Everything Motoring

Mazda MX-5 update

2012-01-06T15:12:00.000Z

It’s been a while, so I thought I’d bring you news of the MX-5.

Unfortunately, it’s been boringly reliable. The only health complaints have been a blown headlight bulb and a temperamental right-turn indicator. As for the former, despite prophecies of doom and a 100% chance of losing several fingers in the process, changing the bulb was the work of minutes. Four screws, a fiddly spring and that was it. The indicator issue isn’t happening consistently, which leads me to believe that it’s down to a loose/corroded connection. At some point I’ll bother doing something about it.

In the mean time, the rust has gotten marginally worse – I’m saving to have some welding done before the next MOT, and the front brakes are on their way. I’ll probably buy some grooved discs and fast-road pads to go on once I’ve the cash. The roof is leaking with ever-greater vigour in the inclement weather we’ve had lately, but I do now own a car cover, so once I’ve cut a hole for the aerial, it can go on when rain is forecast.

Engine wise, it’s utterly bomb-proof. It's averaging mid-30s mpg-wise, and we’ve ticked over the 187,000 mile mark now, quickly heading for 188k. It pulls, revs and sounds as good as ever - though a turbo conversion is still a long-term desire. Some new HT leads and plugs are in order to cure a low-rev stutter, but it’s not so bad that it’s annoying and/or dangerous. You just have to keep the revs up – which is more fun anyway. Certainly, once the revs are over 3,000rpm it sings beautifully. With the timing a few clicks forward, and the drilled airbox/de-cat going on, it’s a growly baritone, working its way towards a cammy top-end.

Thing is, I really am now in need of something more sensible – that can carry actual people and ‘things’. To this end, a friend of mine may sell his Seat Leon 20VT to me at some point in 2012, or I may go and buy an old duffer for use at festivals and general workhorsemanship. We’ll see. As ever, I spend a lot of time perusing the classifieds, so don’t be surprised if at some point I report that an impulse has resulted in a 1988 Nissan Bluebird Turbo (a good impulse, I may add).

For the time being, I’ll carry on enjoying the amazing driving experience that even a saggy old MX-5 can deliver. Of the cars I’ve bought, it’s the one I’ve owned the longest, and I’ve no intention of getting rid of it until being classed as ‘scrap’ makes it absolutely necessary.

Even then I’ll probably buy another.

Current Mileage: 187,250
Costs this month: £0
MPG: 36(approx)

Proof that Jeremy Clarkson is right

2011-12-15T08:40:00.000Z

I like Jeremy Clarkson.

He’s carved a niche for himself and really has brought motoring journalism from a turgid festival of men in beige coats measuring boot-space to far less objective writing which actually appeals to normal people. Unless you are Auto Express, in which case the size of the glove box on a Chevrolet Aveo could be the difference between 3.5 and 4-stars.

Clarkson also talks a lot of nonsense. I disagree wholeheartedly with his stance on the environment; to deny climate change is like denying the existence of air because you can’t see it. Equally, he loves to go over the top with his pontifications, such as his predictions in 2008 about the forthcoming recession. Were he to be believed, we’d all be gorging ourselves on Betty at number 38 because we ran out of food three weeks ago and our allotment has been over-run by ex-public servants hell-bent on survival in a post apocalyptic world.

But he does play up to the image he has created – it’s his ‘brand’, and to suddenly come over all interested in the ice caps, or to tone down his predictions of doom, would alienate a fair percentage of his fans.

A lot of the time, however, Clarkson is right. What he says may be hard for the meek and feeble of society to swallow, or may offend those who read the Guardian and ‘care’, but coming out with what a good number of us are thinking, or say on a day-to-day basis is no crime. I was watching The One Show, and when he said his bit about protesters being shot, I laughed. It was a joke, and it was funny. It was also what I’d said earlier in the day.

Being ‘taken out and shot’ is a turn of phrase. It’s not literal (though I wish it were), and it should’ve been taken in the context of the whole of his comments. Still, he’ll sell extra DVDs as a result so fair play.

More sense has recently come to light from the balding, lankey stomach. I was reading his latest book this morning, and in his review of the new Ford Fiesta 1.6 back in 2008, he talks at great length about how in emerging economies, aesthetics and dynamics come a distant second to space and practicality. Apparently, Africans and Asians couldn’t care two hoots if their car is ‘sporty’ or ‘funky’, in fact, unlike in Europe where a car is an extension of your ego, in Africa 7-seats and a commodious boot shows you to be fertile. Which is better, apparently.

I took this all with a pinch of salt. My guess as to why the emerging economies are more interested in functionality than style is that the latter is inherently expensive, and when you only earn a couple of sheckles a year, expense is a big deal. So that the Koreans can build a box, which is better than walking, for tuppence ha’penny is a massive draw, despite interior plastics that could double as sandpaper and fittings which would offend a kids’ toy.

However, Clarkson is right. 100%, unequivocally right.

I received a press release this morning regarding Eastern and Southern Europe’s answer to Car of the Year. Thrillingly billed as the ‘second largest’ such judging event, and the only international jury focussing on ‘best-buy mainstream consumer products’, AUTOBEST is the alternative to COTY in the 2nd-rate European countries. It could be argued that COTY is much the same, but then again, COTY does have a habit of at least sending a nod in the direction of style, passion and genuine dynamic ability.

What AUTOBEST does is give each of the fifteen jurors some points to award to various candidates, weighted more towards value, in the following way: “The Jury makes its decision taking into consideration 13 criteria, each of them counting a specific number of points that reflect the importance in the final vote of each car. Price, with 60 points out of a total of 240 available to be distributed among the finalists, is the most important. Other sensitive issues, like distribution network, service and spare parts availability, consumption, versatility and boot capacity, count for 20 points each. All of these specific criteria total more than a half of the total number of points. Other issues, common for all European countries, like new technologies, handling, dynamics, environmental friendliness, are less important. The design, evaluated with 30 points maximum, becomes more and more important for the clients in emerging countries.”

So there it is in black-and-white. The weighting of the points system favours cheap, practical cars for which there are ample spares and a good dealer network. Interesting technology – presumably including electric windows, the way a car goes around a corner, how clean and powerful its engine is and what it looks like barely register.

It’s interesting, the difference in the importance we put on aspects of cars. As Clarkson says, in the west, the car is emotive; it’s steeped in the hangover from a time when having one was an aspiration, and as the grasping classes could increasingly afford one, so the upper classes demanded more; better; faster; prettier. In emerging countries, however, they’re still enamoured by the idea of simply having a car. If it can carry them, their family, their wares; all the better it is, and what it looks like or how fast it goes is by-the-by.

But as worthy as ‘the car as an object’ is, and that it makes far more sense than hankering after something with two doors and no boot, I’m glad I view vehicles as I do. If you can gain enjoyment from all aspects of your life – cars included – then the world is a richer place.

Incidentally, the Hyundai Elantra won AUTOBEST. Read into that what you will.

When PR Stunts go bad

2011-12-08T11:21:00.001Z

Sometimes you need to know when an exercise is worth undertaking. A company or brand should be acutely aware of when a stunt will work, or when it will make them look oafish and idiotic.

There are plenty of examples of good and bad, so let’s go for a couple of the bad first.

I saw a press release on a well-known automotive news release website recently, and it was most certainly an attention-grabber. “LATEST ALFA MiTo QUADRIFOGLIO VERDE SETS NEW WORLD RECORD” was the title, and anything to do with a world record is generally of interest to a bloke. I thought that perhaps it had set the fastest 0-60 time for a FWD hatch, or managed to squeeze a silly MPG form its multi-air engine.

But no. It had, in fact, broken the world record for the most water-filled balloons burst by a car.

Now, I’m all for niche world records, like sniffing paper clips up one’s nose, or the most presses of the letter ‘A’ on a standard QWERTY keyboard in five-minutes. If the Alfa had eaten the most beans in an hour with a cocktail stick – now that would have been impressive. But enlisting a stunt driver to run down some balloons is both stupid and irrelevant. My guess is that as the Alfa MiTo has been widely criticised for being a bit dull, and the engine is no more powerful or remarkable that its rivals’, they just decided that it needed to stand out in some way. Any way, apparently.

Ford’s latest PR stunt has been similarly stupid. Apparently, the new-generation Focus ST will be appearing in the remake of ‘The Sweeny’. In the original, some blokes with perms drove hairy chested Cortinas, Capris and Consuls around east London, bumping into empty cardboard boxes and bins full of paper for dramatic effect. This was fine. The aforementioned were rear-wheel-drive, slimmed-down versions of what the Yanks were doing across the pond. They were right for the role.

But they weren’t exclusive. The original Sweeny cars included various offerings from BL, too, and was rather more dependent on what the producers could beg, steal or borrow than any kind of formalised PR deal. It was honest. The new deal isn’t. It’s product placement, and the rules of movie making dictate that unless it’s so subtle the audience won’t notice, product placement looks stupid for all concerned.

There have been some successes however.

Red Bull – the F1 team – are specialists in this area, rarely failing to wow the audience with their latest brand-enhancing ruse. In fact, that Red Bull is an energy drink is almost beside the point these days. Monster is ‘de rigueur’ at the moment, and Red Bull’s market share has clearly fallen, but as a brand, they are stronger than ever.
Think about the F1 team’s exploits this year on the BBC’s amazing coverage of the season; David Coulthard power-sliding a Red Bull Racing F1 car – all £Xm worth – on an unmade circuit in the USA was brilliant, as was the way he cruised along public roads to access the track. Red Bull also do a good line in shutting down city streets and laying down some rubber. That the BBC has DC on-board as a sit-in driver-come-commentator is just perfect for all involved.

The fans get the insight they want, and Red Bull get huge exposure.

What else has worked?

Well Chevrolet did one recently using Facebook. The premise was simple; for every ‘like’ that the page got, a particular ‘lifestyle SUV’ model got closer and closer to the edge of a tall building. The car in question was tethered to a bungee cord, and a swimming pool was placed at the touch-down point.

As soon as the requisite number of ‘likes’ was reached, the car was launched from the building and completed what is possibly the first automotive bungee jump in history. It worked because it captured the spirit of how Chevrolet wanted the car to be viewed; it was watchable live on a webcam, and it integrated the most viewed website on earth. It also gave people a reason to take part, to keep visiting and continues to work through the use of a time-lapse film.

The car may be unequivocal crap, but at least the PR stunt wasn’t.

Mechanical Sympathy - It's Organic

2011-11-16T17:10:00.001Z

I’ve been doing a fair bit of running lately. It’s been interesting, testing my fitness against nothing but what I think I can do, and then trying to beat it.

It’s also been interesting running past the fat people that seem to line the streets these days, and the proles for whom the idea of undertaking something ‘off their own back’ is as alien as not spending half their lives courting other scum in the dole queue.

Indeed, I went for a run the other day – it was a short one at lunch time, just 4.5 miles – and passed a very large lady taking up most of the front of a gypo-spec Mitsubishi Shogun, parked on double-yellow-lines outside a fish and chip shop. In her bejewelled right hand, a saveloy was being thrust into her jowly face, and in her left she clutched a whopping bag of chips. ‘Twas quite a sight, and not necessarily a welcome one.

Quite out of nowhere (and I’ve still no idea why) I did that thing kids do when they impersonate a fat person by puffing out my cheeks and widening my eyes. She was looking directly at me, and I could have sworn that she very nearly exploded. I didn’t look back, but within a good 10-seconds a female behind me was shouting expletives at someone. Not sure who, but I assume it was Mrs Fat. At me.

Thing is, I was running, she clearly didn’t couldn’t run. In fact, given that she’d only managed to get as far as her car from the door of the chippy, and then couldn’t be bothered to park it somewhere legal, I suspect walking was tough. And anyway, if you can’t upset the lower classes by pointing out their failings from time-to-time, where would we be in life?

On some of my longer runs lately, away from the prying eyes of the great unwashed, something struck me as interesting. I was about 8-miles into a 15-miler when I found myself going up one of the fairly decent inclines along the route, and all of a sudden I realised that my breath was forming steam in the air where it hadn’t previously. I’d also started perspiring far more than I had been on the flat, and by the time I reached the top of the hill, far from being too hot, I was freezing.

This, I came to the conclusion, was as a result of my body essentially running rich as I scaled the slope. More fuel was thrown at my muscles, causing my breath to heat up and create steam, whilst my pores opened and allowed sweat to be produced. Similarly, when you drive a car hard, the ecu throws lots of fuel at the cylinders – partly to increase power by enriching the mixture, but also to use the cold petrol as a means of cooling cylinder heads. So the means of cooling that ‘my’ ecu – my brain – employed mirror those of a car.

It is a similar story when you first begin running. You’re still ‘cold’, so your muscles aren’t up to temperature and the vital fluids aren’t circulating at their optimum – hence the first mile or two can be a struggle. I find this with my Mazda; the engine’s a bit rattly on start-up and the effort that needs to be put in to circulate the cold, thick oil saps power. After a few miles, however, everything’s loosened up. The engine sounds smoother and you are able to up the pace without putting undue strain on any particular component.

Apparently, most running injuries are caused by ineffective warm-ups or in the initial stages of the exercise. I can well believe it.

The last similarity I found was in those long mid-stages of the run where the terrain was flat and the going good. My breathing was barely above an ‘at rest’ rate as I had found my rhythm, and the effort required to keep going was minimal. Cooling, meanwhile, had flattened off to comfortable warmth rather than a proper sweat or a post-hill chill.

This equilibrium of pace and effort reminded me of cruising on a motorway. The car’s main effort is getting up to speed; maintaining the speed requires small throttle openings and the relative efficiency of the engine is at its peak. The mixture can be leaned out, whilst cooling is maintained by the consistent airflow hitting the radiator.

What I got most from this (literal) exercise is the way in which some people have mechanical sympathy. When you understand how an engine works – the strains, stresses and processes which keep it running – you tend to treat it better. Just as I would never set off at a sprint from cold and hope to maintain it for any period without hurting something, so my car is driven gently until the oil thins out as it warms.

Having this sympathy, and drawing the parallel with the human body – I believe – makes you a better car owner, keeping your car as fit as you would be by consistently running good distances sensibly.

Equally, you could drive a Shogun hard, from cold, all the way to the chip shop. At least you would be treating yourself and your car consistently.

The Safety of Analogue

2011-11-06T13:44:00.000Z

Running head-first into a door. Not the best idea in the world. There’s a fair chance that said door won’t budge thus you will be hurt upon impact. And even if the door does give, you’ll likely still end up bruised and in a heap on the floor. The only time when running into a door is allowable is if you’re on a Japanese game show – where there’s a 50-50 chance that the door in question is made of paper, and there’s a prize on offer.

Closing your eyes and crossing a main road. Haven’t tried it personally, but if the prevailing traffic is moving at anything over 25mph you’ll do well to reach the other side without either being squashed, or causing a pile up. It’s one of the main reasons why we’re taught to stop, look and listen as kids. It aids in not ending up on the other side, when trying to reach the other side.

Dressing in dark clothes, going out at night and doing a tango in the middle of the M25. Even at night the M25 is relatively busy – and I know for a fact that the early hours on some of the lesser stretches are a favourite for a v-max run. It’s also lorry central in the later hours of the evening, and given that many of these have driven all the way from Eastern Europe with driver’s who haven’t slept since summer, it’s not the ideal place to go out and ‘do a strictly’.

On the road, however, people seem quite happy to do the equivalent of the above; take their own, and other people’s lives into their hands and ignore the prevailing conditions. Especially on the motorway, there seems to be this idea that as 70 is the designated limit, 70’s fine, whatever Michael Fish has dictated will happen.

Lately, with the grizzly dank darkness that is a late Autumnal morning, we’ve had our pick of days where visibility isn’t brilliant or it’s one big lake out there. But people – generally in Audis or VWs – still insist on driving quickly in the outside lane. It beggars belief.

I’m a confident driver. On damp days I revel in getting the tail out round roundabouts or where road conditions are clear enough. I can consistently hang the tail out with over a turn of ‘oppo dialled in (Troy Queef, you have nothing on me) with absolute regimented precision when gathering it up. Practice makes perfect as they say, so I generally know what the deal is with damp roads and oversteer. But it’s unusual for me to undertake such flaunty driving above 40mph, and I ALWAYS check that the road is clear.

When it comes to motorway driving in shoddy road conditions, I’m Mr Safety. Aquaplaning scares the crap out of me – I can’t think of many scarier things on the road. So if there’s any chance of standing water whatsoever, I peg my speed right back. Driving a small, light, RWD car certainly adds to the necessity to slow down. But still I see people shooting past at 70+ in the fast lane – the lane most likely to have standing water due to being the most lightly used.

It beggars belief. And it has tragic consequences.

Without wishing to sail too close to the wind, the crash on the M5 is a case in point. Eye-witnesses reported seeing cars heading into the smoke/fog at 60+, then the unmistakable sounds of a car thumping into the back of a lorry. The sheer number of vehicles involved suggests that people were driving too close to one another. And although the exact circumstances are yet to out, conditions being a major cause is almost guaranteed.

Why though? As reasonable people we’re programmed to avoid unnecessary danger, but as soon as we’re cocooned in our metal box and moving, there seems to be this idea that we’re pretty-much invincible. That’s the conclusion I’ve come to when the roads get greasy and people still don’t slow down.

Generally, I blame the idiocy of those at the wheel. You absolutely have to be a spoon short of a cutlery set to drive in such an assumptive manner. But there is something to be said for the fact that modern cars do a good job of disconnecting the driver from the road. Crash my car and you die. The doors are made of tracing paper, and much of the structure is made of ‘rust’. On top (or rather not) of all this, there’s no proper roof to soak up any involuntary roll-overs. The steering wheel is connected to the front wheels by metal, and the pedals to their components by wire. It’s all very analogue.

In a modern car, the steering is more woollen than a field full of sheep. The pedals are connected not by wire, but fly-by-wire, so there’s no direct link to what you’re operating. Everything has a Euro NCAP five-star safety rating, and doors are made of actual metal. A roof helps the feeling of security. In short, in a newer car, you feel like you can survive a crash.

This sense of security is a good thing – if it doesn’t invoke people to drive too quickly in bad conditions. I just feel that if people were more connected to the road; if cars were more organic and analogue, we’d avoid the sense of security which causes people to drive at 90 in the rain.

And pile into the back of a lorry. Killing everyone on board.

A cooler crime was never committed

2011-10-19T11:44:00.000+01:00

If you want to commit a bank job, you need to be thinking hard about what car you’re using to get away. In an ideal world, it’ll be discreet, robust, with a good turn of speed, and with a full tank of fuel – in order to outrun the rozzers if your cover gets blown. To be properly successful in the robbery game, knowing your enemy is your biggest asset – so a game of pre-crime trumps must be undertaken;

When the cops have pursuit cars which do 0-60 in 6-seconds, you must be aiming for 5.5.

If the filth are driving motors which top out at 155mph, you need 160 – minimum.

Should the thin blue line be driving around on 80-litres of fuel, you need a tank with 90.

Successfully pulling off a heist is a game of maths, cunning and being one step ahead at all times. Screw up on any detail or wade into battle with damp powder or blunt tools, and you will fail. It’s elementary.

What you must emphatically not do is take the latest Kia Rio advert seriously.

There are many, many problems with using this as a template for your long-in-the-planning blag. Firstly, never look unkempt or bedraggled when sitting in your getaway car. Strike a pose of confidence – even when a passer-by decides that they’d like to photograph you. Admit nothing with your body language; nonchalance is your best friend – as is your smartphone. Use it to look busy.

Secondly, never drive up to the doors of the victim location until the absolute last minute. An unmistakable signal should call you from your parked location and be timed so that your accomplices merely saunter out, and jump in. Speeding off is a good way of drawing attention to yourself. Ease away gently.

Lastly, if you’re planning on robbing somewhere, by God, do not use a Kia Rio as a getaway car. It might do 88mpg and come with a 7-year warranty, but electric wheelchairs only need charging once a week and come with a lifetime warranty – and you wouldn’t use one of those. Getting away from the cops requires speed, not efficiency: if they run out of fuel, they’ll merely send more cars. Range is only your friend if you can cover it bloody quickly.

And so the perfect crime comes to pass. To this day no one’s 100% sure how they pulled it off, and it has gone down in folklore simply as, ‘The Fridge Job’.

Some say that it was undertaken by professionals, subject to years of meticulous planning, whereas others simply put it down to luck: the luck of a few amateurs with all the skilled criminal knowledge of a new-born squirrel. Either way, what they pulled off was as audacious as it is now infamous.

What we do know is the sequence of events and the tools they used.

It was an October night – the moonlight blanketed the land in an ethereal veil of light, a light which offered definition to shapes, but not to individuals. Our perpetrators, already implanted at the scene of the crime worked quickly, and some say with a degree of utter ineptitude, as they moved the loot from the kitchen, through the dining room and living room towards the exit. Scraped floors and laddered tights abounded in the bungled attempts to lift the fridge clean from the ground.

Upon leaving the property, the booty in hand, the blaggers pulled out their trump card – the getaway car which would see them make a clean break and escape to freedom. It ticks all the boxes of acceleration, power and – most of all – complete and utter anonymity:

A twelve-year-old Nissan Micra 1.3 GX.

Packing 78bhp, the 1.3 is the sports car of the Nissan Micra range. The sprint to 60 is casually dispatched in 11.6 seconds, and with a top speed on the worrying side of 100, the fuzz would stand no chance in an on-road duel.

Despite being heavily criticised for a complete lack of boot space, the Micra offers the option of fold-down rear seats, meaning that all but the most massive of fridges would feel lost in the cavernous carrying compartment. It was this trump card which allowed our criminals to slip away un-noticed – simply driving off from the scene in the dead of night and making good their escape. Rounding roundabouts and risky right-handers, the Micra 1.3 GX sped away like a randy greyhound from the traps. The fridge – secure in the midriff of the manically moving machine – will unlikely be seen again.

The Nissan Micra is ideal for other heist scenarios, as well. It has a proven history in ram-raiding – having taken down a wooden sign at the side of a roundabout on the Thanet Way with little more than scratches. Given this ability, a 30mph crash into the security doors at Currys would pose little-to-no danger to the drivability of the car. And once in, you can drop the rear seats and stash as many white goods as takes your fancy. Optional roof bars mean that in the unlikely event of running out of interior space, you can just hoik a dishwasher onto the roof, disguise it as a suitcase and make good your escape.

A simple statistic sums the car up as a white-goods theft prospect: 97% of fridge robberies are successful and involve a Nissan Micra. The other 3% fail because they don’t use a Micra. FACT.

