The cult of the car: an afternoon at the Rolls Royce Owner's Club rally in Newcastle

The Advertiser

17-05-2025

Those bastards were crazy.
Kim Stapleton, the chief judge of a line of Rolls-Royce and Bentley motors worth millions, parked in formation at the Newcastle Museum on Saturday, thought the owners' club he joined in 1988 would be full of a "snooty bunch of bastards".
What he found instead were loveable madmen, lifers; a congregation of true believers in pursuit of that most unattainable character in a car - perfection - and nevertheless willing to follow the winged woman on the bonnet (the Spirit of Ecstacy) in the wild chase until they found it.
"They're nuts," he declared at the weekend. "These bastards are crazy; they are the greatest bunch of people I have ever met."
Mr Stapleton had only recently joined the club, then, having picked up his 1977 Silver Shadow from a yard on Parramatta Road in Sydney in 1987.
He had never stood in a yard of Rolls and Bentleys before, but he reasoned no one had ever died from just looking.
"It was the worst thing I had ever done," he said mischievously. "I fell in love with it immediately."
The first truth of a Rolls-Royce is that it is a vehicle built in pursuit of excellence. Every car is a singularity.
Before 1940, a Rolls-Royce never sold as a complete vehicle. It was a chassis, a seat, and a steering wheel, which was then handed over to the owner's chosen coachbuilder to form the body like a drop of molten metal swept into an elegant, streamlined curve, and to add any modifications the owner desired.
"It's romantic," Brian Crump, the chair of the Sir Henry Royce Foundation, said as families and visitors pawed over a vehicle that once carried Queen Elizabeth in the back seat next to the sherry canteen with crystal glasses.
At the edges of the crowd, Roger Fry - a softly spoken man with a builder's hands - stood quietly in the shade, watching the procession with a bundle of display books under his arm.
Mr Fry, now in his 80s, is one of a small faculty of Australian coachbuilders. He had built 58 custom bodies for owners over the past 50 years and knows the anatomy of a Bentley or a Rolls almost as well as he knows himself.
There are 300 rivets in the bonnet of a Silver Ghost, he said. Each one costs $3.
"I have to drill all the holes and it has to be exactly right," he said. "If you stuff up, start again. I've been doing it for a long time now."
The merry band of owners and judges had come to the Museum for the club's annual rally to show off their motors and have them judged. Points were deducted for the smallest imperfections as the drivers lined up to admire the craftsmanship of a century.
"The first thing I wanted was a driver's license," Victor Nash said. "You were out of the clutches of your parents. The world was your oyster. For me, it meant freedom."
Mr Nash had two vehicles at the show: a Bentley Mark VI drophead coupe with a curving, dreamlike body, and an S3 Continental designed by a Norwegian with a clean mid-century aesthetic.
When he describes it, he knows the designers by name. He knows their history, where they were built - even the chassis numbers, by rote.
Mr Stapleton, as he reminisces, recalls a former member now passed, Malcolm Johns, who loved to show off how he kept his engine so immaculate he could slow it to a hum - low enough you could count the revolutions.
The Rolls and the Bentley represent a different time for motoring; it was never about getting somewhere fast (though no vehicles in the line Saturday would struggle to keep freeway pace) or efficiently. It was about travelling in comfort and arriving in style.
The leather is overstuffed and absorbing - the interior smells of polish and care. But, like any icon, they can be temperamental.
The second truth of a Rolls is that it never breaks down. It only ever "fails to proceed".
During an overland rally - the name the owners give to the long and often meandering journeys between their meets - in Western Australia, a Silver Cloud pulled into a one-horse town between Perth and Broome, where everything the place needed was under one roof; the pub, the petrol and the post.
Having refilled, the Cloud failed to proceed and the convoy's mechanic was called in to assist.
"The mechanic turns up, sticks his head under the bonnet and contemplates," Mr Stapleton said. A stuck solenoid was diagnosed as the issue.
"He looked around, found himself a good stick, and told the owner to turn it over when he told him," Mr Stapleton said, spinning the yarn. "He turns it over. The mechanic gives the solenoid a whack with the stick - and it works."
"Then he gives the driver the stick and tells him to hang on to it because he was going to need it again."
In the window, a bewildered lad with a pint in his hand turned to the patrons and declared, "Isn't that amazing - here in the middle of the outback, and there's a Rolls-Royce mechanic available."
