What Could Possibly Go Wrong. . . (7 page)

In his first year in office the transport secretary, Philip Hammond, announced that he would scrap the M4 bus lane, stop funding speed cameras and raise the motorway limit to 80. What he should have done next is gone home and started a well-earned retirement. But, sadly, when you are the transport secretary you are expected to go to work every day. And, of course, when someone is at work they are duty-bound to do stuff and think of things. This is fine if you are a doctor or a telephone repair man but when you are transport secretary it’s hard to think of things that make any sense.

This is a problem when you are invited to speak on the
Today
programme. You can’t very well sit there and say you’ve not thought of any ideas, because people will think you have been lazy. So you have to come up with something. And that’s what Hammond did recently. He took a deep breath and said he was going to get the police to clamp down on boy racers.

Of course, this was an excellent thing to say because the people who listen to the
Today
programme do not have gel in their hair, or acne. Or an electric-blue Citroën with a huge exhaust pipe and no suspension.

Radio 4 people think that boy racers sit in the social mix between rapists and Hitler. So they will have leapt up from their Shackletons wingbacks, delirious with joy that Mr Hammond was finally going to make their life on the road a little less terrifying.

Sadly, however, if you examine the details of Hammond’s half-formed excursion into the world of middle England
tub-thumping you see that it doesn’t make any sense at all. For instance, he says he’s going to get the police to clamp down on the lunatic fringe, to which I say this: what police?

The last time I saw a jam sandwich patrolling the motorway, it was a Ford Granada. Today you get Highways Agency traffic officers and the odd plod-dog van, but actual police? They’re all at the station, learning how to climb ladders.

Then we get to what Hammond thinks constitutes boy racing: tailgating and undertaking.

Quite what he has against undertakers, I don’t know. In my experience they drive very carefully. Unless, of course, he means people who overtake on the left. In which case he’s just plain wrong.

These days I undertake other cars as a matter of course. And I’m fifty-one, which means I’m not much of a boy. The problem is that in the olden days everyone on the road had at least a rudimentary grasp of lane discipline. But today – how can I put this without sounding as though I’m from the
Daily Mail
? – many of Britain’s motorists learnt the art of driving in more exotic parts. And they simply have no idea, as they trundle up the M40 at 50 mph in their £200 Toyota Camry, that they should keep left.

You can flash your lights, indicate, make hand gestures, huff, puff and die of a heart attack but it will make no difference. They don’t realize they’re doing anything wrong.

That’s why I glide by on the left. And if I am stopped by one of Hammond’s non-existent policemen, I shall explain that if I had the space to undertake, then the person around whom I drove must have had the space to pull over. He should therefore be prosecuted for driving without due care and attention.

Then there’s the issue of tailgating. This is done exclusively by people in Audis with Montblanc pens, Breitling watches, Oakley sunglasses, those shirts with horses on them and a fondness for squash. I don’t know what you’d call people such as this – ‘awful’ springs to mind – but they’re not boy racers.

So when Hammond says that he will be targeting undertakers
and tailgaters, he’s actually targeting the victims of the middle-lane hogs, and people who play squash. Unless he really is talking about people who drive you to the church when you’re dead. In which case it truly is time for him to stop thinking of things and doing stuff.

Actual boy racers, I should imagine, are now getting very irritated because they’ll have seen the picture of the car I’m reviewing this morning, with its white roof and its big wheels, and they’ll be thinking, Get on with it, you imbecile.

So get on with it I shall. It’s a Skoda Fabia vRS, and the last version of this car was OK. I liked it a lot, even though it waded into battle with a diesel engine. And that’s a bit like competing in a 100-metre running race while wearing wellies. The new one has a 1.4-litre petrol engine that is supercharged and turbocharged. The result is 178 bhp, and the result of that is 0 to 60 in a little over seven seconds and a top speed of 139 mph. Or 140 if you buy the aerodynamically cleaner estate version.

Weirdly, the people at Skoda have sent me a comparison chart, which shows that in terms of performance the vRS is a little slower than the Clio Renaultsport 200 and the Vauxhall Corsa VXR. They’ve also sent me a laminated card saying that the No. 1 key feature of their car is that it has a three-point seatbelt. It’s almost as though they don’t want me to like it.

And that’s fortunate, because I don’t. There are some things, though, that are rather good. I like the styling especially. I’m not sure why, but it reminds me of a bemused and slightly cross second world war squadron leader. And I like the way it has a white roof.

