Life and Laughing_ My Story - Michael McIntyre [33]
The insurance company kept saying to her, ‘You’ve already told us about this accident.’
To which she would shamefully reply, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve done it again.’ Unfortunately, this junction was on the school run. Lucy and I would have to brace for impact twice a day.
Even though things were tight financially and Steve was searching for a more substantial job, when my mother received some money from her late father’s estate, she decided to blow it on a BMW 6-Series. The problem was that she only had £7,000 to spend. My dad’s 6-Series had cost closer to £25,000. Thanks to Autotrader or Loot or something of that ilk, we found one for £6,995. It was a light blue 633i with plenty of miles on the clock and fewer extras than my BMX Raleigh Burner, but it was a 6-Series (although it may have been two 3-Series welded together). It was perfect. We spent the £5 change on petrol and went on one of those ‘new car drives’ where you aren’t actually going anywhere, just cruising around. Unfortunately, because we lived in London, we got stuck in roadworks for an hour and a half and reached a top speed of 7 mph. Typical.
The sensible decision was taken not to tell my grandmother about the 6-Series. Her reaction would not have been: ‘Good vor you, luvely car, fuel injection, wery classy, you deserve, mast get burglar gassing device, very populer in Hungaaary.’ It would more likely have been: ‘You blow money on ztupid car, you vasters, I will cut you out of my vill.’ She tended to use her money as a weapon, and threatened to cut us out of her ‘vill’ about every thirty to forty minutes. ‘Michael, come end give yur grenny a hug, or I vill cut you out of my vill.’ ‘These kerritz are burned, Kati, I vill cut you out of my vill.’
Grandma preparing me for my audition to play Damien in The Omen.
We were the poor relations, and Grandma revelled in it. When she visited, she would bring us food from her fridge that had passed its use-by date as a gift. Whenever she found loose change on our floor or behind the sofa, she would accuse my mother of wasting money and would preach her mantra: ‘Look avter ze pennies and ze pounds vill take care of themselves’, forgetting that marrying a millionaire also helps. So the decision was taken to keep the new car a secret. When we visited her, we would drive our old 3-Series and when she visited us we would hide our new 6-Series up the road. It simply wasn’t worth the trouble. Grandma would much rather her daughter was eating out-of-date dinner surrounded by jars of 1ps and 2ps, than cruising around in a new set of wheels.
The first time my mum dropped Lucy and me off at our dad’s rented cottage in her light blue 633i BMW, parking it alongside his silver 635 CSI, all hell broke loose. He accused her of purposefully undermining him by buying the same car as him, the car Lucy and I loved so much. It was horrific. The ‘grapefruit’ row was nothing compared to the ‘BMW 6-Series’ row. Steve and Holly were both present and embarrassed. They peeled off to one side and chatted awkwardly. ‘I gather you brought a lot of Jiffy Pop over from the States, the kids really love it,’ Steve said, searching for conversation.
‘Are you Patrick Swayze?’ replied Holly.
Meanwhile, my parents were screaming at each other in the drive between their respective shiny new BMWs, like an episode of Top Gear gone wrong. He was accusing her of buying the car to spite him, and she was adamantly denying it. At the end of the argument, my mum and Steve were ordered off my dad’s rented accommodation. ‘Come on, Steve, we’re leaving,’ cried my mother.
To add insult to injury, Steve then got into my dad’s BMW by mistake. ‘I can’t fucking believe this,’ commented my dad to Holly.
‘Is that Patrick Swayze?’ she replied.
Steve and my mum then leapt into the correct car and sped off at an impressive 0–60 in 6.8 seconds. The result of this ugly scene