After Top Gear, he didn’t vanish into the ether like some old soap star. He went on to fight for drivers’ rights, campaigning against skyrocketing insurance and dodgy fuel prices. He became a kind of superhero for the sensible motorist. You could imagine him standing outside a garage in the rain, clipboard in hand, telling a politician that “people just want a car that starts in the morning.”
He even had a go at the electric car revolution, but in his usual style. He wasn’t against it, he just worried we were all in too much of a rush. “It’s a bit like buying a kettle that needs a generator,” he once said. And, let’s be honest, you nod along because he’s right, even if you own a Tesla.
That was his gift: making complex, boring stuff feel like a chat with a mate over a cup of tea. The sort of mate who notices your headlight is out before you do, and then helps you fix it with a tie wrap and a bit of hope.
Top Gear presenter Quentin Willson dies aged 68: 'A national treasure
The quiet legacy
Now he’s gone at 68, which feels too young. It’s the age where you imagine him pottering about, polishing his old Volvo, and giving unsolicited advice to neighbors about tyre pressure. He’d have loved that, I reckon. Being the local guru of sensible automotive advice.
You don’t get many Quentin Willsons anymore. The internet is full of blokes screaming about horsepower, but where’s the gentle soul who’ll tell you the truth about a second-hand Nissan? He was a dying breed, and that breed has just got a bit more scarce.
So, raise a lukewarm cup of instant coffee to Quentin. The man who made you feel smart about buying a dependable estate car. The man who proved you didn’t need to be loud to be brilliant. The man who, in the end, was simply the best bloke to have in the passenger seat.
Rest easy, Q. And if there’s a car park in the sky, I hope they’ve got plenty of room for a very slightly scuffed, but perfectly maintained, yellow Saab. He’d have approved of that.
