The death of a Wolsley Hornet

It was a rainy Sunday morning in 1977...we (me and my first wife) were trying to decorate a room at our house at Inglewhite in Skelmersdale, Lancashire. Tempers were flaring because I was (and probably still am) not the person to be around when complicated items like wallpaper and painting apparatus are about. She asked me to drive to the petrol station to get some cigarettes - so I rushed out, not in the best of moods (as I didn't like her smoking) to the Shell gas station on the dual carriageway up by the M58, got her some cigs then drove back. The roads were a bit slippery and on the main corner negotiating the Skelmersdale Concourse I lost control and slammed into the concrete banking thus reinforcing my idea that wallpapering and life don't mix too well.

I was draped through the windscreen opening, the windscreen had fortunately been knocked completely out by the top of my bonce and lay on the bonnet in one piece, I had a cut on my forehead from the rear view mirror and the fact that it was raining, combined with the white shirt I had on, made me look a right mess. I tried to start the car again (not realising that the engine had been pushed back about 10 inches - in a Wolseley Hornet that is significant!) when two policemen walked around the side of the police station (The concrete banking was part of that fine establishment).

They ran over, took one look at the situation and the blood spattered remains of this poor person who was obviously in a bad way, then dragged me out and rushed me over to the station...(I was in fact quite unhurt aside from this cut to my forehead) they rinsed my head and put a huge bandage around from their first aid kit (If it had been serious I'd have been a gonner, they had a bandage, a tube of Savlon, some band aids and a box of corn plasters). The ambulance came three minutes later (the ambulance station was next to the police station which was rather convenient).

On the way to Ormskirk hospital we had to pass by Inglewhite, I asked the driver to take me home so I could explain to the missus what had happened, reluctantly he let me. I knocked on the door, (complete with head bandage and blood ravished shirt) looking like an Indian survivor of a terrorist attack, presented the wife with her cigs and briefly explained the situation.

I think I got out of doing any more wallpapering that day.