The home of Scottish MINI

Foxton, the classy estate agent, is famous for something other than the houses it sells.

I’m talking about – but then aren’t I always? – MINIs. Foxtons has an entire fleet of MINIs. All lovingly styled.

I haven’t yet bumped into any of these MINIs in the street, either figuratively or literally. But that’s because they’re too far from Peter Vardy, my mothership. In fact, they’re hundreds of miles away in – cough, splutter – the Smoke.

You’ll see here that Foxtons has changed its cars’ design every year from 2001 to the present day. And, of course, it has stayed with MINIs the whole time.

Call me biased. Call me mad as a wasp in a hiker’s sock, even. But I’d like to imagine that this MINI-embracing philosophy is the secret of the success of Foxtons.

And that had it chosen another marque, it’d be a tiny, one-shop operation, selling second-hand garden sheds and corrugated-iron coal bunkers.

I don’t know whether any of you saw this brilliant US MINI advertising campaign a few years back. I laughed so hard, I had to have my poor wee starter motor replaced.

Which was more painful than you might think. Because we cars (with the exception of the Queen’s) tend not to get a general anaesthetic before someone rummages around in our engines with a dirty great spanner. Ooyah.

Goodness knows, I have a hard enough time getting a mechanic to scrub up first, let alone put on surgical gloves and one of those radge bandana things the docs used to wear on ER.

Anyway… where was I? Oh, aye: this counterfeit MINI business has been preying on my mind. I mean, do I look like a fake MINI?

I’d assumed I only looked like a fake cow. And that everyone knew beneath this attractive, hairy exterior there was an even more attractive interior, built to perfection. If a little short on modesty sometimes.

But maybe people think I’m a shaggy [insert name of uncool car here] instead? Or even worse – a [insert name of even uncooler car here]! Oh, man. I do hope not.

Look, it’s The McStig: Knockhill’s answer to the mysterious, rubber-burning daredevil from Top Gear.

Speed king though The McStig is, I really showed the laddie who’s boss the other day.

Through my distant cloud of dust, he could just about see me giving my tail a cheeky wee shoogle as I sped round the first bend like a cowpat off a Teflon® shovel.

And I’ll be back at Knockhill again this weekend (22–23 May) for the Official Scottish Motorshow. Come along and see me giving an inferiority complex to an F1 car capable of 200 mph (in kph that’s a number so frighteningly large, I’d have to get permission from three different government departments before I’d be allowed to write it here).

And there’ll also be all kinds of bikes and GT sports cars. They’ll be showing you what they’re made of on the track, not simply sitting around looking pretty.

Although they’ll be doing plenty of that, too; so you can get up close and personal without them squishing you deep into Dunfermline tarmac.

But enough about them. And back to me. Because I’m the one who’s looking forward to seeing you this weekend.

To tell you the truth, this is a bit embarrassing.

Because I can guess what your situation is. You’ve got your computer set up just the way you want it. You’re very happy and proud of it.

Like millions of others, you have a loved one’s photy set as your desktop wallpaper. Awww! And your heart dances a wee jig every time you see it. In fact, it’s a matter of sadness that their lovely, smiling face is partially obscured by this window.

Oh dear, though. Oh dearie, dearie dear. You’ve just seen these four gorgeous wallpapers featuring yours truly.

Wow! You’re blown away by the beautiful colours. By the much-loved Scottish locations. And, yes, by me.

Suddenly, you’re altering your settings. You’re consigning the picture of your beloved to the wastebasket and installing me on your desktop in their place.

Of course, your loved one eventually finds out that they’ve been digitally disposed of.

So they get in a huff. They say things like: “You love that boggin’ car-cow thing more than you love me.” You start to mumble a denial. But you can’t find the right words.

Your loved one slams the door on their way out. It’s over.

Still, at least your desktop looks braw.

Hamish at the SECC
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Hamish in front of Edinburgh Castle
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Hamish at the Falkirk Wheel
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Hamish at Loch Ness
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People of Britain, I believe I’d make a braw Prime MINIster.

Aye, I know cows don’t normally wear rosettes – unless they’ve just won the best of breed at their local agricultural show – but I have political aspirations.

As the self-appointed leader of the Vardy Party, I’ll happily drive around my local constituency canvassing voters.

I’ll be polite and try not to park in anyone’s flower beds or on top of their pets. And I solemnly swear on this copy of the Highway Code not to sound my horn when driving in a built-up area between the hours of 11.30 pm and 7.00 am.

Anyway, I have a MINIfesto. It may be a wee bit shorter than the main parties’, but who cares? I think you’ll agree it’s much better.

I solemnly swear that, if elected, I will:

1) Outlaw gingerist remarks and criminalise all ginger discrimination
2) Confer “sacred” status on cows of all descriptions
3) Introduce cow tax credits
4) Turn Heathrow airport into pasture
5) Guarantee free petrol for all cars that aren’t built like shopping centres on wheels
6) Make parking free for all MINIs

Jings. Will you look at the date? The election’s this Thursday. I’d better get some leaflets printed now. Got to dash.

Cheerio!

Phew. I think that went rather well. My readers are a really intelligent bunch. Not to mention attractive. Hang on: is this blog still switched on…?