgini's and even sold one. This was
not much of a plan but its all we had, perhaps we
would glean some more insight from Guildo on the
morrow.
So after a surprisingly good night’s sleep we met in
the hotel restaurant for a light breakfast and more
delicious coffee. 8:00 am came and went and by 8.45
am we were becoming increasingly anxious. Then a
beautiful metallic green Lamborghini Espada swept
into the small entrance and out popped a young man
wearing a natty rally jacket complete with a
Lamborghini badge and 'Achillies Motors Roma'
emblazoned across the front.
He nodded to us – the English are so easy to spot
abroad – and headed for reception. The receptionist
called us over and said that this was Stefano who
regrettably spoke no English but was here to take us
to the factory. Guildo had, it seemed, tried to
phone us but not unusually was unable to get though
he would call us at the factory later.
“Well so much for getting the inside information on
the journey” Nick smiled. We introduced ourselves
and thanked him via the obliging receptionist and
thanked her for a pleasant stay.
So with our luggage stowed in the Espada's
surprisingly large boot we were chauffeured out into
the chaos of Romes traffic. We were on our way, the
Colosseum appeared on our right quite magnificent
and all the more exciting to see it though a fog of
Vespas, Lambrettas and Fiats, all driven with the
same panache as their ancestors, charioteers two
millennium earlier. Nuns scattering and being moved
closer to god, wimples in the air, zebra crossings a
target area, traffic lights like a starting grid,or
so it seemed.
Stefano guided the Espada though this mayhem and
towards the outskirts of the city. We finely reached
the toll booth for Auto Strada del Sol which would
take north some 250 miles to Moderna.
Stefano reach out and collected a toll ticket and
then we were off. He took the car slowly up though
the gears until we reached 150 KPH, the car was
almost new and we both wondered why we had been
provided with such an elegant form of transport. It
later transpired that the owner wanted its first
service done at the factory and would collect it
from there in a few days.
After an uneventful 200 kilometers miles, or so we
pulled off into an Agip service area for fuel and
coffee. Motorway service stations in the UK were
dire in the seventies, come think of it they still
are. This one was different the coffee was perfectly
served with a Biscotti, and a smile.
Nick and I swapped places and I shoed myself into a
rear seat which was surprisingly comfortable if a
little on the snug side. I had driven an Espada
before but this was Nicks first time in one. We
exchanged complimentary comments on the car, the
driver and splendid discipline of the other drivers.
None of the cut and thrust of Rome but still the
same level of concentration from the other drivers.
They actually used the third lane for overtaking and
pulled over straight after.
We were both quiet and reflective, and then Nick
said “well it’s last nights plan then”, I replied
“It’s all we have, nothing ventured nothing gained”
Nick nodded.
After another hour, or so we approached the exit for
Modena, Stefano proffered the ticket at the toll
booth and paid with a bunch of notes. The journey
had taken half the time it would have taken in the
UK even with its embryonic motorway system.
So onto Modena which was a little like modern day
Slough but with the charm of a truly magnificent
city center. With no time to admire this we swept
past the Maserati factory and then out into the
country towards Santa Agata. The flat featureless
countryside gave no hint as to what lay ahead, until
rounding sharp bent a lime green Muira presented
itself coming towards us at a speed that could only
be described as reckless.
Hands of greeting were exchanged between Stafano and
the driver and then looking over the squat majesty
of the Muira the factory hove into view. A large
square building with an imposing entrance set in the
middle of a never ending farmland. We turned into
the entrance and the barrier opened as if by magic.
You needed no pass, other than a Lamborghini coming
home.
Parking among some thirty other Lamboghinis we
disembarked from our new found metallic green friend
and stood like two school boys on their first day
with our luggage taking the place of a new satchel .
We thanked our 'piloti' as best we could with 'mille
grazie's' a phrase remembered from the last coffee
stop, and big smiles.
We never saw him again and he might never know what
a part he played in Lamborghini's next 10 years.
After a few minutes drinking in the atmosphere and
surveying the parked cars we heard a “good morning”
and Ubaldo Scarzi introduced himself as the sales
manager of Lamborghini.
The gatekeeper had done his job and alerted him to
our arrival. Scarzi had seen our interest in the
parked cars and said “in for service”. Judging by
the number plates people sent them a long way for
service. The majority were Italian but Switzerland,
France and Germany were well represented. The
service and spares department was located in its own
buildings across from the main factory and provided
a profitable contribution to the fragile finances of
the factory. Leaving our luggage with a smiling
gatekeeper we were let into the main factory area.
The factory was a hive of inactivity as Scarzi
explained that there was a strike on. I wondered
where the pickets were, as England also had its fair
share, or some might unfair share of industrial
action.
It seems we were just in time for lunch and were led
into the dining hall. The directorate ate in a room
with space for twenty although today there were only
about ten.
The work force, or on this occasion, the strikers
ate and drank the same in equally nice surroundings.
“Buon giorno's” were exchanged but the serious art
of lunch resumed with no delay, even my untrained
ear, I could understand the talk was singularly
about the cars.
