Born to Be Riled Read online

  But in the Porsche the reverse happens. I started out at 70 and would find, ten miles later, that I was down to 50. Half-way up the M18, you would have needed a theodolite to ascertain that I was actually moving at all.

  And on the M62, I think I started going backwards. It was hard to be sure, though, because the front and the back of a Boxster look like Siamese twins.

  I think this licence-saving trend is the result of a wonky driving position which means your right foot is never quite comfortable on the accelerator – it tends to lift, little by little. You have to concentrate, all the time, on maintaining a single speed, and this gets wearing; so wearing, in fact, that on the way home I ended up with a headache in my back.

  Overall then, the Porsche was a disappointment. On its day, it’s as much fun as an evening with Steve Coogan, but most of the time it’s as dreary and as plain as his alter ego, Alan Partridge.

  The good news for Porsche fans is that it will stay in production for 20 or more years, and that in the fullness of time they’ll up the power, fix the driving position and lose the push-me-pull-you looks.

  This is great if you’re planning on buying one in the next millennium, but if you want a sports car now there’s the Mercedes SLK for pansies and the TVR Chimaera for people who like their meat still mooing.

  The trouble with the TVR though, is that it’s made in Lancashire, which is on the wrong side of the Pennines, the side where they can’t play cricket and… cont. in Michael Parkinson’s column every week.

  Concept or reality?

  I’m thinking of having Rover’s board over for dinner and, when they’re all seated, I shall produce braised pork with apples and cider.

  I shall regale them with tales of exactly how this mouthwatering concoction had been made; which tiny little specialist shops in Soho had provided the juniper berries and how I’d marinated the meat for a week. I’ll even give them the actual name of the pig that had found the truffles.

  But then, just as they pick up their eating irons, I’ll whisk their plates away and produce, instead, a baked potato that hasn’t been in the microwave quite long enough.

  Perhaps then they will understand the folly of producing concept cars that they have no intention of making.

  Everyone knows that a new Mini is on the drawing board, and we are sure that it will be bigger and more expensive than the current incarnation.

  But we have no idea what it will look like, what sort of engine it will have or even where that engine will be. Somewhere in the car is a safe guess, though.

  So Rover is teasing us. A few months ago they wheeled out a sporty-looking little thing in Monte Carlo rallying colours, and people in the specialist motoring press had to spend the entire day in the lavatory, whimpering gently.

  When these guys came out some were blind, but Rover admitted the concept was just that. It will never be made. They were just fooling around.

  And now they’ve done it again. At the Geneva motor show they whipped the covers off another new Mini, which they explained was a mid-engined, rear-wheel drive sportster that, in five-door form, had more space on the inside than an S Class Mercedes Benz.

  ‘And,’ they added, ‘it could be a production reality tomorrow.’ Everyone was impressed, right up to the point when they announced that it won’t ever happen. So what’s going on here?

  It seems that Rover’s new masters at BMW were worried that the intriguing Mercedes A Class would steal all the headlines at Geneva. Here was Merc’s first-ever front-wheel drive machine, which is even smaller than a Ford Ka. It would be a big story.

  So BMW decided to relieve themselves all over Merc’s bonfire by instructing the bright young designers at Rover to come up with something even cleverer. And it worked. Merc’s A Class, which is going on sale in the next few weeks, was eclipsed by a car that’s nothing more than a hallucinogenic vision.

  However, I suspect Mercedes will enjoy the last laugh because in three years’ time Rover will have to stop giving us concept cars and unveil the real thing.

  They’ve been showing us they can make the most amazing hollandaise sauce, but in reality they’re going to serve up a slightly underdone potato. Marvellous.

  Now this is bad, but it’s worse when a manufacturer shows us a concept car that can’t be made.

  My favourite was a Peugeot that did the rounds ten years ago. It was startling. Small boys were captivated by its swooping lines. But the reason they were so swoopy is because there was no room within the framework of the car for an engine.