I’ve heard rumours that the fridge robbers still live in the same area, existing off of the profits made from this most infamous of heists.

All we actually know, though, is that this was a most perfect of crimes.

Go For It!

2011-10-15T21:56:00.000+01:00

Double glazing. Cavity wall insulation. Not buying a place because it’s ‘listed’ or ‘thatched’. Having a medium because a large is 20p more or not drinking the 15th pint because you ‘might get a hangover’… These things are mere examples of the idiocy of today’s topic.

I’m all for pretty much going crazy whenever possible.

Caulderoy is a sensible choice; it’s hard-wearing, works as a smart or causal choice and is generally comfortable. But so are y-fronts – and who wears them these days? Caulderouy is wilfully mediocre – it is th

e embodiment of ‘giving up’ – it comes in a range of plain colours, is cut so straight that it most certainly wouldn’t work in Brighton and is utterly and completely reasonable.

Jeans, on the other hand, can present a number of problems. New ones are tight; they take about three wears to make comfortable, then they almost never hang off your hips right. They can be – and if you want to be able to go out in public are always – expensive. The colour runs, they drag on the floor and fall apart at the seams. But the problems – the costs – are acceptable because they look good. They wear in well and are everything that caulderoy is without the image.

There are other examples too. I have terrible FOMO (Fear of missing out) which has lead to 7-weeks of either going out or staying in and getting drunk with mates. This kind of nonsense usually leads to a hangover at the minimum. Failing that, you’ve probably spent a fortune, made a tit of yourself or done something that could be construed as silly. But hey, it’s only money – there’s plenty more out there; making a tit out of yourself is fun, and doing silly things is alright in my book. No regrets, that’s for sure.

Indeed, just recently and a few friends and I decided that the best thing to do would be to tape glasses to our hands and keep topping up the drink for as long as we could. This meant that we had pretty much no option other than to consume our drinks as picking up food, undoing one’s flies and taking a wee, pointing, writing, operating machinery or an ipod was pretty much out the window. But it was a flipping fantastic idea, and I can’t wait for next time. No matter the drunken results.

I’d like to think that I uphold the above with cars. My car history has been a case of nearly sensible, and utterly useless. Indeed, the MR2 was a daft car to buy for an 80-mile-per-day commute. In fairness it didn’t rust, drink petrol or cruise at 70 at an unacceptable volume. But on the flip side, it only held two people; the engine was so inaccessible that most garages wouldn’t touch it for a cambelt change and it ate rear tyres. Thus, it was an expensive prospect.

In many ways the MX-5 is worse. But I love it – I forgive the fact that any time I want to pop to Canterbury it needs a minimum of £15 worth of petrol and if it rains it must be, 1: parked facing up-hill (drainage issues), and 2: must have plastic bags on the seats. This is what I call character, and I’d not swap it for efficiency or water-tightness.

It may only manage 30-ish mpg, but on anything approaching a dry day the roof can come down. It handles with poise and balance, and the steering is to die for.

Were I in the market for buying a car today, cost would probably be the least of my worries. This isn’t to say you should become all broke when you buy a car, but if you can afford it, and it’s what you want, screw the long-term cost, go mad.

Money’s such a drag – It’s so predictable and boring that to limit what you buy because it’s ‘a tad pricey to run’ is a complete misnomer. If you worry about running costs, buy a Volkswagen Golf with a diesel engine. It might be the equivalent of only having 4 pints, but at least you won’t wake up all dead and hung-over. Live by my rules and you’d buy the Golf R and hoon absolutely everywhere, possibly averaging 20mpg and eating tyres for breakfast – you’d also have 16 pints and wake up in a weird place and feeling like shite, but kinda glad you got there. Expensive, but put a price on a good time and you’ve failed.

Personally, I’d invest a huge fortune in public transport. This would make it cheap and convenient to use so that people wouldn’t need to commute in their cars – thus they could actually enjoy them. People would no longer drive around in the equivalent of Tupperware boxes, they’d adopt my attitude to life and buy something fun, use it sparingly, but at least enjoy themselves.

So,

Dear Mr Cameron,

Please introduce mass-spending on public transport.

This way we could purchase cars like we had glasses of cheap cider taped to our hands at the time.

This is clearly a good idea.

Yours sincerely,

Me.

80mph Speed Limit: Some Thoughts

2011-10-07T15:27:00.000+01:00

Transport Secretary, Phillip Hammond, has announced the government’s intention to up the speed limit on UK motorways to 80mph. This represents the first change in speed limit on such roads since 1965 – when 70mph was first introduced.

Observing the various reactions to this news has been interesting. On one side you have the safety campaigners such as Break using emotive rhetoric to try and convince us that the additional 10mph will kill at least everyone on the road, whilst at the same time you have the motoring commentators basically saying that it’s about time that speed limits caught up with technology. Interestingly, somewhere in the middle, even 60% of Guardian readers are in favour.

It’s an interesting debate, because even though I am a habitual speed limit breaker (when conditions are right & on the right roads), I can see the argument for keeping the cap at 70.

Firstly there’s the issue of perceived leniency in the limit. The majority of motorway drivers admit to driving at between 75 and 80 on a regular basis as it is, so legalising the additional speed wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference given the current situation. But push the limit to 80 and given the current 10% + 2 rule, you could legitimately drive at 90 without fear of being pulled over. In my view, 90’s pushing it a bit.

Then there’s the emissions debate. As a car builds speed, its fuel consumption – thus the emissions – increase exponentially. A typical Euro V compliant diesel car travelling at 70 can expect to pump out roughly 125g/km. At 80, this is getting close to 200g/km – setting government targets of reducing emissions back by a matter of years. My car does 37mpg at a constant 70 with the roof down. At 80, I’d be surprised if I got 30mpg – especially as it’d be hovering around 4,000rpm where the engine comes on cam.

Finally, the reason for the proposed rise in speed limit must be called into question. The basic premise of the decision is to allow travel times to fall, improving business for our beleaguered economy. But there is – at present – no planned change on LGV limits, and there are many people who want to travel at 60-65 because A; they’re in no hurry, and B; they save fuel. The potential speed differential of over 20mph between the speed limit and the limited speed of an HGV is big, and the concertina effect when fast-moving traffic hits slow moving traffic will only be exaggerated – undoubtedly increasing instances of bunching.

To support this fact, go join the outside lane nobs on the M23 of a rush hour. I’ve done it in my old MR2, and my speed ranged between 60 and 120mph. This kind of variation is as dangerous as it is wasteful and stupid. Also, I’d have gotten to my destination quicker at a constant 70, of that I’m sure.

But equally, I do see the point. If conditions are clear and weather as clement as we could feasibly expect, I have no problem with someone going 100+mph – indeed, when I had a more powerful car I was known to do so. There is no doubt that in these situations, my journey times were cut by some margin, and no one was affected by the excessive speed.

Personally, I think it boils down to conditions. 80’s fine for a lot of the time on the motorway, but enforcement must be upped to ensure that 90mph is not deemed acceptable. It’s either this or abolish the speed limit altogether and create a constantly variable system. The technology is already in place on most motorways, so it’s not as though it’d be tough to blanket over our whole system. And by having an adaptable system such as this, we won’t be criminalising high speeds undertaken when conditions really are suitable.

Modern cars are infinitely safer and more capable of high speeds than those in 1965, so it really is about time that the speed limit structure on our fast roads caught up. Criminalising speed when it is not safe to indulge in it is sensible. Panicking that legalising 80mph will have any impact on road safety is silly.

And yes, I haven’t included any real mention of increased casualties because I’d simply be acknowledging Brake’s misguided cause.

We couldn’t have that now, could we.

Festival Cars

2011-09-15T22:11:00.000+01:00

This summer has been amongst the very best of my life.

I’ve been drunk many times, been to new places, driven new cars, enhanced friendships so that previously good friends are now amongst my best friends. I’ve even been to a traditional 50’s – style village fete, complete with an onion judging competition.

But the stand-out events have been the two music festivals.

I went to Reading in 2006, after which I vowed never to return to such a lawless, smelly and disgusting debacle. But what I never realised is that Reading is simply like that. It wasn’t all festivals; I was just at the wrong one.

This year a team of us went to Lounge on the Farm in a bit of a last minute move – an intimate (c.10,000 people) affair just outside of Canterbury in early July. Some major acts were playing over six stages; the people were friendly, the weather ok and the food excellent. Even the drink wasn’t too expensive. Four days of perpetual inebriation later and I was converted. Which was good given that I’d paid for Bestival tickets back in April!

Initially, just John and I were going to the wacky affair on the Isle of Wight, but an epic competition win by two of the Lounge Crew – Kate and Rosie – meant the number was upped to four.

Bestival is hard to describe. It’s relatively big (c. 55,000 people), has 20-odd stages plus a huge number of other attractions. The landscape of the venue (Robin Hill Country Park) is hilly & beautiful, the sense of separation from the mainland eminently tangible. There is an annual fancy dress theme, adding to the fun, and the sense of escapism is acute.

Overall, Bestival was a pure win. Our fancy dress costumes (Lighthouses) won us free tickets to next year. Rosie & I scored free Converse shoes in a secret stage, and all of us benefitted from £70 worth of free drinks – thanks to our costumes winning favour with a Drambuie barmaid!

And we returned happy – mostly fulfilled with out Bestival experience, and mostly in love with one-another’s sense of fun & desire to enjoy life. (Remember, as Bourgeois and Maurice sang, ‘don’t let dull people take your life today...’)

But we also returned cramped, crammed and generally squashed into a Saab 93 convertible. A decent car no doubt, but not quite big enough for four to go to a festival in comfort. So I started thinking, what would be the best festival car?

My ideal choice would be a Volvo – ideally a tatty old 940 estate with the 2.3-litre high-pressure turbo engine. It’s rear-wheel drive, has just enough ‘go’, and more room than an aircraft hangar. All four of us could pack as much as we liked and still have room to swing several large domestic cats. It’d also ride well and cruise nicely at 70. Yes, it’d drink fuel, but the 940 would be used but a few times a year, so who cares? One final plus is that if you drop the seats, you could throw in a couple of airbeds, makeshift curtains and have a nice comfy sex room.

An alternative would be the 850 – being front wheel drive it’d handle the muddy car park better, and the 20V engine has the thrust with the benefit of a modicum of efficiency. It also sounds great. Same size advantages, and best of all (for festival funds), either the 940 or 850 can be bought in a roadworthy state for less than £500.

My next choices would be either a Ford Mondeo or Scorpio – estate or saloon would do. Again, they benefit from being hugely cheap, relatively reliable, decent engines and vast in size. With the Scorpio, we’d even benefit from a Cosworth-developed V6. Might not better 28mpg, but the Saab only managed 30 so who’s counting?

Only downside of the Fords is that they’re not really left-field enough for us crazy festival-going cats.

Lastly, I think I’d be tempted by a BMW 525 Touring. Another estate, it’s not quite as big or left-field as the Volvos, but it would drive beautifully and be ample for our needs. It’s another sub-£500’er, but we may struggle with the insurance.

Despite these great options, however, realistically there’s only one vehicle we should be considering in this musing:

A Ford Transit.

Silly Season

2011-09-15T10:30:00.000+01:00

It’s Frankfurt time again – aka silly season – and as ever the motoring media is in full attendance, sweating their way around the stuffy halls of the IAA. There’s plenty of good stuff there this year; Kia have their GT, Honda want to make a new NSX, Fisker have a new ‘station wagon’ and Ford has gone mental with ST options.

Equally, the mundane stuff is proving moderately interesting. Honda’s new Civic looks ok and is promising a ride on the correct side of tolerable (still no return of the multi-link suspension, boo), the Hyundai i30 looks much better than the old one, and VW’s ‘up’ looks like fun – in an Audi A2 sense – if nothing else.

As with any motor show, however, there is some serious dross, and Lotus is one of the culprits.

Sitting opposite the Fisker stand, the small British sportscar company is out-brashing the optimistic US upstart by some measure. It’s already fairly well known that Lotus – under the miss-guidance of Danny Bahar – is essentially doomed, and their presence at the IAA did nothing to quell anyone’s fears. The Exige V6 is a needless step in the wrong direction. The standard Exige – with its supercharged 1.8-litre 4-cylinder engine was plenty potent enough with 260bhp in a car that weighs 850kg. Add a bulky V6 and the peripherals needed to fit it (including a longer wheelbase), and the weight increases to nigh-on 1,100kg.

Ok, so the V6 may be endowed with up to 320bhp, but there’s not much in the power-to-weight, and handling is liable to be adversely affected by the added midriff. It’ll still handle well, make no bones about that, it’s just not ‘Lotus’ to solve a problem that didn’t exist in the first place. Especially by adding weight.

Another problem that is currently being ‘solved’ by a new market contender is the lack of hyper-powerful SUVs. Personally it was bothering me hugely – not being able to find a monstrous car with 600+ horsepower and a top speed of over 180. But if you, like me, were worried, fear no more. Cryptically and phonetically challenged British start-up brand, Eterniti, is at your service.

Yes, providing a car for footballers and fucktards (and possibly oil oligarchs), Eterniti plan to fill a niche which no one thought needed filling. Even masters of bad-taste über SUVs BMW and Mercedes hadn’t thought that with petrol prices hitting £7 a gallon what the world needed was a pumped up, last-generation Porsche Cayenne. And they were right.

The X6M was received with all the enthusiasm of plague, and petrol-powered ML-classes are as rare as Yangtze River dolphins cruising the Thames. Driving a car like this shows you to be a cock-whisk of the highest order, and with all the taste of Essex, Cheshire and California combined.

And no one gets it.

The Hemera looks like a last-gen Cayenne with a silly bodykit, yet we’re to believe that all panels are new and made of carbon-composite. The chassis has had a full-rebuild to make it driver-focussed, the engine re-worked to produce 620-odd bhp, yet in the back it has limo-like qualities. iPads are built-in, as is a fridge and big leg-room. So what’s the deal?

Is the idea that you get in the front for driving pleasure, or do you get in the back & get chauffeured around? The last car which tried to pull this trick off was the Vauxhall Signum – famously driven from the rear seats by a certain Mr Clarkson – and that was a huge sales flop. At £150,000 the Eterniti Haemaroid looks like an expensive flop to me. And an expensive way to look like an arse-shaft.

Anyway, the Jaguar C-X16 looks bloody fantastic and will be spectacularly brilliant. It’s destined to be powered by a supercharged 3.0-litre V6 – which takes its basic architecture from the current 5-litre V8 – alongside a small hybrid motor with minimal electricity storage (to keep weight down) good for 50mph and 30 miles. A ‘push to pass’ button increases boost and allows 50-75mph to be achieved in just 2.1 seconds. Add to this a 0-60 of 4.4 and you have a seriously quick car.

So although two UK brands have failed abysmally, at least Jaguar’s still getting it right.

Go them.

Give us a break, Brake

2011-08-26T15:05:00.000+01:00

To begin with, an MX-5 update:
Well, the oil’s been changed and the de-cat fitted. After much swearing, burning of fingers and laceration, the timing is now advanced by roughly five-degrees too – and what a difference. The car simply yelps off the line and revs cleaner and quicker. It’s lost some of the 4,000rpm surge which was nothing if not charming, but it’s been swapped for torque.

The sound is also fantastic. Most of this is down to the drilled airbox – which made a massive difference – but the de-cat adds a nice staccato rasp in the mid range, and a lovely underlying thrum at tick-over. I’m eying up turbo kits, but realistically I need to sort the body/chassis out first. MX-5 Parts has an August Bank Holiday sale on; watch this space!

Now to the main course.

Brake is a charity whose aim is to stop anyone from dying as a result of a road or traffic-related incident. They wish for everyone to abide by the rules, respect one-another and drive with no hint of malice towards our fellow men. To take their balanced and non-alarmist strap line, they are “Stopping Carnage and Supporting Victims”.

Christ! Sounds like serious work. What with all this carnage that’s going on everywhere I’m sure they’re busy people. Not too busy to publish a reaction to a DfT release giving the details of individual speed camera sites, though. The DfT’s figures aren’t holistic by any stretch; many authorities are yet to release the data, but will be doing so in due course. It was fairly innocuous really.

But Brake reacted with a somewhat vitriolic release suggesting that the lack of academic research and simple inclusion of plain numbers – for the proletariat to study – was somehow wrong. According to Julie Townsend, Brake Campaigns Director, “The information released today is incomplete and has not been academically analysed to produce an overall picture. Without this work, it’s impossible to make general statements on speed camera effectiveness using this data.”
Right, so because no research has been done – and clearly I’m an idiot - I’m unable to come to my own conclusions on the figures.

Townsend continues, “Given the extensive evidence we already have on speed camera effectiveness, and on the relationship between speed and crashes, the Government’s focus should be on persuading drivers of the importance of staying within the law and making roads safer by slowing down.”

So in short, I need the government to not release data which was being compiled as a matter of course, wait until more tax-payers money has been wasted on an exhaustive research to draw the conclusions for me, or simply believe the statistics put out by a charity which believes that there is ‘carnage’ on Britain’s roads. Because obviously, they won’t be biased at all, will they?

I decided to swat-up on Brake – who they are, what they do, their research and what they are trying to achieve. I figured that they’d probably have spent a vast amount of time and effort using the latest statistics to back-up the claims of carnage and present to us – the idiot driver – their case. A fool-proof, accurate and balanced account of why their beliefs are right, and their actions justified.

First I had a look at their ‘Pledge to Drive Safely’ campaign. It suggests the following (my response bracketed);
1.Sober Up - Drive free of alcohol and drugs.(Naturally)
2. Wake Up - Don't drive tired.(Try telling that to the parent of a 6-month-old)
3. Buck Up - Be mentally and physically fit to drive.(This makes no sense)
4. Check Up - Drive a modern, well-maintained vehicle.(Does a 1990 MX5 with iffy service history count?)
5. Belt Up - Use seat belts and head restraints correctly.(Always the former, latter N/A (Fixed))
6. Shut Up - Switch off your phone.(Rather not)
7. Slow Down - The most important Pledge of all.(When appropriate)

Bit daft if you ask me, but hey – some nuggets of sense in there.

I then thought it best to delve into Brake’s vast array of well-balanced and relevant research into all possible scenarios that cause accidents. T’was enormously revealing. The piece on speed cameras was well researched using conjecture and ‘the bleeding obvious’ as main sources. Some studies which suggest that in speed camera locations casualties have dropped were cited at the bottom, but we knew this, and it fails to address the fact that most speeding occurs away from the 30-yards which a speedy covers.

I decided that this was a mere blip in Brake’s highly credible and accurate studies, so I plugged on – to the ‘Speed on Rural Roads’ section. There is a good section on over-taking which suggests that, “It is easy to misjudge the speed and distance of approaching traffic. Where overtaking is concerned this lack of judgement could be fatal.” [1] – Yes, tell me more, this is groundbreaking!

“It is impossible to judge another vehicle’s speed travelling in the opposite direction” – Fantastic! Although, on 60mph roads (as many rural roads are) I tend to assume that the closing speed is 120mph (60 per-vehicle). Kind’a obvious, don’t you think?

The piece went on to tell me many new things, such as that there can be a lack of footways on rural roads, and that horses, cyclists and pedestrians can sometimes be found lurking around corners. I’ll remember to look out next time. Interspaced between extracts from documents published in 2000 – 2006 (various credible and incredible sources [2]) were horror stories of drunken youths coming a-cropper on rural roads. Great propaganda.

Anyway, I carried on with Brake’s ‘facts’, opting to learn lots of new things which I never previously knew about trunk roads. It’s been bounded about for ages by various governments – the idea of increasing the motorway speed limit to 80mph, but research carried out in 2000 [3] suggests that for every 1mph decrease in speed, the frequency of crashes falls by 5%. Let’s reverse this: at 70mph, the likelihood of a crash is 350% right? No wonder it’s carnage out there...

Further Brake conjecture – sorry – research, suggests that if the speed limit on motorways was raised to 80mph, mortals would then not be able to judge speeds on minor roads. Up-to-date (2004) Governmental research tells us this you know... In Austria, “a higher speed limit of 160kmh (30kmh higher than the current limit) is to be introduced on a section of motorway in 2006” on a straight stretch with a particularly good road surface. In inclement weather, the speed limit would be electronically dropped. Apparently the ‘opposition’ Greens have shown ‘research’ which suggests there would be at least 50 more crashes per year, resulting in at least 5 deaths and 120 injuries [4].

Well, firstly, what has Austria got to do with the UK (it’s a recurring theme with Brake – using other countries’ data)? Secondly, that was back in 2006 – so what actually happened (presumably nothing, else it’d be up there as propaganda)? And lastly, are we really to believe the opposition, whose sole purpose is to be ‘opposed’? They’re not going to publish research which shows negligible differences are they?

In all, Brake seriously winds me up. I love driving. I love driving fast when the conditions allow, and the only persons life I ever intend to put in danger is my own. Furthermore, it is not carnage out there. Most people, despite appearances, aren’t as stupid as Brake likes to believe, and publishing irrelevant and out-of-date ‘research’ (conjecture) does nothing for your cause.

Road deaths are falling, but they will always happen at some level. It is inevitable – you can’t legislate or engineer against a drunken person wandering into the path of a car driving legally. A million safety initiatives won’t stop a momentary lapse of concentration. All the vitriolic press releases you could write won’t stop kids running into roads.

So give us a break, Brake. We know how it works.

Don’t treat us like fools.

[1] - From ‘Learning to Drive: Accident Scenarios’ – yes, sounds like a school text – book to me too.
[2] – Including DfT, RoSPA, BBC news website (?) and the Telegraph (?)
[3] - New Directions in Speed Management: A Review of Policy (Department for Transport, 2000)
[4] – Traffic club of Austria website

Why we persist with driving

2011-08-17T20:10:00.000+01:00

Good news! The MX-5 has finally returned to my custody. And all the happier I am too for it – not that I’ve driven more than 25 miles since it returned, but it’s bloody nice to know it’s there, sitting faithfully ready to whisk me off to wherever I may fancy.

To reward the car’s innate loyalty, I’m treating it to an oil change this week – probably the first it’s had for a good 15,000 miles – but I always figured that given that it has a slight thirst for part-synth it was essentially servicing itself as it went along. I’ll do the spark plugs in due course too – just to be nice, and the airbox is freshly drilled with a new panel filter to go in soon as well. I was running an induction cone, but it was clearly sucking in more hot air than a room full of MPs could produce, thus it was fairly ineffectual.

