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Germans have a funny habit of taking things over. I'm not quite sure what propels them to do it, but there must be some inward drive that forces them to interfere, to meddle. Yes, their way of doing things is probably more efficient than yours, it'll be the most reasonable, the most logical way of achieving a Solution, sorry, solution, but it'll be so pragmatic that it won't be enjoyable. Like when playing the board game Monopoly, Germany is the father who insists all fines go to the bank, rather than to Free Parking. It's what the rules say, but it's just no fun.

When it comes to playing monopoly, Volkswagen are pretty good. Having earned a fortune with their childish Beetle, they aquired Auto Union and NSU, and by the Seventies the mighty conglomerate were just cottoning on to the idea that air-cooled engines just weren't that cool at all, especially not when it comes to big family cars. They'd aquired NSU's big family car, the K70, and were building that alongside their own air-cooled monster, the VW Type 4. But the public just weren't buying them. They weren't really playing with the Audi F103 either; in fact, despite having factories all over Germany making big saloons, the public were just uninterested in the toys Volkswagen were making. People needed something practical, serious, functional, reliable; they wanted four cylinders up front, four gears on the floor, four wheels and four doors. Nothing more.

Volkswagen took notice, and all the silly Sixties eccentricities like air-cooled, two-stroked and rear-mounted engines were out the window. In their place, VW developed Platforms, a production technique where the fundamental mechanicals and chassis of a vehicle remain the same, while the outer skin can be warped and shaped into two distinct products, in this case the Audi 80 and the Volkswagen Passat.

Leap forward to the beginning of the Eighties, and you'd be amazed at how much VAG, the newly-named Volkswagen Audi Group, has advanced. From pottering post-war rotters they'd built a powerhouse of sharp-lined city slickers (the Golf and Jetta), superb sportsters (the Scirocco and Audi Quattro) and their big Audi 100 saloon was popular with the monied classes. Even the Audi 80 was selling admirably. But something was up with the platform-sharing Passat B1; where the Audi had sporty GT trim options, the Passat was a slug, crippled by 1.3 and 1.5 engine options that struggled to propel the heavy beast up to autobahn speeds. Where the market had previously demanded prudence, Volkswagen had pushed that to levels of parsimony, and Passat sales suffered for it.

So, when the B2 platform was announced, and the Audi 80 was logically upgraded to more modern engines and suspension and brakes, the remarkable decision was taken to do the same with the Passat. Even though Audi had a Sedan, a Coupe and an Estate, sorry, sorry, Avant, in their range, someone somewhere figured it made sense to duplicate all of that and give it the Passat name. Which leads us to this motley selection of B2 Passats dotted around Warsaw; used, abused and unloved.

The thinking behind this manufacturing masterstroke was that Volkswagen didn't want to jeopardise Audi's reputation as a luxury brand, which is why the Audi B2 Avant never made it onto the production line. The market need for a family saloon with a big box wedged on the back fell instead on the shoulders of the B2 Passat, which became known as the Passat Variant, and is the most popular of all the old Passats still rattling around. Released onto an unsuspecting world in 1981, it quickly fell to the bottom of the VAG stable, surpassed in almost every aspect by its siblings.

The Coupe version, for example, was incomprehensible. With the Golf, Scirocco and Audi Coupe swamping the market, where on earth was the rationale behind selling an outmoded curvy "fastback"? And the Passat was anything but fast; even the tiny 1.6 diesel engine from the Golf found its way under the bonnet, and that feeble 54hp took 22seconds to get the car to 60mp/h. Fortunately, Volkswagen realised just what a ridiculous model the Passat Coupe was, and withdrew it in 1985.

But the Sedans and Variants marched onwards, achieving a global presence, if not dominance, under the names Quantum, Santana, Carat and Corsar. Their bog-standard trim, frugal fuel consumption and unassuming presence earned them a place with price-conscious consumers in developing countries like Brazil and China, where they are still in production today. In Europe, thankfully, the entire B2 platform was shelved in 1988 and the old Passat quickly and quietly swept under the carpet or, in these cases, behind the Curtain.

Maybe I'm a bit harsh on these old wagons. They were practical rather than pretty, and their function for many low-end consumers was unquestionable. But you need to have some fun if you want to have function; the Audi and VW might be playing on the same board, but they're definitely playing by different rules.

