Today was the third anniversary of when my garage didn’t get finished. My mistake was to share the idea before I had signed the contract. I had in mind a prefabricated oak frame four bay garage that would be erected by the supplier within 48 hours of delivery.
Sadly, this was not to be. My classic cars, and other ordinary ones, spent three more winters in the rain. I had miscalculated. I thought outside the house was mine as it was beyond the physical dwelling. My wife and I have an arrangement. She is total Fuehrer of all domestic and household matters leaving me to take care of things like our position on whether we should recognise Taiwan as a nation state, or invade Argentina in a pre-emptive strike, or bring back hanging. I cede the ground on lawns and flowers which are beyond my competence, but I thought the rest of the outside world, inc the driveway was my manor. Anyway not. Mrs Charman hijacked the project and morphed it into a two-storey building with space for two cars and the other 80% devoted to moving her clothing business into custom designed premises. Obviously, this led to planning disputes, war with the neighbours and never-ending negotiations with many suppliers, all of whom could win the Nobel prize for fiction. Then two years late, we kicked off a seven week build that has stretched to 10 months (so far). I would say, nothing has put more strain on marital relations. Mrs Charman would say “shut up and mind your own business four eyes”. Which I do.
Anyway, this week the electricity finally got connected. I can get cars in even though the tarmac hasn’t been laid because I have trained them to jump up to get in the door, but the garage is painted, and the new lights are fitted and working. I chose to decorate it in classic Gulf Racing colours, (bright orange, pale blue, and dark blue stripes) as any ten-year-old boy would. I showed a video of it to impress fellow drinkers in the pub and it did, but what I hadn’t realised is the sheer number of men who converted their garages into bars and playrooms in Covid. Everyone started passing around their garage phonevids. It’s a huge movement that never gets covered in the female and LGBTQI+IA dominated liberal media. It started as a clandestine alternative to pubs, which the Covid nazis had shut down, except for their own private one in 10 Downing Street. Ours was technically shut but I was one of Steve’s nominated helpers (Steve, is our registered blind pub landlord), and, as a key worker / helper I was allowed to go into the pub with necessities like food (crisps usually) and err, I dunno. hair gel? Anyway, this meant I quite often met, by chance, other nominated carers who were there as well, and we had a private chat about caring for vulnerable people and over some refreshment.
Obvs, I couldn’t build my own bar in Covid because I didn’t have a garage to build one in. Others had not been so idle. What I saw was amazing evidence of male creativity that rivalled the best clandestine speakeasies of US prohibition. Across the whole of Exmoor lies a network of secret bars. The standard video routine to show off your bar is to start with an establishing first person shot walking towards the house that pans off to the garage. Then a perfectly innocent looking garage door opens, usually on an electrical remote, (very few open manually on a hinge like a gate) to reveal a fully equipped, themed and furnished bar. The most popular is the Tiki bar with real palm trees in tubs and Hawaiian beach scenes hand “murielled” on the walls. When proud owners of this type came into shot, they are wearing appropriate shirts and flip-flops and holding colourful cocktails with umbrellas sticking out the top. Hawaiian music compliments the cliché. Although this was the most popular, there were others. One, owned by a former City trader was a tasteful, authentic replica of a Square Mile boozer as depicted in those golden days before they became neon bars. It was like a proper Fullers or Youngs pub. His has a huge garage with room for several tables for people who were ordering food and a long bar for drinkers to sit on stools with their feet dangled on a sturdy brass foot rail. It had the classic huge, decorated mirror, optics, and the much-feared unforgiving clock with Roman numerals that ticks down to the tragedy of going home time that you used to see in every bar when closing times were regulated. Detective Ned, a recently retired CID man, has a railway station. He has faithfully collected railway memorabilia and created a set which I am convinced could be used to reenact the tear-jerking closing scene of “Brief Encounter”, which we all agreed is a favourite love film. It has been magically put together in a way where the ersatz station bar blends seamlessly into a platform and then, finally, at the far end of the garage the eyes are drawn by the optical miracle of perspective and the vanishing point to a model railway layout where a Hornby 00 scale train pulls out blowing real steam leaving Trevor Howard tearing up and wondering, for the rest of his life, about what might have been. Ed can play a supporting role as a frantic uniformed flag waving whistle blowing station master. Geoff the singing farmer, who does a superb turn combining a Ronnie Scott’s George Melly look with Johhny Rotten vocals has a sound stage and night club with proper lighting, smoke machine and dry ice in a barn, (which is what farmers call their garage). My garage will be a homage to Steve McQueen, Le Mans and high tech. I have the iconic Gulf racing jacket, aviator sunglasses and a real Porsche Turbo (obvs). There will be tribute posters and artefacts mounted on the walls. The space is lit with dazzling LEDs to make the highly polished brightwork of the car really “pop” and sparkle, as you find in exotic car showrooms on Park Lane. But this only occupies a fraction of one side. The rest of that side will contain a spotless work area with tool cabinets, which never get used but can be opened to reveal gleaming chrome spanners and socket sets all neatly and precisely racked. Running the length of the other wall will be a bar with stools, sofas, a low table (with car magazines) and the piece de la resistance (Rodney) – a sit inside car racing simulator with wrap around screens and full motion actuators that throw you about and bounce you up and down like the real thing, as you drive around the Le Mans circuit. It won’t be cheap, but I’ve had three years to save up.