Local bread rolls appeared and soon disappeared, I
was hungry. This was followed by the obligatory
spaghetti served with fried chicken. Bottles of
Lambrusco and bottled water were spread about and I
gratefully accepted a glass, not forgetting to add
the water – when in Rome - or nearby anyway!
Lambrusco was a local rough wine which you opened by
removing a foil lid not unlike that of a milk
bottle. It was slightly fizzy and quite potent, I
always enjoy it in Italy but it does not seem to
travel well.
Scarzi introduced us to Dott. Ing Paulo Stanzi the
then chief of engineering. The Italians gave much
more social respect to engineers you can hardly see
the English calling one a Doctor. That may be part
of the reason we now pretty much only manufacture
hamburgers. Then a lanky guy in full race overalls
came in Scarzi introduced us to Bob Wallace the New
Zealander who was the factory test driver and had
been driving the Muira we saw earlier. I hoped that
another English speaker may be of help to our cause
but it soon became apparent that Bob would have
staved to death if words were food. Thus, yet
another problem was brought into sharp relief, we
did not speak Italian and they did not speak much
English - a great start. Nick was very quiet as
Scarzi and I exchanged small talk – very small talk
– however he did seem to be getting more into his
stride.
He offered to show us around, first visiting the
parts department – of limited interest except there
seemed to be quiet a lot of empty bins perhaps they
were expanding, my optimism knew no bounds. Then
onto the serving area, no shortage of customers and
decked out with very impressive equipment. There
seemed to be a slow trickle of workers returning
from lunch, Scarzi explained the strike was over.
“Good” I said “the matter is settled?”, he replied
“it was a regional matter and nothing to do with the
factory” it seems in Italy if you kick one of them
they all limp. We then proceed across the car park
to the main building.
There were two 'production lines' one for Muira's
and the other for Espada's with an occasional Jarama.
The cars were moved down the line by hand rather
like Henry Fords first factory 75 years earlier. The
bodies arrived fully trimmed and painted from
Bertone in Turin so it was just a matter of adding
the running gear, engine, gearbox and wheels.
Half way down the factory was an enormous machine
which I later found out was for making crankshafts.
In all my many visits I never saw it running, too
much capacity and not enough money to make anything,
the life of Lamborghini in the 70's. It was obvious
that Ferrucio Lamborghini had poured a lot of money
into this enterprise.
This part of the factory also contained the engines
assembly department. The bought-in 'rough cast'
engine blocks, cylinder heads and gear box casings
were lovingly finished off and then passed to the
building jigs where each engine and gear box was put
together by one engineer.
The completed engines were then taken to one of four
engine testing rooms. The sound proof booths allowed
each engine to be tested for up to 12 hours without
hearing damage. The engines were hooked up to an oil
supply which was constantly filtered and tested for
quality, and cooling water pumped round and round to
large heat exchanger on the roof. This allowed the
'driver' to change revs and run though various test
programs. The result was that the engine was not
only checked for integrity but was 'run in' under
optimum conditions before being mated with its new
chassis.
Scarzi trotted on a pace and we turned right into
the huge marble entrance hall and up an equally
impressive marble stair case which would have done
justice to any grand hotel in Europe. At the landing
we turned left to the commercial section to the
right were the drawing, engineering, development and
production offices.
We were ushered into Scarzi's office and introduced
to Miss Ingrid, his secretary. Miss Ingrid was very
unassuming, and only for the point of description a
little mousy, she could have been any age between 30
and 50. Her English was very good and she had an
impish smile, She was the power behind the throne, I
surmised.
Nick had gone even quieter, if that was possible,
and looked well out of his depth, I empathised with
him, but my enthusiasm buoyed me up.
“Ah, England, Ferrari do very well there” opened
Scarzi “Yes” I said “ the new Dino is becoming very
popular and the Daytona is a fine Car”. Scarzi
continued to say how the investment of Fiat had
allowed a rapid expansion at Marenello the home of
Ferrari, a few miles away. He also said Ferrari had
an excellent importer, Colonel Ronnie Hoare at
Marrenello Concessionaires based in Esher, Surrey.
How did we see Lamborgini's future in the UK? he
asked.
Nick made the point that there were very few
Lamborghini's being sold most as personal imports.
It was common knowledge that if you showed up at the
factory you could order a right hand drive car. He
further said that the current importers were not
motor traders and had other substantial businesses
to run. There premises situated in the then still
run down east end of London were unattractive and to
small. I asked how many cars the current importers
had sold this year. Scarzi said “a few” I did not
press the point “but we have another Muira being
finished off in the Factory”.
How many cars did he think could be sold in the UK I
asked. He look out of the window for a moment and
replied “I think the same as Germany about 40 a
year”. Could he supply 40 a year I asked,
“certainly” he said. With a big smile. This was, yet
another area that we had not given much thought. The
UK was in a boom, property, retailing and business
was in a most optimistic mood. Rather than old money
ruling, a new class of entrepreneur had arisen with
new money. They were keen to show they had arrived
and what better way to arrive than in a Lamborghini?