Matka Polka is a wonderful phrase. Translated it simply means Polish Mother, but so much is lost in that little translation that an entire article is needed to describe such an enormous idea. All the culture, all the vitality, all the history of a nation, encapsulated into a tiny phrase that itself is applied to the perfect role model for generation upon generation of Poles.

During all the many trials and occupations in Polish history and the terrible loss of all the fighting young men, it was the Polish Mothers who were responsible for passing on all that Polishness onto their children; making sure that their offspring grew up knowing exactly what it meant to be Polish.

In the Polski Fiat 126p, Matka Polka did herself proud. Known affectionately as the "Maluch" or "Baby", the Little Fiat sums up everything for Communist-era Poles; every memory, every event, every story has a Maluch in the background.

Paint the picture. It's the early 1970's, and Communism is in full swing. Big concrete blocks everywhere, heavy control over every aspect of life, massive and rapid price increases for simple items; it was not a good place to be. Even owning something so fundamental to western culture like a car was limited; the few Syrenas or Warszawas that trickled out of the factories were granted to only the most ardent Party supporters. Poles became restless, and vented their fury in a serious of protests and riots that led to 42 deaths and countless wounded. The fallout led to the resignation of the First Secretary, Gomulka, to be replaced with the dynamic young face of one Edward Gierek. He offered a modern Poland, where consumer goods would not be so heavily limited, and specifically offered the cornerstone of modern mobile population; a cheap car.

The Little Car That Could was a triumph. In a deal scraped together with Fiat of Italy, Polski Fiat purchased the rights to manufacture the 126 from new under its own name, and the two countries started pumping out the 600cc motor with surprising speed. But while the Italian invention was simply a replacement for the more iconic Fiat 500, the Polish product was a character in its own right; its identity became twinned with Gierek's new, modern, urban Poland of consumerism. The car itself was something completely new; not a rehashed unit built on old mechanicals but a proper Turin-fresh design that looked 1970s, drove 1970s, smelt 1970s. It was a beautiful bouncing baby.
Like any growing family, having a Maluch was a commitment. Workers scrimped and saved for years to buy one, and when they did the Maluch became a member of the family, a loved companion and faithful friend that would be expected to live with you for years and years.

Many did. Despite being a city car, those 12-inch wheels carted Poles to Zakopane for winter holidays in the mountains, to Hel and Swinoujscie for summers by the beach, and up down the spine of Poland as city workers visited their village-based mothers every Easter. It was the epitome of freedom, the sign of a New Poland being born.

The next steps of that rebirth are well-known; the money Gierek used to fuel his industrial renaissance was borrowed heavily from the West with heavy interest, and was grossly mis-spent by the central authorities, leading in a straight line to the firing of workers, the Gdansk shipyard strikes of 1980 and the rise of Solidarity. But in the background of all this; the rise, the fall, the martial law, the collapse of the Soviet Union and the freedom of Poland, the Fiat 126p chugged on; that little icon of Polishness encapsulating all that pluck and grit and we-won't-die hardcore attitude that Poland is so admired for.

In 1987, the fifteen-year-old motor came of age. In a fitting analogy of teenage hormones, the old air-cooled motor was changed for a 700cc water-cooled unit, and the 126p became the 126-bis. But this and another eight hundred modifications to the car were short lived; over-heating forced the 126-bis out of production in 1991; in that way, the bis can be seen as the emo, black-nail-varnish Fiat. More power, more grunt, but a lot more tempremental with it. But you know, with kids, it's just a phase, and the 126p soldiered on. In 1997, at the age of 25, the name Maluch was officially adopted by the manufacturer for the car in recognition of the warm place in Poles hearts it had earned. In 2000, at the grand age of 28, the Fiat 126p finally moved out of its parents' spare bedroom and into retirement, leaving behind over 3million examples of its progeny.

Any Matka Polka would be proud of the little baby that blossomed under Poland's nuturing care, and the sight of two such children huddled together on a side street, ten years after production ended, still puts a smile on many Poles' faces. Everyone has one tale to tell of a family trip, or a first car, or a first kiss in the back seat of one of these machines. Such a little car meant so much, to so many.