Clarkson on Cars Read online

  Thus, I have been able to run a wire from my Revenger to a much more powerful speaker which is located just behind the radiator grille of my CRX.

  Its inventor, 29-year-old David McMahan, says: ‘The Revenger is as harmless as jingle bells but has a tremendous therapeutic effect.’ Not any more it ain’t me old mate.

  Such is the authenticity and volume of my machine-gun sound that I have actually seen people duck when my finger hits the ‘trigger’. One day, one of the Nissan-clad berks will have a heart attack when they hear the 84,000 decibel rendition of a shell heading their way. This will be a good thing. I see myself as a R0SPA pioneer.

  Time and time again, blithering idiots have given me palpitations with their unbelievable antics on the road. Well, no longer am I going to get mad. I’m going to get even.

  Unfortunately, a group calling themselves the moral majority – actually, they’re surprisingly few in number and live in socially aware places like Hampstead and Barnes – will undoubtedly kick up the most godawful fuss when my modified Revenger gets its first victim.

  But these people must stick with their muesli and their lentils. I’m on a mission.

  Charades

  His slippers were slightly at odds with the neat brown suit, pristine white shirt and silk tie but, nevertheless, he was the managing director of a major Japanese corporation. Clad in a pair of Chinos and an open-neck shirt, it didn’t tax anyone’s powers of perception to ascertain that in the world of motoring journalism, I rank well down with the chaps who rewrite press releases for papers like the Bengal Bugle.

  Yet the man in the brown suit was indulging in a bow which took his face so close to the ground that just for a moment, I figured he was smelling the gravel.

  He wasn’t the only one either. Everyone with whom I came into contact on my two-day, whistlestop tour of Japan spent the entire duration of our conversation rubbing their noses in the dirt. It takes some getting used to.

  But I managed it and now I am fast losing friends by insisting that if they wish to speak to me, they avert their eyes.

  I read somewhere the other day that nearly 80 per cent of Britishers had never been in an aeroplane. Taking that quite remarkable fact a stage further, it would be sensible to assume that the vast majority of the 20 per cent who have flown somewhere have flown within Europe be it southern Spain, a Greek island or Majorca.

  Among those who have ventured futher afield, I would hazard a guess that America is usually the most popular destination.

  In essence, Japan is still an unknown quantity in terms of personal experience. Sure, we all are fully aware that it’s a paid-up member of the capitalist Western world but because it’s on the other side of the globe and doesn’t have holiday-isle status, it isn’t all that popular with foreigners from the English-speaking world.

  Generally speaking, I’ve always had the world divided into four categories and largely, these views are echoed by those with whom I’ve conversed on the subject.

  We have countries behind the Iron Curtain where we expect to find downtrodden people in brown coats shuffling from one decaying tower block to the next in search of a lettuce or a Beatles album.

  Then we have the third world where lots of people in loin cloths sit around wondering why there are no more lettuces.

  Third comes the West, with billions of lettuces that everyone can afford to buy whenever they want.

  And finally there’s the Far East – Thailand, Burma etc – where everyone sits in the lotus position with their hands on their heads wondering what on earth a lettuce is.

  Go to any of these places and you know what to expect. You know America is full of people in checked trousers who say ‘gee’ a lot. You know people in Australia go to work in shorts and call one another mate. You know the French will be rude, that the Burmese will be polite, that Hong Kong’s full of skyscrapers and imitation Rolexes and that Antarctica is bloody cold.

  Since all those spoilsport explorers wandered round the world last century discovering places and writing about them, there are no surprises left. And it’s still going on today. Between them, Wilbur Smith and Bob Geldof have given me a razor-sharp, Kodacolor Gold image of exactly what Africa is like. And I’ve never even been there.

  Japan, though, was a shock. Because they build television sets that look like European television sets, gramophones that look like European gramophones and motor cars that look like European motor cars, it’s easy to believe that they’re as Westernised as a plate of McDonald’s fries or the Queen.

