Car Identification Puzzle

CAR-R-RA-A-ZY!

In the following passage are the names of cars of the last 50 years or so, either the main name or the model, and including some foreign brands. Some names stand out on their own (e.g. Mazda). Other names are found inside a word (e.g. “Please be reseated”). And some names are formed by the last few letters of a word being added to the first letters of the next word (e.g. Rosa ably sang) irrespective of intervening punctuation. One or two others are more subtle. There are about 50 names. See how you get on. If you like the puzzle, please tell me, and feel free to pass it on or copy it for your own purposes.

I went to Bedford in my car. I liked its audio equipment and played loud music up the M1. I was going to Aston. Martin, my mate, was going to meet me. My mobile rang and quite against the law I picked it up to listen. Martin said the meeting was off as he had met this girl… I put the phone down in disgust. I came off the motorway and travelled across country passing through a village with a ford in the middle of the road. Actually the road did bypass it if you preferred, which I didn’t. I saw an attractive pub, the Robin Hood. As I got out I heard someone shout, “Coming for a spot of tennis, Sandra?” How posh can you get, I thought. Inside it sounded like Santa Claus had popped in with reindeer in full harness judging by the amount of bell-like noises. Then I saw it was a group of Morris Dancers strutting their stuff, to keep their feet in, I supposed. I settled for a shandy and chatted to this big guy at the bar. He was trying to find out if you should call Morris vermin or pests, to the amusement of a girl in a fetching mini-skirt nearby. The big guy leered at her and she grinned, “My Gran Ada told me to watch out for men like you”, though I personally couldn’t see whether that was a positive or negative comment. A Jamaican came up to the bar, sweating profusely. “Been on a work-out?” I volunteered. He nodded, and described himself as feeling right over the hill, man. Have you ever seen anyone eating their way through a Sundae, woollen jacket closely buttoned up, and a scowl on their face? No, neither have I, but the thought was intriguing. Drink finished, in cavalier mood I strolled outside, just in time to see a procession. Was this Fiesta time? Not quite. A young man was receiving the close attention of the local constabulary. They were giving him an escort in a very friendly fashion, holding him in case he fell over, and handcuffed him in case he banged his arms and hurt them. You might have thought him like a pirate, like those pictures you see of Corsairs. A chap standing next to me said to no-one in particular, “There goes Stanislaus Tindevsky on his merry way. Regular as clockwork he is. One drink over and the world suffers.” Meanwhile the big man and the girl seemed to be getting a bit more acquainted. The girl, whose name apparently was Rena ultimately threw a glass of g & t in his face and stomped off. Undaunted the big man carried his drink over to a window seat, and tried his luck with a couple of girls at a table nearby. Anglia TV was showing a football match, but as I have absolutely no interest in the game I could not even tell you who was playing. What was a surprise was to spot a picture on a wall. That is to say, not that there was a picture, but rather its subject. It was of grass, alfalfa. Next to it another picture, this time of a well-known Shakespeare play. How many places will you see neighbouring pictures: ‘Alfalfa’ – ‘Romeo and Juliet’? Two East Europeans were enjoying their glasses, with more than extra banter passing between them. I returned to the car park with two rolls of prawn and mayonnaise, and stood there to eat them, still observant of the local life. “Yours looks like the life of Riley,” commented an old fellow teetering his way past, “Not like the old drovers who used to pass this way taking their sheep to market.” “Looking smart don’t make me posh,” I retorted, making my voice sound as estuary as possible. The old man stopped, leant on his stick, looked me up and down - I was standing by the door - and spat. “Taint your clothes. Tis your drink. No decent folk take shandy. Tis neither beer nor nowt.” He spat again and teetered on. I wiped the goo from my shoe, and sighed. A couple of older men came across. “Don’t mind old Tom,” one of them said. “’E’s got a thing about nobs. He curses them a lot. Us lot don’t worry. Every man to ‘imself is our motto.” I left that pleasant niche of Olde England. Rovers beware, you don’t belong here. I thought of my cat, Fifi, at home. He – she – I never remember which, came into my life as a stray and has never left it in ten years, even though my travels often cause me to leave her – him, whichever, for days on end. When I’m away my excellent neighbour, Mrs Humberton looks after him and he loves her. Her son Eric is a keen runner and on London Marathon Day I join her with Fifi and we sit and watch the race. Fifi goes ecstatic when he sees Eric, though Mrs H and I have never been able to see how he can spot the lad. He springs at the screen like a jaguar going for its prey. One day Mrs H went all exotic when we were watching James Bond whooping it up in the West Indies. She passed me a banana. But then I realised it was not a banana. It looked nothing like a banana. It wasn’t even the right colour, being orange.” What’s this?” I asked suspiciously. “It’s a yam.” “A yam? Aha, I know you. You were going to catch me unawares so I wouldn’t know what I was eating.” She smiled impishly. “Wouldn’t have been the first time, either”. I didn’t argue. It never pays to argue with Mrs H. She’s a sharp ‘un that lady is, I tell you. The thought of her prompted me to close down my outing and return back home. In the car park I noticed Old Morgan’s battered Peugeot was in situ. He must have made his way back safely from holiday I thought, which considering his driving skill –weak, eyesight – weaker, hearing – deaf and financial status – non-existent – was no fean meat, I mean no mean feat. I let myself into the flat and sank down in the armchair. I mused awhile and then took the pad lying on the little table by my chair. It was time I took the plunge and asked the delightful, faithful Mrs Xanthia Humberton, widow, of Flat C, 12 Talbot Gardens - and here I wrote so emphatically that the pen nearly went through the paper - to Be My Wife.

Author: K. A. Wolseley
Editor’s note: Mr Wolseley was triumphant in winning the fair Mrs Humberton’s Hand, and they now live in a house with a view, a river and garden for Fifi, at 31 Vauxhall Close. Some people get all the luck (sigh, I’m still looking for my little sunbeam). The singer at the wedding, incidentally, was the famous Viscount Victor Bentley, whose grand title means absolutely zilch, but he’s made a good living out of it, so VIVA! to him.