It’s astonishing what you can achieve with under a hundred quid, a splash of petrol additive, and a nod from a bloke with a shed. The mighty R129 – my 500SL in its tuxedo of Blue-Black Metallic and sagging dignity – has undergone something of a resurrection. Not quite biblical, but certainly Lazarus with leather upholstery.
First off, a second-hand fuel gauge sender has been acquired, along with a brand new sump oil level sensor. Both for less than the price of a Tory peerage, which is frankly scandalous when you think about what they charge for a new one. Mercedes-Benz would have you believe their sensors are infused with unicorn tears and calibrated by Swiss watchmakers. Nonsense. The real secret lies in eBay, optimism, and a willingness to rummage.
Then came the ASR light, which had been doing its best to impersonate a Christmas tree. It seems to have cured itself, probably out of sheer embarrassment. Either that or it realised I wasn’t paying for another bloody diagnostic. There’s something unnerving about a car that fixes its own electronics. I suspect it now has sentience and has decided I’m enough trouble without adding limp mode into the mix.
As for fuelling, I had the misfortune to give the beast a slug of bog-standard unleaded by mistake. It looked at me like I’d offered it Tesco’s own-brand gin. So I ordered some additive to compensate, which arrived yesterday. A generous glug later and the difference was immediate. Torque for days. I practically tore up the Wickwar Road – not figuratively, I mean there’s probably a groove in the tarmac now. A combination of 5 litres of M119 fury and a guilty conscience makes for spirited driving. The cows fled. Small children cheered. One man dropped his Greggs. In future it's Super Unleaded.
Better still, I’ve made the acquaintance of an old chap with a shed in Frampton Cotterell. The sort of shed that smells of glue, leather, vinyl and quiet defiance of modernity. He’s going to reapply the roof lining to the hardtop, which had been slowly peeling away like the scalp of an ageing rocker. Years of damp will do that. But now the car will have a headliner that no longer flaps in the wind like a mournful ghost. The problem, however, is that he can't do it for a good few months. I asked for an estimate - he tutted and sucked his teeth and pronounced; "I'll have to use the old material, as it will be impossible to match it, and all the foam will have to be scraped off. Well, that would take a couple of days - say £250?" I was ecstatic, having expected a bill of at least £500.
The silver / grey body kit is next in line for paint. It’s being redone next week by a mate at work at mates' rates. Soon the old Merc will be strutting about looking like it’s just stepped out of a showroom, albeit one with tax discs and cassette holders.
And then – the pièce de résistance – the car has been entered into the Chipping Sodbury Classic Car Run at the end of June. Which means there is now a deadline. No pressure. Just the entire town, dozens of other cars, and the looming risk that mine will either win admiration or explode in a cloud of confused electronics and aged wiring.
But still. Progress. For under a hundred quid, some chemical wizardry, and the kindness of a shed-dweller, Black Beauty is back. With a vengeance. And possibly a grudge.
The classic car market thrives on nostalgia. It's not really about the metal, the engineering or even the driving experience, though those are the excuses often given. At its core, it’s about people remembering who they were and the life they lived - or wanted to live - when a particular car first crossed their path.
A car rolls off the dealership forecourt, shiny and new, but its financial trajectory is grim. Depreciation bites hard, the once-prized purchase bleeding value as years tick by. It hits a point where it’s just an old car, barely worth mentioning, let alone cherishing. Yet the tide eventually turns, usually around the time when the right people start feeling a tug in their chest at the sight of one.

Maybe it’s someone who remembers their first car, long gone but never forgotten. Maybe it’s the son or daughter of someone who drove one, now looking to rekindle a connection to a father who always drove that boxy saloon or a mother who made every school run feel like an event in her bright little Mini. Whatever the trigger, once nostalgia stirs, the market responds. Prices rise, and what was once ordinary becomes extraordinary, simply because it carries the weight of someone’s memory.
But this cycle doesn’t last forever. Nostalgia has an expiry date, and it’s tied inexorably to the living. When the people with those memories fade away, the cars that carried them lose their magic. Values drop again unless the car in question has something timeless about it. Being rare or historically significant can help, but more often it’s design that endures.
There’s a reason why cars like the E-Type, Mercedes Pagoda, Citroen DS2 Convertible, Bentley Silent Speed 6 and Aston Martin DB5 remain desirable, no matter how many decades have passed. These aren’t just vehicles; they’re works of art, icons of their eras, etched into the cultural consciousness. But for every design classic, there are countless others whose moment has passed. Without someone left to remember why it mattered, a car becomes just a relic, sitting quietly in a garage or a field, waiting for a time that will never come again.
So the classic car market, when you strip away the polish and the auction-day theatrics, is really a mirror of our own fleeting relevance. Cars ascend in value and esteem not for what they are but for what they mean to the people still here to care. Beyond that, they fade, much like the lives they were once so deeply entwined with.
Making money from classic cars depends on knowing the market and the cycles. The cost of restoring a classic car is high, unless you're accomplishing the task yourself - but even then it's still costly to obtain rare parts. To make money you have to buy astutely and be prepared to part with your heart at the peak of the cycle for that particular vehicle.
Classic cars are mainly for drinking, not for laying down. In short, this phrase captures the essence of classic car culture – these vehicles are about stories, shared passions, and human connections. They belong out on the road and in car parks outside pubs, not wrapped up like museum exhibits. They’re built for driving, admiring, and discussing over a drink, not for tucking away like some high-stakes commodity. Classic cars are about living in the moment – not waiting for a distant future where they might fetch a higher price at auction.
For me a classic car comprises the many MGBs I drove and rebuilt in my early 20s, the GT6 I never owned, but wanted, the S Type Jag my father drove and the E-Type I lusted over and defined an era (not forgetting the James Bond and Italian Job DB5). For my kids it might be the Volvo 850 I drove them around in when they were small (No.1 Son has already expressed an interest in one), the Ford Galaxy that I find so practical (that'll be a long time coming) or the Mercedes C43 my eldest son drives now in his youth. Certainly not my GT6, nor my Mercedes R129 500SL - although the latter my just enter the net due to it being bullet-proof.
The Fiat Ducato motorhome? Not a chance! However, with the 500SL back on the road, the GT6 progressing and me pining for a post-war motorcycle, planning for another garage is at the feasibility stage. I'm thinking pig shed style, but in Cotswold Stone and a corrugated, aluminium roof.