  But this, I can assure you, is not the case. They may have all the exterior trappings of what you and I would call Western civilisation but they are fundamentally different both deep down and on the surface.

  My two-day visit to the Daihatsu factory provided a fascinating insight into just what makes these chaps tick and more importantly, whether I was wrong in a Performance Car story twelve months or so ago to argue that they would never be able to destroy the European car industry with the same consummate ease they crushed various local motorbike businesses.

  Obviously, in two days, you cannot glean all that you could in a lifetime but I’ve heard politicians spout wildly on subjects about which they know absolutely nothing. And people listen to them.

  The first thing that will strike you as odd in Japan is how polite everyone is. Quite apart from the neverending bowing, they have obsequiousness down to an art that even the Chinese haven’t mastered.

  The Daihatsu PR man who sat in the back of my car to explain how I should get about in what is the world’s worst-signposted country epitomised this. Whereas in England, you or I would shout, ‘Take the next left’, he would lean forward, apologise for blocking the view in my rear-view mirror and say, ‘Excuse me, Mr Crarkson, would you mind taking the next turning you find to the reft.’ By which time I’d gone past it.

  The Daihatsu factories and offices were bedecked with Union Jacks to mark our visit, receptionists bowed so low that they disappeared behind their desks and everywhere there were signs saying things like ‘Welcome respectful journalists from UK’. I am not respectful. I have a criminal record in France and I pick my nose.

  Whereas at European press functions, a PR person and a couple of directors will play host to upwards of 50 journalists, Daihatsu wheeled out their president, Mr Tomonaru Eguchi, and enough hierarchy to make up six rugby teams. The result was that I felt sorry for them if something went wrong with their arrangements.

  At an Audi press launch recently, one errant driver finished the slalom by smashing his Quattro into the electronic timing gear. It was hugely funny to watch the stony faced Germans trying to cope with this unexpected hiccough.

  In Japan, the test route Daihatsu had chosen for us to evaluate their new four-wheel-drive Charade was plagued with an eight-mile traffic jam which wrecked their schedule. I nearly cried. If this had happened in Germany where they tried just as hard to be organised, you’d have heard me laughing in Aberdeen.

  Similarly, when a lift at the company headquarters refused to leave the basement, thus forcing some of my colleagues to use the stairs, you could see they were close to tears. Some had to be helped from the building when they heard the lift operator plunge a sword into her belly.

  I think we ate her that night for supper. And the liftmaker. And his wife.

  Not only are they more polite than any Westerner I’ve ever met, they’re also more weird. Their tables and chairs don’t have legs which, if you ask me, is a bit silly.

  Also, one of the things that didn’t feature in my hotel room was a bed. Some of the things it did feature were five pairs of slippers, one for the hallway, one for the bedroom, one for the loo, one for the washroom, and one for the bathroom.

  I just wore my brogues all the time.

  This though was not allowed at supper time when a geisha girl spent the entire meal cooking each mouthful of lift operator individually and dropping it between my ever-ready lips. She even dabbed my battered, time-worn face with a warm
flannel in between chews.

  Now, you might imagine that I’ve returned from my visit a fully converted Japophile but I haven’t, because I simply can’t work out what makes them tick. Trying to fathom them out is like trying to contemplate the infinity of space or how Seat sell any cars. It just can’t be done.

  I’ve had business dealings with Japan in the past and have emerged from every meeting staggered at their intransigence. They simply will not take no for an answer and will, if needs be, scheme and connive way into the night until their opponent is a pulsating wreck beyond argument.

  This feature was evident in various conversations I had with Daihatsu’s engineers. ‘Why don’t you buy SCS brakes from Lucas?’ ‘Because we’re making our own.’ ‘Wouldn’t it be cheaper to buy them now?’ ‘We’d rather develop our own.’ ‘Don’t you think it would help create a favourable impression of Daihatsu in Europe if you bought some European equipment?’ ‘We’ve got some Pirelli tyres and anyway we can do better than SCS.’ End of story.