A few other ‘mods’ are heading the MX-5’s way too. I got a bit happy on Amazon the other day and bought a timing light on a whim. Apparently the engine is set to run on US-spec fairy liquid petrol, and given that we get flammable fuel over here, it can benefit from an advance in timing of a few degrees. My MR-2 was transformed when the timing was advanced, pulling much harder at lower revs. I’m also going to buy a de-cat pipe to loosen up another couple of BHP, and when I get round to it, throw on some cut-down springs to make the handling better. Should’ve done all this pre-summer, but cash flow never works how you want it to.

And there’s the nub. Despite the fact that cars are now ruinously expensive to run, and that I’ve coped just fine commuting on the train and bicycle, I still love having my car and I’ve no intention of giving it up.

Having a car gives an amazing sense of freedom. To get somewhere – anywhere – you just need petrol. Fill up, sit down, point the bonnet at the horizon and go. For all the times you’re caught behind a bumbler, you’ll make a great over-take; attack a series of corners with perfectly judged speed; hang the tail out round a damp roundabout.

For every time that you hit every light as it turns red you’ll cruise through all of them on green; slip past a traffic hot-spot with no cars in sight; take the back-route as the motorway jams solid.

Each time that a fool pulls out on you, there will be a time when you get to the front of the queue; win a traffic light face-off; lose the idiot in the diesel Audi in the next series of roundabouts.

When the local chavs are present, driving like idiots and making life a misery you’ll remember when you left them for dead when you got bored of their antics; drove the very same roads as fast as you dared; saw the police car in your rear-view mirror just in time.

An on a Sunday afternoon, when Mavis and Ethel are plying their trade on the highway you can revel in the thought of the early morning hoon down the A272; going flat-out for ten miles on the B2068; being in awe of the bleak scenery as you scream down the A3055 between Ventnor and Freshwater.

Because for every time you drive and it’s frustrating, annoying, coma-inducingly boring or damned inconvenient there will be a time when it’s empowering, exciting or simply for the sake of it. Most people will drive over 400,000 miles in a lifetime. And for every one which is dull, there will be one which makes the expense completely and utterly worthwhile.

Just don’t expect commuting to fulfil you driving dreams...

Cyclist Assaulted: Cyclist Rejoices

2011-07-29T14:35:00.001+01:00

I’m a charitable person at heart, you know. For all of the times that I sit there – the effervescent armchair critic – and lambast an occurrence which has the Good Few collecting money, I have donated some change to a good cause; helped an old lady across the road; held the door open for a pregnant midget. My cruel and un-caring exterior is but a facade – sometimes – and deep within I’m here but to serve.

This has led me to lend my beloved MX-5 to friend in need. She started a new job recently, and her Audi A3 had dispelled the myth of German reliability by failing on pretty much every level. She couldn’t afford to fix it, and public transport wasn’t an option, so I gallantly stepped in. As a result of this, I’m now on the train every day and quite literally car-less. For a while at least, I am as green as Polly Tonybe on a freshly-mowed eco lawn.

To get me to the train, I’ve fallen back on my old friend – the bicycle – which enables me to use gravity on the downward morning journey, thus no physical effort. The advantage of cycling, apart from that it’s free, is that I can opt to forget the train and ride home if the mood takes me. This is good for fitness and means I don’t have to sit amongst people who think it’s ok to blast ‘Devlin’ into their ears (and everyone else’s) at high volume. I also get to avoid the Special Brew man at Borough Green Station.

The negatives of cycling are that I have to do battle with Maidstone traffic, and it seems to be more up than down in the homeward direction. Minor inconveniences really.

I inadvertently had a peek at the local rag’s website the other day and one particular story caught my eye. It was a video posted on YouTube of a man punching a cyclist which had ended up in a prosecution. Reading the story struck a chord with me – and my sympathy immediately went out to the driver of the car who had done the punching.

Weird – for someone who has just confessed how much he like cycling you may think, but when you see the standard of cycling by so many of my counterparts, it makes perfect sense. As a rule, stupid driving is fairly common. We expect it, take it into account and live with it. Most people’s driving is actually perfectly good, and proportionally the good far outweighs the bad.

Cycling is another matter. For every cyclist who doesn’t dice with traffic, run red lights, take to pavements, cycle in twos or in the middle of the road, there are five that do. And they are so unapologetic about it – indeed – many a lycra-clad pedal merchant becomes hugely indignant or even abusive when you cut them and their 20 bondage buddies fine on an overtake. I imagine it’s what had happened in the YouTube video, and as a result I’m pretty much behind the clout that occurred as a result of it.

There are far too many lycra merchants who go out and think they’re invincible. They use too much of the road and cycle in packs for strength. They cycle in twos, dice with traffic and generally make a nuisance. They are a threat to you, your car, the peace and themselves. They are cretins of the highest variety, and I wish them all the greatest of asphalt grazes when they inevitably get taken out.

When I cycle I follow a few rules and as a result, never get into scrapes:
- You are on a bike. If you get hit by a car you die.
- The traffic laws still apply.
- Keep left.
- Don’t inconvenience cars – pull over if on a tight road and there is a queue.
- Cycle with courteous confidence.
- Never wear a helmet – it’s a sign of weakness and you look oafish.
- Never wear lycra. It makes you look homosexual.

Trust me, it works.

The Assurance of Expensive Insurance

2011-07-22T13:06:00.000+01:00

So, can someone please give me a rational explanation as to what is going on with car insurance at the moment?

The reason I ask is that once I’ve moved house, I shall begin getting the train to work as it’s cheaper and within walking distance. This will mean that my annual mileage will approximately halve to around 4,000 pleasure miles per year. So I called up Direct Line and asked how much this would remove from my annual premium. Take a guess how much it was...

Wrong!

To halve my annual mileage would cost ME £12. And the woman on the phone had the audacity to ask whether I’d like to go ahead with this! She then continued to give me a quote of £600p.a. for my old KA for 4,000 miles. About £200 more than it cost me when I had it at 10,000 miles a year.

This makes no sense. It’s like withdrawing £80 from the bank, then realising that you’re only going to spend half of it, and returning to the bank to put the remaining £40 back in, only to be told it’ll cost you £12 for the privilege of doing so.

It’s insane. Car insurance should cover you for the mileage you do, as, surely, you’re a bigger risk if you do more miles. It should reward you for using your car sparingly.

Thing is, the general reason given for rising prices is an increase in the number of people getting whiplash and claiming compensation. But if this is the case, there must be a deeper reasoning behind the increased cases of whiplash, one would imagine, else why wasn’t car insurance always this expensive?

Well, have you been to a hospital lately, or do you own a mobile phone? I’ve done/got both, and in each case, there’s a bit of shocking news. Forget the adverts on TV which say; “Are you thick? Are you bunking off work with a spurious injury because you didn’t look where you were going? GET MONEY”; in a hospital A&E there are TVs playing adverts like this on repeat; on the backs of seats and waiting room walls there are posters; dammit, the staff may as well be sponsored by ‘Fallover and Claim Lawyers 4U’.

A few years back, I was the ‘victim’ of a rear-ender. My neck ached for a day, then I got over it. Yet I am still receiving texts at the rate of two-a-week asking if I’d like to claim personal injury. Why would I? I wasn’t really injured. My car got fixed, everyone was happy.

Second issue is the rising number of Asians who have decided that a good way of making money is to stage accidents, and then claim personal injury. You can literally hire a person to crash your car, and then fain injury yourself, thus reaping the rewards of a bit of PI. It’s rather like a taxi service, only all journeys come to a premature end.

This wouldn’t be such an issue if there was a more rigorous investigation process, if you HAD to have witnesses in daylight/busy hours, and if CCTV was permissible for use in civil cases such as this. It would also help if insurance companies didn’t actively encourage you to claim PI when you are involved in a car park scrape. I’m pretty sure that my texts come as a result of my insurance company selling my details after the rear-ending in 2008.

It’s self-feeding really. Push up the prices, blame it on more people claiming PI, then actively offer then PI if they’re in a crash, and push up the prices even more.

As for me, I’m investigating limited miles insurance on the MX-5 (though apparently you have to be 25, because at 24 you definitely can’t keep your mileage down, but it all changes a year later) and according to the broker I spoke to, ‘once you’re 25 you’re laughing’. Admiral multicar also gave me a quote for the MX-5, potential KA and the Yaris of £1100, which is pretty bloody good. So in my own way I’m beating the system.

Take that society!

Ben gets to be Van Man!

2011-07-15T13:26:00.000+01:00

Moving house is already doing my head in and we’re yet to decant any of our things from old place to new place. It seems to be a never-ending cycle of work, get home, and then do another few hours of moving stuff you forgot you had from one room to another.

It also costs a monumental amount of money. There’s the agent fees (£215), tenant checks (where a moron checks your credit history, makes a phone call to ensure you’re not lying about your job, then reports all is fine for the bargain price of £200), the deposit and first month’s rent (£2600), hiring a van (£80), paying remaining bills from your old house (inc. Council tax total C. £300), telling everyone with whom you have a direct debit or insurance and fixing your old house before handing it back to the landlord (C. £100 inc. Carpet clean + 8 hours work). Again, all this is prior to even getting the keys to your new house.

Add to this the fact that, having roped in all our friends to come and help, I must now provide food/cakes/biscuits, and you have a recipe for a rather narked Ben. One last factor; I was at a festival last weekend with some truly beautiful people, where we drank, danced and were entertained from 9am to 3am and generally had the BEST time, so I am now suffering from post-festival depression.

But there is a silver lining.

We weren’t planning on hiring a van, but due to the size differential between a car and a double mattress, we’ve opted to go for it. And though I was initially after a SWB Transit, they only had a Luton with a tail-lift. So I got that one instead – which excites me immensely.

I used to be a furniture delivery boy in my formative years, riding round in a knackered old Luton Transit on a Saturday, and I think it’s probably the best job I’ve ever had. Transits are wonderful things which invoke rage, fear, poor driving and a general lack of law abiding. There’s a sense of freedom about being in the cab which you just don’t get in other vehicles – not even 7.5 tonners, which are simply too big for the roads you can squeeze a ‘Tranny down. And you never need pay for a parking ticket with a Transit. Simply open the back, stick the blinkers on and abandon.

So this Saturday, I shall adopt my place in the cabin of the world’s finest van – only this time I’m driving. I shall buy a copy of the sun, remove my shirt when it isn’t necessary, have a bit of builder’s bum going on, and generally practice lewd behaviour towards passing women. And when I step out of the door, I shall drop this alter-ego as I used to, and once again become the polite young man which I aspire to be.

I can’t wait!

In other news, the MX-5 has 12 month’s MOT with no advisories – mostly due to ‘miracles’ – and there’s a very good chance that my black KA will return to my custody. If it does, it’s getting the rat treatment: lowering springs, minilite wheels (if I can get some cheap), stripped interior and a roarty exhaust. I may even put decent brake pads on and track it, but we’ll see. My mate Steve recons we should drop an RST lump in, but that’d be silly.

Wouldn’t it?

All Aboard the Fail Truck

2011-07-07T13:41:00.000+01:00

I would like to share with you a few statistics:
177bhp – the power from the 4.2-litre, naturally aspirated diesel engine in a Mercedes-Benz Atego
500 ft lb – the amount of torque produced by a Mercedes-Benz Atego
7.5 tons – the maximum permitted loaded weight of a Mercedes-Benz Atego
23.6bhp/ton – power to weight of a loaded Mercedes-Benz Atego
36.9mph – the average speed of a fully-loaded Mercedes-Benz Atego to Devon from Sussex
6.5hours – the time taken to travel the 240 miles from Sussex to Devon

These are brought to you to demonstrate how woefully underpowered the Mercedes-Benz Atego 7.5 ton truck is. Something brought to life this past weekend where I was tasked with helping my better half’s parents move their junk from one side of the country to the other. And when I say junk, I don’t mean a ratty old sofa or a barely-used fridge; they were present, but I’m talking about off-cuts of wood. Balls of string long-forgotten, existing only to take up space. An oven door, for instance, with no oven accompanying it.

I have never, in my days, seen such a pile. There were plenty of classics (dead computers, broken paving slabs etc), but my favourites were a trio of fish tanks – small, medium and large. Now I’ve been a part of the family for over four years now, and in that time not one living fish has graced the waters of said fish tanks. In fact, they probably haven’t seen any aquatic action since the 1990s. And yet, I found myself dutifully loading said fish-keepers onto a truck, taking up space, in the full knowledge that not a carp, cod or cat-fish would grace their glassy depths – ever. And the only time they’d be uncovered is for the next move of house (inevitably back to the south east).

Anyway, back to the topic.

There’s much embarrassment about being the slowest thing on the A303. It was a busy day with pre-summer holiday trippers heading to the West Country, and we were the ones spoiling their journey. Top speed was 56mph (limited) with a favourable wind and some gravity, but realistically 40 was about v-max. At this pace, you find yourself feeling very exposed in the Atego’s glassy cabin. Especially when you come to a halt on a particularly inclinous hill.

As the pent-up hoards spilt past us when the opportunity arose, I suddenly wished I’d been caught scrambling from a field of worried of sheep, doing my flies up. It’d have been far less embarrassing.

But there were plus sides. The A303 is a great road – far better in something capable of overcoming the bonds of friction, admittedly, but there are some smashing views along the way, and the Atego made the perfect viewing platform. Given that we were being overtaken by moraine processes, Wiltshire, Dorset, Summerset and Devon glided by in a collage of fields and big skies. We had as good a view of Stone Henge as those who had stopped to ponder its existence, and we could even take in the Blackdown Hills from the comfort of an empty M5.

In this sense it was all very pleasant, and the pluses don’t stop there.

Driving a 7.5-tonnner has a certain ‘something’ about it. I drove it about the lands of Sussex house and it was great. A box full of neutrals maybe, and the brakes were made of sponge cake, but it was brilliant to be up-high in a road-biased storage unit. The suspension was bouncy, with the worst secondary ride I’ve ever experienced, but it was relatively comfortable in a waterbed kind-of-way. And I loved the lorry camaraderie, the feeling that it wouldn’t turn-in so much as fold its front tyre over and plough into the nearest hedgerow and the fact that rushing wasn’t an option.

There’s a beauty about the indolence of 56mph, and I now want a truck quite badly. In my ideal garage, there is certainly space for one. I could move heavy things around the country, sitting up high and lording it over Transits and Range Rovers with my superior load space.

My ideal garage now reads something like:
- Normal ‘fun’ car
- Supercar
- Track car/toy
- Sensible car
- Transit
- 7.5-tonner

Maybe I’ll get one with a turbo, though.

Canada – Best and Worst

2011-06-16T08:59:00.000+01:00

This season’s been a bit of a surprise so far. This is mainly because it’s been exciting, intriguing, unpredictable, and has had less FIA bullshit than in seasons previous. After a scorching Monaco Grand Prix – neutered only by a red flag and the fact that park ferme’ conditions aren’t enforced in such conditions – Canada was shaping up nicely. It didn’t disappoint.

Quali was a tad predictable – standard issue Vettel on pole scenario, but the top 10 was less than normal. The Mclarens – seemingly struggling for out-of-corner traction were well down the pack and their chances of challenging the seemingly insurmountable Red Bulls essentially slim to none. Mercedes had shown great straight-line speed and the similarly Mercedes powered Force India’s seemed to have upped their pace substantially – the obviously classy De Rista leading his more experienced team mate.

Then came the joy of the great leveller: Rain!

Unfortunately, with it was brought the kind of thinking that has made F1 a bit of a laughing-stock. After much deliberation, Charlie Whiting decided that because it was a tad damp, a safety car start was necessary. It wasn’t. It was slippery for sure, but F1 drivers are paid £50m a year to deal with slippery/dry/snowy conditions – as far as I’m concerned. But apparently the cream of the world’s drivers can’t be expected to cope with precipitation. No one’s likely to argue that the chances of collisions should be minimised at all opportunities, but equally the drivers should be able to identify when it’s too wet, and with the addition of common sense, not crash into stationary objects (such as the HRT Cosworth team).

I have a mind to take on some of modern F1’s thinking in this respect. Next time I look out of the window and see that my chances of encountering drizzle are heightened, I shall insist on driving to work only with the guidance of a boat, or qualified driver of an off-road vehicle. It’s ludicrous.

When the race eventually started, it was an absolute treat. Hamilton was on the rampage, as was Jenson – though as predicted, Vettel looked like he’d simply romp off into the distance and make everyone else look silly. And Hamilton’s move on Webber? Well to anyone who has seen it, it’s clearly a racing incident – Webber certainly thought so – but the commentators (i.e. Coulthard) was calling for the FIA noose to be brought out – as his contract with Red Bull no doubt suggests he has to.

Still, it was all in vein as a slightly daft (and ultimately excitement bringing) lunge on team mate Button saw the frustrated Hamilton out with a broken drive shaft. Then the rain came again. This time it wasn’t a paltry sprinkling: it was pure deluge.

Rightly so, the race was halted – I called for a steward’s inquiry into God and his aspirations with the weather. Despite all of Montreal turning out to try and dry the track (I also called for a steward’s enquiry into their efforts) it was hopeless. The race was off until – seemingly – the track was almost utterly dry. Seriously, I’ve no idea what Charlie Whiting was thinking. There was a dry line before the re-start and everyone on inters cooked their tyres on the out-lap. Very exciting this – as it meant that the brave would go straight onto the super-softs and deal with the consiquences at their peril.

Button had been into the pits six times for tyre changes, incidents and a drive-through due to some spurious rule about going too quickly behind the safety car (Steward’s enquiry please...). He was stone dead last. But in a mixture of excellent timing of going onto the soft tyre, luck, and a massive dose of skill and bravery, he worked his way up to second – behind Vettel. Pushing the Austrian, being over two-seconds-a-lap quicker, seemed to have an effect. The usually unflappable world champion made a mistake on the last lap – running wide onto a damp area – gifting Button the win in surely one of the all-time great drives (I would call for a steward’s enquiry, but I liked the result).

So, the best and worst race of the season, all in one go. And it’s funny, because all the bad elements of racing seem to come from off the track. Charlie Whiting’s decision to remove responsibility from the drivers in terms of their safety robbed us of a decent dose of proper racing. Obviously, no one wants to see anyone die. We don’t want a return to the dark days of the 70s which Jackie Stewart has fought so long and hard to banish to the history books. But there’s inherent risk built into the sport; remove this and some of the fun goes out the window. There is no jeopardy any more, and it doesn’t make for good racing – all that happens is whinging little arses like Vettel come over the radio and complain that its ‘wet’, or that Hamilton’s attempting to overtake someone (God forbid – steward’s enquiry in my book).

By way of a suggestion, may I suggest that the FIA let the drivers duke it out in future? Also, perhaps invite them to get a back-bone and re-introduce some form of consequence for getting it wrong? It’d probably be a winning formula, all things considered.

Unnecessary Addenda

2011-06-10T23:00:00.000+01:00

Chavs do love to adorn their cars with ‘stuff’. Be it a large bumper kit, huge wheels, or simply some shiny trinketry, anything that could stick or could be made to stick is fair game.

I’ve seen some classics lately including a 1.25-litre Fiesta with two dustbins poking out of the commodiously large rear bumper. This looked silly, especially with the 18-inch alloys which made the car look like it was on stilts. The over-sized exhausts were also quite possibly somewhat of a hazard for nesting birds or hibernating mammals. I read recently of some bees which blocked the inlet manifold on an old man’s Peugeot. Imagine what a few baby foxes could do up the rear of a Fiesta?

Today saw another particularly poor attempt at modification. A 1.2-litre Clio had seemingly become beached on a few wheelie-bins, and rather than removing it through conventional means, the car’s owner simply cut them to size and drove off. Such was the poor nature of this ‘modification’ (or shitification) that I nearly crashed into the car in front, such was my laughter.

Problem is, manufacturers are now shitifying new cars at the owner’s request – thus saving the trauma of going to Halfords and – without any hint of irony – buying a ‘Ripspeed’ backbox. For a long time you could spec big ride spoiling alloys or a boot lip for a bit of aggression. This was all fine. Manufacturers’ often have a clear idea at the early design – if not the concept stage – of how a specced-up model will look.

For an example of how manufacturers get it right, the Porsche Boxster on big wheels, with the optional spoiler and the side graphics automatically looks good.

For the last few years things have been teetering on becoming a bit silly with design aspects and manufacturer options. Lexus’ IS-F was widely hailed as an excellent machine – three too many gears – but a true competitor to the RS-4 and M3. Its thumping 5-litre V8, excellent handling and Japanese dependability were praised. What was not praised, however, were the quad exhaust pipes. Coming in off-set stacks of two on either side of the rear bumper, they looked the part from a distance. Then you got up close and realised that two of them were false. There for show. Shiny shoes and no knickers.

This was unnecessary, as was Ferrari looking at Lexus and thinking, ‘mmm, yes, those chaps at Lexus really are on to something with the fake exhausts. Let’s get involved on the California.’ Then again, ‘Ferrari’ and ‘Taste’ are not mutually complimentary.

Mercedes has been in on the act too. Let’s be honest here, a C63 or its coupe cousin do not require a carbon fibre ‘winglet’ on the boot. 450-odd BHP talks for itself – and the quad exhausts are the real deal. So the addition of a strip of carbon fibre, unpainted so that it has the boast-factor, is wholly unnecessary to anyone other than your average ‘bizznezz mn’.

Finally, I have recently seen an advert for the Peugeot RC-Z with ‘optional quad-exhausts’. In fairness to Peugeot, the twin driver’s side pipes always made a scrumptious rump look like it had a spot of nappy rash. It was unbalanced and to someone with symmetrical autism like me, I couldn’t bare it. Lashing on a two more (unconfirmed, but suspected fake) pipes to the other side does not a good solution make. Why didn’t they just put a single pipe each side? Or even better, two through the middle – no extra weight etc?

I rather begs the question. In an age when cars are becoming ever more endowed with weight and silly features, couldn’t manufacturers at least make it a no-cost option to ‘unshittify’ new cars?

Madness in Munich

2011-05-11T20:50:00.000+01:00

BMW appears to have lost its mind.

After 25 years of producing M-cars with a simple design brief, they have thrown the rule-book out of the window and gone off in a weird and – frankly – unwelcome direction. Call it a response to their rivals if you will, but whatever you call it, the new M5 is something of a departure.

At this point it’s probably wise to set the scene; to give the ‘M’ story so far – just to make sure you haven’t missed anything.