"We all have these little stories," Mr Stapleton said.
Those bastards were crazy.
Kim Stapleton, the chief judge of a line of Rolls-Royce and Bentley motors worth millions, parked in formation at the Newcastle Museum on Saturday, thought the owners' club he joined in 1988 would be full of a "snooty bunch of bastards".
What he found instead were loveable madmen, lifers; a congregation of true believers in pursuit of that most unattainable character in a car - perfection - and nevertheless willing to follow the winged woman on the bonnet (the Spirit of Ecstacy) in the wild chase until they found it.
"They're nuts," he declared at the weekend. "These bastards are crazy; they are the greatest bunch of people I have ever met."
Mr Stapleton had only recently joined the club, then, having picked up his 1977 Silver Shadow from a yard on Parramatta Road in Sydney in 1987.
He had never stood in a yard of Rolls and Bentleys before, but he reasoned no one had ever died from just looking.
"It was the worst thing I had ever done," he said mischievously. "I fell in love with it immediately."
The first truth of a Rolls-Royce is that it is a vehicle built in pursuit of excellence. Every car is a singularity.
Before 1940, a Rolls-Royce never sold as a complete vehicle. It was a chassis, a seat, and a steering wheel, which was then handed over to the owner's chosen coachbuilder to form the body like a drop of molten metal swept into an elegant, streamlined curve, and to add any modifications the owner desired.
"It's romantic," Brian Crump, the chair of the Sir Henry Royce Foundation, said as families and visitors pawed over a vehicle that once carried Queen Elizabeth in the back seat next to the sherry canteen with crystal glasses.
At the edges of the crowd, Roger Fry - a softly spoken man with a builder's hands - stood quietly in the shade, watching the procession with a bundle of display books under his arm.
Mr Fry, now in his 80s, is one of a small faculty of Australian coachbuilders. He had built 58 custom bodies for owners over the past 50 years and knows the anatomy of a Bentley or a Rolls almost as well as he knows himself.
There are 300 rivets in the bonnet of a Silver Ghost, he said. Each one costs $3.
"I have to drill all the holes and it has to be exactly right," he said. "If you stuff up, start again. I've been doing it for a long time now."
The merry band of owners and judges had come to the Museum for the club's annual rally to show off their motors and have them judged. Points were deducted for the smallest imperfections as the drivers lined up to admire the craftsmanship of a century.
"The first thing I wanted was a driver's license," Victor Nash said. "You were out of the clutches of your parents. The world was your oyster. For me, it meant freedom."
Mr Nash had two vehicles at the show: a Bentley Mark VI drophead coupe with a curving, dreamlike body, and an S3 Continental designed by a Norwegian with a clean mid-century aesthetic.
When he describes it, he knows the designers by name. He knows their history, where they were built - even the chassis numbers, by rote.
Mr Stapleton, as he reminisces, recalls a former member now passed, Malcolm Johns, who loved to show off how he kept his engine so immaculate he could slow it to a hum - low enough you could count the revolutions.
The Rolls and the Bentley represent a different time for motoring; it was never about getting somewhere fast (though no vehicles in the line Saturday would struggle to keep freeway pace) or efficiently. It was about travelling in comfort and arriving in style.
The leather is overstuffed and absorbing - the interior smells of polish and care. But, like any icon, they can be temperamental.
The second truth of a Rolls is that it never breaks down. It only ever "fails to proceed".
During an overland rally - the name the owners give to the long and often meandering journeys between their meets - in Western Australia, a Silver Cloud pulled into a one-horse town between Perth and Broome, where everything the place needed was under one roof; the pub, the petrol and the post.
Having refilled, the Cloud failed to proceed and the convoy's mechanic was called in to assist.
"The mechanic turns up, sticks his head under the bonnet and contemplates," Mr Stapleton said. A stuck solenoid was diagnosed as the issue.
"He looked around, found himself a good stick, and told the owner to turn it over when he told him," Mr Stapleton said, spinning the yarn. "He turns it over. The mechanic gives the solenoid a whack with the stick - and it works."
"Then he gives the driver the stick and tells him to hang on to it because he was going to need it again."
In the window, a bewildered lad with a pint in his hand turned to the patrons and declared, "Isn't that amazing - here in the middle of the outback, and there's a Rolls-Royce mechanic available."