  Language was always a stumbling block but the stock answer to everything was always, ‘We’re working on it’ and they probably are.

  It’s easy to be working on lots of things when 1500 members of your 11,000 strong workforce are in the R&D department.

  I suspect there are two reasons why they are working on everything. One is because of that indigenous Japanese trait called nationalism and the other is because that was the only phrase these guys have licked. Even the translators were about as good at English as I am at French.

  I know things like ‘Et maintenant, comme le chien’ and ‘Vous avez des idées an dessus de votre gare’. But a full-scale technical press conference would, I fear, leave me floundering.

  It seems strange that having gone to what were obviously enormous lengths to make sure our stay was totally trouble free, they didn’t find bilingual chappies who know how to say ‘three-speed automatic gearbox’ in Japanese and English.

  Maybe they could and weren’t letting on. Maybe I’m a cynical old sod.

  Certainly, it seems at first that they’re being more open than any industry chappy you’ve ever encountered; not once, for instance, did anyone say ‘no comment’ or ‘I can’t tell you that’ and they did show us a top secret prototype, but I do get the impression that half the time they don’t understand your question and the other half, they just tell you what they think you want to hear. Maybe again.

  While touring their Shiga factory, I was desperate to see what measures were incorporated to make their damned cars so reliable. There were none. The plant was no more automated than European equivalents, quality control no more strident.

  There were just a few guys working on machines the size of Coventry that churn out a completed 1.3-litre engine every 28 seconds. There were big digital scoreboards announcing how close to target they were and there was an air of cleanliness. In short, the only thing that stood out as being special were the workers, who behave rather differently from those I’ve encountered in Europe. They didn’t flick V signs at us. Perhaps it’s because they were too busy bowing.

  Then there was the rendition of Johnny Mathis’s ‘When A Child Is Born’ which was playing over the loudspeaker system to commemorate our visit.

  We were shown every engine being tested to 4500 rpm, and we were shown the camshaft machine which must have breathed a sigh of relief when the engineers announced the new 16-valve engine wouldn’t be a twin-cam and we were shown the tropical fish aquarium. No, I don’t know why either.

  We also saw an MR2 being tested and Bertone’s name in a visitors’ book but still they maintained a sports car is not in the offing. ‘We’re working on the idea,’ said one of the translators.

  Maybe the reliability just comes because of the workers’ devotion to duty. My personal guide hasn’t taken a holiday in ten years and is currently owed 130 days off. ‘I’m just too busy to go away but I’m working on it,’ he says.

  Maybe it is as a result of there being no women on the factory floor. I dunno but I do know there is no obvious reason why the average Daihatsu is a whole lot more reliable than the average Eurobox.

  ‘We don’t have hooligans,’ suggested one hopeful individual who helps make the cars, but I hardly think that all Rover SDIs broke down because they were vandalised on the production line.

  After the factory tour it was back onto the bus for a lesson in why Japanese interiors are so universally awful – have you seen the interior of the new Toyota Landcruiser? It’s disgusting.

  But it’s nothing when stacked up against that bus, which in turn was positively tasteful compared with the innards of a Japanese taxi – I’ve been in a Nissan Cedric and let me tell you that if it were fitted with a tachograph, the damned thing would blow up.

  They actually like crushed velour seats, antimacassars with scenes of Japan on them, swinging things on the rear-view mirror and gaudy striping to go with the fake stitching. And chrome. Oh boy, they can’t get enough of it.

  To complicate matters, they simply couldn’t understand why we all clutched our mouths and went green when presented with this sort of addenda.

  A problem here is that while they realise the British and the Japanese have different tastes, they seem to think we are like the Americans. I haven’t heard such a loud chorus of ‘Oh no we’re not’ since I was at a pantomime back in 1968.

  Funnily enough, Daihatsu are one of the better interior stylists. God knows how they do it.

