Andy Richardson: Get me to the church on time – it's not as easy as it looks . . .

Mostly, it was chugga, chugga. The vroom, vroom bit was only in my head. And the parrpp bit was just funny. Like breaking wind in church. And then blaming it on your one-year-old child.

I wanted to travel in style when I tied the knot and so booked my favourite car: A Jag. It was a Mk II, like the one Morse drives, in British racing green, with the leaping wild cat on the bonnet. It was so beautiful I could have licked it, or slept in it, or poured Champagne over it's cool, convex roof and than drank it from the perfectly moulded gutter. It. Was. Beautiful.

It arrived the day before the nuptials and was safely stowed in the garage overnight, to make sure it stayed lean and mean.

Come Wedding Day morning, I fired it up. It roared like a Red Barchetta, growled like an Aston Martin, rumbled like Ali and Foreman.

I parked it outside so that the father of the bride could whisk the soon-to-be Mrs R to the church on time. And he did. But only just. As the car rocked up it said chugga, chugga . . . and then nothing. Nada. Pip.

It was as though the automobile Gods were looking down on us saying: 'This car's a nail, buddy, but we don't want to ruin your wedding and make the bride walk. So we'll wait until it gets to the church, before it dies."

And die it did. An hour later, after monkeying back down the aisle to Pharrell's Happy – we were – and being surrounded by a confetti of bubbles – rice is for cooking and paper is for writing – we crossed our fingers and hoped. The Jag channelled the spirit of Morse. Sixty people watched on expectantly.

Nothing. Nada. Pip.

"Climb aboard," said the photographer. And so we drove off in a Nissan something-or-other, rather than the Jag Mk II. We decided not to pose for pictures with the replacement, grateful though we were for his offer.

I returned to the Jag later that afternoon. "Vroom, vroom." The engine noise was thunderous. It exploded into life and hollered with a resounding blast. Like a Jimmy Page riff, it screamed: 'Aren't I good?'. Mrs R jumped in and away we sped. And then, as though we were trapped in some never-ending-deja-vu, we got to within 100-metres of the church and . . . you've already guessed; 'Chugga, chugga . . . freewheel . . . stop.'

The hire company was sympathetic. "We'd have sent an engineer out," they said. Yeah, from their base, 100 miles away, and that would have taken two hours. And Mrs R would have remained Miss S and there'd have been tears before bedtime.

They apologised and made us an offer we couldn't refuse. "You're welcome to a free,

48-hour hire of any of our classic cars." Whoop. I'd better make sure I don't go for a Jag Mk II that has problems with its fuel filter. Especially if I happen to be getting married and need something that's reliable.

I'm no petrol head. But there's something undeniably beautiful about their E Type Convertible, their 1975 Rolls Royce Silver Shadow and their 1960s Porsche 911. I think if I hired their powder-blue-and-silver HMC Austin Healey 3.9 V8 I'd probably combust before opening the door.

The replacement will be too late for the photos. And we'll never enjoy the screech of tyres on gravel while arriving for honeymoon. But we'll have a good day out and we'll be grateful for that. Who knows, when we redeem the 48-hour voucher, we might even wear our wedding threads.

So if you see a crazy dude in a black-and-blue-checked Vivienne Westwood suit that makes him look like something out of the Bay City Rollers and a cool, quarter-Italian chick with the prettiest smile and brightest eyes, give us a wave and shout 'Congratulations'.

'Vroom, Vroom, Vroom'.