Born to Be Riled Read online

  And instead of forcing a drunken driver to use public transport for a year, it should be five years for a first offence and life thereafter. If you want to keep them off the road, hit them with a stick the size of a giant redwood.

  And use a cattle prod on anyone caught driving badly while sober, unless of course they have the perfect excuse: ‘Your Honour. I was in a Range Rover at the time.’

  Global Posting systems

  People say that the world is a smaller place these days. Well, having just been to South Africa via western Canada, I can only assume that it used to be absolutely bloody enormous.

  The first leg of the journey, from Heathrow to Calgary, was undertaken in a Boeing 767 which only has two engines. Thus, if one should develop a fault you have to run around the cabin screaming.

  But even when both are working, it’s a winged Volkswagen Polo diesel. Point it at a stiff breeze and all attempts to fly forwards are thwarted. You end up landing in reverse, six hours later, in Helsinki.

  Happily, we had the wind so nine hours after setting off I was cruising towards the tumbleweedy town of Red Deer in Alberta, which was playing host to a Jehovah’s Witnesses convention.

  By pretending to be a blood transfusion specialist, I managed to keep them quiet in the lift on the way to breakfast. And even more amazingly, I managed to win a trophy later in the day for taking part in a combined harvester V. banger race, which put me in good spirits as I boarded an Airbus for the trip home.

  Now the Airbus is great. Even though it had four engines, which is about half as many as I like while over the North Atlantic, it was as quiet as a lift full of Jehovah’s Witnesses when a 16 stone man is glowering at them.

  Certainly, it was much quieter than Heathrow, which, these days is twinned with Brent Cross. I sat next to Sir John Egan at a dinner the other night and thought he was looking a bit pleased with himself.

  No wonder: he’s worked out that as chairman of British Airports Authority, he can get men to do what a billion women can’t – shop. In my six-hour stopover, I went mad.

  Burdened with four new pairs of sunglasses, some Pink shirts and a watch I don’t need, I set off for South Africa and my appointment with the Jahre Viking.

  This is the world’s biggest supertanker, and could swallow St Paul’s Cathedral – four times over. However, as there’s little demand for ecclesiastical removals in the southern seas it was, in fact, carrying 137 million gallons of crude – enough to power every Jehovah’s Witness in all of Canada to Mars. But not quite enough to bring them back again.

  After a day on board, mostly looking for somewhere to smoke, we had a bit of bother with the weather and had to be rescued at four in the morning by a tug which was exactly the same size as an ashtray. This meant that in a raging storm I had to climb down the side of the hull on a rope ladder which had been wrested from the ship’s mascot – a hamster.

  There was no sleep that night, and none the next either, because South African Airways models the seats in its 747s on those found in rural Vietnamese buses.

  So, in nine days, I’d slept in a bed just three times. I’d done 24,000 miles. I’d crashed a combine and had been through the most dangerous seaway in the world on a floating bomb.

  But travel does broaden the mind, which is why I can now impart two nuggets. First, Air Canada’s business class is very good, and second, you shouldn’t buy a Japanese or Korean car.

  Here’s why. In America, fuel is cheap and people are fat so American cars tend to be large with a voracious appetite for gas. In Europe, the streets are narrow and fuel costs a bomb, so Renault and Fiat give us little cars with pipettes for petrol tanks.

  That leaves the cars that come at us, like a blizzard, from the Far East, cars that are sold in Milton Keynes, Montreal and, because I loathe alliteration, Agadez.

  Now look, they can’t have it all ways. They can’t tell a Canadian that it’s a full five-seat sedan, an Italian that it’s a nifty little pocket rocket, an Australian bushman that it’s tough and the American safety lobby that it’s soft.

  Cars like the Hyundai Accent must be aimed at someone, and now I know who – African taxi drivers.

  In the Third World, people have grown up with an acquired immune deficiency syndrome towards the notion of cars being, in some way, linked to social standing. Alfa Romeo is currently promoting its 146 by saying that ‘everyone in the office will think you’ve been promoted’ – a slogan that wouldn’t work at all well in Angola.

