The worst car I ever owned was Rene Rivkin’s second-hand Rolls

Over the years I’ve spent millions feeding my addiction to cars - a Ferrari, a Porsche, Maserati and four E-Type Jaguars. But there is one which takes the mantle as the biggest lemon I ever had.

The Roller: I knew from the moment it arrived at my house that it was a lemon.

My name is Phillip and I’m an Autoholic.” With these words I begin my regular contribution to meetings of AA. Yes, Autoholics Anonymous. We gather in an abandoned Holden dealership in West Ryde.

I’ve been an autoholic since I was 19, and I fall off the wagon every week when commuting from the Hunter Valley to Sydney. My first car was a second-hand Austin A30 purchased when I was 18; the last, a used Genesis. And I do mean the last, as this one will see me out. (Unfamiliar with the brand name? Genesis is to Hyundai what Lexus is to Toyota – a luxury offshoot, producing cars that are relatively cheap but with all the bells and whistles.)

In between I’ve spent millions on cars to feed my addiction. The second was a tiny Goggomobil that one Blytonian brat mocked thus: “Look Mummy! It’s Noddy’s car!” That ended any pride of ownership. And during the decades when I had more money than brains, the garage held a Porsche, a Maserati, a Ferrari and four E-Type Jaguars. I currently own a Lamborghini but as it’s a farm tractor, that doesn’t count. Mercedes, Audis – you name them, I’ve had them. Autoholicism ain’t pretty.

My all-time favourite? An avant-garde Citroën. The worst car I ever owned? A Rolls-Royce. Yes, my depravity knew no bounds. The Roller’s previous owner was Rene Rivkin, himself a hopeless autoholic who, in one week, bought a very British Bentley and a US military Hummer that he had fitted out like a luxury stretch limo. RR tired of his RR and flogged it to York Motors, the official Sydney dealership. And I knew from the moment it arrived at my house that it was a lemon. Because its majestic grille – complete with its Spirit of Ecstasy emblem – toppled forward, resembling an elderly gentleman losing his dentures. And from that moment it was downhill all the way.

Rolls-Royces do not break down. They “fail to proceed”. Mine failed to proceed on a weekly (sometimes hourly) basis. Unfortunate owners of the famous hand-built brand that claimed to be “the world’s best car” often said you needed two – one to drive while the other was in the workshop. York’s service manager would phone me on the verge of, yes, breaking down himself. “Yours is the only car that fails to proceed after we’ve serviced it,” he’d say.

You don’t imagine that you’d need to call the NRMA for an RR, but it happened all too often. And even when the damned thing proceeded it seemed to have a death wish – seeking out kangaroos to hit on the Gundy Road. One smallish Eastern Grey managed to clear the bonnet ornament and crash into the windshield. A replacement didn’t come cheap. I had to take out a second mortgage.

Tyres? Don’t talk to me about effing tyres. To give the car its sumptuous ride it had very soft ones, about the consistency of licorice. And they lasted about as long. But the worst thing about my prestigious lemon was its headlights. You don’t expect a car’s lights to suddenly fail, plunging you into total darkness on Gundy Road when you’re trying to avoid bouncing macropods. Mine did. I had to complete the journey waving a torch out the window. It was the last straw. I demanded my money back. Or else a column like this. Got a full refund.

Off to my AA meeting.