Martin buckley

2 min read
From top: Ladybird books planted the seed of Martin’s car obsession; the stories’ rose-tinted view of the world wouldn’t cut it with today’s kids

I learned to read with Ladybirdʼs Peter and Jane, a brother and sister of the never-had-it-so-good years whose dad drove a two-tone Zephyr Six, a car you never saw by the time I was exposed to the books. Perhaps mindful of such things, the publisher gave the series a ʼ70s makeover and made Peter look like Donny Osmond. One high-street scene even featured an orange NSU Ro80.

The Ladybird Book of Motor Cars was my literary introduction to cars. In the early ʼ70s there was limited information for kids with a thirst for automotive knowledge. These slim, hardback volumes acknowledged an innocent enthusiasm for vehicles that probably wouldnʼt be acceptable today, not only because modern parents might perceive them as nasty, dangerous things that are choking the planet, but also because many children no longer see cars as especially exotic. Back in my childhood they were already moving into the realm of the consumer durable, but, thanks to my Ladybird books, I could name almost everything on the road, from Vauxhall Viva to Silver Shadow.

The format was comfortingly familiar: 72 of the most notable cars arranged in order of size, and usually starting with a Reliant Regal. The first Book of Motor Cars was in 1960 (rare now), revised in ʼ61 and ʼ63, and thereafter every two or three years. The last was published in 1972, priced at 15p. They sometimes featured cars no longer in production – the Lancia Aurelia B20 in the 1960 edition had been off sale for two years – and a handful of oddballs: the chances of spotting the Frazer Nash Continental shown in the same edition were pretty slim.

The descriptions were written for kids but didnʼt talk down, pointing out the rarities, giving basic facts and showing each carʼs badge. The cross-section of models was broad with no British bias, taking a Ladybird-like, even-handed view of the world and its wonders. They werenʼt even rude about American cars, which were always described in terms of their luxury and ʻeffortless travelʼ. The real charm, though, was – and remains – the beautiful pictures, some taken from brochure shots but retouched to make them look painted.

I got my first bit of anorak information out of a Ladybird

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