But most of all I like the price. It’s £16,265 and, although Skoda doesn’t provide figures to show this, it is way cheaper than every one of its rivals. Even if you fit the useless satnav and blue teeth and climate control, it’s still £1,000 less than the Volkswagen Polo GTI. And that’s especially odd, because underneath it’s exactly the same car. Same engine. Same everything.

So what’s it like to drive? Well, the seats are comfy and the ride
is surprisingly pliant, given that it’s running on wafer-thin low-profile tyres. But there’s a problem. This is a turbocharged and supercharged hot hatchback, so it should make you want to drive like you are on fire. It should encourage you to pass every other road user on whatever side takes your fancy and never brake for corners. Hot hatchbacks are supposed to fizz but the vRS doesn’t.

The double-clutch flappy-paddle gearbox is reluctant to change, and the steering is too low-geared. Couple this with the noisiest tyres in Christendom and what you mostly want to do in this car is slow down for a bit of peace and quiet. It is horribly noisy.

And, while I don’t mind the interior, I must say it’s a bit gloomy. Perhaps that’s why the vRS looks like a bemused squadron leader. Because it’s not really a hot hatch, so ‘why the bloody hell has someone painted me the colour of an Opal Fruit?’.

You are better off with a Fiat 500 or a Mini or a Citroën DS3 or a Twingo Renaultsport 133. These are the real boy-racer cars. The Skoda looks like it might be a laugh but actually it isn’t.

22 May 2011

Many years ago, I came up with a solution to drink-driving and because no one has thought to make it law, pubs are currently closing down at the rate of twenty-nine a week.

At present, we are told that if we are going out for a drink, we should use public transport, but this is not possible in the shires because there isn’t any. And if I were to call for a taxi at 11 p.m., it would not arrive until mid-September.

So, we bumpkins are told that if we are going out we should designate a driver, who must sit there, all night, staring into his Britvic, willing his heart to stop beating. Not drinking in a pub full of people who are is like being the only sane man in a lunatic asylum. Death is preferable.

My plan, then, was very simple, and completely workable. Whenever a driver feels a bit tipsy, he or she must clip a flashing green light to the roof of their car before setting off. Once in place, they would be limited to 10 mph, a speed at which they could not possibly be a danger to themselves or anyone else.

Besides, pedestrians and drivers coming the other way would see the green light and think, Uh oh, this bloke’s had a few. I’d better give him a wide berth.

Of course, anyone found to be drink-driving without a light on the roof of their car, or exceeding the 10 mph limp-home limit would face the consequences. Which would be execution.

There are many upsides to this idea: no one would ever wake up in the morning and wonder where the bloody hell they’d left their car; you would never have to use the hateful last bus; and in pubs, the lonely squeak of a barman polishing his glasses would
be replaced by the joyful buffoonery of people having a nice time.

Everyone wins, except, of course, for your local minicab firm, whose drivers would be forced to sell their horrible, sick-stained Toyotas and get a proper job that doesn’t involve quite so much leching.

Anyway, I’ve now come up with another plan that, frankly, is even better. It’s this. Occasionally in life, all of us face an emergency that means we have to break the speed limits, and at the moment there is no system in force that allows us to be let off. Wife in labour? Child’s head stuck in railings? Mother had a stroke? Doesn’t matter. You still get three points and this is simply not fair.

Policemanists and ambulance drivers are allowed to drive fast in an emergency, so why not us too? You might think they are trained for this sort of thing and we’re not but the fact is, many aren’t. Constable Plod, whizzing about in his diesel Astra – he’s no more qualified to do 90 than Princess Anne.

Of course, I recognize that there are many scoundrels out there who would claim that every journey they make is an emergency. To stop this, everyone would simply download a free app that, when deployed, tells a central police computer that they are about to set off on a journey where speed is imperative. And this can only be used, say, once a year. You therefore wouldn’t dare waste it on something trivial.

The only problem with this scheme is that today it’s virtually impossible to make super-speedy progress on the motorway because the outside lane is a permanent home for the sanctimonious, the belligerent and the stupid.

The sanctimonious won’t let you past because they can’t see why anyone should drive fast in these days of global warming; the belligerent won’t let you past because it would suggest you are better than them; and the stupid don’t know you’re there. Usually because they are in a van. And they knocked the door mirror off in the yard at a builder’s merchant last week.

I was in a big hurry on the M40 last week and could not believe how many people just sat in the outside lane. But then nor could I believe what happened when they finally pulled over and I tried to get past.

