Of Ballrooms, cars and grazed knuckles
Words by James Griffin
“For the record, this was not my idea”. Adam, Chief Operating Officer of Mission Motorsport is rather keen to highlight. “I’m with Adam, you all need your head checking” I back up Adam one hundred percent. We can see into the future right now and it looks ridiculous. And potentially, for a few moments, hilarious.
“I’m in” declare I.
“Absolutely”, Adam agrees excitedly.
For clarity, right now a handful of Mission Motorsport staff are in a very ‘square peg/round hole’ situation; Jaguar F-Type SVR, meet ‘The Great Room’ at The Grosvenor House Hotel, Mayfair, London. The Great Room, meet F-Type, your suppository for the next 18 hours.
The Great Room is the largest Ballroom in Europe. You could lose a car in it. Once an ice rink, Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth, now Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, skated here. Generals Dwight D. Eisenhower and George S. Patton frequented the room when it was used as an Officers Mess during WW2. A healthy history of events and dignitaries then. So why are we attempting to sully that history with a hairbrained idea and a Jaguar F-Type SVR? Well dear reader, read on.
This particular car is something rather special. Originally loaned on short term to Mission Motorsport in 2017, this is her final event before returning home to Jaguar Land Rover next week. Emblazoned with the poem ‘In Flanders Fields’ written during the First World War by Canadian physician Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, this car has become a symbol of reflection and raw emotion for many who have engaged with it these past two years.
“The Poppy Car” was designed and wrapped by four Mission Motorsport beneficiaries, proving pivotal in their development with the team going on to find employment as a result of the work completed in the livery department. In recognition of their achievement the Poppy car was nominated for an award at the British Sign & Graphic Awards, we are proud to say it came away with the Special Achievement Vehicle Graphics Award.
Long time Mission Motorsport supporter Richard Tipper of Perfection Detailing, arguably the best in his trade, has not long finished a lengthy treatment to bring the car up to scratch for tonight. So you may forgive my bewilderment as I currently stand looking at that very car wedged inside a freight lift in very much ‘the serviceman’s entrance’ of aforementioned Grosvenor House Hotel, with nothing but a piece of cardboard between each of its haunches to save the paintwork.
Welcome to the 103rd Society of Motor Manufacturer and Traders Annual Dinner. In their own words, the Society of Motor Manufacturers & Traders exists to support and promote the interests of the UK automotive industry at home and abroad. And tonight, Mission Motorsport is proud to be the supported charity of the evening. In this first year of the Mission Automotive initiative backed by the Royal Foundation, MoD & SMMT themselves, tonight is a chance to really drive home the benefits of enabling and employing Service Leavers in the UK Automotive Industry. Also, someone at some point, promised Mike Hawes, Chief Executive of SMMT that Mission Motorsport would display the now long-term loan F-Type SVR ‘Poppy Car’ in the foyer of the ballroom for all to see.
Now at this very moment, I am actually questioning if this lift is even capable of holding one car, let alone Ben Williams who is a strapping specimen of man, James Cameron who this second is sat in the SVR, Steve Lees, a man weighted with beard, and myself on the opposite end, pinned between the wall of the lift and the front bumper of this poetic machine. We must add at least another 500kg. My shins grating on the front splitter, I have also soiled myself. Apparently, it’s quite the joke to suddenly fire up this mechanical ASBO in the most raucous exhaust setting inside a 2m x 2m x 5m metal box. Like I said, CEO at the wheel.
As I work hard to regain control of my heart rate, my soul descending back towards my body from 30,000ft, James, Ben and Steve are in danger of a belly laugh induced hernia. I’m pretty sure the charity founder is actually crying.
“Where is Humphrey?”
Humph has been our main point of contact between the great folks at Relish Events who are running the show tonight and ourselves at Mission Motorsport. Humphrey is a real gentleman, former military officer and devout Aston Martin fan. He also said that this could be done. “Of course I did a recce…”
I trust him. I trust his judgement. However at this point, as the straining lift groans and creaks on the descent to floor -1, The Great Room, I open the concertina door to be met with the balcony. A pedestrian sized balcony, a veranda one might use in say, a ballroom, not a car park, where this car probably should be. This is going to need Terry Grant and a whole fuel tank of luck to get this machine where it needs to be; the very opposite end of the ballroom, a crevasse of dinner tables and chairs between us and the summit of our Everest.