  African taxi drivers are not bothered about a car company’s past racing successes, or styling or whether it can generate 4 g while parking. They want total reliability at a nice price, and that’s what Japan and Korea are giving them.

  Go to any African state and you won’t find a single new Fiat or Chrysler. It’s just row after row of anonymous saloons.

  Now, if this were the business section of the paper, there’d be a temptation to castigate Europe’s car makers for failing to exploit the emerging world, but I find business about as exciting as fish.

  I’m really only bothered about cars and, in the same way that you wouldn’t drive a Chevrolet Caprice because it’s unsuitable in pub car parks, you shouldn’t drive a box that was designed for people who put plastic gold crowns on the dashboard.

  Europe has a car industry which makes cars for European conditions. You should remember that when deciding what to buy in the run-up to 1 August and the R-plate madness.

  Fight for your right to party

  Later this summer, Ferrari is celebrating its 50th birthday in Rome with a party that will make Elton’s half-century look like an old people’s whist drive. They say that Rome will be brought to a standstill by 10,000 Ferraris and that even the Pope will be there. The Pope, for Christ’s sake. The Pope is going to a car firm’s birthday party.

  Check out Q magazine’s gig guide and I doubt you’ll find a single rock ’n’ roller on stage that night. Eric Clap-ton, Chris Rea, Jay Kay and Rod Stewart have each bought a 550, and the word is they’ll all be in Rome, talking Armani and quad-cam motors. Me though, I’m not going. I have decided that I shall be at the Coventry British Legion that night, where Jaguar is celebrating – not its 50th – but its 75th anniversary. That’s not fair. The ball, in fact, is being held at the Brown Lane factory and 1000 people will be there, including er… David Platt… possibly. The Queen – our equivalent of the Pope – is sadly unavailable because she’s opening a computer park in Telford that day. Or is it a dog food factory in Cwmbran? Honestly, it’s pathetic and it isn’t Jaguar’s fault. In fact, they’ve done bloody well to scrape up 1000 people who are prepared to get out there and celebrate the birth of what we’re told is a bunch of wires, some Zyklon B and a slab or two of metal. It’s amazing. Since British Aerospace handed Rover over to the Germans, I’ve had hundreds of letters from retired majors in Bognor Regis, saying that it’s all deplorable, hardly worth fighting the war… etc….etc…. But people in the UK are told cars are dirty and that we’re no good at making anything, and we shrug and accept it. We accept almost anything.

  Some years ago, the European Community, as it was called at the time, decided that all beaches must achieve a certain standard of cleanliness, which was not one of their more idiotic ideas. Naturally, the British delegation dispatched beardy types in parkas to our sandier bits, where, to their horror, none met the new requirements. Cue the Daily Mail with all sorts of headlines deriding Britain as the dirty man of Europe. But, according to my sources, this isn’t an entirely fair picture because the other countries had simply gone home and done… precisely nothing. No beardy types had been sent out to check; they just said, ‘Our beaches are all clean.’ So hey, it turns out that the unspoiled wilderness in northern Scotland is filthy while that turd-infested expanse of litter-strewn shingle called Greece is dew fresh.

  Continental types treat rules with exactly the right amount of disdain. Because Italy has had so many rulers this millennium and so many governments since the war, they’ve lear
ned to treat authority as though it’s something they’ve trodden in. What’s the point of obeying one new rule when next week Hannibal is coming over the mountains with an elephant and an entirely new set? Over there, you can run around waving your arms in the air, telling anyone who’ll listen that Ferrari is a symbol of the unacceptable face of capitalism, and that cars are killing children. No one will give a damn. The same happens in France. When the government tried to impose new taxes on truckers they didn’t have a puny strike. No. They blockaded motorways and stood around smoking Gitanes, until sense prevailed. Even the Belgians are out and about throwing rocks as I write because Renault is closing a factory down. But here, apart from a bunch of long-haired ne’er-do-wells with suspicious stains on their trousers, no one ever complains. This is why, in Italy, the whole country will be out on the streets celebrating Ferraris, while in Britain, Jaguar’s birthday will be marked by one person in every 56,000. We shouldn’t expect more really, because if you went into the street and put up bunting, a council official would tell you to take it down again. And if you held a street party, number 54 would ring the police, who’d ask you to turn it down a bit.