I was in a Volvo V60 T5, and those of us who remember those epic Touring Car races from the early Nineties know what that means. T5 means, Yes, I’m in a Volvo and, yes, there’s a Georgian tallboy in the back, but underneath my tweed suit I’m wearing a crotchless leather G-string and I have a death tattoo on my back, and I am bloody well coming past.

A Volvo T5 is a Cotswold tea shoppe where they serenade the customers with a medley of hits from Wayne County & the Electric Chairs. It’s a Sex Pistol in a twin set, anarchy in the Home Counties. And the model I was driving came with the optional R-Design package, which includes bigger wheels and stiffer suspension. So, when I put my foot down to overtake the van that had finally pulled over, I was expecting an explosion of power and a surge of acceleration that bordered on the insane. But it never came.

Unlike previous T5s, this does not have a five-cylinder engine. It’s a turbocharged four, which means that the offbeat strum has gone. But so too has the lunacy. When you caress the throttle pedal, you can feel what seems like a big muscle tensing and you think that all is well, but when you really go for it, especially if you are in sixth gear at the time, nothing happens.

Later, on the lovely road between Banbury and Rugby, it was the same story. The car would float deliciously round a corner – it handles and rides very well indeed – but when I accelerated onto the straight? The tumescence was gone. Frankly, you may as well save a few quid and buy the diesel.

Or something else entirely. There are many good things about the V60. It is extremely comfortable, for a kick-off. And like all Volvos, it was plainly designed by someone who has a family. That’s why you can have raised seat bolsters – effectively, child
booster cushions – in the back. Touches like that are what makes the XC90 the school-run king.

Load it with the safety options and it will also be festooned with warning lights that illuminate whenever the car feels you may be in peril. You get a warning if a car is in your blind spot. You get another if you stray out of lane. And if you get too close to the car in front, the dash lights up like a Pink Floyd gig. Should it suspect you are about to hit a pedestrian, it will actually apply the brakes on your behalf.

This all sounds very noble and Volvoey, but there’s a very good reason why you need to be warned of impending doom. The V60 is a hard car to see out of. Because of the swooping and rather attractive bodywork, coupled with small windows, the all-round visibility is quite poor. And because of the sloping roofline, the boot isn’t as big as you might imagine.

I can’t quite work out how they got it so wrong. Maybe there’s a language problem between the Swedish engineers and the new Chinese owner. I can’t imagine there are many translators who can manage that combination.

But whatever, anyone after a performance car would be better off with the equivalent BMW 3-series, and anyone who just wants to lug around dogs and chests of drawers would be better off with … well, with what? It’s a good question.

Just recently, we have seen a raft of rather good-looking estate cars come onto the market. The Vauxhall Insignia and the Honda Accord stand out in particular. Boring choices, yes. But good, in these draconian times, for occasionally driving through the motoring rule book without being noticed.

29 May 2011

I’d pretty much decided over the past year or so that I couldn’t abide Sebastian Vettel. All that finger-pointing when he won a race. And the hair. And the way he blamed his team-mate for the crash last year. Ghastly jumped-up little German prig.

But last weekend, there I was, enjoying a plate of scrambled egg in Monaco, when I looked up to see the man himself, running towards me like he’d just crossed a desert and I had the keys to a fridge full of cold beer. We chatted about his forthcoming appearance on
Top Gear
and he was utterly charming; delightful.

The day before, I’d bumped into Mark Webber and he was charming too. I reminded him that the first time we met, he’d been employed by Ford to chauffeur fat drunks in dinner jackets from a hotel to the Goodwood Festival of Speed. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Don’t mock. I got eighty quid a day for doing that.’

In my brief visit to the principality, I met lots of people involved in Formula One. And they were all much the same. Michael Schumacher. Nick Fry. Martin Brundle. Christian Horner. Rubens Barrichello. All of them made the Duke of Cambridge look like a lout.

And then we get to Bernie Ecclestone. It was late, and I was wandering about the harbour, wondering whose party I was going to gatecrash next, when down the ramp of what appeared to be a floating city bounded the octogenarian. Without wishing to sound like Piers Morgan, he was all smiles, and after dispensing a good deal of bonhomie, he invited me for a drink on Flavio Briatore’s boat. You won’t believe this, but he turned out to be charming too. Well, I think he was charming. Flav doesn’t bother
much with consonants. He just sort of makes a noise when it’s his turn to speak, but he did a lot of smiling and gave me a lot of wine.

So, behind the sponsorship and the nonsense and the backbiting, I have to report that the silly world of F1 is rammed full of people you’d like very much to have round for dinner.