  Now I’m sorry, but if I were running a car firm and someone brought me a design which precluded the fitment of a motor I would sack him immediately. I would not instruct him to go away with several hundred thousand of my shareholder’s pounds, demanding that he builds a mock-up of the damn thing.

  And even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t let the public see it because then the shareholders would sack me. A car with no engine Jezza? Great work, idiot. Now get out.

  Then there’s the fascination with the rear-view mirror, a device that I think works rather well.

  But no. It is almost always ditched on a concept car and replaced with an expensive television camera that feeds its signal to a screen mounted on the dash. Mmmm? I see, but what happens when the lens gets dirty? People who keep plugging away at this ludicrous idea are obviously mad and should be quietly murdered.

  So what about doors? The hinge is a good idea. It was invented several years ago and works in all sorts of different applications – your fridge, your rabbit hutch and your canal.

  But car designers are obsessed with alternatives. There was a Cadillac I saw at the Detroit motor show in 1989 where the door popped away from the body, electrically, and then slid forwards to let you in. It worked… but only in the same way that you can use a urinal while doing a handstand.

  There was a car at this year’s Geneva show whose name has gone from my mind. It had chunky four-wheel drive wheels and, I suspect, the running gear from a Mercedes G Wagen. But instead of a boxy, practical body it had a sleek, two-seat layout – sort of Robbie Coltraine in lace panties.

  I know it’s vital that car designers keep an eye on the furthest horizon, and that it’s a good idea to constantly challenge accepted wisdom.

  But can’t this be done quietly, behind the scenes? That way, when something turns out to be impossible they can forget it, and when something, like the latest Mini concept, turns out to be a goer, they just go right ahead.

  I mean the old Mini has now been around for very nearly 40 years. I really don’t think anyone would accuse Rover of rushing into things.

  Top Landing Gear – Clarkson in full flight

  Go on, ask me whether to buy one of the new Peugeot 406s or a Rover 600 diesel and I’ll surprise you with my answer. I haven’t driven either of them. And nor, I’m ashamed to say, have I tried a Daewoo Espero, a Jeep Grand Cherokee, a Nissan Almera or a Hyundai Lantra. Wanna know about the Seat Cordoba? I’m not your man. So it’s a toss-up between the Toyota RAV4 and a Vauxhall Tigra. Well I’ve seen lots but, to date, neither has been to Telly Towers for evaluation. But ask me whether to fly to the USA on Virgin or Delta, and I’ll be in like a shot. Ask me how a smoker can get to Australia without eating their own seat and I’ll have a starter for ten. In the last two years I’ve been so busy making 12 Motorworld programmes that I’ve rather lost touch with what’s what in cardom. But at 30,000 feet I’m on Mastermind with no passes. Did you know, for instance, that if a fresh-air fanatic sits in a smoking row on an American airline that row, under federal law, becomes no smoking?

  And I have worked out why Australia failed to beat us in the rugby world cup. They’re all wimps. I know this because under state law baggage handlers are not permitted to accept any suitcase which weighs more than 32 kilos. And though you may know how to change the plugs on a 1983 Citroen CX, I know how to smoke on a Cathay Pacific 747. It’s not terribly dignified, but what you do is bury your head in the lavatory, keeping your knee
on the vacuum flush button. That way, the smoke is sucked into the bowl and away from the infernal detectors. This is important stuff. Well, as vital as knowing how to turn the wiper off in an Audi Coupé, and even the road testers on this magazine can’t do that.

  As far as quality is concerned, British Airways is simply head, shoulders, torso and thighs above the competition. No matter where you are, when you step on a BA jet it feels like you’re home already.

  If I can liken airlines to car companies, BA has the efficiency and reliability of Mercedes Benz with the quiet dignity of Bentley. The Far Eastern carriers used to have things sewn up with their devastating stewardesses and tasty titbits. But today MAS – the Malaysian outfit – is the only one worth writing home about. If you need to get to the Far East, and British Airways is full, go via Dubai and use Emirates. I can’t say that I care very much for the tan and red uniforms, or the decor, but they have television screens for everyone; even in the back, with the cattle. If you’re going the other way, to America, the first thing you must do is ignore any US carrier. Without exception, they are brash and their stewardesses need Zimmer frames.