I was 23 years old and had no idea it was impossible
to take over the concession without a business plan,
finance, or premises but I felt strangely at home.
The phone rang, “Pronto” “Pronto” Scarzi shouted
into it, the telephone still seemed to be a novelty
in Italy and not to be trusted. Ingrid said “ the
German importer, Hubert Hanne, has just arrived to
collect three cars”. Scarzi made his apologies and
disappeared saying we should meet this evening as
his guests for dinner. The Penny, or perhaps Lira
dropped and I realised we had as, yet not booked a
hotel.
I asked Miss Ingrid if she could suggest on fairly
locally one “Ah yes, The Real Fini, in Moderna, all
our dealers and client speak highly of it” she
reached for the phone. Five minutes later and much
rapid fire Italian later, she said “No problem I
have booked you two rooms and will let Ubaldo know”.
It was now nearly four o'clock Ingrid said she would
arrange lift for us shortly and scurried off.
Nick and I exchanged glances, “lets chat at the
Hotel” he nodded his agreement. Miss Ingid
reappeared say that we were in luck “Paolo Stanzani
is going to Moderna and would be pleased to drop you
off” chirped Miss Ingrid. She further explained that
he had been with the factory since Ferruccio started
it in 1963 and had been responsible with Ing.
Dallara for the Muira. He was now in charge of the
factory and when not attending to that he was in
charge of the Countach project.
We followed her down to the factory floor, low and
behold work was in progress. We had no time to view
further as Ingrid shepherded us along, and out into
the still bright sunshine.
Ingrid bid us good day and wished us a pleasant
evening and suggested we wait for Ing. Stanzani who
would be with us shortly.
The gatekeeper greeted us with equally sunny smile
and brought our bags out. “England” he said,
“Manchester United” we smiled and nodded, the
Italians are passionate about football, we found out
later the factory even had its own team. Personally,
if Chelsea and Arsenal were playing in my back
garden, I would get up and close the curtains. This
is a opinion best kept away from Italians.
The gate opened and a small tan Mercedes saloon
filled the gap with Ing.Stanzarni at the helm. We
piled our luggage into the boot and climbed in, he
apologised that he spoke little English but hoped we
would enjoy our trip. Like most dedicated people his
world was that of his speciality and little else.
The journey was silent but quick just 10 kilometres,
the Maserati factory appeared again, on our left
then a quick right and we were outside the Real Fini.
We made thank you noises and disembarked. A smartly
dress doorman whisked away our luggage and opened
the doors into a small but again beautifully
presented lobby.
The check in, manned by a smart suited dapper
concierge, the magic word Lamborghini eluded an
immediate response and welcome. Keys were given to
the bell hop who guided us too the tiny lift which
wheesed its way to the second floor.
“Bar in half an hour ?” said Nick,”too right I
replied”. The room was again a riot of taste, with a
fine view over the main street, I spent a minute, or
two drinking in the atmosphere. Showered and changed
I soon felt refreshed and ready to refresh the inner
man.
Nick was already in the small bar with two large Gin
and Tonics at the ready. A safe bet too order gin
and tonic as it takes no translating.
We withdrew to a small table and I started with “now
what?” Nick said that he felt they considered us
more substantial than perhaps we were. He added that
perhaps Achilles motors had talked us up a tad. I
suggested that perhaps they were desperate. The
truth would turn out to be somewhere between the
two.
We decided that as we did not really have a plan we
would stick with it!
Nick said he was very optimistic that if the deal
was right, Robert Harris would come up with funds.
The phone rang and a few “pronto's” later the
bartender asked for Senor Phelips, asking for Van
der Steen might have been to confusing. Taking the
phone, I said
“Hello”, “ah Roger, this is Ubaldo, I will collect
you at eight, is OK?”, “Just fine” I said, his reply
“yes, from the Real Fini” was the first of many miss
translations that would enliven our dealings in
Italy.
Time for another Gin and Tonic, this was not a night
to go out alone.
Suitably refreshed we awaited Ubaldo in the lobby. A
few moments the doorman called to us,
Ubaldo was double parked in his Peugeot, we
clambered in and were off, again into the race track
of Italian roads. He explained that the best
restaurant in Moderna was the Real Fini.
In a typical eccentric Italian stretch of logic it
was not actually in the hotel but about a kilometer
away.
Parking a few yards from the restaurant, we entered
into a world I had never seen before. The Maître de
welcomed Ubaldo like a long lost brother, for all we
knew he might have been.
You normally only ate out in England when the cooker
broke down. This was a haven of gastronomic
delights. It was still early by Modena time, the
Modenesi start to eat about the same time as most
English, are considering bed.
A bottle of Lambrusco arrive along with baskets of
fresh warm rolls and mounds of butter.
It seems were were to have the restaurant daily
specials menu, which suited us fine, we were in no
position to navigate our way around a menu. Ubaldo
chatted about the cars collected today and how well
the Germans were doing. I asked what they were
collecting “two Jarmaras and an Espada” he replied,
adding “the Jarama does well in Germany and
Switzerland”, “Do you think it will do well in
England?” he ventured.
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