Quentin Willson never did things by halves. Whether exposing a dodgy used car, grilling a hyped supercar on camera, or restoring a beloved classic, he did it with style, wit, and a glint in his eye. Willson, who died peacefully after a short battle with lung cancer, transformed the way Britain thinks, talks, and fights about cars from Top Gear’s early days to today’s EV revolution.
His love for oddballs and icons was never more obvious than in his time with his 1959 Austin Seven Mini. Most saw just a tiny blue box; Quentin saw the birth certificate of a motoring revolution. After rescuing the rare ’59 from obscurity, he poured heart and sweat into an obsessive restoration, chronicling every triumph and heartbreak for classic car mags and British TV. Countless fans recall him beaming beside “900 FRL” the Speedwell blue Mini that graced stands at the NEC Classic Motor Show and BMC events, bonnet badge shining, storybook ready.
It wasn’t all stardust. Quentin freely admitted he’d “over-restored it, too nice to drive,” dusting the wheels with cotton buds and almost never letting the Mini see rain. But eventually, he’d join the parade, showing off the finished masterpiece, never more in his element than surrounded by curious teens, grizzled club veterans, and Mini obsessives.
Willson’s career stretched far beyond Top Gear to Fifth Gear, The Car’s the Star, Britain’s Worst Drivers, and tireless work fighting for the common motorist. He fiercely advocated for lower fuel costs, and most recently plugged Britain’s electric future years before most dared to call diesel dead.
His family and colleagues call him a “true national treasure.” Friends remember an encyclopedic mind, always looking for the next curveball car, the next fair fight. Every petrolhead, from Jeremy Clarkson to the last club member at a soggy field meet, owes Quentin a round for keeping the flame alive.
There will never be another quite like him and somewhere, that little blue Mini just lost its best friend.
