The Mini, as we all know, is a classic. Alec Issigonis's brilliant design was original, immediately appealing, quirky and looked unlike any car we'd seen before. (There have been quite a few pale imitations, but it's still fair to say that the Mini remains one of a handful of cars that is instantly recognisable.)
One of the greatest achievements of the Mini - easy to overlook with hindsight - is that it anticipated the changing social values that would come to the fore in the 1960s, when the post-war babyboomers were looking to express their independence from previous generations through the fashions of Mary Quant and the music of The Beatles, the Rolling Stones and The Who.
Along with the miniskirt, the Mini Cooper became an icon of British modernity. But unlike fashion and music, the Mini's appeal transcended not only class and sex, but also age.
By being fun, the Mini made a virtue of its potential shortcomings, most notably the relatively cramped interior. 'How many people can you fit into a Mini?' was not just the basis for numerous jokes, but for newspaper and magazine articles with photographs of an improbable number of people stuffed into the car, limbs hanging out of windows and doors.
The Mini represented independence and spontaneity: you could park it anywhere (or just about) and turn it on a sixpence (or just about). The wit and character of the car transferred itself to the owner, and in films and on television it became shorthand for: 'good guy' or 'party girl'. When a hapless, latter-day Robin Hood makes his getaway in a Mini, you're urging it to accelerate as surely as you know the cops will catch up with him.
I don't think you can set out to design a classic for mass consumption: and I don't suppose that's what Issigonis set out to do. Of course, a team of people was involved in creating the Mini - the car's rubber suspension was designed by Alex Moulton who later designed a foldaway bicycle and went on to found a company making beautiful bespoke bicycles. But the vision for the Mini was that of one man, Issigonis - and that, I would argue, is why it has character and warmth.
Interestingly, in the same year that the Mini was launched, another car manufacturer launched a family car called the Edsel. The Mini was designed around Issigonis' intelligence, conviction, and the gut feeling that he was on to something good; the Edsel, by contrast, was shaped by incredibly detailed market research and focus groups about exactly (or supposedly) what consumers wanted. Whilst I am not suggesting in any way that the two cars were in competition, I think it is telling that the Edsel was a spectacular failure.
Forty years on, the Mini still looks fresh and fun. For many people, the Mini was, or will be, the first car they own. However many cars they subsequently get through, I doubt that they will be remembered with the same care and affection as their Mini. It's a classy-little classless car, and I wish it very many more happy birthdays.
• This is the foreword to Mini: The Design Icon Of A Generation by LJK Setright, published by Virgin on May 20, £25.