"We all have these little stories," Mr Stapleton said.
Those bastards were crazy.
Kim Stapleton, the chief judge of a line of Rolls-Royce and Bentley motors worth millions, parked in formation at the Newcastle Museum on Saturday, thought the owners' club he joined in 1988 would be full of a "snooty bunch of bastards".
What he found instead were loveable madmen, lifers; a congregation of true believers in pursuit of that most unattainable character in a car - perfection - and nevertheless willing to follow the winged woman on the bonnet (the Spirit of Ecstacy) in the wild chase until they found it.
"They're nuts," he declared at the weekend. "These bastards are crazy; they are the greatest bunch of people I have ever met."
Mr Stapleton had only recently joined the club, then, having picked up his 1977 Silver Shadow from a yard on Parramatta Road in Sydney in 1987.
He had never stood in a yard of Rolls and Bentleys before, but he reasoned no one had ever died from just looking.
"It was the worst thing I had ever done," he said mischievously. "I fell in love with it immediately."
The first truth of a Rolls-Royce is that it is a vehicle built in pursuit of excellence. Every car is a singularity.
Before 1940, a Rolls-Royce never sold as a complete vehicle. It was a chassis, a seat, and a steering wheel, which was then handed over to the owner's chosen coachbuilder to form the body like a drop of molten metal swept into an elegant, streamlined curve, and to add any modifications the owner desired.
"It's romantic," Brian Crump, the chair of the Sir Henry Royce Foundation, said as families and visitors pawed over a vehicle that once carried Queen Elizabeth in the back seat next to the sherry canteen with crystal glasses.
At the edges of the crowd, Roger Fry - a softly spoken man with a builder's hands - stood quietly in the shade, watching the procession with a bundle of display books under his arm.
Mr Fry, now in his 80s, is one of a small faculty of Australian coachbuilders. He had built 58 custom bodies for owners over the past 50 years and knows the anatomy of a Bentley or a Rolls almost as well as he knows himself.
There are 300 rivets in the bonnet of a Silver Ghost, he said. Each one costs $3.
"I have to drill all the holes and it has to be exactly right," he said. "If you stuff up, start again. I've been doing it for a long time now."
The merry band of owners and judges had come to the Museum for the club's annual rally to show off their motors and have them judged. Points were deducted for the smallest imperfections as the drivers lined up to admire the craftsmanship of a century.
"The first thing I wanted was a driver's license," Victor Nash said. "You were out of the clutches of your parents. The world was your oyster. For me, it meant freedom."
Mr Nash had two vehicles at the show: a Bentley Mark VI drophead coupe with a curving, dreamlike body, and an S3 Continental designed by a Norwegian with a clean mid-century aesthetic.
When he describes it, he knows the designers by name. He knows their history, where they were built - even the chassis numbers, by rote.
Mr Stapleton, as he reminisces, recalls a former member now passed, Malcolm Johns, who loved to show off how he kept his engine so immaculate he could slow it to a hum - low enough you could count the revolutions.
The Rolls and the Bentley represent a different time for motoring; it was never about getting somewhere fast (though no vehicles in the line Saturday would struggle to keep freeway pace) or efficiently. It was about travelling in comfort and arriving in style.
The leather is overstuffed and absorbing - the interior smells of polish and care. But, like any icon, they can be temperamental.
The second truth of a Rolls is that it never breaks down. It only ever "fails to proceed".
During an overland rally - the name the owners give to the long and often meandering journeys between their meets - in Western Australia, a Silver Cloud pulled into a one-horse town between Perth and Broome, where everything the place needed was under one roof; the pub, the petrol and the post.
Having refilled, the Cloud failed to proceed and the convoy's mechanic was called in to assist.
"The mechanic turns up, sticks his head under the bonnet and contemplates," Mr Stapleton said. A stuck solenoid was diagnosed as the issue.
"He looked around, found himself a good stick, and told the owner to turn it over when he told him," Mr Stapleton said, spinning the yarn. "He turns it over. The mechanic gives the solenoid a whack with the stick - and it works."
"Then he gives the driver the stick and tells him to hang on to it because he was going to need it again."
In the window, a bewildered lad with a pint in his hand turned to the patrons and declared, "Isn't that amazing - here in the middle of the outback, and there's a Rolls-Royce mechanic available."