It started in 1984 with the original E28 M5 – a simple old thing with a six-cylinder 285bhp, race developed engine from the M1, a dog-leg gearbox and rear-wheel-drive. In its day, it was the fastest saloon in the world, topping out at 153mph and hitting 60 in the low 6’s. The chassis – a modified 535 chassis - was tuned to give the perfect balance of grip, slip and cross-country potency and - despite its size – the M5 didn't weight a huge amount. It was involving. A simple recipe yes, but fine cuisine within the automotive business nonetheless.

Along next was the E34 M5. You couldn’t label it a revolution:- realistically it was barely an evolution, but what it lacked in outlandish departure, it made up for in being rather brilliant. To purists this is often viewed as the best M5 as it was the last of the six-cylinder engine cars – a BMW signature – and also it was devilishly handsome. In the early years (’88-’91) the car shared more-or-less the same 3.6 engine as the E28, but this was replaced by a 340bhp 3.8litre from 91 onwards. This took top speed to 177mph, and 60 in the late 5’s – aided by a six speed gearbox with a better spread of ratios. The same recipe was used in the E34, only this time there was added spice.

Next up was the driver’s favourite – the E39 which lasted from ’98 to 2003. This car was, in fact, a reaction to Jaguar’s XJR. BMW initially believed that the 540i with 282bhp would be fast enough, but the supercharged Jag was quicker. BMW’s answer was to re-design the V8, boring it out to 4.9 litres, giving it variable valve timing, electric throttle actuation and thus giving the E39 a nice round 400bhp. The car was a serious evolution of the marque. It was a leap into the 21st century with performance to match – 60 came up in the mid 4’s and top speed was limited to 155. 180 was likely without the limiter.

Finally the outgoing E60 – a screaming banshee of an engine with a cabin bolted on for good measure. The 5 litre V10 was race derived (like the straight 6 in the E28) and in attack mode put out 500bhp – all of which was located firmly around the 8,000rpm red line. Handling was sorted too. Many journalists put it alongside the Ferrari 430, so well sorted was the chassis. Performance stepped up a notch too – 60 in the low 4’s and an (unlimited) top speed of over 200mph. The only fly in the ointment was the dim-witted SMG gearbox, which didn’t suit the car as a luxury saloon. It did work when hooning though, and the simple mix of big engine, sorted chassis and cross-country potency was once again at a peak.

Now that we are stepping into the F-series of BMWs, however, the boys in Munich seem to have taken something. Maybe it’s a German idea of a joke, but rather like an actual joke, no one is laughing. Rather like the X6M and X5M, BMW fans (and car fans in general) are simultaneously pulling the kind of face you pull when you suck a lemon. Some have actually vomited – so I’ve heard.

Why all the disgust?

Well, the X6M and X5M can be attributed to the Middle Eastern market’s demands, but the F10 M5 is pure, unadulterated and unabashed sodomy to one of the greatest motoring brands of the last 30 years.

For one thing, it has a turbocharged engine displacing a mere 4.4 litres. Sure, environmental pressures mean that BMW has to react in terms of CO2 and MPG, but to downsize and add puffers? It’s just not ‘M’. If we look at the timeline, an M-car has a normally aspirated engine, and going on the trend the next should have a 6-litre V12. This would be brilliant. But it doesn’t have a V12. It’s been castrated.

Most importantly however, we have the issue of four-wheel-drive. This stands out on the spec sheet like an optional dog-shit dispenser in the dash; if you spec it, it’ll show you to be a moron, and will spoil the whole package. Audi’s have four-wheel-drive, and no one is running around banging on about how engaging they are to drive. The general comment is ‘fast all-weather car’ – which is like having a powerboat ice-breaker: only any good when the weather allows.

An M5 should be hoon-tastic. It should have a big, naturally aspirated engine up front, a slick gearbox in the middle, and a limited slip differential at the back. The chassis should be balanced, allowing superb B-road progress, and the car shouldn’t be tied down by too many distractions.

Four-wheel-drive on an M5 is like a supermodel in a high-visibility jacket. Ridiculous on all levels, and, completely missing the point.

Turbo Time?

2011-04-25T19:36:00.000+01:00

I have a new job you know, damn exciting it is too. Having been blogging away for a few years with little in the way of foray into the murky underbelly of motoring writing, somehow I’ve managed to get a job doing more-or-less that. It probably helps that a mate of mine works at the (well regarded) company in question, but somewhere along the line I must have shown willing/ability/knowledge.

Whatever, I am now about to realise a dream which is bloody exciting. My day job will be writing about cars, the car industry and related products with some endeavours into events and client relations. And I’m getting paid. This makes everyone a winner. I want to do this and the company seems to want to employ me. Result.

Another bonus is a slight pay rise over current wages which automatically means that I’m already thinking of a new car to buy. The MX-5 is proving annoyingly reliable, more-so now that I’ve put a fully functioning radiator in. In some ways it’s sad as I am no longer a crucial part of keeping the car moving on warm days or when pressing on. I no longer need to keep an eye on the temperature or turn the heaters up to bleed off some heat when we pull up in traffic. A part of the car’s humanity – its fallibility is gone, but it has been replaced with a complete lack of overheating, which is surely a good thing…

The MOT is coming up, however, and I’m going to need a new windscreen at the absolute minimum to get it through – let alone the various welding and patching that would be useful for complete structural solidarity. The problem I have is that the MX-5 is definitely a keeper. It’ll probably come off the road at some point, but I’m not getting rid; it’s just too good a summer proposition. So I need something else to get me from A-to-B, and this Saturday just gone will probably end up costing me rather a lot in due course.

I went to a mate’s brother’s barbeque – eventually – and in the process of getting there/being there, became rather exposed to some rather desirable metal. Firstly there was the Mk1 Audi RS4 – the 2.7 bi-turbo version – chipped up to ‘some’ horsepower. Paper stats suggest 4.9 to 60, and even four’s up with a big BBQ in the boot it felt good for it. Sitting on a set of coil-overs with an LSD between the rear axle no doubt made it lively in the corners, but just cruising around Surrey in the knowledge that there were the best part of 400 horses under the bonnet – at 30mph – was good enough. 1st car of the day I wanted.

2nd came in the form of a 340bhp KA. A sleeper this was not – it looked like it had driven into a radiator-come-intercooler outlet and most of the products had stuck. But a 750kg car with 340bhp… that’s a weapon however steroidal it looks. I’d love to pull up beside a Porsche and let it rip. It’d be hilarious every time. Lastly was the series 1 Escort Turbo. Running a lowly sounding 165bhp it shouldn’t have been too quick, but when the (Fiesta Turbo) engine spooled up and let rip, it was undeniably rapid. In the way that the RS4 just picked up pace, the Series 1 bucked, kicked up sparks and tread-shuffled its way towards the horizon. Fun it most certainly was.

As well as playing with cars I had a fantastic day with the poshest BBQ I’ve ever experienced (venison burgers, Surrey finest sausages, Camembert fondue all in attendance). But upon reflection I now feel I need something turbocharged with a sub-6 second 60 sprint.

I’m a bastion for natural aspiration. Atmospheric pressure driven engines are wonderful things and I love the peakyness of the MX-5’s 16-valver, but I want a bit of spool in my life – I want to run a few psi and hiss my way down the road. And I want to show the new-gen turbo engines that a lag-free delivery is rubbish when max power still comes at 7000rpm instead of a modern 5000.

This has ignited a new car search, which isn’t exactly hard labour when you spend most of your life searching for cars as a matter of course. And I believe I’m back at an old lust, because after precisely 1 day, I think candidate number 1 is a Celica GT-4 (ST205).

I’m a Jap-crap lover, and as nice as a fast Ford would be, the ones worth having are a bit long in the tooth now, and the German alternatives hold value too well for my bank balance. I looked at Scoob turbo’s, but they do 18mpg and are a bit too obvious. Also, I’m wary of horizontally-opposed engines… Second to get ticked off the list was the Galant VR-4, a car I like very much. The biggest draw-back is complexity, rarity and cost. Just too much of all three. Nissans and Mazdas sprang to mind, as did an MR2 tubby (too few seats) but none stuck.

Finally, I’ve once again arrived at the door of the Celica and am now to set about saving the £2,750 needed for a decent one. It’ll do 30mpg if you’re sensible with the boost, but still hits 60 in 5.2 (as standard), and investing in a simple turbo-timer sees 300bhp with no other mods.

So in two months’ time when I buy something diesel and boring for day-to-day saving over the 32mpg I get in the ‘5, forgive me. I assure you it’s all toward the introduction of forced induction.

Help the Aged

2011-04-05T18:16:00.000+01:00

When I get old, I’m going to do a lot of things. I shall spend every day doing something new, exciting, or reckless. Failing that I’ll get drunk and create a new anecdote with which to woo the other wrinklies at the bowls lawn. What I shall categorically not do, is waste my time with being slow and doddery.

Retirement is a gift that you work towards your whole life. If you begin work at 21 and don’t retire until 65 then you will have spent 44 years working, and after 44 years of doing anything you would deserve a break. Even 44 years of rubbing sex-driven bisexual models with olive oil would get repetitive (and possibly soar) after 44 years. Then, assuming you live to 85, this means that you have just 20 years in which to cram as much as you can.

When you’re young, days are long and balmy. Tomorrow is a year away and it takes you until 1998 to stop writing ‘1996’ in your new text book. Teenage years speed up a touch, and from 18 to 21 passes in a whirlwind of drunkenness and ill-thought-out sexual conquest. Finally you get a job and settle down, but time doesn’t, it speeds up to such a degree that you have to date the letters you write as 2021 because even though it ought to be 2010, eleven years have come and gone whilst you weren’t looking.

Basically, time is at a premium.

On the basis that by retirement age you may as well have planned your funeral and climbed into your coffin in preparation (so quick is time), what on earth makes the elderly drive so utterly, dreadfully, unimaginably slowly?

If I knew that tomorrow was my last day, I’d go and do something damn good today, and to hell with the speed limit whilst getting there. Well, with some of the old dears that I encounter, today may very well be their last day, so pootling along at 28mph it so wasteful it’s almost offensive. And why so often on a Sunday? Sure, they may have been to church and then be seeing Deirdre, but being retired does rather lavish you with the gift of ‘nothing better to do’, so why not go visit other olds during the week when normal people are at work?

I spend many a Sunday attempting to get somewhere, only to be thwarted by a maroon Skoda doing precisely 10mph less than the speed limit everywhere. I have neither the time, inclination, nor petrol to be wasting it all at this speed. But when I attempt to overtake – even when it’s completely safe to do so, Alfred suddenly decides that this youf in his blue sports car is a menace, so Maroon Fabia suddenly becomes the width of the QE2. Indeed, not a week ago I found myself behind a 1997 Saxo which was being driven so slowly that I’m sure the owner was still driving it back from the dealer – having bought it new 14 years ago. It’s not fair.

And not all elderly folk drive cars as sensible as a Skoda Fabia. Many seem to have spent their entire pension on a massive 4X4 – usually one with auto fold mirrors which are never unfolded. This is worrying. When driving a Toyota Land Cruiser, you need your wits about you. A mere moment of distraction and suddenly you’ve flattened a hamlet, and without your mirrors unfurled firstly you’ll have no idea how many cyclists you’ve squashed, but more to the point you’ll be oblivious to all the quaint weatherboarding which is littered behind you. After driving through a Victorian cottage.

I’m not going to sit here and propose that everyone over 65 should give up their driving licence, after all, there are plenty of elderly folk who can still drive just fine (Jackie Stewart and Stirling Moss – though the latter is less good with lifts). Perhaps a competency test every five years – a basic thing - just to ensure that all the basics remain. What I would propose, however, is that anyone caught dawdling with no reason other than being incompetent at driving should be made to walk the rest of the way home.

If they can’t be bothered or are incapable of getting to a place within the same decade, they may as well get fit and take in the view whilst doing so. Walking fits the bill perfectly.

Luck of the Irish

2011-03-22T10:42:00.000Z

Am I the only one that gets thoroughly wound up by St Patricks Day?

I’ve nothing against the Irish – they make good stout and produce some fine comedians. In fact, as my Grandad’s Irish, I could claim that I am actually a quarter Paddy. But I’m not. I’m 100% English. I was born in the Isle of Wight, and after a brief stint in Wolverhampton, have lived in the beautiful home county of Kent all my life. I’m about as Irish as a fried breakfast with suet pudding and pale ale on the side.

As soon as St Patricks day comes around, however, people who are as English as I am suddenly realise that they have some distant – and probably spurious – relative who hailed from the Emerald Isle. Because of this, they don a stupid top hat with a four leaf clover attached, and renounce their British roots. We suddenly become the ‘enemy’, and despite living in Chatham all their lives, would happily take to the streets to lynch their local councillor because some time back in the 19th century, great uncle Frank (twice removed) went without supper. They’ll even support the boys in Green when there’s a grand slam at stake…

I really do think that in the vast majority of cases, the old British problem of being embarrassed about being British is what causes it. It’s either that or during the 18th, 19th and early 20th centuries, the Irish spent every waking moment shagging, as there’s no other plausible explanation as to how far and wide they’ve spread (see America, who seem to have a case of mistaken identity).

The same thing appears to happen in motoring – especially when it comes to a supercar preference.

Realistically, most people who say that they prefer Ferrari’s have rarely even set eyes on one, let alone driven one. The preference is based upon verbatim and jingoism from the pens of journo’s. Same with Lambo, Porsche, McLaren, AMG etc. It’s all good saying that you’d never buy a Porsche if you won the lottery ‘because they take themselves too seriously’, but comparing a Ferrari to a Porsche to a Lamborghini is like weighing up the costs and benefits of a hi-fi, a bratwurst and a mosaic: they all have their benefits, depending on the application and situation.

Obviously, as car nuts on budgets, we love to dream. We read widely – lap up the detail and imagine the feeling as the lucky pen-pushers explain their feelings. We play GT-5 and hope to God that it’s as accurate as the makers claim, because good Lord is the MP12-4C fast. We also tend to prefer the looks of one mark over another, and what they stand for; whether it be outlandishness in the case of Lambo, or precision excellence in the case of Porsche.

Thing is, I’ve wavered between various marks as my favourite over time – just like I used to embrace my ¼ Irishness in mid-March. Now, however, I realise that as an onlooker – someone with no real affiliation – I just appreciate the cars for what they are, and in the meantime, focus on what I can afford and enjoy owning it.

Realistically, if you did win the lottery, you wouldn’t buy any of the stuff you dream of. A Ferrari or Lambo can be ruinously expensive to run, even for someone who is stinking rich. What you’d most likely do is buy a diesel saloon for day-to-day and then do the obvious thing for the weekend; buy a 911.

In the same vein, I appreciate my Irish roots, but day-to-day I know I’m lumbered with innate Britishness, thus I embrace this because it’s the best thing I’ll likely ever know.

Afterthought
Have a look at this: http://jalopnik.com/#!5760248/how-ferrari-spins

Now, Chris Harris isn’t exactly objective in his reports. If it isn’t a GT3-RS then generally, it’s rubbish in his view, but whilst we all knew that Ferrari spent most of their race budget bribing the FIA and cheating, not many people were prepared to blow the lid on the road car tests. If we believe what is in his rant (and we have no reason not to – Harris has a lot to lose and not much to gain), it appears that Ferrari’s road cars are not all they seem.

Then again, Ferrari is the very definition of ‘pretentious’. They can get away with selling computers on wheels such as the 458 (which a similar marque would be lambasted for) because Ferrari plays on its heritage for all its life’s worth. Journo’s – in souped up ‘standard’ cars – get all caught up thinking about the 430 Scuderia and 355 and can’t process the idea of criticising Ferrari for removing the driver from the experience because that’s what they think is correct.

Lastly (and whisper it), if you were a journo with a real passion for cars, Ferrari can afford to spend its whole time with a metaphorical gun pressed against your temple. They know, and so would you, that if you step too far over the party line, they can pull your invitations to launches and events. And they will dismiss criticism of a car tested privately due to ‘outside factors’.

Ultimately, I’m not too interested in Ferrari any more. On the track they’re crooked, and off the track the same. Their cars work by interpreting what the driver wants to happen using electronic circuitry – much like a modern jet fighter falls out of the sky if the flight aids fail. Well sorry Ferrari, I prefer the Spitfire. And looking at Chris Harris’ article, so do many of their long term customers.

Have I Become A Grumpy Old Motorist?

2011-03-08T18:23:00.000Z

When I passed my driving test at the tender age of 17, I had a lot to prove. Firstly, I was really into food back then, and as a result I weighed damn-near 18 stone. This meant that I had about as much success with women as a eunuch would have at a ‘biggest schlong’ competition. Secondly, as a new driver I was certain that my abilities were head and shoulders above everyone else’s, and if pitched against Schumacher or Loeb, they’d eat my dust. Unfortunately unlike Schumacher of Loeb, my antics took place on the road amongst other drivers and not on the relative safety of a track or rally stage (though Robert Kubica may disagree).

I’m not proud of some of my antics. Much of it was wrought of a heady mix of confidence, showing off, an unresolved sense of self preservation, but mostly idiocy. However, as I got away with it, I now put it all down to youth and experience and honestly feel that I am now a better driver as a result. Overtaking on blind corners in a 70bhp car may sound dim, as might the numerous hand-break turns and late night races, but at the age of 17? It’s just the done thing.

In fairness I still like to drive at what some may consider reckless speeds. I’ve been known in recent times to overtake when room is tight, and attack corners faster than is strictly necessary. Speeding is possibly my worst vice – apart from a few locations, I can’t confess to stick rigidly too all speed limits. However, in the past I would not have cared whether it was dark, raining or right in the middle of the school run. I’d have put my foot down and gone for it anyway, whereas now the foot only hits the floor when conditions are right, when I can see far enough ahead, and when I am confident that the roads won’t throw me a googley.

So what has caused me to re-evaluate my driving youthfulness?

Well, where I work there is a long straight road. It is a 30mph limit with plenty of accesses and junctions coming off it, as well as a nursery school, play park and tennis court. 99% of people that use the road never breach 25, but as I walked along it the other day, two cars came absolutely screaming off of the roundabout which is located at one end. They were racing, and easily doing 60+. So to halt their progress I stepped into the road, and stood there, forcing them to almost stop, and creep past me – whilst I waved the obligatory ‘you’re an onanist’ sign.

To me, on that day and in that location, I found their behaviour about as acceptable as walking into a classroom and announcing that you have a kiddie fetish. People would string you up, and rightly so, and it’s exactly what I’d like to have done to these two scallys. Their chav-mobiles could go to the crusher too. Thing is, and call me an enigma, but the idiocy of driving at 60 on a 30mph road was once my domain and back in the day, I’d have driven at anyone standing in the road to slow me with increased vigour.

With age and experience seems to come maturity and respect for the road. In a crowded and unpredictable environment like the British roads, you soon learn when you pass the age of 20, that you cannot hoon everywhere, and sometimes you just have to cruise and enjoy the drive. On top of that, commuting every day wears you down. No longer are journeys ‘for the sake of it’, they are at peak hour and simply to get you to work or back home again.

The rare opportunities that arise for me to enjoy the length and breadth of the Mazda are few and far between, but sacred nonetheless. And because I no longer condone driving like an idiot, I stand a much better chance of leaving the car via the door at the destination. Rather than via the window. Wrapped round a tree.

Survival of the Fattest

2011-02-09T18:55:00.001Z

With every generation humans should become more attractive, fitter, more intelligent, richer and generally better all-round. The Theory of Evolution dictates that the best specimens of a species will succeed in mating far more than the weak and feeble, resulting in the good genes being passed on, and the poor ones gradually dying out. This process, over millions of years, has left us with amazingly intelligent and successful creatures such as the Dolphin or Pig, but along the way dispatched of the Dodo and various dinosaur type things. Were it not for the intervention of well -meaning humans, the Panda would be another tick in nature’s book of has-beens, so desperate is it to finally shuffle off this mortal coil.

Something appears to have gone wrong along the way though, as at the same rate our technologies improve and enhance our lives, so the most successful creature on earth – humans – recede back into a vegetative state. So many people, too used to relying on technology or the government, are largely incapable of thought. They exist to breed, amongst one another, populating the world with more of their kind and – quite possibly – alarming Darwin in his grave at the prospect of a two-tier system of humanity. And don’t think I’m saying this for effect; if reason is the nub of intelligence, we really are doomed as a single species.

Put it this way; a statistic was recently released – to some apparent shock – that children who are brought up on a diet of chips and kebabs turn out less intelligent than those brought up on a diet of meat and two veg. Quite why this is shocking I don’t know – we all know that only the professionally stupid would feed their kids junk food, so little wonder the offspring grow up to be as unsuccessful as their parents.

A similar thing appears to have gone on with the Ford Focus.

The Mk1 was a lithe a lively way of taking the kids to school. All-round independent suspension and a decent, if not ground breaking, range of engines endowed the mid-range hatch with performance more becoming of a sports-car. It was the Focus (along with the ka) that really pulled Ford out of the doldrums of the 90s.

It was ‘Control Blade’ what did it – what made the car. Essentially a cleverly packaged double wishbone set-up, its elasto-kinematic properties endowed the car with a sharp turn-in and tight body control no matter what the cars attitude and no matter what bumps were encountered. A low kerb-weight helped proceedings at a mere 1150kgs, and with a potential 136bhp on tap in 2.0l zetec form, it was as lively in a straight line as it was in the corners.

The Mk2 brought with it the same sharp handling with a new generation of engines, and a sharper design. It was a good looking car, and despite putting on a few kilos it too was the drivers choice of bore-mobile. I drove a Mk2 a while back and was shocked at just how good it was. Even with a heavy (but deeply impressive) diesel engine up front, it took corers with vigour and precision. Threading it through a series of roundabouts was rewarding, rewarding not just for a 5-door hatch, but at any level.

Seems, however, that at some point through its life the Focus has been fed a few too many burgers and chips. Things are a’changing with the Focus – and if you enjoy driving, not for the better.

The chassis has been turned down with a greater emphasis on comfort. Handling is now ‘safe’, no longer adjustable and fun by all accounts. The previously incisive steering and keen turn-in is dulled, and the ESP can’t be turned off. It may now flow through corners, but you’d be hard pressed to chuck it at them and reap any reward. Engines may be punchy and refined, but it now weighs a few hundred more Kg’s than the Mk1, so performance is improved little – and deriving 180bhp from petrol now goes hand in hand with an engine all out of ideas at 5000rpm, instead of the sublime and revvy zetec’s of yore.

Plusses? Well, it’s bolted together properly and has so many gadgets fitted as standard that it now trumps its rivals pound-for-pound. But the raison de’etre is lost. If a Focus doesn’t thrill, it is just another boring hatch. A Citroen C4 is full of kit and goes round corners competently, but it’s no fun.

