STEPHEN KING created 'Christine', a 1958 Plymouth Fury with a bad attitude - then John Carpenter brought her to life in the 1983 film of the same name.
Now life has imitated art in the the most deadly way - and I have unwittingly bought 'Christina' - a Spanish version of the satanic, possessed killer automobile.
She is a 2001 Y-reg Seat Ibiza 1.4S!
As Carpenter himself would say in a gruff movie-trailer voice:
"She was born in Barcelona on an automobile assembly line. But she is no ordinary automobile. Deep within her chassis lives an unholy presence. She is Christina – a red 2001 Seat Ibiza whose unique standard equipment includes an evil, indestructible vengeance that will destroy anyone in her way.
She seduces 39-year-old Jacko, who becomes consumed with passion for her sleek, rounded, rust-laden body. She demands his complete and unquestioned devotion and when outsiders seek to interfere, they become the victims of Christine’s horrifying wrath. Based on the book by Stephen King."
The parallels are uncanny.
Christine was absolutely trashed by some small-town hardcases - but rebuilt herself and took bloody revenge. And being a 1958 vintage she carried out her murderous spree to the hot sounds of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and Little Richard.
Christina was driven for six years by a woman - but survived and rebuilt herself rather than wait for genuine Seat parts to arrive from Spain. She is still plotting her revenge and, being of 2001 vintage, has somehow got her radio jammed to the less enticing sounds of Southern FM. Actually, that is almost revenge enough!
In the film, Arnie Cunningham at least gets a few weeks driving pleasure before Christine reveals her demons. In real life, Christina only waited until she was parked on my drive on day one before getting freaky.
I turned off the radio. I turned off the engine. I removed the key from the ignition. I opened the door and got out. I closed the door and was just about to walk away when her radio display flickered into life! The ghostly green display found Southern FM again and Leona Lewis started wailing on yet again about her 'Bleeding Love.' Gaaaah! Nooooooo! I ran.
Chastened by the wife for being such a big girls blouse, I went back to the car. Leona had given way to Alicia Keys. I got back in and sat down. I pressed the off button. Alicia obligingly ceased singing. The display faded and blinked out.
After a few seconds, reassured everything was fine once more, I again tried to leave. But my hand was no sooner on the door handle than Christina sprang to life and bade me listen to the traffic report. I sat through it and then endured a bit of Maroon 5. A firmer press of the button killed the sound again - and this time I almost made it to the house before Christina again spluttered into action.
I got back in. And half and hour later she was back with the dealer who promised a mechanic or electrical engineer would sort the problem. "Could be a week or two," he said.
"Take your time," I said, "but forget the mechanic - try an exorcist . . ."