  The only consolation is that things are worse in America. I’m told that in Los Angeles nowadays, it is illegal to consume alcohol after 2 a.m…. even in your home. I bet General Motors’ big birthday party will be a real wow.

  Gravy train hits the old buffers

  This week, I had the most fantastic night of my entire life, accompanying A.A. Gill to a restaurant he was reviewing.

  Even though he’d booked under a false name, hoping they wouldn’t realize he was from the Sunday Times, the head waiter clocked him immediately and began a bout of Herculean fawning. We could have poured custard down the man’s trousers and he’d have laughed the laugh of a man whose daughter’s life depended on it.

  Now Gill is probably used to meeting people who have a degree in advanced grovelling, but it made a refreshing change for someone who’s entrenched in the motor industry.

  I dislike being anecdotal in print, but this one bears repeating. Many years ago, the entire public relations staff at Land Rover left very suddenly and were replaced by anyone they could find who knew which end of a telephone to speak into. Not easy in Birmingham.

  Anyway, the next day, I rang saying that I was a freelance journalist and that I needed a Range Rover for a story that I was writing. The new girl – and you need to read this in a big, big Birmingham accent – said that she was very sorry but she had ‘specific instructions not to lend any cars to freelancers’.

  Puzzled, I asked what would have happened if Stuart Marshall had made the request – Stuart being the motoring writer for the Financial Times. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘he could have one.’

  ‘But he’s freelance,’ I replied. This confused the poor girl, who thought for a moment before the lights came on. ‘Whoops, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I meant we won’t lend our cars to freeloaders.’

  This, however, isn’t true. Freeloaders can have as many cars as they like from whichever manufacturer they choose. And when I say freeloaders, I mean you.

  What I’m going to do now is explain how, for no outlay whatsoever, you can spend the rest of your life driving a brand-new car every week. They will be delivered to your house, clean, fully insured and with a full tank of fuel, and then collected when the ashtray is full.

  The only trouble you’ll have is finding time to drive them, because twice a week you’ll be flown to exotic locations all over the world, and housed in the sort of hotel that would chuck Dodi Fayed out for being poor.

  Sounds appealing? Well here’s what you do. Call up the editor of your local freesheet newspaper and ask if you can write a gushing little piece about cars every week. It’s OK, you don’t need to be a terribly good writer – no one expects car buffs to know how to put a story together.

  So now you have an outlet which means you can telephone, say, BMW who, once they know you really do have a column, will be duty-bound to lend you a car. And then it’s yours for a whole week and you may go wherever you wish in it.

  The next week, another car will be delivered and the week after that, another. Then you’ll start getting clever, ensuring you have the right wheels for the right occasion. You’ve been invited shooting, so you’ll have a Ford Explorer. It’s your daughter’s wedding, so you’ll have a Mercedes S Class.

  By this stage, you will have been noticed by the industry’s public relations people, who will start inviting you on their infamous car launches. Now you really are in the big time.

  Every new car – and there are about two a week – is introduced to the press at some far-flung ivory tower, which means your life will become a hectic blur as you ricochet round the globe. Nissan launched its new Primera in South Africa. Mercedes let everyone sample their M Class in Alabama. Jaguar takes people to France.

  It’s an orgy of champagne from the moment you climb on the plane until you’re sent home again clutching a little gift – a computer, perhaps, or a piece of luggage.

  Now remember, all you’ve done to earn your spot on the gravy train is write a couple of hundred words for a local newspaper every week. But quite frankly, this is getting to be a bore. You like the five-star life but you hate the bottom-drawer wages.

  You want the free cars and the global travel without having to write the column – no problem.