In many respects, with the new Focus Ford is going back to the mid-90s. Cars built by committee. What boxes do we need to tick, and how many gimmicks can we fit in. Unfortunately, gimmicks or no gimmicks, the Focus losing its handling prowess just goes to show that the regression of a species is not just a human condition.

WWJD (What Would Jesus Drive)

2010-12-26T22:22:00.000Z

At this festive time, it’s easy to lose objectivity. Whilst engorging one’s self on all manner of creamy and indulgent snacks, not to mention the strong festive liquors, we should remind ourselves of the origins of Christmas. Keep to the front of your mind the fact that Christmas was invented for the sole reason of mass marketing aimed at children, profiteering by big businesses and to bring bad will to all men (when they’re being dragged around Dorothy Perkins for the umpteenth time). Father Christmas didn’t go from green to red for no reason, he did it for the benefit of you and I (and Coca Cola), and whilst we sit there, full to the point of bursting and drunk as a Judge, we can be sure that all of the expenditure and wanton indulgence was probably well worth it. God save the economy!

In the back of your mind, though, you may just remember that before all of this debauchery, Christmas was a festival which celebrated the birth of Christ. Under the fuzz and haze of modern Christmases, that still holds true for a loyal few, and whilst they may spend their time worshiping and celebrating, I am far more concerned with a much more pressing issue: If cars were around in the year 0, what would the people in the story drive?

Clearly, Mary and Joseph were from a meager background. A carpenter bringing in the sole income would not a rich family make, and Mary was too busy carrying God’s child to get part time work at Morrisons’. I also have them down as un-showy and probably quite shy. For this reason they would definitely drive an unassuming car, but with plenty of space for a baby, that could be afforded on a carpenter’s wage. My guess would be a Hyundai i30. Joseph would like the security of the 5-year warranty, Mary would like the Euro ncap five star rating to keep baby Jesus safe, and best of all it can be bought for but a few sheckles. Bullitt proof reliability & decent NVH levels would’ve made the slog to Bethlehem much more agreeable too.

The three wise men – or Magi – were of a well to do background and ample means. Spending their life following stars and seeking the truths of prophecy, they were basically like ancient Champaign hippies: a bit off the wall, but with plenty of money to support their lifestyle. They covered long distances, and knowing where they were heading required amazing navigational skills. On this basis, they’d want something with satnav, something good at eating a continent, and something a bit left-field.

Melchior, whose offering was a hunk of Gold, was minted, and not afraid to show it. For this reason he’d have driven a Bentley Azure. It’s a bit old-money, but very posh and very pricey. The drop-top would also have made the trans-desert journey a breeze. Caspar bought Jesus Frankincense, which suggest he was a bit new age – maybe even a tad camp. For this reason he’d have driven an old convertible – probably a Bristol, a car perfectly decent at swallowing distance, but also a ‘lifestyle’ choice. Balthasar bought Jesus some Myrrh, which is an embalming oil. As embalming oil is essentially cosmetics based, we can deduce that he took looks seriously; he possibly had something of the Italian about him. For these reasons he’d drive a Maserati Quatroporte, pretty, Italian and a gorgeous way of cruising the Holy Land.

The shepherds were watching their flocks, by night, and were visited by a hall of angels. In a modern context, a bunch of blokes on a hillside seeing things at night suggests the use of either drugs, or vast quantities of alcohol. As this is a moot point, we can traverse the legal lines by quite reasonably suggesting that they drove – or rather rode – quad bikes.

So as to beat the local Centurion and avoid being thrown to the lions, the quad bike allows your average Biblical shepherd to drive around Bethlehem on the well-beaten farm tracks, thus avoiding the roads. It’s also the perfect tool for herding sheep, lugging bales of hay and generally skipping between the farm, cider press, and fields. These machines would’ve provided the perfect means of transporting the shepherds from their angelic experience to the birthplace of Christ, all the while avoiding the road and a date with the law.

The innkeeper is the next main player in this most brilliant of stories. I have him down as a bit of a wide boy – a loveable shyster. For one thing, he’s a landlord by trade, but being a bit of a wannabe entrepreneur he’s converted the upstairs of the pub into a hotel. Expanding on his miniature empire he’d also bolted on a farm at the back, to bring in some extra dough and provide his main concern – the inn – with meat & cider of Biblical strength.

All decent wheeler-dealers drive an old Jag. This is a well known fact. Usually the Jag in question is Gold or BL Brown and from the 80s – an old Sovereign with the smaller 3.2 litre straight 6. However, due to the innkeepers quick mindedness and business etiquette (he did, after all, think outside the box by putting Christ Incumbent in a stable) I reckon he’s probably up to late 90s XJ8 standards. This car fits the bill perfectly for a man of the innkeeper’s stature – a 3.2 litre, Metallic Claret XJ.

Herod – the baddie of the story – was a rather unwholesome type. He was clearly slightly demented, a paranoid schizophrenic with a lust for baby blood. This makes him akin to some kind of high-riding head of an evil corporation. I wanted to compare him to Rupert Merdoch, but he drives a Lexus GS450h, which is the least scary limo ever. I also wanted to compare him to Bernie Ecclestone, but unfortunately Bernie has rather good taste. So with these options off the radar, it’s got to be a Maybach. Herod wouldn’t be the type to drive anyway, he’d be in the ample passenger space barking orders into his Blackberry to murder all people within fifteen yards of his current location. It’d be armored too – anyone paranoid enough to be frightened of a baby would definitely require an armored car.

Finally, although Jesus was but a child in this story, I reckon that there’s only one type of car he’d possibly go for when he grew up. It’d be unassuming, low maintenance (too much preaching to bother with servicing), ever so slightly whimsical (turn the other cheek etc) and would blend with the crowd (God among men).

So what would the Holy God-Child drive then?

Honda Jazz. Biblically endorsed.

Beer Wheel Drive

2010-12-15T20:29:00.000Z

It’s a pretty simple rule that if you’re interested enough, the more different things you try, the more you work out how much you like them.

Cars are definitely subject to this, and being a bit of a petrolhead, anything new that I drive gets the inquisition as to whether I like it or not. As does beer. I’ll try a beer, maybe several times, just to be sure on my level of taste for it. The results of both – cars and beer – vary wildly, but this is the spice of life. So someone said anyway. But whatever, at least it keeps things interesting.

Naturally, after a few beers, the conversation strays onto cars. And as more beer is imbibed, so the comparisons between car and ale are drawn – even if they begin to make less and less sense. In fact, this happened to me recently, with a ‘boss’ in the company I work for supping on a Stella, whilst proclaiming his Jaguar XF to be the embodiment of his drink, and musing at length about the potential purchase of a Maser or Fezza. Unfortunately he was wrong on all counts. On the wages they pay here he’d be saving for approximately one millennium before he could afford a supercar, and to say that an XF is lower class, likes casual violence and gives you a headache is just plain rude.

It did occur to me, however, that I’ve now been driving for over six years, and drinking for a similar time too. So as my driving and knowledge of cars has evolved, so has my appreciation of a pint of the good stuff. But how well do cars and beer compare?

Most importantly you have to think about which are the driving wheels. A rear-wheel drive car with the engine in the front is a strong-ish ale, with a potent taste, and an ability to get you drunk from the feet up. In other words, it’s probably something like a Fullers 1845, or perhaps an Innis and Gunn Oak-Aged beer. Both are in the region of 6% and do their work starting at your toes, but whilst doing so they also have a strong and lasting taste to them.

As an embodiment of this, I’d say my MX-5 (well, the one that’s on the road…) is probably akin to a bottle of Theakston’s Old Peculiar. This dark ale rates around the 5.6% mark and is as rich in taste as it is in colour. It’s nowhere near the strongest beer you can get, but it has a habit of taking you by surprise. The engine in the MX-5 is pretty poor in terms of absolute power, but its picks up and races for the red line with verve and vim. Equally, if you sit down and drink four bottles of ‘Peculiar and then stand up, you find yourself – albeit expectedly - a bit wayward on your toes, just as the MX-5 slides with both precision and predictability.

Further up the beer/FR drive chain, the analogy keeps working. An Aston V12 Vantage is definitely a Fullers 1845 – utterly British, pretty strong, but smooth and easy to digest at the same time. It’ll also knock your socks off if you drink too much of it, just as the Aston would if you poke it with a stick. On the other hand, the Ferrari 599 can draw its parallels with the Innis and Gunn Rum-cask aged beer. This stuff is up around the 7% mark, but is so utterly drinkable you forget how much you’ve had – it has a delicacy about it which belies it’s get-drunk-ability. The 599 has the same spellbinding effect: delicate, poised and balanced, but with a hard edge when pushed, giving ample entertainment with utter delectability.

A ZR-1 Corvette on the other hand? That’s McEwan’s Champion Special Reserve: no questions.

Mid-engine cars are more like the mid-strength beer you can now get from the Far East. There’s a surprising number going around when you look out for them, but they’re not an obvious choice. The cars also tend to be fairly clinical in execution – for the most part at least – and I’d go so far as the say that the beer mirrors this. In a European beer – especially a British Ale – the variation from one bottle to another can be stark, but I’ve had enough Far Eastern beer to know that it’s consistently consistent: brewed with science rather than soul.

My MR-2 was certainly made with science rather than soul, that’s for sure. Not that this is a bad thing I hasten to add; the MR-2 was a very good car – exceedingly competent at speed, good poke and decent handling. Rather like that Chinese beer – ‘Lucky’ – it also looked good on the outside (the ‘Lucky’ bottle is shaped like a Buddha). The innards – like with the Chinese beer – is where the clinical aspect came in. Despite being 20 years old, mechanically, structurally, electrically and everything else ending in ‘ally’, it just worked – worked the way it did when it came out of the factory. Make no mistake, take the lid off it and have your fill, you’d end up drunk – whether it be on performance or alcohol – but it went about it in a controlled manner.

Some of the German Mid-engine efforts are a bit soulless too. I wouldn’t look at a Boxster or a Cayman and swoon, or even an Audi R8 for that matter, but they are effective. Certainly as sportscars go, German mid-engine affairs have pretty much all the bases covered and they’re the obvious choice. In this respect they’re like Tiger Beer. A bit obvious, a bit safe, but well finished and eminently drinkable.

A Ferrari or Lamborghini is a more exotic Eastern beer. Something potent brewed in the hills of Japan – not often seen or heard of, but if and when you can get your hands on it, it’ll blow your mind. To this effect, I could almost stray away from beer and go towards Sake’ – a queer brew whose % alcohol by volume speaks nothing of the effect it has on you… but in the spirit of the article perhaps it’s more of a Kirin Strong Seven.

Finally we have the front drivers. These are the common-or-garden cars – the lagers of the car world. Widely consumed, ever-popular, but realistically there simply to do a job. These have the widest variation in how good they are; if someone’s made a mid engine car, the chances are it’s going to be focused. A front driver, on the other hand, is the solution to the problem of making lots quickly: hence lager.

The Ford Ka, of which I have now had two, is definitely a stubby bottle of that fruity Carlsberg. Not very strong, but with plenty of flavour and completely quaffable. You’re not going to get very drunk on it, but on the flip side consuming a lot of it is no chore, as is driving the Ka. It drives sweetly with excellent steering and a precise gear-change. It won’t tax you, but you can have fun with it.

I’d probably say that a diesel Vectra is the Stella Artois of motorcars. It’s not imaginative, serves a purpose, but ultimately it’s not going to make you feel any good. It’s also driven by the poor to a low standard, and as there’s plenty of them, they’re quite cheap. Moving up in the world, the Mondeo is definitely akin to Carlsberg Export. A bit common, but also rather enjoyable.

Lastly we move onto the hot hatches. These are the Grolsch, 1664 and Heineken of the car world. A small hint of exotic but still down to earth, and also with plenty of poke. The various VAG cars that make up the mid field of hot hatchery are probably Grolsch – widely available, but that little bit too expensive to tempt most people, thus maintaining an edge. 1664 is definitely the Focus ST or RS. It’ll knock your head off if you aren’t concentrating, but you can also absorb it on a daily basis – if you are controlled – and never feel any adverse effects. Finally, Renaultsport cars are the Heineken of the car world. You don’t see too much of it, but it has an odd draw to it, and you would probably chose it over its rivals if you had the foresight to try before you bough.

And what about four-wheel-drive? Stout. Always stout.

Be Prepared – Just Don't Complain

2010-12-04T14:26:00.000Z

The snow has been pretty epic so far. I went to sleep one day and the next the whole place was covered in white stuff, may as well have gone to bed in England and woken up in Sweden. Naturally, I decided that taking the car out was a bad idea, so I did it anyway, and for the short distance I actually drove, my initial ‘bad idea’ thought was proven correct. The car went sideways everywhere. On straight flat roads, round corners, up and down hills, when gently reversing… Sideways was definitely the dish of the day.

Still, sideways is always fun, especially when it can be so easily achieved at speeds where no one could possibly get injured. A limited slip-diff was the only thing that would have made it better. Thing is, I can control sideways – I do it regularly in dry and damp conditions so it’s no biggie when the rear goes away. But for a lot of people it’s terrifying. Certainly, the woman in front of me in the BMW was having no fun whatsoever. You could see her petrified face in the mirror every so often when she hit the loud pedal too hard and the rear got squirmy. Equally, her car having ABS caused all manner of issues when coming up to junctions. It just wouldn’t slow down. I felt for her. She was driving the best she could, in the wrong car, in terrible conditions.

Small, light and rear wheel drive is the worst possible combination in snow. Switch the driving wheels to the front however, and you have the ideal tool short of a 4X4. My KA used to skip over the worst the country had to throw at it with gay abandon. Even the MR2 wasn’t too bad – with the weight of the engine directly over the driving wheels. With the MX-5’s lump up front however, short of a few bags of ballast in the boot I soon realised that as the weather rolled in, I was going nowhere. So I did the sensible thing. I simply gave up on the idea of going out other than by foot.

Trouble is, many, many, people – normal reasonable people – decided that they should venture out and expected the roads to be passable, despite the fact that by Wednesday, we’d already had 36 hours of snow, totalling a good 10 inches. And obviously, everything grinds completely to a halt. Cars crash, or are left abandoned. Roads turn to ice rinks and become impassable. And everyone complains.

The usual complaint is that the Council should have gritted the roads more heavily. But no amount of grit will overcome 60 hours of solid snowfall and freezing temperatures. Add to this the fact that sane people have stopped driving, and the grit simply becomes the base layer as it doesn’t get worked into the snow by passing traffic. Then people, stranded in some place or another, complain that the council should have seen it coming. Well they did. They gritted and cleared as much as possible in the worst pre-Christmas snow for 40 years. But it’s always going to be a losing battle. And anyway, the fools who found themselves stuck should also have seen it coming and not travelled. Worked for me. I didn’t get stuck even once.

Then the railways stop working. Third rails become frozen and the trains can’t take up power. Even if they could friction would be an issue. And everyone who thinks it’s a good idea to try and travel in terrible weather complains that South Eastern has neglected its duty by being overcome by appalling weather. How exactly? Any amount of planning and rail clearance was a completely fruitless exercise. My suggestion would be that next time big snow is forecast, Network Rail should send die-hard commuters up-track with brooms to make way for the trains.

My biggest problem with people complaining about a council’s reaction to the weather is that it would be completely unviable to ‘cope’. The press sends a reporter to Sweden, and they triumphantly stand there and say that all is well in the frozen north. Well it would be. They have no choice every year. We get snow this bad at best twice a year, and spending £Xm on new gritting lorries and snow ploughs (at £200k + a piece) is a ridiculous thing to speculate on. Especially when councils are under extreme pressure to save money. Council’s should just advise people to buy snow chains if they’re really desperate, or just grin and bear it. And stop being such whining fools completely lacking in common sense.

As it was, my little ‘5 went undriven for three days, by which point it was under 3 feet of snow – which I cunningly moulded into a rorty body kit as the thaw began. I walked anywhere else I needed to go, and to hell with work. I’m not risking driving in my car, especially when to facilitate movement would have taken a good hour with a shovel. The local shop kept me in beer and cheese. I wandered around taking photos and generally enjoying myself. And I have absolutely no reason to complain.

The simple solution to heavy snow? Employ common sense and only drive when conditions obviously allow. Just don’t complain when foolishness leaves you up shit creek.

Nico Rosberg: F1 2010 Champ

2010-11-24T21:43:00.000Z

I sometimes get a nagging sense that I simply haven’t achieved in life. Despite the relative career success, ok wages, ability to own two cars and the snazzy laptop I’m using, I have essentially failed at being a success. Compared to some people that is. Compared to some I am an absolute rip-roaring success. I pay taxes, thus I am of use at a societal level. I do a job which actually saves every household in Kent £10 on their council tax bills – thus people owe me. And despite spending a few months out of work this year, I did a damn good job in getting back to work.

But then I find myself watching the F1, and a good number of the drivers are either younger, or of a very similar age to me. And I realise that I’ve achieved in no other way than being normal. I’ll never lift the F1 world title, and it’ll be a chilly day in hell if I even get a sniff at even sitting in the driving seat of such a car. This is disappointing, but not as disappointing as being Sebastian Vettel.

Imagine spending 9 long months of touring the world, straining your limbs and mental state in gruelling, hot conditions, sever rain and total peril, only to win the F1 world title because some of the better drivers failed to do well in the last race. It must be soul destroying. Even though he equalled the number of wins with Fernando Alonso, he was so inconsistent that at no point, until the final race of the season was over, did Vettel lead the championship. And along the way he proved himself to be a bit of a petulant oaf.

It’s probably mean to load all of the blame on the ultimate victor though. No one who had a chance of winning by the final race, really deserved it – save Fernando Alonso. The problem with Alonso, though, is that despite the fact he is an amazing driver, he is also socially unacceptable. His attitude towards Petrov at the end of the Abu Dhabi GP was disgraceful. If he couldn’t get past a much slower car, let alone driver, for 30 laps, he simply didn’t deserve the title. And to then suggest that Petrov should have moved over is such a joke. It’s yet another demonstration that F1 drivers have it easy these days.

Mark Webber drove a good season, and of the two Red Bull drivers was clearly the most popular. He also seems to have picked up some Britishness, in that as soon as he had a good sniff at the title, he came over all polite and gave it up, or bottled it. Eddie Jordan – at considerable length and repetitiveness – let us know this much in the build up to the final race, and you could see it in Korea where Webber made a silly mistake, putting himself out of the race. Still, despite his likability, Webber didn’t deserve it either.

The biggest issue for the two Red Bull drivers were silly mistakes. Vettel spent a good proportion of the mid-season driving into people in completely unforced errors. His overtaking is hamfisted at best, and if it wasn’t for the advantage of an amazing car, he’d be nowhere. He’s certainly not the finished article like Hamilton, for instance. Hamilton drove a mediocre car well above its ability, and though he was far from mistake free, he never made a ridiculous move and ended someone else’s GP. His overtaking is, in short, sublime. And he is a true racer. But then again I’m biased.

With all of the mistakes, inconsistency, unforced errors and team cock-ups, it’s hard to pick out someone worthy of the crown – if the crown were given based on consistent form and driving alone. But I think that I’d give it to a Nico Rosberg all things considered. He drove a car that was clearly designed for the now useless Michael Schumacher faster than Schumacher. When Mercedes lengthened the wheelbase so that Michael stood a chance of finishing in the points, Rosberg just got on with it. He picked up several useful finishes in fifth and sixth, finishing the season 7th – or best of the rest when you remove the top three teams. All of this whilst being widely ignored by his team’s structure and the wider F1 press. A winning driver’s drive.

Still, overall the season was brilliant. I don’t buy into Eddie Jordan’s contention that it’s all down to Bernie. And I found it acutely embarrassing when Jordan essentially bent over and offered to the little weasel on the grid at Abu Dhabi. This from a man that doesn’t usually suffer fools is poor.

What actually made the season was the constant stream of unpredictability and drama. Think back to Canada – my race of the season. Schumacher spent a race driving into people (proving the FIA impotent when faced with a ‘name’ again), whilst the battle of tyres and strategy raged up front. It was also an overtaking fest, and I loved Webber’s cheeky manoeuvre when coming into the pits. That race on its own was a good summation of the season (and my man Rosberg drove the revised Merc to 6th).

So here’s to next year. Silly rule changes and daft new world tracks and all.

I’m already excited.

For Hethel’s Sake – Don’t ruin Lotus

2010-11-10T21:43:00.000Z

So a new era starts at Lotus. The date; 30th September. The place; Paris Motor Show.

The build-up has been going on for ages now. The cryptic messages started in June evoking druid Gods of the sun, mentioning dates, times and places. And some other fatuous flim-flam based around Stone Henge released in July. It was a good campaign; the rumour had been around for ages with various sitting room and professional motoring pundits predicting the re-emergence of the Esprit. But it was not so certain that everyone knew what was actually going to happen. Some just thought that they’d supercharge the Evora and be done with it.

Others took guesses at between one and five new models from Norfolk’s finest – and only – sports car manufacturer. A replacement Elise was mooted as the current model has basically been around in various iterations for well over ten years now. Then there was talk of a new Elan – as a 911 rival of all things. And obviously, the itch that no-one could scratch until the 30th September: the Ferrari rivalling Esprit.

Come the 30th September, everyone was basically frothing at the eyes to get a good look at what Lotus had been cryptically bleating on about for months. And the boys at Hethel didn’t disappoint.

Five new models of varying size, all aimed squarely at launching a full-scale attack on all fronts of the sports and supercar market. Clearly, the war planners in Norfolk had researched heavily, using Google and even Bing to search for what the other major high-end manufacturers were up to and came up with an answer for each. Something aimed at Porsche, Ferrari, Aston Martin, and… well… Lotus, with the re-invention of the Elise.

Essentially, Lotus’ plan is to bombard the market with new, well-built, relatively lightweight sportscars and tempt people out of the rivals. To do this they have secured a very large investment from their shareholders, and the Norfolk base is hoping for further governmental money to invest into the plant itself. It’s make or break. If they do it and the cars sell, Lotus secures its future. If they fail, Lotus dies. High steaks jeopardy.

Thankfully, the cars look the part. All sharp lines –almost Lambo-esq – and exquisite design touches. The Elise’s DNA is preserved in the look of the new model, and you can pick out design queues from the last Esprit in the new one. The Elan has hints of ‘458 Italia with a squat, wide and square looking wheelbase, and the Eterne – aimed squarely at the 4-door Astons and Porsches – which takes its rivals outside and gives them a hiding when it comes to looks.

