Round the Bend Page 20

  25 January 2009

  Never mind, Daphne, at least you’re pretty

  Volkswagen Passat CC GT V6

  Stop. Don’t turn the page. Look again at the picture of this morning’s car. Pretty, isn’t it? It might not cause other motorists to swivel round in their seat, nor will it send a frisson through crowds on the pavement. It’s not pretty like Abi Clancy or Meg Ryan … was.

  With its slim side windows and those gently dished alloy wheels, it’s quietly pretty, subtly pretty. Pretty like Daphne du Maurier. The sort of pretty you don’t really notice until it’s pointed out to you. And then you can’t get its prettiness out of your head.

  There are other cars that pull off a similar trick. The new Renault Laguna Coupé, for instance. But, of course, that is French and, therefore, the sort of car that beckons you in with many sultry promises and then has a massive breakdown.

  The car in this morning’s picture is unlikely to do that, because it’s German. In fact it’s the new Volkswagen Passat CC, and that’s a bit unfortunate. It’s like meeting the girl of your dreams and discovering, at the last moment, that she’s called Ermintrude. Or Daphne, for that matter.

  Actually, it’s worse because ‘Volkswagen’ smacks of National Socialism and ‘Passat’ has a whiff of the municipal golf club. That’s a really bad image to have in your head. Hitler in Rupert Bear trousers, swinging a nine iron with his mates Rudolf and Martin at the council’s eighth tee.

  However, you’d put up with the bad name and the horrific imagery for a slice of this pie. Same as you’d put up with Daphne du Maurier’s apparent fondness for dining at the Venetian Y. I would too.

  I’m a sucker for pillarless doors. One of the reasons I like the Subaru Outback so much is that the windows are frameless. In fact, when I look back at all the cars I’ve owned over the years, it’s a common thread. The CLK Black I have now, the BMW CSL, the Honda CRX, the Ferrari 355, the Gallardo. Some people buy cars for speed; some for practicality or value. It seems I buy on the strength of a frameless window in a pillarless door.

  Step inside the CC and, after you’ve rubbed your head better – you will bang it the first time, because the roofline is lower than you were expecting – you will note that all is well. Better than well. In the base models, everything is a bit dreary, a bit public convenience, only without George Michael to liven things up, but in the car I drove, it was all brushed aluminium and ivory leather and splashes of chrome.

  I thought when this car came out that what it would say about you most of all is that you couldn’t afford a Mercedes CLS. That still holds true. It is a less expensive rip-off of the Benz original – base model for base model, it’s £25,000 cheaper – but you know what? The VW is better.

  Certainly, it’s better in the back, because even though the Mercedes is the larger car, the Passat offers more room for the two passengers it can carry back there. It really is two, though. The centre of the back seat is suitable only for people who like sitting in cupholders. Or who actually are cans of Coca-Cola.

  Further back still, we find a boot that is vast, and as we slam it we’re left scratching our heads. Cavernous, well priced, good looking and nicely trimmed. So where’s the catch? Apart from the municipal golf club handle.

  Well it’s simple, really. You can dress a VW Passat up in whatever you like in the same way that you can dress me up in whatever you like. But underneath I’m still the same clod-hopping, fat, wheezing, middle-aged man.

  The Passat I drove – a £30,492, 3.6-litre, four-wheel-drive GT – is not bad but it doesn’t exactly set your world on fire. The figures suggest it will get to 62mph in 5.6 seconds, which is pretty fast, but at no time did I think, ‘Wow. Even my pubic hair is standing on end.’

  The figures also suggest it will get to 155mph, but the feel suggests you are never going to get there.

  Part of the problem, I suspect, is the DSG gearbox. Usually, this is the best of the flappy paddle systems, but in the CC it felt strangely dimwitted and unwilling to change down fast. And the simple fact of the matter is this: you can have the best four-wheel-drive system in the world, the sharpest handling and the creamiest engine, but if the gearbox is going to behave like a trade union leader in gooey shoes, the whole effect is going to be ruined.