  South Western, from Texas, has a remarkable ticketing system which makes most airports look like bus stations, but when you get on board and are served a cup of warm brown water by a woman in specs the size of a Triumph Herald, you know it’s doing it all wrong. However, even Americans are better than the Third World. In Vietnam, the pilot made a number of attempts to hit the runway in Hué, finally opting to land his jet near it instead.

  In Cuba they fly planes that would be rejected by Fred Flintstone. One had no windows, and filled with smoke 15 minutes after take-off. Another had windows but was flown by a fully paid-up member of EXIT. He knew his engines were on their last legs but, even so, he flew right into the biggest thunderstorm I’ve ever seen. We went in at 2000 feet and came out through some bushes. However, while Cuba may be the FSO Polonez of airlines, it is not the worst. The Nissan Sunny award for hopelessness goes to… Qantas. They are incapable of getting a plane off the ground on time. The staff are ruder than French waiters and the food is inedible. Even the appropriately named CAAC – China’s airline – which shows 12 hour animated kung fu films through loudspeakers, has them licked.

  I’m sorry if you think you’ve been reading Top Landing Gear this month. However, fear not. Judging by my drive, which is now full of cars, and by my diary, which shows no trips abroad ever again, normal service will be resumed shortly.

  A fast car is the only life assurance

  Between 1982 and 1985 I used to play a great deal of blackjack, and it almost always made me miserable when I lost. Which I did. All the time.

  Nowadays, however, I have learnt to approach the table fully expecting an hour’s cards to cost me a hundred quid. Which it does. All the time. By abandoning hope, I’ve removed the despair.

  This is a very important philosophy when you’re confronted with someone who’s trying to sell you a pension. Do not listen. As soon as they open their briefcase, put your fingers in your ears and hum Bruce Springsteen ballads.

  A pension is by far and away the most stupid thing ever to hit the civilized world. You scrimp and you save for 30 miserable years, hoping that you’ll live to reap the rewards.

  And what, pray, are you going to do with those rewards at the age of 92? Buy a gold-plated Nebulizer? Luxuriate in some silk-lined incontinence pants?

  They say you’re investing for the life you don’t yet know, but that can work both ways. What if, after a life of deprivation, you are eaten by a tiger? Or what if, just a week before the big pay-out, you get an even bigger one from Camelot.

  Pensions are all about planning, and planning is all about hope. And hope, invariably, leads to despair.

  Tonight, I’m off to New Zealand to race a V8 jet boat up some rapids, and that’s an experience to beat any 4 per cent growth on capital, believe me.

  They say pensions are tax-efficient but, quite frankly, they’re so dull I’d rather give my money to the government. So long as they promise to spend it on F-15s and nuclear submarines. Things I can be proud of.

  The whole point of having money is to have fun. That’s it. There is no other reason, which is why you must also slam the door on anyone trying to tell you that a PEP or a TESSA is a good idea. It is not.

  You give your cash to someone who, in return, sends you statements once in a while saying that you now have more money than you had when you started. But you haven’t, because it’s locked away.

  Some would argue that the stock market provides a better alternative because the money is always available. But I’d be grateful if all talk of EC1 were kept out of the equation just at the moment. Even the most idiotic gambler can see the Footsie is at its highest level ever, and that Mr Blair is at the gates. The only way is down.

  I have thought about this quite carefully and it seems to me that all investments do nothing to enrich your soul. And I don’t care what the grinning salesman says, they’re all risky. Remember, pensions have a habit of falling off boats.

  You will spend your life hoping this doesn’t happen. You’ll wind up frightened and alone, shivering in the corner of a one-room bedsit, unable to afford a single-bar fire because some City institution is playing the silicone gee-gees with your cash.