I have worries though, worries which are echoed by the wider motoring press; is any of this new stuff – the new build quality, shots across the bow of Ferrari and new generation of forced induction engines – Lotus? Would Colin Chapman approve?

It seems to me that a lot of the original ‘simplify and add lightness’ philosophy has been lost – for instance the 4-door Eterne weighs upwards of 1700kgs. Sure this is lighter than its rivals, but it’s hardly likely to blow away in the wind. Equally, the new Elise seems to have put on a few pounds. The original Elise weighed in at sub 1000kgs, but the new one is going to be over that figure by a long-shot. In the middle, the new Lotus’ will trump their rivals for lightness, but aiming at the 458 – the most uber of ‘base’ model Ferrari for years – is a dangerous game.

Much of the weight is likely to be coming from the new-found build quality, something Lotus is pushing hard. As are the new range of powertrains – most of which are using some form of ‘forced induction’. This too is a worry. Modern day forced induction makes engines efficient and powerful, but also removes about 87% of an engine’s character giving it good punch but not a lot of top-end. Over recent years and in the past, top-end was what Lotus powerplants were about with a mixture of high-revving normally aspirated units and the high-end models featuring a bit of blow. Lotus has a history of both turbo and supercharged engines, and whilst superchargers are more in the spirit of recent years, it seems highly likely that due to emissions and MPGs belt driven pressure charging will be well left-out.

Lotus’ appeal was always a bit left-field. They were niche sports cars, not necessarily massive on power, build quality or looks, but dynamically brilliant. People went for them because they were relatively affordable and drove amazingly. Sure, most of the bits will fall off within the first year of ownership, but every roundabout was a joy. The future seems to be made of rather different and somewhat mainstream aspirations. Gone is the left-field, in is the need to re-pay the shareholders.

That’s how it looks from someone with an uninitiated point of view anyway. What I am aware of, however, is that in Lotus’ team of engineers includes some of the best in the business. If any group of people can pull off the task of keeping Hethel alive and kicking, whilst satisfying the coffers, it’s this group of people.

Is Lotus’ re-invention an aspiration too far? Hopefully not. And only time will tell.

My Dream Garage

2010-10-30T19:31:00.000+01:00

My Dream Garage

A man can never have too many lists. This is a well known fact. We will happily list top chocolate bars, beers, pubs, types of chair, underwear… nothing is out of bounds for a good man-list. For instance, my number one chocolate bar is the venerable Mars Bar, closely followed by the KitKat – a truly epic blend of wafer and chocolate. My favourite pub is the Penny Theatre; an unassuming place with no particularly brilliant features about it, but a ‘ness’ which is yet to be bettered.

There is so much stuff out there that you’re unlikely to ever run out of lists to compile. In the exceedingly unlikely event of this occurring, you can revert to the old trick of top/bottom lists. A list of championship lists if you will.

Perhaps the hardest list to compile (alongside ‘if you “could”, who “would” you’) is; if money was no object, what five cars would you have in your garage and why. There is so much option which is constantly changing and updating, and opinions can be so fickle, that it really is a never-ending point of muse. Still, might as well have a crack. SO, in no particular order…

Bugatti Veyron

And not the silly Supersport version – the original. Clearly this car is the ultimate iteration of money over sense, but it managed to be this whilst not being power above everything else. Hyper-luxury was the name of the game and Bugatti pulled it off with aplomb, rolling out a car which was both insanely fast and super-refined at the same time. It may have weighed in at a rather podgy 1.8 tonnes, but with 1000bhp on tap it was no slouch, and by all accounts the four-wheel-drive system kept the handling precise, if lacking in ultimate pointyness.

Nowadays the old Bug is no longer king of the hill. In fact its crown was pretty short lived, losing it to the Ultimate Aero fairly quickly. But whilst the Ultimate Aero was a bit more ‘hand made’ (flaky), the Bugatti lost nothing in integrity – though it was expensive at £800k. I have to be honest, I can’t stand over-powered meat machines which weight 11 tonnes but make up for it with three thousand horsepower, and the need-for-speed race is just silly, but the original cannot be overlooked.

McLaren F1

In some ways the polar opposite to the Veyron, but with the same ultimate result; world’s fastest production car. It’s a big demonstration of how modern weight and aerodynamics have neutered supercars. The F1 managed 240mph on just over 600bhp from a naturally aspirated V12. Modern supercars easily produce similar power but are pegged by the burden of excess at around the 210mph mark. It is the purity of design of the F1 which attracts me: Gordon Murray’s design principle (the circle of brilliance or whatever fatuous bollocks it is) embodied in the ultimate car.

It too is a pricey proposition, but this a money-no-object exercise. It is also surprisingly practical, packing three seats and apparently able to get 19mpg with feet of feathers, compared to the Bugatti’s 10mpg. I love the lightness and the detail. The way the car hasn’t aged a year since being released is testament to its purity, and although it is supposedly ‘twitchy’, it doesn’t matter for the simple reason that you are driving the ultimate. The ultimate in uncompromised performance.

Nissan GT-R (2011 Spec)

The modern GT-R is a marvel. For the price of an absolute base-spec 911 you get a car as fast an a Ferrari – and cross-country, much faster. Granted, much of this pace was due to the amazing computer system which vectored power to the correct wheel and the ‘estimated’ 470bhp (which – when tested – was more like 530bhp). Each car’s powetrain is also completely bespoke. A gearbox from one GT-R will not work with a different car. And at £63k???

I’ve gone for the new-spec car as the Japanese design team have released it in the spec that they were building up to all along. Obviously the 2007 car is no shrinking violet, but with power and torque upgrades along with a revised computer system, the 2011 spec is edging ever closer towards the hyper saloon category. Anything that handles with such aggression that it will pull your eyeball out of their sockets is right up my street and combined with scarily quick cross-country potential, trips to the parent’s house will no longer consist of monotonous motorway boredom. Money no object, I’d use one as my day-car.

Ariel Atom Supercharged

One of the few cars on this list that I have actually driven. It took my breath away.
I was only on one of those good, but ever-so-slightly disappointing driving days and the Atom was the only choice of steed. So as to not allow amateurs the pleasure of lunching the gearbox or engine you are only allowed 4th and 5th gears, but from 40mph to 135mph took no longer than 8 or 9 seconds. Probably less. The acceleration is such that you simply can’t calculate what’s happening in your mind. You hold on and watch for the last red light on the change-up display to ignite then slot home the next gear only to experience it all over again. All the while the elements are doing their best to strip you of your skin.

This would be my track car, though I’d definitely spec the front and rear wings as well the optional brake pack. Clearly I wasn’t pushing the Atom I drove through the bends, but on cool fronts it felt distinctly understeery, and the brakes (un-servo’s as they are) were weak. With temperature and, frankly, abuse, you can just tell that the package would come together as an uber track-day weapon.

Ford Sierra RS Cosworth

When I was small there was a mystique surrounding the ‘Cosworth’ name – or Cossie, to the initiated at least. The later Escort was the darling of the bunch with its whale tail, more modern looks and compact size. However, it is the older, more butch Sierra which always excited me. As a child I’d watch it on the Lombard Rally, puffing, snorting and wheezing under the burden of a lag-tastic turbo. The Y-B engine is itself a legend, never mind the cars they powered.

My experience of the Sierra Cossie came a few years back when I was given a lift home in one. It was – what us geeks know as – ‘Stage 2’, which meant the standard 220bhp had been upped to more like 250bhp, with an immense amount of lag to go with it. Below 3000rpm the engine was sluggish and lack-lustre, but above this point and with a whoosh of turbo-puff you were off, big torque, big power and big explosion of internals – sometimes.

I could go on with my ‘top garage, but we’d both be here all day. And on top of that, my list of favourite cars is so fickle that come tomorrow I shall probably hate the Sierra Cossie and decide that everything ever made by Ferrari was brilliant. That’s half the fun though. With every year new cars come out, bound to be somebody’s favourite, so the excitement that a top-car list provides is a truly dynamic thing. Long may it continue.

MX – 5 running report - Oct 10

2010-10-25T22:54:00.000+01:00

So, it’s been a hard month since the last running report and apart form the crack in the windscreen, everything’s been absolutely brilliant.

Apart from the whole cold/sunny/winter thing. But apart from the whole ‘cold thing’, it’s been excellent. I still drop the roof at every opportunity, even if it makes me dress like a madman. To be honest, every time someone questions my decisions to go topless, I just remind them I’m British and get on with it. Dressing like an idiot in aviators, a flat cap, gloves and a coat when it’s less than 10 degrees is hugely satisfying. Unfortunately, I have somewhat unserestimated the temperature recently, so I’ve found myself outside at minus X degrees - chilly to say the least.

Then the Avon ZV-3 tyres decided to play up. I’ve been getting used to these tyres for a while now, the blend of usability and grip that they provide is intoxicating, thus on every slippery surface I’ve been reviling in the adjustability of it all. Unfortunately, the other day I left commercial services car park to the unmistakable 'flump-flump' of a flat tyre. A flat tyre which I couldn’t replace due to locking wheel nuts to which I didn’t have the key. A call to the previous owner didn’t even turn up trumps.

So I gave up, went to the pub, and got picked up later. I returned the next day with a tin of Holt's 'Tyreweld' - amazing stuff which inflates your tyre and plugs the hole, thus allowing me a few days on the dodgey tyre to work out how to remove the wheels. The result has been £150 in new rubber and £25 in new wheel nuts as the locker's needed 'forcibly encouraging' to part company with the wheel studs. I need to scrub the rubber in to make it react as well as the part-worn Avon's, but a bit of wear will go down a storm, and make them nearly as malleable as the ZV-3’s.

In the mean time the car has just covered 175K and the motor’s as strong as ever providing it's kept topped up with decent oil. It also still surprises me how small the ‘5 is too. Parked next to a Range Rover it looks tiddly.

In the mean time, I’m buying another mx-5 for £500, and doing it up over the winter. It’ll be ready for the April sun/track-day season. Hurrah.

MPG: 32ish
Cost: £185 – tyres and nuts
Miles: 950

What’s in a Name?

2010-09-30T19:09:00.000+01:00

Gucci. Versace. Louis Vitton.

All bllocks, really, aren’t they. You pay through the nose for something that wears a name, is made out of some kind of rare species, and does a job no better than the £20 fake you could get from you local market. When purchasing something because it wears a posh badge, you may as well just be using your hard-earned as kindling. It’s wasteful and ridiculous.

Plenty of people go for this nonsense though. Few days go past when someone doesn’t come into the office proclaiming that their new ‘Mills and Boon’ skirt is the best thing ever, and you simply have to see it. Then there’s the constant make-up one-upmanship. Channel number 7 or L’Oriel Special Brew (or something) go head to head in a war of words and stories of how waterproof one is over the other. Buy as much as you may be worth it, the £128 you spent on what amounts to a stick of reconstituted animal, just isn’t. And the Brand Race that occurs in every coffee house and office up and down the land is just a farce based upon how individuals value certain products, rather than their actual worth.

Let’s face it, most of us couldn’t give two hoots about anything ‘by’ some spurious Italian, or the latest range of overpriced dross. The braggers brag amongst themselves whilst the rest of us snigger at their idiocy, quietly pointing out that the equivalent we bought from Burtons cost a tenth of the amount of the real deal, and we’re prepared to wear it in the pub because if beer is spilt on it, we won’t weep at the expense of dry cleaning. We will just chuck it in the wash at some point and hope for the best.

There are few feelings better than watching a brand addict try and justify their purchase when you can sit back, £100 to the good, safe in the knowledge that your imitation does the job every bit as well. And you are out on the lash tonight with your savings, whilst brand-man sits at home, with no heating on, eating gruel.

The few ‘branded’ goods I’ve ever bought because of their name have either broken or been sold. My Fender Stratocaster lasted 6 months with me, because I very quickly realised I’d bought the name, not the guitar. It was replaced by a cheap-as-chips copy. Which is brilliant.

Fashion magazines can go swivel. Non-branded goods are cool.

Gordini. Arbath. Boss. GTO.

All names synonymous with motorsports success or automotive genius. Gordini took base-spec Renaults and made the rally winning machines. Arbath made his name in motorsport and created various souped-up Fiats. The ‘Boss’ was the ultimate Mustang – tuned for motorsport with a no compromise approach. GTO: Ferrari’s homologation specials – lightweight and highly powered interpretations for the road of what Ferrari wanted to be racing on the track.

All of these names have been recently revived. And one does think that for the most part, they probably should have been left alone – at least until the manufacturers could be bothered to do it properly.

I’m baffled – frankly – by Renault’s re-ignition of the Gordini name. If they took the true spirit of Gordini, they’d have endowed the Twingo and Clio with more power and a sharper chassis. However, Renaultsport has spent the last few years making a name all of its own. Its products are now the yardsticks by which every other hot hatch is judged, so what was the point in resurrecting Gordini?

Well the cynic would suggest marketing, profiteering and a new gimmick. And when analised, this pretty much stands up to questioning. The facts of the new Clio Gordini are the following:
• The Clio Gordini has the same engine as the standard Renaultsport
• The Clio Gordini has the same chassis as the Renaultsport
• The Clio Gordini has pretty much the same spec as a well specified Renaultsport
• The Clio Gordini differentiates in no other way than a new colour, body kit and mostache. And it costs £4k more.

So for your extra outlay on this ‘special’ edition, you get, well… nothing really. You may as well stick with the standard – Burtons – Clio and laugh hysterically at those fools with their fancy paint job.

Abarth has mostly done a better job. The cars they produce – especially the 500 – is a product of Abarth the manufacturer, and as such are sold through their dealerships. However, the new Punto Evo is a bit of a con in my book. The engine may be a great little pokey, turbo charged techno-valve unit, but it isn’t exactly bespoke. Nor is the chassis, or half the trim. In fact all of the car’s building blocks are shared throughout Fiat’s range through the joyously monotonous platform sharing that is so common nowadays.

The Abarth Punto Evo is as much Alfa as it is Fiat or Abarth. Its specialness is diluted by the shared mechanics, and the name simply designates it as the ‘sporty’ model. Bring back the old ‘Sporting’ range unless you do it properly like on the 500 I say; it’s less pretentious.

Finally, we have the 599 GTO.

Applying the three letters ‘GTO’ to any car is a risky business. The association of the GTO badge to Ferraris has happened so rarely, and is so symbolic that as a manufacturer, Ferrari had to be careful not to take them in vein. GTO designates a model that has been created for the race track – but due to racing regulations (Group B for instance) had to be homologated for road use to qualify. A GTO is a bold statement of intention and can’t afford to be a sloppy marketing exercise, no matter how good the finished product. The car must be a racing homologation; else the point of the GTO is lost.

So, applying this logic, it seems Ferrari have lost the point.

The 599GTO is no homologation model. It’s simply a road-going 599XX, which was itself no racing car – merely a technical exercise in what ‘Ferrari can do’. On top of this, the GTO isn’t exactly stripped-out, weighing in at a porky 1600kgs, thus making it one of the more portly ‘stripped out’ cars available. Past GTOs – such as the 288 – were built for the track, adopted for the road. A 599 is emphatically not built for the track, even if the GTO has been adapted for track-based purposes. You may as well have gone for the standard – ‘Next’ – 599 rather than blowing £X00,000 on a Gucci GTO for all the good it would do you.

Anyone other than me think that the 430 Scuderia would’ve worn the GTO badge more convincingly? After all, a race series was created around it…

Re-hashing old motorsport names is all good when done properly (see Mini Cooper for details). But it’s probably about time that manufacturers had the bottle to create new ‘Fast’ names. After all, if they aren’t going to grace the names of past greats, they may as well disgrace new ones.

The Motoring Obesity Epidemic

2010-09-26T16:20:00.001+01:00

The news is constantly reminding us that out of every 10 people in this country, about 12 are obese. Stats are bounded around about how it’s costing the NHS eleventy billion pounds per day and that the average life expectancy for someone in Boston, Lincolnshire, is about 24 months – most people lolloping over and pegging it with veins of fat and lungs of lard before the tender age of three. Pounds cost pounds, and the tax payer is stumping up the money for people’s love of cake.

Thing is, we really don’t need the news to tell us any of this. I work in an office where a fair proportion of the people there can rest their tea on their stomachs – which sit atop the desk like a comfy arm rest. Whereas some of us will pop to Asda at lunch for some health grub, most of the fatties can barely lever themselves off their special fat person chairs to waddle to the toilet. They baulk at the idea of even walking the 700 yards to the supermarket, preferring to wait for the food trolley to come round. This is the point in the day when they get 90% of their exercise. As the squeaky wheels of the trolley of delights wobble their way into the office, those that worship at the church of calories jump (well they would were it not for the cruel bonds of gravity) up and almost jog to get their fill so that they can stuff their faces with even more dietarily iffy grub.

Just walking down the street can be an issue. Constant avoidance is needed in many town centres as people who are so big that they should – strictly speaking – have their own parish council, wheeze their way between KFC and McDonalds. I’m glad that England doesn’t lie on a major fault line, as the shock of some of these people getting off a bus would probably set off a 6 on the Richter scale.

In the past, however, people were generally slight and acceptable to society. They lived a life of hardship – moving things on docksides and making munitions. Processed food hadn’t yet been invented and the burger was a mere glimmer in the eye of a clown with a hint of paedophilia about him. Now the government is hell-bent on taking things back to the way they were, with people tipping the scales at weights that aren’t measured in tonnes. They should apply some of these initiatives to the car industry too.

In the past, hatchbacks weighed in at around 850kg – the earlier Escorts, Civics, Astras etc. Larger Saloons came in at just over 1000kg and the top of the line models up to 1500kg. Nowerdays a Focus weighs around 1300kg, a 2.0 Mondeo a whopping 1477kg. And if you want to know the weight of a top of the line Merc, you’re talking in terms of small commercial vehicles. A Bentley Continental GT is well over two tonnes, and if you filled a Land Rover Discovery with things, then hitched a trailer, you’d need an LGV licence.

The biggest problem with weight is that it numbs and blunts a car’s edge. I don’t know anyone who looks at a massively overweight person and thinks ‘phwoar – I’d like a slice of that’ just as I don’t know anyone who thinks that by adding weight a car’s dynamics improve. No car manufacturer makes a special, heavyweight edition, however, all the world’s best supercar makers are falling over themselves to make superlight and slimmed down models; see Lambo Superlagera, Ferrari Scud/GTO, Porsche GT2/3 & Aston N24 for details.

Most of the aforementioned supercars knock between 50 and 200kg from their standard weight, which is great. But the problem lies in that ten or fifteen years ago, the equivalent road models weighed that much less naturally. And as power outputs aren’t massively up on ten years ago, what has happened is that to get a dynamically sound car, the manufacturers have to festoon their models with electronics and fancy gadgetry. This puts further separation between man and machine, thus diluting the driving experience.

I had a quick look earlier in the latest Top Gear mag and was horrified at the Skoda VRs’ weight – well over 1300kgs for what should be a hot hatch. Hot hatches were supposed to be light, powerful, front drive and a tad lairy. I’ve been in a VRs and it was none of these things, but it should be because the engine is a gem of twin-charging genius. I recon that if Skoda lost about 200kgs off the kerb weight it would be the car that it should be. In fact, I’m all for a blanket 1150kg weight target for all hot hatches. It’d make the cars lithe, lively, accelerative and fun. And fun is what driving a hot hatch should be about.

It’s the same story further up the food chain. The new Ferrari 599 GTO is a masterpiece of power and technology, being purposely unstable to maximise agility. However, it weighs 1600kgs, and no matter how big and powerful your V12, 1600kgs (in a ‘lightweight’ model?!) the car is always going to have excess and frankly unwanted inertia. Slim it down to 1400kgs? My guess is improvement. Same story with the 458. To overcome its extra weight over the outgoing 430, Ferrari simply wielded its Mallet, rather than turning to its usual precision chisel approach. It just upped the power and added electronics – undoubtedly to great effect – but adding power to combat weight is a bit… well… Mercedes. And Ferrari’s approach to performance should be rather more considered that Merc’s various AMG sledgehammers.

Put it this way. The heaviest car I’ve ever owned weighed 1250kgs, and I thought it too heavy. I am far more happy, and have far more fun in something in the sub 1000kg category. Weight engineers out chuckability and no amount of power of suspension modification can hide it.

Thankfully Mazda is beginning to take a lead, reducing the weights of its incoming models over the outgoing ones and maintaining sizes by using engineering witchcraft. The next MX5 is set for a weight limit of 1050kgs, just 100kg more than my little MK1 – which is so light I always keep at least half a tank of petrol in it, just so it doesn’t fly away in the breeze. Fiat have managed it too, and other car companies are following suit. I just hope that performance cars start on the automotive equivalent of weightwatchers else the next gen of hypercars will be bulbous and lardy reflections of a lost age of athleticism.

Just as a person benefits in every way from keeping their lard in check, so do cars. Car industry take note.

Sharing the Road with the ‘Jeremy Kyle’ set

2010-09-05T15:54:00.001+01:00

Driving along the M23 today in the 1st lane I found myself approaching a slower-moving car at some pace. So, I indicated, picked my gap, and moved over into lane 2. Nothing untoward about that.

Problem was I’d seen him coming and could guess what was going to happen next. Mr Anger in his Transit Connect saw my indication and sped up to close the gap I’d picked. And as I pulled in anyway, he was instantly enraged and spent the next 2 miles alongside me swearing through an open window – which obviously I could hear because my windows were shut and there was no engine, tyre, or wind-rush at 70mph. At first I just flicked the Vs at his stupid attitude, but fearing I was now on his level, I took to blowing kisses. This turned his countenance a shade of red usually reserved for post boxes, which made me laugh hysterically, which angered him more. Eventually he decided just to tailgate the Alfa in front of him, then cut-up two lanes of traffic as he came off at junction 9 for Gatwick.

A similar thing happened the other day. Someone pulled out on me from a quasi (but signed ‘give way’) slip from the A21 to the A25. I gave them a beep and whilst holding their phone in one hand, proceeded to swear at me with their other hand. Despite the fact that the error was on their part. Then the truck behind me flashed his lights and began to join in the ‘swear at Ben’ fest – for absolutely no reason that I could fathom.

I think the problem here is mostly unintelligence – mixed with the fact that Mr Transit, Mr Truck and Mr Mobile Phone were almost certainly eunuchs. The fact that Transit Connect man actually sped up to close a gap I was clearly going into is an advert for the fact that he has not one GCSE to his name, and probably struggles to spell ‘tosser’, which coincidentally, is the right word to describe him. Had he a modicum of intelligence he’d have left the gap open and all would have been well.