  Luckily, there are lots of things to play with as you bumble along. First of all, there’s the suspension that can be adjusted with a little button. To begin with, you will put it in ‘sport’, which makes everything very uncomfortable and therefore at odds with the relaxed gearbox and the discreet styling. So you’ll then go for ‘normal’, which is still too uncomfortable. Which means, after two minutes, I guarantee you’ll put it in ‘comfort’ and leave it there for the rest of time.

  Then you have the safety features. One – not fitted to my car – is an electronic driving instructor who grabs the wheel if you try to change lane on the motorway without indicating. I mean this. Apparently, you can feel him pushing you back where you came from as though you are driving down a kerb.

  Is that a good thing? Citroëns wake up the sleeping motorway driver by vibrating the seat. Other cars sound a buzzer. But Volkswagen has taken this rather more direct approach, which is fine, in theory. But what happens if you need to swerve and there isn’t time to indicate? The interfering buffoon in the dash is going to try to steer you into the obstacle you were trying to avoid.

  The radar-guided cruise control is much better. This system works like a normal cruise control but should a car pull into your lane, you slow to match his speed until he moves over, then you automatically speed up again. In some cars – and I’m thinking of Mercedes here – it doesn’t work very well because it follows the car in front at such a great distance, its driver doesn’t realize you want to get by. In the VW the system allows you to get right up his bottom and bully the dozy halfwit out of the way.

  There are lots of toys, too, some of which are quite good. The graphics on the sat nav, for instance, are so clear it’s as though they are being transmitted in HD – and that’s great. But what’s the point of a big glass sunroof the size of a tennis court if it doesn’t open?

  It’s a funny old swings-and-roundabouts car, this, which is why, for once, I’ve spent the whole column writing about it. On the one hand, it’s a Mercedes CLS for half the price. On the other, while it’s comfortable and relaxed to drive, it lacks sparkle.

  I’m therefore going to give it three stars. But they tell only three-fifths of the story. You see, there’s a hotel in San Francisco called the Golden Gate. It’s a three-star sort of place as well and it has a name that is every bit as unimaginative as ‘Volkswagen Passat’. Yet I always choose to stay there when I’m in the city because it’s pretty. Subtly pretty. Quietly pretty.

  1 February 2009

  The sinister …

  BMW 730d SE

  Quite rightly, it is no longer acceptable to mock people for being black, homosexual, ginger, deformed or Irish, so let us start this morning by mocking Gerald Ford, George Bush Sr, Bill Clinton, Ross Perot, Al Gore, Obama Barrack and John McCain. People, in other words, who are all left-handed.

  At present, this terrible condition affects around 11 per cent of the world’s population and yet in certain fields the number is high enough to raise statistical eyebrows. Quite apart from American politics, there is tennis, which is dominated by lefties. McEnroe, Connors, Rusedski, Ivanisevic and that Spanish ape whose name I’ve forgotten all hold their bats with the wrong hand.

  What’s more, if you give birth to a leftie, there is a good chance he’ll go into space. One in four Apollo astronauts were left-hand-drive. But, conversely, things are not so rosy if he wishes to become a top-flight racing driver. All the big stars in recent years have been normal, apart from Gerhard Berger. He’ll also struggle to be a writer because his handwriting will be all smudged.

  We can see from all this that left-handed people are different to you and me. In short, they are what science calls ‘weirdos’.

 
History is less kind. The word ‘sinister’ is actually derived from the Latin sinistere, meaning left. Gauche is left. Maladroit is left. Derek Hatton is left. All the things you don’t want to be are left. Left has come to mean bad, clumsy, difficult or awkward. And it’s easy to see why this happened.

  It is, for example, very difficult for a left-handed person to operate a camera or be a woman. Almost all are men and that’s sinister for sure. What’s more, a left-handed person can adjust more easily to seeing underwater than a right-hooker. There’s only one conclusion to be drawn from this – their eyes are not human. Furthermore, they grow more pubic hair more quickly than a normal person, and this would imply that they may be wolves, or bears.

  Certainly, we can deduce from this that it’s not only the wiring of their arms that is the wrong way round. Their whole body is an electrical mess. I’m surprised they don’t sneeze every time they get an erection. Certainly, they have a greater tendency to stutter. And many are slovenly time-keepers.