  My advice is simple. Remove the risk. Invest your money… no wait, spend your money, on something you know will lose. A car.

  Now at this point, a few people will raise their hands and draw my attention to the Mercedes SLK, which, when it was launched at the beginning of the year, came with a two-year waiting list. Secondhand values went through the roof, up the chimney and in some cases right to the top of the television aerial.

  SLKs were being advertised at £45,000, which is £10,000 more than they’d cost a patient man. But pretty soon everyone was trying to sell their Merc, and in a matter of days prices settled down again. The SLK was a freak.

  And I see no new cars on the horizon which will perform a similar trick; certainly not the BMW Z3. Last weekend, I counted 26 in the secondhand columns, giving it the exclusivity of a packet of biscuits.

  Cars were an investment once, but too many people walked away from those late-1980s boom years nursing fingers that were burned through to the bone. However, and this is the key, they may have paid £100,000 for a Ferrari 308 GT4 which is now worth £20,000, but at least they still have a Ferrari.

  I know of two chaps who clubbed together in the height of the madness and bought an Alfa Romeo SZ thinking it was their passport to a life of rum punches in Barbados. However, as they took delivery the bubble burst, and they’ve been wearing margarine trousers on a slide into oblivion ever since.

  But who cares? If it had been a stock exchange deal that had gone wrong, they’d have a worthless piece of paper. But they’ve still got a Group A racing chassis, those wonderful looks and that magical 3.0 litre V6 engine. They did all right.

  I was flicking through the small ads in this paper last week and found that for, say, thirty grand you could have a Jaguar XJR or a low-mileage BMW M5 or, staggeringly, a Bentley Turbo R.

  Sure, when you’re 90, a pension would keep you in panty pads and a Bentley won’t, but at least you’ll have had a life. You’ll be seen as wicked and interesting, and as a result no one will care when you simply wet the chair.

  Rav4 lacks Kiwi polish

  Last night, I found myself at the Auckland Travelodge, tucking into a bed of wilted leaves and chicken served with ‘jus’.

  To be honest, there’s nothing much wrong with Travelodge – except they always put me in a room that’s two time zones away from reception – but I would like to know how on earth the word ‘jus’ wormed its way on to one of their menus.

  In the very recent past, ‘jus’ was only to be found at the very finest restaurants in France, but in just a few years it’s filtered down the food chain, through bistroland and onwards until it ended up in New Zealand, in a Travelodge, under my chicken.


  Where it tasted pretty ropy actually. I knew it would, because it just doesn’t belong. I go to a Travelodge when I want a pasta salad, and I go to Château du Domaine St-Martin when I want ‘jus’.

  In carspeak, this is even easier. I go to Land Rover if I want an off-roader, and I go to VW if I want a hatchback. So would someone please explain to me what the Toyota Rav4 is all about?

  When it was launched in Britain a couple of years ago, I think I was going through a rough patch with Toyota. I wasn’t speaking to them, or they weren’t speaking to me, but either way I never actually drove one.

  I heard it was an attempt to marry the Camel Trophy to Marks & Spencer, which seemed a bit unlikely, but press reviews were favourable and it sold pretty well.

  Thus, when I came to New Zealand last week, and needed a car that would travel great distances and do some off-roading, all on a BBC budget, it seemed like the ideal solution. In fact, I’d have been better off renting a space hopper.

  Most of the roads here are single-carriageway, so you need plenty of overtaking punch which the 2000cc engine simply can’t deliver. When the road ahead is empty, you drop a cog, mash the throttle and yes, yes, yes, you are gaining and you’re pulling out, and a few minutes later you’re alongside, but you’re never going to make it before the next bend, so you drop back again, a beaten man.

  I know of no road, anywhere in the world, where there is a long enough straight for a fully laden Rav4 to strut its stuff in the overtaking lane. And the roads in New Zealand are bent like the wires in a Brillo pad.