  On the launches, suck up to the public relations people as though they hold your life in their hands. Tell their bosses how good they are at their jobs. Eulogize about the new car, even if it is a Nissan Almera, and ensure you are the life and soul of the party. Over dinner, regale everyone with amusing anecdotes and be prepared to stay up till 4 a.m., drinking the bar dry.

  So, when you give up the writing, the public relations people – who need bums on seats to justify their existence – will keep the invites coming. And the cars. They know you. You’re a mate. They will still make sure you have a nice big diesel estate when holiday time comes around.

  And therein lies the reason why motor industry people don’t fawn on journalists. They’re in the hot seat, deciding who gets to drive what and who gets to go where. Why should they grovel when they know that without their assistance the motoring journalist is up the creek without a boat, never mind a paddle?

  Weird world of Saab Man

  By computing the position of various stars on 11 April 1960, an astrologer would be able to deduce that I’m selfish, arrogant and thoughtless.

  But this seems like an unnecessarily complicated palaver. I mean why bother with reference books and slide rules and telescopes when you can simply ask what sort of car I drive. See the car. Know the man.

  Kind, gentle people do not drive Ferraris in the same way that Sylvester Stallone does not have a Peugeot 306 diesel. Or a Subaru Justy. Or a Skoda Felicia.

  Spot a Lada bumbling down the road and there’s no point peering inside to see if Richard Branson is behind the wheel. He won’t be. It’ll be a bloke wearing one of those suits that’s neither green nor grey nor brown, but a curious cocktail of all three. It’s a colour worn only by old people in Ladas. It’s a colour that should be called ‘old’.

  Lada Man votes Labour, likes pies and checks the price of things before putting them in his supermarket basket. He is usually called Derek and he’s 53. And you won’t get that kind of detail from his star sign.

  I can do this sort of thing with any type of car. Show me someone, in an Audi A4 and I’ll show you someone with a mistress. Show me someone in a BMW 316 and I’ll show you an idiot, a man who would wear Ralph Lauren shirts that had been made in Hillingdon by someone called Singh.

  There is, however, one car that’s much harder to pigeonhole. If you drive a Saab, all I know is that you have made one of the oddest buying decisions in the entire history of shopping. You’ve looked at a feast and chosen instead to eat your own shoes. You’ve considered a job as chief polisher to Sandra Bullock’s nipples but decided that you’d rather do a milk ro
und.

  I’ve just spent the last few days driving around in Saab’s new 9-5, which is a large four-door saloon that costs, depending on engine and trim levels, between £21,000 and £28,000. It is therefore a direct rival to the BMW 5 series.

  Now, the 5 series is nigh on perfect in every way, but the Saab… isn’t. Sure, it has powerful headlights and a remarkably comfy ride, but this simply isn’t enough in a package that also has average styling, average handling, average performance, a poor gear change and a wonky driving position.

  Yes, it is well priced and yes, it is generously equipped but overall this car is beaten mercilessly, not only by the BMW but also the Audi A6, the Mercedes E200, the Volvo 850 and, quite frankly, the Ford Mondeo V6. Saab has served up a good car in a world that expects excellence.

  Now ordinarily that would be the end of the story, but people are going to buy it. They’re going to notice the jerky gear change, the roly-poly cornering and the way you need to bend your foot back to get it on the throttle. They may even discover it shares a chassis with the Vauxhall Vectra, but they’re still going to reach for the cheque book.

  Why? And why for that matter do people buy the Saab 900, which is also beaten by the competition, and the Saab 9000, which isn’t just beaten; it’s bent over the sofa and subjected to cruel and unusual torture by every other car in its class… except the Nissan QX perhaps?

  I mean, it isn’t as though the Saab badge stands for anything particularly dramatic. This jet fighter thing seems a bit weak somehow, and anyway it wasn’t that long ago when Saab were selling their cars on the safety ticket. And before that, they were doing rallies. The result of all this haphazard marketing is that, today, the cars are almost completely image-free.

  And that, I suspect, is where their appeal lies. They are sold to people who don’t wish to use their car as a style statement, people who simply need four wheels and a comfortable seat so that they may get to work as easily as possible.