  (Actually, I made that last bit up simply to annoy the producer of Top Gear, who is a) left-handed; b) three hours away from where he’s supposed to be at any given moment of the day; and c) like all left-handed people, absolutely convinced that he is in some way ‘special’.)

  People from other minorities never try to claim they are better than the majority. You never get gingers going around saying that because of Simon Heffer and Nicholas Witchell, people with orange hair are cleverer than average. Nor do you get homosexuals pointing at Oscar Wilde with a smug look on their faces. They just want to be seen as ‘the same’ as everyone else.

  But people who need upside-down hands to write their signature on a cheque spend a huge amount of time and effort forming clubs designed to prove that because Leonardo da Vinci was left-hand-drive, they are superior beings.

  In this respect, they are a bit like the Freemasons or Mensa, that magnificently strange organization for people who think they’re special because they can put some shapes in the right hole while playing chess.

  Mind you, left-hookers are worse. They lobby the makers of household appliances to consider their plight when designing computers, cookers and power tools. They even complain about sinks and, I’m sorry, but I fail to see how something that is perfectly symmetrical can possibly favour right-handed people. Maybe they are saying the plughole isn’t big enough to handle all their pubic hair.

  Frankly, I’d just tell them we right-handers have our problems, too. The sextant, for instance is very difficult for us to operate and, er … I’m sure there are other things as well.

  What annoys me most of all about southpaws, though, is that these sinister fish-wolves have a point. I have never knowingly met a left-hand-drive bore. For some reason, they tend to be interesting, different, worth having round for dinner. Sniffpetrol.co.uk, for instance, is written by a left-handed person. Angelina Jolie is left-handed. And while I can’t say for sure, I bet Stephen Fry is sinistral. A word only he would understand.

  And, luckily, all of this brings me neatly to the BMW 730 diesel.

  You see, ordinary businessmen who have no problem using scissors have always bought, if they were in the market for a large and well-appointed mobile living room, a Mercedes S-class. The main reason for buying something else is that you’re the chairman of a large British company, such as Jaguar, in which case you’d have to get a Jag.

  Of course, if you are Bonio, out of U2, you will see a Mercedes as a bit Institute of Directors so you will buy a Maserati. If you are Sir Alan Sugar, you will have a Rolls-Royce Phantom because a Mercedes is too cheap. If you are a Manchester United footballist, you will have a Bentley because you are a frightful show-off. If you are sane, you will have a Range Rover and if you are bonkers, you will have a Maybach.

  In short, then, before buying the big ugly Beemer, you would have to say, ‘I am not a businessman, sane, Bonio, Alan Sugar, Wayne Rooney, or Theo Pamphlet from Dragons’ Den.’ You’d have to be a bit odd to be none of these things. You’d have to have strange underwater eyes and the hairiest scrotum in the world. To go for the left-field car, you would – and can you see what I’ve done here – have to be wired up all wrong.

  Now, though, there’s a new BMW 7-series. You wouldn’t think so from looking at it, or from studying the engine, which is largely the same as before. But this is a brand new car.

  Headlines? Well the cheapest model – the 730 diesel – starts at £53,730 and for that you get a car that produces just 192g/km of carbon dioxide, which is less than comes from the back of some Ford Mondeos or a cow. More importantly, it will achieve 45mpg on the open road, if you are careful with the throttle. And if you are not, 0 to 62mph in a shade over 7 seconds and a top speed of 153.

  That’s all lovely. Mind you, I’m surprised they didn’t make it 2mph faster. Then they could have claimed it was so fast it had to be limited. But there we are. Transparency is what it’s all about these days.

  Further up the scale, there’s the usual range of engine choices, including a twin-turbo V8, and the usual range of what the backroom computer nerds have put on the options list. You can have, for instance, a head-up display that keeps you abreast of the prevailing speed limit, or you can have a thermal imaging camera that spots pedestrians lurking in the shadows, or you can have side-mounted cameras that can spot traffic at blind junctions. That’s all lovely, too.