  It’s hard, as I said earlier, to form cast-iron opinions after two days of fact finding, but certainly, the Japanese cannot be underestimated.

  We already know that a great many Japanese cars are equal, if not superior, to their European equivalents but this is not the issue here for a couple of reasons. Firstly, such discussions are getting boring now and secondly, Britain, at least, is protected by import quotas.

  It’s the latter point which is what I’m most concerned about and not just because every Japanese company, including relative minnows like Daihatsu, have either established some kind of assembly base in Europe or are about to do so.

  No, come 1992 when internal borders between member states of the EEC are broken down, the gentlemen’s agreement that currently limits Japanese imports to 11 per cent of the UK market will be worth less than a Lira.

  Daihatsu admit they expect to sell more cars in Britain after 1992.

  One day, someone is going to have to get round a table with the Japanese manufacturers to see what can be done; and I don’t envy whoever gets this job.

  He’ll feel honoured with all the bowing, he’ll be overawed at the politeness, particularly if he’s French, he might even feel sorry for them. Certainly, long periods of sitting on the floor will make him uncomfortable and, thus, he might concede more than he might otherwise.

  One thing, though: he must never be rude. I learned this by telling the driver of a Toyota Crown Royale that his car was very nasty. Luckily, we moved off before his verbal abuse turned into a full-scale kung fu demonstration.

  We must face facts. In ten years’ time, I shall be driving a Daihatsu Charade.

  If it’s the GTti, I won’t mind an iota.

  Pedal Pusher

  If the Queen were to have a sex change, one of your eyebrows might shift inadvertently upwards an inch or two. If Mike Tyson were to be exposed as a closet ballet dancer, the other would surely join it.

  If I announced I had bought myself a bicycle you would faint and probably die.

  The bicycle was not invented for people with beer bellies like barrage balloons and lungs like Swiss cheese. People like me in other words.

  Nevertheless, two weeks ago, in a moment of unparalleled rashness, I decided to invest in a three-speed Raleigh Wayfarer.

  This is why.

  Platform boots may come and lamps with oily bubbles in them may go, but the White Horse is here to stay.

  This drinking establishment situated in the heart of Sloanedom, on Parsons Green in south-west London, regular
ly takes in excess of £4000 a day. And much of this income is my personal responsibility.

  Since it became fashionable to drink there some six or seven years ago, a host of competitors have opened up, ranging from champagne bars to riverside inns to spit and sawdust pubs resonating with some of that renowned London character.

  But they’ve failed and you still can’t get a drink in the White Horse without queuing up for hours. Days even.

  Since I moved to Fulham back in 1984 I have lived within an easy stroll of this cultural oasis, this spiritual haven. And it has therefore been no hardship to drive home from work, abandon the wheels, and sally forth on foot for an evening spent expanding the girth. I do it a lot.

  The trouble is, though, that I recently moved to a new flat which is simply too far away. I once tried walking but ended up in an oxygen tent. I’ve tried driving, but tomato juice gets to be as dull as wallpaper paste after 23 pints of the stuff – no matter how much Tabasco they put in it. I’ve even tried finding a new pub but there isn’t one.

  So I bought the Wayfarer.

  There is a veritable and unplumbed ocean of reasons why no one should ever use one of these antiquated deathtraps for getting around, but the fact remains that, when you’re blind drunk, they make a deal of sense. For a kick off, you can’t lose your driving licence; but, more importantly, you can’t do much damage when you accidentally run into something.

  In fact, for drunkards, the bicycle is bettered by only two other forms of transport: the pram and the sedan chair.

  Sure, I considered both these, but was forced to discount the pram idea when I couldn’t find one seven feet long, and the sedan chair when my staff inexplicably declined to carry me around in it.

  So I went into a second-hand shop with £30 and emerged a few minutes later with the Wayfarer in tow.

  Now before you dismiss me as a damned traitor to the cause of performance motoring, I must stress that I will continue to drive as I always have done: in other words, with no regard whatsoever for those who use the roads without paying tax.