Motormouth: Happy Father's Day, unhappy son's day

Happy Father’s Day, but unhappy son’s day.

My late dad Ting Ying Choi (1914-1988) was nobody significant in the grand scheme of things (and Tings), but I became a significant nobody despite that - or perhaps because of that.

The significance in question relates to a man's station in life, career path, health, wealth and whatnot, but in the case of the man writing this piece and finding his peace, there’s the automotive angle too. 

Being your own man is admirable, but my self-respect has been as flexible as the interior of a multi-purpose vehicle when it comes to riding on coattails in order to get ahead in life, or at least not fall too far behind like a jalopy with poor horsepower.

“Poor” is a key word here. Neither my father nor I was born with a silver spoon in the mouth. Instead, he worked from hand to mouth as a sailor and labourer, and I started work as an editorial motormouth with a rich imagination and a mostly poor existence. 

Naturally, I blamed myself… for not having a wealthy papa who was also generous enough to give me a priority account with DBS (dad bankrolls son). 

But beyond the dollars and sense of indulging a lucky boy’s love of toys, there is also the fatherly fuelling of a kid’s keen interest in modes of transport - from trains to planes, and from bikes to cars. 

It’s even better for the son if the father is interested in real automobiles. In my network of automotive writers/editors, the luckier guys have dads who are motorheads able to burn both petrol and cash for their vehicular hobby, and eager to bring their kids along as impressionable co-drivers who would develop into full-blown car nuts, with or without a screw loose. 

A collector of classic cars, which range from the esoteric to the exotic. A workshop owner who has enjoyed a string of milestone Japanese sports cars, complete with in-house technical support. A long-time Mercedes enthusiast with old money. 

My old man had nothing on these senior gentlemen with means. He didn’t even have a driving licence, as far as I know, and I doubt he ever earned enough to spend on luxuries of the 1970s.  

But he did buy my first few diecast cars, which gave me a paternal little push towards my eventual car-reer down the road as a motoring journo, who just wrote a random column about being an unhappy son on an otherwise happy Father’s Day. 

"Ah Boy, this is my last wheel and testament - please take over my workshop when I'm gone."

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