Unfortunately, the people F1 attracts to its showcase Monaco event are not quite so charming. Let’s deal with the men first. There are two kinds, as I see it. There are those who have the money and they are all very greasy. And then there are those who ride around on the big shots’ backs, like oxpecker birds, picking at their fleas.

This is a mutually beneficial arrangement because the rhinos get to be surrounded by acolytes who agree with everything they say and laugh at their jokes until they are told to stop. And the oxpeckers scratch out a living by selling the rhinos superyacht insurance and hideous watches.

Occasionally, I would be grabbed by an oxpecker and made to meet his rhino and there is no small-talk manual in the world that covers this sort of encounter. The rhino has no clue who I am – he has someone to watch television for him – and the oxpecker is not really allowed to speak. And you can’t ask the rhino what he does for a living because you know full well he sells guns and arranges for people to be murdered. Besides, to prevent you from asking any questions at all, he spends the entire time in your company yawning. Billionaires yawn almost all the time.

I’m told that on one of the really big boats, there was a young man who is employed to sit around all day, getting a tan and staying fit. His job? He’s the owner’s heart donor.

Then you have the women. Mostly, they are prostitutes. I suspect that if you were so minded, you could come home with a veritable smorgasbord of sexually transmitted diseases. But not the billionaires. They have someone to make love for them.

If you were to drop an atom bomb on Monte Carlo during
the grand prix weekend, you’d mourn the loss of the sport’s inner circle. But on the plus side, with the outer circle gone as well, there would be a measurable improvement in the planet’s quality of life.

Of course, you might imagine that if you were to drop an atom bomb on Monte Carlo at any time, you’d achieve the same result. But I’m afraid not. The billionaires don’t actually live there. They employ a man to go into their apartments once in a while to make phone calls and switch the lights off and on, so the tax authorities think they do.

All things considered, then, I was very pleased to leave Monaco to come home and watch the race on television. But I was not at all pleased to discover what car was waiting for me at the airport. A Porsche 911 GTS.

This is a reviewer’s nightmare. It’s like asking a restaurant critic to write about a McDonald’s burger that has exactly the same ingredients as all the others but in a slightly different arrangement. Some colleagues of mine recently worked out that there are currently 153 different options available across the twenty-strong 911 range and that, as a result, there are 9.6 trillion mildly different permutations of what is basically the same bloody car.

There is, however, one thing that sets the new GTS apart. The price. If you were to buy a standard Carrera S and equip it to the same level as the new model, it would cost around £95,000. But this car – including a few extras – is just £81,968. And thrown in for free is the much better-looking wide body from the Turbo and a bit of black paint here and there.

I suspect there’s a good reason for this unusual act of generosity. Next year we will see the arrival of a new 911 – which will be the same as all the others since Hitler first came up with the idea – and they need to get rid of all the parts before the production switchover. What you are buying, then, is not a new car. It’s the last version of the old one.

I’m told by enthusiasts of the breed that it is also possibly the
best. They like the look, the rear-drive simplicity, the value and the Alcantara steering wheel. They say that it combines all the best things from the massive Porsche option list in one unbeatable package and that everyone should have one immediately.

My eyelids are starting to droop. Because if there’s one thing I hate more than writing about a Porsche 911, it’s driving one. I feel like such a plonker. Fifty years old. What am I saying? It’s one of two things, actually. I’m an enthusiastic motorist (in which case, give me a wide berth at parties) or I’m having a terrible midlife wobble (in which case, give me a wide berth at parties).

Plus, I’ve never really liked the way a 911 feels. I’ve always quietly respected Porsche’s attempts to marry thrill-a-minute driving with everyday usability, but I’ve always thought that it was chasing an impossible dream. The two things are mutually exclusive. To be fun, a car must be a bit mad. And the 911 isn’t.

So why did I enjoy my time with the GTS so much? And why did I also enjoy the GT3 version that I drove onto these pages not so long ago? The car hasn’t changed – at all – which means I have.

And that’s probably true. Yes, a Lamborghini or a Vauxhall VXR or a Mitsubishi Evo are all fantastically insane and I love them for that. But now I’m past fifty, I don’t really want flames coming out of the exhaust any more, and a ride that cripples my back.

You don’t drive a GTS. You dance with it. It is a beautiful experience, actually, and yet there are no histrionics. The satnav and the iPod connectivity all make sense. And it’s not huge or loud or uncomfortable. It’s as lovely as Sebastian Vettel, in fact.

So bear that in mind when you see a middle-aged man driving a Porsche. He’s not having a midlife crisis. He’s just grown up.

5 June 2011