"We all have these little stories," Mr Stapleton said.
Those bastards were crazy.
Kim Stapleton, the chief judge of a line of Rolls-Royce and Bentley motors worth millions, parked in formation at the Newcastle Museum on Saturday, thought the owners' club he joined in 1988 would be full of a "snooty bunch of bastards".
What he found instead were loveable madmen, lifers; a congregation of true believers in pursuit of that most unattainable character in a car - perfection - and nevertheless willing to follow the winged woman on the bonnet (the Spirit of Ecstacy) in the wild chase until they found it.
"They're nuts," he declared at the weekend. "These bastards are crazy; they are the greatest bunch of people I have ever met."
Mr Stapleton had only recently joined the club, then, having picked up his 1977 Silver Shadow from a yard on Parramatta Road in Sydney in 1987.
He had never stood in a yard of Rolls and Bentleys before, but he reasoned no one had ever died from just looking.
"It was the worst thing I had ever done," he said mischievously. "I fell in love with it immediately."
The first truth of a Rolls-Royce is that it is a vehicle built in pursuit of excellence. Every car is a singularity.
Before 1940, a Rolls-Royce never sold as a complete vehicle. It was a chassis, a seat, and a steering wheel, which was then handed over to the owner's chosen coachbuilder to form the body like a drop of molten metal swept into an elegant, streamlined curve, and to add any modifications the owner desired.
"It's romantic," Brian Crump, the chair of the Sir Henry Royce Foundation, said as families and visitors pawed over a vehicle that once carried Queen Elizabeth in the back seat next to the sherry canteen with crystal glasses.
At the edges of the crowd, Roger Fry - a softly spoken man with a builder's hands - stood quietly in the shade, watching the procession with a bundle of display books under his arm.
Mr Fry, now in his 80s, is one of a small faculty of Australian coachbuilders. He had built 58 custom bodies for owners over the past 50 years and knows the anatomy of a Bentley or a Rolls almost as well as he knows himself.
There are 300 rivets in the bonnet of a Silver Ghost, he said. Each one costs $3.
"I have to drill all the holes and it has to be exactly right," he said. "If you stuff up, start again. I've been doing it for a long time now."
The merry band of owners and judges had come to the Museum for the club's annual rally to show off their motors and have them judged. Points were deducted for the smallest imperfections as the drivers lined up to admire the craftsmanship of a century.
"The first thing I wanted was a driver's license," Victor Nash said. "You were out of the clutches of your parents. The world was your oyster. For me, it meant freedom."
Mr Nash had two vehicles at the show: a Bentley Mark VI drophead coupe with a curving, dreamlike body, and an S3 Continental designed by a Norwegian with a clean mid-century aesthetic.
When he describes it, he knows the designers by name. He knows their history, where they were built - even the chassis numbers, by rote.
Mr Stapleton, as he reminisces, recalls a former member now passed, Malcolm Johns, who loved to show off how he kept his engine so immaculate he could slow it to a hum - low enough you could count the revolutions.
The Rolls and the Bentley represent a different time for motoring; it was never about getting somewhere fast (though no vehicles in the line Saturday would struggle to keep freeway pace) or efficiently. It was about travelling in comfort and arriving in style.
The leather is overstuffed and absorbing - the interior smells of polish and care. But, like any icon, they can be temperamental.
The second truth of a Rolls is that it never breaks down. It only ever "fails to proceed".
During an overland rally - the name the owners give to the long and often meandering journeys between their meets - in Western Australia, a Silver Cloud pulled into a one-horse town between Perth and Broome, where everything the place needed was under one roof; the pub, the petrol and the post.
Having refilled, the Cloud failed to proceed and the convoy's mechanic was called in to assist.
"The mechanic turns up, sticks his head under the bonnet and contemplates," Mr Stapleton said. A stuck solenoid was diagnosed as the issue.
"He looked around, found himself a good stick, and told the owner to turn it over when he told him," Mr Stapleton said, spinning the yarn. "He turns it over. The mechanic gives the solenoid a whack with the stick - and it works."
"Then he gives the driver the stick and tells him to hang on to it because he was going to need it again."
In the window, a bewildered lad with a pint in his hand turned to the patrons and declared, "Isn't that amazing - here in the middle of the outback, and there's a Rolls-Royce mechanic available."
"We all have these little stories," Mr Stapleton said.