  Sadly, though, the 7-series is let down by two things. First of all, BMW makes much noise, quite rightly, about the inherent sportiness of all its cars. But sportiness is all wrong in a car like this. It’s like buying a coat when you want a tablecloth. Yes, it has great steering, great reactions and great urgency, but they all come at a price. And the price is comfort and quietness. Put simply, a Mercedes is a more relaxing ride and in a big, very wide, very heavy and completely unsporting package, that’s what you want.

  Then there’s the iDrive system. In essence, one button – think of it as a computer mouse – controls thousands of controls on the car, and I’m sure you can get used to it in the same way that you can get used to having a nasty headache.

  Here’s the thing, though. In Germany, you operate the button with your right hand. That’s fine. But here, it’s the other way round, and as any normal person who’s tried to operate a computer mouse with their left hand knows, it’s nigh-on impossible. In short, then, the right-hand-drive 7-series works only for left-hand-drive people.

  8 February 2009

  A smart, thrifty choice

  Toyota iQ2 1.0 VVT-i

  For the past month, I’ve been on the Top Gear Live world tour so the only driving I’ve done is in a Lamborghini, indoors and sideways. The lights in the arena would go down, a voice of God would announce my name, I’d floor the throttle, kick the tail out, arrive on stage in a flurry of tyre squeal and fireworks and shout, ‘Hello, Sydney.’ Which was a bit embarrassing if I was in Auckland.

  There would then follow an hour and a half of more tyre squeal, explosions and shouting. AA Gill described it as all the headaches he’d ever had in one go – and he had to go through the process only once. We were doing it four times a day, which meant as night fell I was too exhausted and broken to operate anything more complicated than a bottle opener. Which is why I’d be taken back to the hotel by a driver.

  This sounds very Elton Johnish but there is one big problem with using chauffeurs. Almost none of them can drive a car.

  Let us first of all examine the case of the chap I used in Hong Kong. We’ll call him Albert, because that’s his name. Albert had a Porsche Cayenne, and what he liked to do was test every one of the speeds it would go. We’d start off with 37 and then we’d do 105, 21, 16, 84, 9, 0, 163, 41, and so on, until he’d established that they were all working properly.

  Then he’d start testing the braking distances: 47 to 41, 50 to 5, 16 to 15 and, once, a terrifying 170 to 3. The range of possibilities was enormous and all of them were very bad, especially as Albert had the spectacularly annoying habit of impersonati
ng the engine noise as we lurched along.

  Cornering, however, was his speciality. He would make the noise of the tyres screeching as he turned each bend into a series of straight lines interspersed with a series of violent jerks. He was a lovely man. Which is why I felt so guilty, sitting alongside him, imagining what he might look like with a pencil jammed into his throat.

  Elsewhere in the world the drivers were far better but each one of them had roadcraft habits every bit as irritating as hawking up phlegm. They’d follow the car in front too closely, sit too near the wheel, brake for no reason on the motorway, steer too vigorously, dawdle or, worst of all, pretend they knew where they were going when plainly they didn’t.

  Naturally, each would claim he was an above-average driver – we all do, despite the statistical impossibility of it being the case – and it’s probably true. They probably were better than most. But the fact is that everyone has their own driving style and it’s never quite as good as your own.

  For instance. When the lights on a dual carriageway are red and you have a choice of lanes in which to stop, I would never pull up behind a Peugeot. This is because anyone with a Peugeot knows nothing about cars or they’d have bought something else. And because they know nothing about cars, they will know nothing about driving. Which means they’ll be sitting there in neutral with the handbrake on, and that means they won’t move off smartly – or even at all – when the lights go green. I have a rule at the lights. Always pull up behind the Beemer.

  But other drivers don’t do this. What’s more, they fiddle with the radio, changing stations whenever they are presented with a song they don’t like. Why? Tunes are never more than three minutes long and I can just about handle CeCe Peniston for that long. Leave it. LEAVE IT. But no. Chchch, goes the tuner … ‘In parliament today’ … chchch … ‘nothing but a dreamer’ … chchchshshsh … ‘on the day that you were born’ … chchch … ‘Jade Goody’ … and then, ‘Aaaaaaaaarghgurgle,’ as I jam a ballpoint into his epiglottis.