Thing is, there’s a channel called ITV which is aimed mostly at idiots, and screens a program called ‘The Jeremy Kyle Show’. What happens here is that beings of little-to-no intelligence are sat in front of cameras so that they can air their dirty laundry to other beings of little-to-no intelligence. Obviously, their awful little life is the centre of the universe, and the three square miles around their home is the universe. So everything else simply circles around it, thus they are sure that the paternity of their latest result of a drunken night out is of critical national importance.

What then happens is a man of questionable brain power outwits them by sucking up, then turning and chastising them heavily. Essentially, you have to have the nous of a swamp-dwelling insect to be outwitted by Jeremy Kyle, and yet they can fill an hour of television every weekday morning. And within each show they fit in three ‘issues’, usually involving four people, thus of a week 60 examples of pond life are given a pedestal on which to stand and expose their stupidity to wider society.

As a rule I avoid lower class scum like I would avoid a virile pox. I will take long de-tours to not go into areas where mouth breathers shout insults simply because your knuckles don’t drag along the ground. Hence I never go to Thannington, deepest Sturry, most of Herne Bay, Hersden, and every other scum-hole you can think of. They are full of folk who think that the world owes them something and therefore have a chip on their shoulders when they see someone succeeding on being a decent human.

Problem is, on the road network you often come across people in Vectras, Transit Connects and a host of other lower-class motors, and they are completely unavoidable. You can’t go the other way around the M25 because an M-reg Astra driven by someone bathed in tattoos headed down the slip road four cars before you do. And if you pull up at some traffic lights – even in Sevenoaks – there’s a decent chance that the chap in the Fiat Croma behind you is drunk and aching for a bit of pugilism.

Another problem is that the police can’t go around arresting people for being unsightly, or lower class. Or even driving a Fiat Croma. So as motorists we simply have to accept that rather than acknowledging a mistake, there’s every chance that Mrs Thannington Without (money) will simply get out at the next set of traffic lights and hurl abuse at you for being cut-up. And you can’t argue back, because even though she shows all the outward signs of being a man, you can’t hit her. And there’s no point swearing at someone to whom ‘Fuck’ is a verb, a noun, adjective and an adverb. There’s not even any point in trying to explain in a reasonable manner, because they will not comprehend what you are on about. It is truly desperate.

I do have a plan however.

The driving test is in constant review. To weed out the in-breads from the humans there should be an IQ and reasoning test to go along with the application for a provisional licence. This means that dim – but generally affable people – aren’t at a disadvantage (there would be no maths involved), but swamp dwellers would be completely out-foxed as ‘reason’ is not a word with which tye are familiar.

Finally, I leave you with a nugget of brilliance from a colleague at work:

‘They’ll take over the world you know – the scum. They breed much faster as they don’t know what contraception is other than a crisp packet and a rubber band, which isn’t necessarily effective. There needs to be a test before anyone is allowed to reach puberty, for the future of the country.’

Said in jest, but tell me you don’t agree…

MX-5: Cracks Starting to Appear?

2010-09-01T18:43:00.000+01:00

Yes. That’s the short answer.

Pootling along the other day I noticed a small crack forming in the driver’s bottom corner of the windscreen. It had grown - in an Autoglass style’ – from a chip which I had failed to notice as it was just below the black surround of the ‘screen. It’s now grown as big as it’s going to thankfully, arcing from the bottom of the windscreen to about 1.5 inches up the side.

Other maladies? Well as is traditional with an MX-5 one of the sills has gone all middle-aged and retains water causing a rather amusing sloshing to occur after heavy rain. It’s a simple blockage of a drain hole, but I’ll be buggered if I can find the damn thing to unblock it. It drains gradually over time, but with the British weather we’ve been having lately it tends to fill up relatively quickly. I have finally located the source of the horrible metallic rattle which I initially thought was ARB related: the windscreen wiper strut is loose – weight removed from mind.

On the plus side, the hood is still water tight(ish) and the engine is sweet as a nut, proving smooth, keen and with no particular thirst for 5W-30. I’m also getting good at wearing out the Avon ZV-3s on the rear by drifting around various corners. My best so far has to be out of Sevenoaks’ Tesco’s car park, hitting the tight roundabout at about 35 and lifting to get the back swinging, then hitting the gas to keep it there. The road onto which I turn is two lanes, and last time I came round there sideways a car was stopped right were I was aiming to end the slide and carry on as normal. This was tedious, but thankfully the ‘5 is deft and easy to control, so I just kept the gas in and drifted around the obstacle. It probably didn’t look great on the outside, but I felt like a man. Rain eases the ability to slide, which is the only plus point of the latest deluges.

I’m keeping to my promise though, and at all possible opportunity the hood is lowered, causing some chillyness, but endowing the cabin with all the nasal treats that late summer brings. Honestly, apart from taking in the sunshine, it is the smells which make convertible driving so damn good: bonfire, creosote, fresh-cut grass etc. Only problem are the terrible Arriva buses spewing noxious gases like an ITV news journalist. Best solution is to drop it into 2nd and simply sweep past, allowing the rather lovely noise of the 173K strong 4-pot to join all its other sensory highlights.

Mileage this month: 900 approx
Costs: Nil
MPG: 34

The World’s Fastest?

2010-08-18T20:25:00.000+01:00

At the moment it seems the ‘en vogue’ thing to either be building, or planning to build the world’s fastest production car. There are various contenders that have been revealed from secrecy, most notably the Bugati Veyron Super Sport: 1200bhp and near enough 270mph. To put that in perspective the first Spitfires were down 200bhp on a Veyron SS.

Not to be outdone, Koenigsegg has unveiled its Agera: 250mph+ of untamed Swedish fury. SSC – previous holders of the World’s fastest production car – haven’t taken the usurping lightly and are upping the boost on the Ultimate Aero. Then we have Hennessy Venom with a claimed top speed of 272mph, all in the guise of a LWB Lotus Elise. Finally, some shed-dwellers have come out having spent much time and effort on Photoshop, with the Dagger GT: 300mph’s worth of unhinged idiocy.

All this foreign competition has left the previous holders (us) smarting a bit. But thankfully England is the land of men – bordering on insanity but straying into genius – who drink too much tea and spend their entire existence tinkering or inventing. On that note, I went in search of our next contender for ‘World’s fastest production car’, and came up trumps.

A quick bit of investigation turned up the ‘Stuart Parthtaed’. Pronounced ‘Path-Teed’, it is named after a mythological creature of Chinese origin that sets traps for un-witting humans walking the banks of the Yangtze River. Well that’s what its inventor – Stuart Pididea – told me anyway (I thought it was ‘deathtrap’ spelt backwards) but with engineering credentials of his you wouldn’t question the man. The car’s on-paper (but completely unproven) figures speak for themselves. 350mph top end and 0-60 in ‘sub 1-second’ are figures not to be sniffed at.

Starting his engineering career as an engine developer for Mountfield Lawn Mowers having come from a top position within Barnsley Woolworths, Stuart (or Stu as he insists I call him) was soon scouted out by Morris to work on the widely ignored Ital. Asking him about the early days, he clearly looks back with pride;

“BL were shite” – he says in his thick northern tome. “I developed ‘rudimentary air conditioning system in 1978 where t’windows was ‘lectronically lowered when ‘temperature hit 20C. Me bosses said it were daft, so me ‘n lads went on strike, but that were the way it were!” Stuart chortles.

Small set-backs like this didn’t put Stuart off however. Leaving BL by mutual agreement in 1985 due to a legal wrangling involving a case of decapitation and bad workmanship, Stuart vowed to spend his time pushing the boundaries of what is possible, and socially acceptable.

“Me driving force were me wife” Stuart insists. “She never left ‘bloody house except to get ‘barnet chopped and to gossip ‘bout local goings on” he muses. “The bloody woman drove me insane so I stayed in ‘shed all bloody time!” he insists with a wry smile. “All ‘time I were trying to develop something that’d do 350mph and I could drive every day t’pub ‘n like.”

Clearly Stuart’s passion for engineering and his drive to stay away from the ‘missus’ didn’t leave him, as he is now – after 20 years in the making – ready to unveil to a bored and uninterested motoring press, the Parthtaed.

I was granted a pre-unveiling audience with the Parthtaed to sample for myself the machine which is set to show the hyper-car world a thing or two. I met Stuart at his workshop in Barnsley, along with his engineering partner-in-crime Fred Inlaff. The garage itself was a modest affair straddling the gap between the municipal tip and an abandoned railway siding to the south of the centre of town. But although the setting was less than opulent, what lay inside the workshop was set to shock and stun me.

Looking a bit like a 1992 Corvette that had been magnetised and driven into a motor factors, the Parthtaed was – I was assured – designed and built from the ground-up using “all ‘best parts me mate John-O could get his grubby mits on” says Stuart. He admits that some parts of the car were borrowed from the ‘Vette – not least the engine. Asked why he decided to go with the 5.7-litre V8 as a base, Stuart told me of the strength and reliability that was an intrinsic part of the unit. Now sporting two superchargers and a turbo “for good measure” the heavily revised engine kicks out ‘about 2000bhp’.

Stuart comments;
“Me ‘n Fred were aiming for ‘bout 2000 horse, and we knew that by boring out the Chevy block using nowt but me father’s old hand lathe, and adding some ‘o that forced induction lark we could up ‘t’power by ‘bout 1800bhp over standard. Superchargers come off a Jag and a Buik. Couldn’t get two ‘same you see. Then ‘turbo come off a 1987 Mitsubishi Starion – cos its Jap ‘n reliable ‘n that.”

Clearly calling on his engine-design past, Stu’s engine is something to behold. A myriad of pipe-work and pent up fury, the mere look of it suggests potent rage. Unfortunately Stuart couldn’t start this pre-production unit on my visit due to an issue with a con rod and some wrangling with the local MOT station about emissions. Still, with rolling-road readouts showing a sharp rising power curve (which seemed to die off to almost nothing very rapidly at about 8000rpm), the car should provide an intense accelerative experience.

Transmission comes straight from a Scannia. It’s a 16 speed, two-stage unit with a throw akin to stirring coal and a long, but (probably) positive clutch action. A monumentally long final drive will see 350mph assuming the engine lasts the course. Handling is dealt with using the basic Corvette set-up, but with revised damper settings. Stuart explains: “The basic Corvette set-up is intrinsically good – it were widely praised for its ride and handling in the US press in ’92 so we had no issues over it in 2010. To cope with ‘weight and ‘power we strengthened it with RSJ and 2X4 box-section.”

The car oozes subtle detail. Clean welds and a general lack of chassis rust show an attention to detail that Heir Porsche would be proud of. The interior is un-obviously decadent, blending the best bits of the 1990 Jaguar XJ6 with early Mondeo detailing and seats.

Clearly the price for all this won’t be cheap. Stuart is aiming for a £2.6 million price tag per unit, but with enough rich middle-eastern men already prepared to stake their fortunes on iffy looking and under-developed European and American efforts, Stuart is sure of success.

“As I see it, it’s bloody marvellous.” comments the car’s inventor, developer and stylist.

And with confidence like that, who can argue?

Stu Pididea
F. Inlaf

Names to remember.

Jaguar – Comfortably Traditional

2010-08-02T18:44:00.000+01:00

Jaguar. Makes you think of tweed really, doesn’t it. Tweed, a musty smell and Pheasants – culled by buckshot – hung from hooks in the pantry. Essentially, Jaguar is ‘traditional Britishness’.

Not really cool any more, traditional Britishness. Some time around 1955 everyone suddenly decided that rather than aspire to raise yourself from the slums of our concentrically-split cities, you were more than happy donning a leather jacket and spitting on each other. As the years slipped by, ‘BBC English’ fell out of favour. Where once TV used to hark back to Pathe’ newsreels where well spoken men in thick rimmed specs talked at you, come the advent of punk music, popular capitalism and Margaret Thatcher, pushing the boundaries was all the rage.

All at the same time – during the same era – British stately homes fell into disrepair or were simply demolished. Elvis Presley and our own (somewhat diluted, closet homosexual) Cliff Richard drove round in large Cadillacs showing us the American way. Rock music started making statements; we don’t need no education: whilst hippies experimented with casual chemistry. And all the while traditional British toffs, in their ivory towers, began to run out of the family fortune – what with none of them having worked for 11 generations, and the family silver was running low. Didn’t help that eBay wasn’t yet invented to help flog off the coat of arms.

None of this is a bad thing really, lets be honest. Pathe news is a quaint throw-back to a time when Gay meant happy and had no connotations with rear-ending another man. Most stately homes had been steadily decaying for 30 years and to put that right even more miners would have had to be thrown into the furnaces to keep the economy ticking over. Equally, whilst the big-bands have a certain something, ‘Bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover’ is a hateful tune which makes misty eyed Daily Mail readers weep a little, and take one step further towards full-blown xenophobia.

Rock music was pretty terrible at first, but once the 60s kicked in, all was put straight. The 70s only improved on this. Tell me that ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ isn’t the single greatest embodiment of the desperation of many people’s lives and I will call you a fool. Tell me that ‘Machinehed’ by Deep Purple isn’t the single most complete rock record ever, and I’ll scoff at your bad taste.

In amongst all this social revolution, what was true at all times were the demise of the ‘British’ way, and the continuation of Jaguar desperately trying to slow the demise well.

In the way that an old country estate whiffs of must, so does an old Jaguar. That hint of wood and leather hewn together with attention and love, and enhanced with a sprinkling of ‘damp’. Despite this, in the way that a wood panelled drawing room with button-backed wingback chairs and a log fire is utterly ‘right’, so is the way a Jaguar looks and feels.

The XK120 and XK150 are design masterpieces, as is the MK2. William Lyons always ad a canny ability to capture the way light reacts with curves on paper, and he was lucky enough to have the right staff to make his drawings a reality. His engineers also produced some of the classic engines of mid last-century. The Coventry V12 is one of the smoothest engines you will ever encounter and lived a long life – produced well into the 1980s. The Jaguar straight-6 was produced in various guises right into the 1990s, despite having its roots in the 1950s. Then there are the shapes – timeless.

Unfortunately for Jaguar, it mirrored wider society by having a bit of a crisis in the 1980s. The cars became shoddy and of the quality you would expect from any BL product. They lost their way with design, building down to a price whilst attempting to (and failing) hark back to the heyday of the 1950s and 60s.

Thankfully for us and for Jaguar, they survived a spell under Ford and have come out smelling of roses whilst managing to produce some of the best cars available for sale today for a budget of £8.50. Not only this, they have managed to make ‘traditional Britishness’ cool.

I’m a bit of a Jag o‘Phile to be honest. If I thought that it wouldn’t completely ruin my life, I’d buy a cheap one tomorrow. If I could afford a good one, I’d be driving it tomorrow. You see I’ve been fairly lucky in that I’ve experienced a few Jags – I sat in an XK when the new design was released a few years back and loved it. I also sat in a last-gen XJ and needed to have it; it was oak panelled drawing room stuff for me.

Now, I’ve had a good go in a new XJ and you know what? It’s fabulous.

Firstly, it’s huge – especially the LWB version I went in. It also has a look (granted, only appreciable in the flesh) of a gentleman serial killer – as a Jag should. Looks like the kind of car that would treat you to a nice brandy, a good Pheasant shoot, and then once all the local birds were felled would turn the shotgun on you. And you know what? You would be almost pleased to be its victim. The one I was in was black with tinted windows, and even if the car didn’t get you, it gave the impression that its occupants would.

The interior is – mostly – a triumph. I can only compare it to a mock-Tudor Bang and Olufson stereo. It has all the tradition there, but it’s completely modern all at the same time. My only complaint is that they decorated beautifully up to the dado rails, then forgot to detail the ceiling. Not a big deal, just an observation. The exterior works on all levels too. Aggressive at the front, yet with lines that Lyons would have been proud of. The design language is speaking ‘proper’ too.

Lastly the thing went like it had no right too. Its twin-turbo 6-cylinder diesel engine (sadly no V8 supercharger here) is a triumph. The boss of the magazine where I was experiencing all these goodies boasted of his 45mpg average. Yet, when one of the road-testers took us out in it, it reared up and lunged forward with startling pace. 115mph and approaching a corner I was confident was worth half that, and we barely slowed. The Jag rounded it nonchalantly. Not much roll, no perceivable understeer from the passenger seat, just grip and balance. Later conversations confirmed this.

All the while it went about stunning us, the car didn’t feel like it was aping the more obvious German rivals. It was comfortable in its Britishness, and happy to be a modern traditionalist. And as samplers of its talents, we too, were comfortable with a bit of tradition. For once.

Inadvertently, I’m in an Owners Club

2010-07-28T18:53:00.001+01:00

The idea – from my point of view – was to purchase a cheap yet cheerful car which is fun and cheap to run. With my previous blogs it’s fairly clear that I think I’ve achieved this, however I didn’t expect the fall-out on the part of my mates.

As it was, the idea had been around for a while, however I was spurred on by my old mate Jim’s talk of the tidy little Eunos someone he knew had just picked up. I wanted one, and I wanted one sooner rather than later. As reported, I bought one for £not much and it is a seriously brilliant little motor. And to share the wealth I let my old mate Mercer drive it. Naturally, he was hooked immediately and wanted one. In fact he wanted one so badly he sold his beloved Golf and picked up a tidy red example. 2 best mates down.

Then, Jim reported that he’d spied a tasty Auto Eunos import complete with hard-top and in tip-top condition to boot. His old man had been after a roadster for a while, so they went in on it together. His is Jap-spec and all-the better for it. It’s also in tip-top condition and in the right colour – British Racing Green. 3 best mates with the same car: I’d call that an owners club.

To celebrate this, we all met up to get grease under our finger nails and talk about track-rod ends. We compared Momo steering wheels, mused upon how warm the transmission tunnel gets and talked at length about rust. We even ‘joked’ about getting t-shirts made and some car stickers to go with them, which is sad. Sad because if I didn’t know these people prior to the car-meet I would – right now – be looking back upon my actions and contemplating suicide.

Owner’s clubs are for people who struggle to socialise in normal situations. They get together and chat about the one thing they have in common – their car. In any other environment they’d probably detest one-another, and were it not for the fact they travel in numbers, whole pubs could be cleared of punters at the first mention of ‘ball joints’. Still, I know Sam and Jim so we could mix car-sadness with actual friendship built on many years and much intoxication.

Highlight of the day was the drive round my favourite part of the world – Canterbury & its surrounding countryside. Taking to the Faversham-Graveney-Whitstable road we got caught behind a slow-moving Mondeo. Jim’s auto had a slight disadvantage with its auto box, and as he shares his car he was less inclined to go for it. On the other hand, Mercer and I made a break for it on the only (and slightly dicey) overtaking point on the road. Following at a good distance, the decent – if not reckless – speeds around the twists and turns showed up the MX-5’s natural balance. Mercer’s car looked twitchy at the rear, however at all times it looked balanced and controlled. If Jim had kept up no doubt mine would have looked the same.

Such a meet has renewed my love for my newest and best purchase. The fact that my best mates can now experience it first-hand has only added to the fun. And fun is what the MX-5 is all about.

MX5: 2 Weeks in Mini Report

2010-07-18T16:08:00.000+01:00

I seem to be immensely lucky when buying cars. So far I’m yet to buy anything approaching a lemon, although the Ka was a tad iffy. The MX-5 started out by showing its cards early – nearly overheating in slow town traffic, though in its defence that was on about the warmest day of the year thus far. Beyond that issues have been relatively non existent. The rust on the A-pillar has been sanded and treated, though I have to admit a cock-up on that one. Knowing that Ford and Mazda have a long-standing tie up, I assumed that the blue paint for my old Ka would match the pain on my MX5. I mean why wouldn’t it? I remember the colours to be broadly the same shade.

Unfortunately the match isn’t even remotely near, and it looks silly quite frankly. On the other hand the blemished metal is at least covered for now, and I can sand it back again when I finally get a colour match. Other work carried out includes a coolant change as the stuff in there was pretty minging. Easy job, but it’s exposed the obvious radiator blockage despite me having unclipped the bottom hose and run plenty of water through. On the plus side the cooling issue has had its origin exposed and I plan to slot a new rad into place some time soon.

Otherwise it’s been all fun and games. A tank seems to last about 300 miles equating to around 35-38mpg which isn’t too tragic. Oil consumption is low, and I still love getting into the thing, throwing the roof down and gunning it. A recent spell of wet weather has opened my eyes to the beauty of front-engine rear-wheel-drive, as I now exit and enter various tight corners on my daily journey somewhat sideways. The progression of neutral handling to oversteer is joyous. The rain also proved my genius. I’ve created window seals to bridge the gap that used to be between the tops of the windows and the roof, and they work. It’s damn near water-tight. A CD player has helped in-car entertainment, though the previous owner’s attempt at wiring exposed them to be a complete ape.

It has the usual knocks and squeaks that go with the territory of an old car, but I like that. It’s characterful. Next test is the slog to Northamptonshire, but assuming a general lack of traffic I’m certain all will be well.

Costs thus far:
£15 – coolant and de-ionised water
£5 – wiring connectors

Juan Sheet

2010-07-07T19:33:00.000+01:00

You know sometimes you see or do something and it’s good, then every time you do it, it just gets better and better? Happens relatively often to me because I’m easily pleased. Something I learned from my old man was that the easier you are entertained, the better life is – an endless series of surprises and excitement. And that’s just walking along Canterbury High Street on a normal day. When you reach the coffee shop and order a frothy beverage things get far more intense because you can experience the delights of ‘straw whirling’.

Straw whirling is achieved by vigorously stirring a coffee with a good solid frothy milk head. The head disguises the whirling beverage below, but the movement whirls the straw round and round. This is very entertaining, and you can turn it into a competition by seeing who can make their straw whirl with the most style, vigorousness, or length of time. Obviously there are variables such as the size of drink and thickness of frothy head, but whatever, it’s damned entertaining.

The other thing that seems to get better and better at the moment is that advert for the kitchen roll formerly known as ‘Bounty’. As with all things these days, bounty had to fall in line with Europe just in case Johnny German came over and was utterly stumped as to what to buy to mop up those little spillages in das kitchen. On the plus side, the advertising campaign that heralds this change is – simply – genius. You’ve probably seen it, and giggled the first time you saw it. ‘Juan Sheet does plenty’ – as the dashing Spaniard wipes up yet another kitchen-based accident.

A man wiping up custard is, in itself, not very funny, but when his name sounds like ‘one shit’, it is exceedingly funny for the childish person such as I. ‘One Shit does plenty’ makes me laugh like a fool every time I see it. The more I see it, the more I find it funny, and it hasn’t gotten any less funny as the weeks go on. Whoever came up with the advertising campaign may as well retire now because they simply won’t beat it. I’m sure the advert won’t appear on the ‘Top 185 million adverts in the world ever’ in fifty years’ time, but it’ll stick with me for getting better every time I see it.