James Cameron is an optimist. He has to be, he started a charity. However, I catch him pulling the faintest of “Oh Jesus” expressions, enough to know this is either going to be our finest hour, or our longest apology letter to The Grosvenor House Hotel Concierge.
Humphrey meanwhile has just arrived with four sets of brand spanking new wheel casters. Gamechanger. Humphrey has done the measurements and he’s confident we can manoeuvre this utter headache around a corner which I’d struggle to push a heavily laden shopping trolley. We are starting to draw a small crowd. There is a Jaguar F-Type poking its massive snotter out of a hotel lift and a handful of slightly concerned men, trying desperately not to be associated with this situation, scratching their heads. If this was being live streamed, we’d be racking up the viewers pretty sharpish.
I look at Ben, Ben looks at me. A smirk and a knowing glance that of course we will succeed, only we both absolutely yearn for someone to break. Because nothing on earth raises morale faster than the moment your battle buddy throws the teddy. Annoyingly, nobody is even close.
Humphrey has his reputation on the line here. Not as a civilian professional, that is unquestioned. We are way past that. This is judgement on his officer abilities and he knows it. I love it. This is what I thrive on. Inter unit rivalry and competition. The chance to see a colleague pull off something truly impressive yet at the same time convince them that they have made a terrible decision. It’s hilarious and rewarding, because they would do exactly the same thing to you. Test their conviction. Humphrey isn’t remotely phased and I’m secretly gutted. He knows he’s got this. It’s all still very lighthearted. I want to pop and beg someone to panic. Nothing. Absolutely devastated. We push on.
Casters on and much grunting later, the poor F-Type is slowly regaining her dignity. It never really occurred to us that pushing a 2-tonne object on heavy duty carpet would be quite so strenuous. Well it is.
I’m familiar with odd situations, believe me, I was Cavalry. Now I’m standing next to a car above a ballroom. Ahead of us, only the promise of food and beer. So we crack open the Vaseline, lather the old beast up, determined to squeeze it through every single tight spot before us. And there is an absolute corker 50 yards down the hallway. Beckoning us with all it’s hilarity. Laughing at the very concept a car could possibly advance by its oddly shaped passage. Oddly shaped passages are what we do best.
Heading in a straight line, aided by some willing volunteers of the on-site media crew, we encounter The Devils Passage. A corner so awkward, so utterly devoid of mathematical reasoning, Da Vinci himself would struggle to fathom the logic behind the architect of this very part of the building. Gandalf once stood here, staff in hand, stating “quite clearly you shall not pass; just look at it?”
This is our final hurdle. Get the Jag (Jaaaaaaag) through a gap smaller than a venturi in a Dyson cordless vacuum and we are weapons free on beer. However, we are all pushing middle aged and definitely not in our prime. Once fighting men, the scourge of dark souls who would do harm to others, the saviours of civilians in war torn lands, each now resembling a half-eaten jelly baby regurgitated from next doors cat. We are hot. We are sweaty. We have eaten far too much. Yet we have come so far, beyond the point of no return. This is death or glory.
James Cameron is back behind the wheel. We put him there because we want him to feel as if he is the only one capable of precision steering this behemoth around the obstacle; in reality, none of us want the paperwork explaining damage to a Mayfair hotel or the £100k+ sports car that is going back to JLR next week. Flattery, it’ll get you out of a hole.
At this point, a sickeningly dark cloud descends on us. We realise that 7am tomorrow morning, we may be in a less than ideal state to reverse this entire process in order to allow preparations for the next event. We very seriously consider putting the car in a raffle during the evening frivolities, the winner can deal with the extraction process themselves.
With genuinely brilliant teamwork and a whole lot of skill, not one inch of wallpaper has been scraped nor one skirting board chipped and the car is through. Home run right to the foyer. Here it is met by two members of The Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment, standing guard proudly stern and bow, a picture of British engineering meets quintessentially British pomp and ceremony.
And that is the last thing I remember.
“I think we’ve broken Griff””
Something happened in the morning, and the car was free. Whether it be magic or a bar mine sized hole in the Grosvenor, that car was withdrawn, exactly the same way it came in, by 8.30am. This morning and what we achieved shall remain one of the greatest mysteries of the 21st century. But it was definitely teamwork. Nothing is impossible.
Finally, a huge thank you to everybody on site who got hands on in our hour of need, SMMT for having faith in Mission Motorsport, and last but by no means least, The Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment for supporting the event.