Then there is my latest purchase which gets better and better.

Having become fed up with driving my wee little KA around, looking as dull as almost everyone else in the Council’s car park, I decided to really hunt for something different and fun. I aimed high, going for Mk1 MX-5’s and Honda CRX VTi’s on my budget of just £1K and in the end came up trumps. A 1990 UK model with power steering, the sill-rust sorted, two proven cambelt changes (one recent) and just 171k(!!!) on the clock. It set me back the princely sum of £880 and I can’t get enough of driving the damn thing. Put simply, nothing I’ve ever driven - barring the Ariel Atom – has been as responsive and down-right fun.

Firstly, the bad points; it’s got some rust – much of which is being dealt with but will come back. The engine is tappety in lower revs and there’s a lot of rust in the coolant – suggesting some corrosion in the cooling system. Speaking of cooling, in traffic it needs the heaters on to dissipate heat away, although the oil pressure doesn’t budge. It’s generally tatty with a few dinks and scratches, but nothing untoward for a 20 year old car with – no doubt – mostly female owners.

Thankfully the bad points are small and pale into insignificance when you drive it. Ignore the tappetyness and rev it, and it sounds like the Lotus Elan that the 1.6 twin-cam was designed to ape. It also gets going really nicely above 4000rpm with far more oomph than you’d expect. Through 2nd and 3rd gear you can get a decent lick on with relative ease. The gearbox is also a revelation with a short throw and notchy yet accurate feel. With little in the way of flywheel mass, the revs rise with ease and drop quickly between changes if you don’t give the accelerator a little pump. On the over-run the ‘box also has a noticeable whine; not the potentially problematic diff whine mind, just a satisfying transmission audio soundtrack like on an old rally car.

The handling and rise are where things are simply spectacular, however. Dual wishbones on each corner make for amazing handling, as does the 950kg mass of the car. Turn–in is sharp and telepathically accurate, aided by the finest power steering I’ve ever used. Pitch and roll are minimal and the transmission between front and rear grip is amazingly predictable. On my old mid-engine MR2 there was a vagueness about the front a rear during weight transitions in quick corners, but here it’s just obvious through the seat of your pants what’s going on.

Yes, the interior is distinctly 80s. Yes, the passenger window doesn’t meet the window seal when the roof is up (which is another thing I’m attacking using my genius) and the stereo is embarrassing. But this doesn’t matter. None of the car’s failing matter when it’s so good to drive. So good to drive in fact that, like the Plenty advert gets better every time I see it, the MX5 just gets better and better every time I start it up and take it for a spin.

There’s a higher than average chance that I’ll get rid of it when the summer’s out. Rust and the need for a roof that won’t leak or freeze on the inside in the cold months means that the MX5 is probably not a practical proposition.

If I can, however, I’ll mothball it. Failing that I’m having another next year when the sun finally comes out.

Rallying a Shed

2010-06-22T19:36:00.000+01:00

As I approached what I thought was either a 90 degree left or right hand turn at, oh, about 55mph, I suddenly realised that I knew not whether we were supposed to be going left or right. With about 20 yards to go – having not lifted – I decided that left was going to be the way to go as it opened out rather than becoming ensandwiched between two fences. In last minute desperation I gave it a flick, yanked the handbrake and mashed my foot as far into the floor as it would go. I’d done this a thousand times on the Playstation, so how could it be different in real life? As it turns out physics got the better of me and we did a smooth 180, running backwards into the field I was trying to avoid. Car still running and both occupants still present and with all limbs attached, I slung it into 1st, mashed the throttle and flicked my foot off the clutch for another lap.

I think everyone either knows, or knows of someone as fortunate as my girlfriend’s parents and her brothers. They have 50 acres split 25/75 between paddocks and woodland, including an acre of shallow lake with a small island in the middle. Situated in semi-rural West Sussex the place is a wonderland to all and a dreamland when you throw in some ignorance and a battered old Peugeot 206. Predating that was the quad bike, but that was pinched by some scallys who managed to outwit the potential future sister-in-law who simply watched them at work before failing to ring the police. Thankfully, to go with the battered Pug there is now a tractor to mooch about on when in the business of removing whole trees from the woods. Like I say, wonderland.

Young drivers have a terrible reputation for crashing indiscriminately. Between the ages of 17 and 21 most young males will kill themselves in a car crash two or three times, write off up to fifteen whole cars (split between theirs and someone else’s) and knock over many, many old ladies on pedestrian crossings. I was little different. If luck hadn’t been on my side, youthful exuberance would have written me and my car off more than once and I would possibly be on my third incarnation right about now – probably as a squirrel or some other such small furry creature. As I grew up in the Playstation generation was fairly certain of my rallying skills by the age of 11. On Colin McRae Rally 2 I could slice and dice with the best of them and my drifts were more drifty that the Japanese drifting championship. I was certain that these e-skills were directly transferrable to real life, knowing that all I needed to be a great was a strip of dirt and a car on which to attack it.

My Other’s brother was also certain of this when he first decided to take the then still roadworthy Pug into the woods and see what was what. What was what, was that after a few comings together with large chunks of tree and some seriously rutted ground, the Peugeot was somewhat less roadworthy. In fact, it was on its space saver – the original wheel having been bent into the shape of a 50p piece – and most of the exhaust pipe was in a ditch somewhere, the remaining bit making the lowly 1.1 litre engine sound like a V8. Then, in October of last year he properly ran out of talent and beached the Pug on the bank of a ditch, and there it stayed – untouched – for 8 months until the Tractor was purchased not two weeks ago. I visited the car in April and the sheer level of mould that was present was stunning.

The Tractor is worth a blog in itself, however it couldn’t pull the poor dejected Pug out of its mouldy grave without the removal of both doors, the boot, all windows, the rear seats, the seatbelts and all the unnecessary components of the dash. Think of this action as resulting in a Peugeot 206 superlegera. Little hope was initially given to resurrecting the 206, it having festered in the same damp position throughout a cold and wet winter. In fact I would probably have betted my left arm, right foot and all of my savings that the next place the 206 was going was the scrappy. Thankfully I never made this bet as one charged battery later and all those jibes about French build quality were proved to be nothing more than jingoism. It fired straight up and was good to go.

I kind’a knew my way around the woods, but only on foot and not the actual figure-of-eight rally stage that was by this point somewhat overgrown. Thankfully, my miniature Nikki Grist was on hand in the form of the youngest brother to point – or not as the case turned out – me in the correct direction. So with blind faith, a vague idea of where to go and complete confidence in my car-control abilities off we went, blaring that false V8 blare.

The ‘stage’ is set in quite thick woodland and for the most part is barely wider than the car. From the start you gun it – foot on the floor – through 1st and 2nd gears along a relatively straight section through the half-acre clearing thin the woods. The path is heavily rutted, making going bumpy unless you place the wheels to either side of the ruts which runs the risk of a coming together with a tree stump. Stick to the main path and the car bottoms out over two particularly large bumps. Two hundred yards back into the woods after the clearing and it’s a case of standing on the brakes for a sharp 90 degree right into a narrow ‘technical’ section. My co-driver warned me to take it easy through here as larger-than-expected branches abound, ready to show up the over-confident. A jink left then right and then into a sharp right then left series of 90 degree corners requiring ample application of the handbrake.

From here it’s back through the clearing in 2nd gear, a quick snick into 3rd, then hard on the brakes peeling right into a very narrow and tight section. The path meanders its busy way through some of the woods’ larger trees. Mingle too closely with them and you come a cropper. As it was, we were simply struck in the face and arms with branches, making the purchase of a Plexiglas alternative to the missing windscreen a must for the future. Make it through here and the stage requires a near 180 degree turn to the left onto a much wider and more inviting track. The situation of the woodland at the bottom of 12 acres of open fields means that there is a border track, accessing the back of the bottom paddocks. From the house this path is clear to see, and it is this section where you pick up the most speed – upwards of 50mph easily. And it was along here where the fateful spin occurred.

The main woodland access path – where we started – transects the border path at 90 degrees, and to the uninitiated the border path simply ends where the woodland access path crosses. Being as I was, uninitiated, it was here where I decided on the handbrake after an attempted Scandinavian flick resulting in a large and dramatic spin. My – possibly – future father in law observed this and by all accounts aged by five years in the space of fifteen seconds, possibly believing that his last born would be hurled from a spinning car with no doors, windows or seatbelts. Thankfully my co-driver - his son – had the forethought to hold onto the A-pillar and all was well.

In the ideal world I would have slowed and swung a left back onto the woodland access path, completing a lap of the ‘stage’. But to be honest, the ideal world is less fun, and learning through mistakes – just as most young drivers do after their 27th fatal accident – is, surely, a right of passage.

*PICTURE OF CAR SOON TO BE ADDED*

Local Government Car Park Woe

2010-06-07T22:04:00.000+01:00

Living in an affluent area is a wonderful thing for a car nut. Within cycling distance from me there is a Bentley garage which also stocks Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Porsches posh Mercs and 2nd hand M-BMWs. There is also an Aston dealership next to the Jag garage, and up until recently a Ferrari/Maserati specialist. The upshot of all this is that you cannot move for exotic metal. I’m fairly certain that %90 of cars going through Sevenoaks town centre on a Saturday are Porsches, and the rest are packing twin turbo V6’s – minimum.

Unfortunately I am still driving round in my Ka which has done the unthinkable and not fallen apart any more in the past few weeks. In amongst all this shiny exotica I stand out rather like a Shetland Pony at the National. As I mooch around in bag ‘o bolts I can feel the derogatory stares of the rich and well-to-do in their posh sports cars burning through my wafer thin metalwork. It gets worse. Firstly, my exhaust blows in such a way that my car is quite loud. I like it – it sounds like an old A-series engine: a bit parpy with a lovely resonance on the over-run. However, it also makes people look, point and bend double in convulsive laughter. And it doesn’t matter that I know the thing is good to drive. Toffs in Range Rovers still nudge their wives, telling them to look up from their vanity mirrors and scoff at the prole in his silly little wagon. You can see them mouthing in a faux common accent; ‘cor, look at that pleb in his tiny little rust bucket! Hor Hor Hor!’

Doesn’t help that if anyone is in the passenger seat and has to use the door (as you might) the door card is currently missing and the lining flops flaccidly into the gutter.

More depressing than this, however, is the state of the car park to which I drive most days for work. I am now public sector you see, and when you think of people that work for the council the colour that might spring to mind is more than likely grey. Remember Splitting Images and John Major’s facsimile? I don’t as I’m young, but I do know of it, and I know that he liked to eat peas. Portrayed as a dullard, the same facsimile is generally true of your common or garden council employee. Don’t get me wrong, some are ok, but in general they should all be called ‘Norm’ and live in a 3-bed semi. They also tend to have adenoidal issues, a slight must (blend of tea, coffee, biscuits and urine) about them and trousers which could walk from the tea room to the desk without the aid of being worn.

With people like this frequenting my place of work the state of the car park is never going to be particularly great. At least in my previous private sector job someone owned a Marcos. But here the most interesting thing in the car park today was a CLS Merc – a diesel one at that – which was parked in the visitor spaces and was gone after about an hour. Down the scale from this there’s a rather fetching Mazda MX5 with a removable hard top which is never taken off, even in the recent weather which reignited my lust for air con (see June/July last year blogs). You can imagine the brief spousal conversation in the morning; ‘why don’t you take the roof off darling, it’s meant to be warm all day and there’s always the soft top if it does rain.’ ‘No, better not, might mess up my perm’. The kind of person that doesn’t take the roof off on a hot day is the kind of person that buys things out of the betterware catalogue not because the stuff has good novelty, but because ‘it may be useful’.

Another car of note in the car park is an old 1980s Merc estate. It’s a bit faded and a bit tatty, but what it loses in condition it has gained in character. Unfortunately I saw the owner get into it the other day, and far from the type of person who bought it because he loved the ‘used biffabout-ness’ of it, he had probably owned it for many years and simply forgotten to sell it. No doubt he’s actually forgotten that it’s even a Mercedes and is now just a ‘car’. Barring a Mazda MX3 V6, that’s the sum total of interest to be found in the Kent Commercial Services car park. Looking out on it from the elevated view of my equally dull office, it’s just a sea of boredom and un-inspiration. Like Luton on a grey October day I suspect.

Everyone there has a car out of necessity, and doesn’t really mind that it’s just another digit in the manufacturer’s profit & loss book; another mid-spec hatch off a production line turfing out mid-spec hatches at 10 an hour. For a lot of people this simply doesn’t matter. They have a car, it works, it needs petrol and moves a bit. However, office chat often turns to the subject of cars, and the pride with which people talk of their clone-mobiles is rather shocking when it’s just another burgundy 206. I guess when you’re on a wage like mine it’s tough to buy something inspiring let alone run it, so make do seems to be the way.

Within this sea of relative scrap, to my horror I realise that my car is no better. It blends like a 911 Carrera blends on a busy Sevenoaks high street. This is truly saddening for me – as I proclaim and have done for many years to be a petrol head. Within the mandate to claim one’s self a petrol head is owning a ‘decent’ car, even at major financial expense. Because I subscribe to the unwritten rules of the petrol head, I am to rectify this at the first possible juncture.

In the mean time, I am glad to see that manufacturers are just about beginning to realise that normal doesn’t have to be, well, normal. New design philosophy by Ford took them from mundane to (at least) decent to observe, and Volvo’s latest offerings are rather startling to behold – a change so far removed from the 850, the last of the proper ‘boxes’, it would have been unthinkable at that car’s inception not 20 years ago. Peugeot has even proven that it can do good looking in the new RCZ, and Renault have improved exponentially over their past offerings.

All they need to do now it really push economical and clean petrol technology and help wean the public off its love for diseasal. Though I guess in some ways petrol being the subservient fuel does give it a slight air of excitement.

As a petrol head I think that’s rather cool…

The 80s are Back (& general update)

2010-05-26T19:41:00.000+01:00

It’s been a busy old time just lately. I’m back in a job – the tedious details of which I shan’t bore you with – which means I am now regularly driving again. Best thing about my new trip to work is that it’s a mere 15 miles away and includes some B-roads on which I continue to re-enforce my resolve that the KA is fantastic at back road blasting. Certainly faster than a Golf anyway. The lack of motorway monotony is also an epic win on my part.

As for the KA I am well aware that I hardly paid top money for it. I was expecting a shed, and a shed is what I have. The passenger window never went down at the beck and call of the electronic switch; in fact it has never actually moved since I’ve owned the car. This was fine, but being a man I cannot leave anything alone that looks like it needs investigating – which usually leads to some form of injury or embarrassment. On this occasion the door card fell off when my Darling shut the door the other day – revealing that the window switch was connected to thin air. Thinking that I knew better than the person who unclipped said switch, I duly re-connected it which resulted in movement of the window. Movement in a downward motion and then a staunch refusal to come back up. I have to say, the cardboard replacement I made was rather good, if not burglar proof. Thankfully, it is now fixed thanks to Ebay and my genius.

In between all this faffing about with work and a car that falls apart when doors get shut it’s been all very much go-go on the car/writing front. I applied for a position editing the ‘numbers’ database with What Car & Autocar mags. Amazingly I got an interview, which sent me somewhat weak at the knees and hot under the collar. Haymarket’s Teddington studios really are the stuff of dreams for an aspiring motoring writer. It’s all very suave; the car park is full of stuff you want to drive; there’s even an old Renault F1 engine in the foyer. Unfortunately I didn’t get the job on the basis that another in-house candidate had been doing a similar job for years. This was most disappointing for all of, ooh, a day or so. Then evo (one of my regular reads) emailed and have offered a few days work experience – which I will take as soon as I can. I wrote to a few mags a while back, and having evo get back to me is truly exciting and damn a good indictment on the people who work there as they have actually bothered. A place like that is a place I’d like to work (go buy the mag in other words – it’s a great read).

Anyway, away from all this nonsense and to the bones: it seems the 80s are back with a vengeance.

The music is certainly back. That woman with the iffy hair – The Roux or some such – is popular, as are the White Lies, both of whom are 80s acts sent via a delayed telegram in 1986 to be delivered in 2009. Those silly puffed trousers are also back, seemingly. Women happily parade around in pantaloons which make them look as though they are wearing a nappy in which they have had a wee accident, though not an accident with wee... Not the best look by any stretch, but different. I suppose. Hawkins Bazaar are selling Rubiks’ cube, and I saw somewhere that the Soda Stream is once again being produced. So even the youth of today are growing up in a facsimile of 25 years ago: – good for them.

Something else that really kicked off in the 80s is also back – and back to stay by the look of things: the good old turbo charger.

To get on in life in the 1980s you had to have aspiration; aspiration to own a 911 in Guards Red mostly. On your way up to this plinth of Thatcherite capitalism you would inevitably have a turbo’d car at some point, and probably a BMW 323 as well. The problem with the turbo charged cars of yore was that the science hadn’t really been perfected. Various companies simply took their regular engines, stuck a thicker head gasket on to lower compression, then bolted on a ‘T’ and hoped for the best. This was great in principle, allowing relatively small capacity engines to produce good power. However, what with the apparent hap-hazard nature of 80s turbos, you could (like Snap) have the power; but just the once if you were fortunate. The general theme was stick your foot down, let the turbo spool up, then sit back in amazement as something important melts causing something else important to go bang.

Sweden was perhaps the only nation to really crack turbo charging back then with the Saab 900 and various Volvos racking up high mileages with relatively little issue. Both had gone down the route of light pressure turbos, which was a cop-out frankly, but did at least provide reliability to go with your oomph. Light pressure turbos didn’t strain the engines as much and spooled up far quicker resulting in better day-to-day tractability. The rest of the turbo market – Japan included – and especially Ford simply produced cars which were exceedingly laggy, useless off boost and went quickly on paper only due to spontaneous combustion on the move.

Exacerbating the problem was the tuneability of Turbo charged cars. After you had put your car back together from the stresses of movement, there were any number of routes you could go down to extract mind boggling power outputs from small capacity engines. Ford 2 litre YB Cosworth lumps have been tuned to in excess of 800bhp, and any layman lower the compression and increase the boost for big gains. They often did – resulting in even more extravagant ways to ruin an engine.

Recently, however, many of the big manufacturers have left the safe realms of normal aspiration and gone for the forced induction route. Combined with modern know-how and better production techniques the modern turbo charged engine can yield the same good power-for-size ratios that were possible in the 80s, but with the benefit of lower fuel consumption and emissions. When you compare ranges from now and two years ago of some of the larger manufacturers you find that the larger capacity N/A engines are generally replaced by smaller T’s. Vauxhall have ditched the old 1.6 and 1.8 for 1.4T and 1.6T respectively. Both of the more modern engines produce significantly more power for much improved economy. VAG have gone down the same path with 1.2T, 1.4T and 2.0T engines, as well as twin-charged lumps first seen in the Golf Mk V. The 1.4T VAG engine, in certain states of tune, produces 180bhp – or the same as the old Mk 3 Golf’s 2.8 V6 in other words. And it won’t even explode every two or three yards.

As much as the hair, music, TV fondue etc. may not necessarily be completely welcome returns from 25 years ago, turbos are definitely a step backwards to go forwards. Liberating good power and torque from small engines with the efficiency of high compression to boot has got to be the way for the mainstream petrol car which is fast becoming usurped by the high-powered diesel. Perhaps manufacturers could engineer some pizzaz back into the turbo lumps though. The whoosh of a spooled up turbo or the exhalation of a waste gate would go a long way in my book.

Let’s hope they just leave the random exploding right back where it belongs.

Pub Argument solved by Trip out for Coffee. And Maths

2010-05-14T11:40:00.000+01:00

The other night I was in the pub with my good mates Ryan, Sam, Jim, Steve and Emma. As per usual there was some good banter, quite a bit of beer and a lot of laughter. Rather a lot of beer was consumed – as was some absinthe – resulting in a monumental hangover. But that’s another story. During the pub stint an argument blew up on the matter of cars; more specifically the better car to use for back road blasting. ‘Petrol head’ Mercer maintained that his Golf would easily out pace my KA on a back road due to its superior grunt, however I contested that the KA’s chuckability and small dimensions would have his porky kraut-wagon licked.

Back road blasting is one of the car lovers’ last refuges. Given a good road on which you can see a decent distance ahead, you can open the taps and drive like a loon in the safe knowledge that you will never break the speed limit. 60mph is way faster than you’ll need to go on a good back road. Couple this to the lack of traffic and general twistyness of most southern counties country lanes and you have a recipe for fun. My recommendation when it comes to the ideal car for a B-road is small, simple and light. Power doesn’t come in to it because the trick is to carry speed rather than relying on powering out of corners. A small, light and agile car is far more suited to this than something heavy but with much more power.

‘Petrol Head’ Mercer’s particular Golf is a diesel variant – the 110TDi to be precise. A quick Google tells me this car offers up 110bhp, 173 ft/lbs torque and 60 in just over 10 seconds. My KA is at a distinct power disadvantage offering just 60bhp of length and 77ft/lb of depth from its ‘Dagenham dustbin’ OHV engine. 60 comes up in about 14 seconds in the KA – which is damn slow no matter what way you look at it (however my own personal experience of my car says it to be more like 12.5, but that’s not scientific).

Power was Mercer’s big argument: the sledgehammer approach rather than the gentle tap. His Golf’s superior speed would outstretch the chuckable KA with utter ease, and he was also confident that the Golf’s handling was up to it. He insisted that he would simply leave me in a cloud of black, carcinogenic diesel-dust and drive off into the sunset. I maintained that there was no way in hell that this would happen, and in fact he wouldn’t just struggle to keep up with me, but he would be left for dead after the first set of tight twisties.

My KA is my second of the breed now, so I am well used to how they handle. The general theme is to throw it at a corner with gay abandon, using the quick flick technique to upset the back end. Lift off at the right moment or trail brake and the back end will easily step out. In fact, the original KA seems to pivot around its front axle. There’s a sense with it that the rear is there for the ride and just slithers its merry way along out behind somewhere whilst you just concentrate on placing the front end where you want it. I will admit that my car isn’t the best of the breed. Bought for peanuts as something to get me through redundancy, bits do tend to fall off it on a regular basis and some of the rattles it makes are alarming. It also suffers from uneven tyres on the front causing a leftward pulling under acceleration and the dampers are old and worn out making it a tad floaty compared to my 03’ plated previous model. Despite these small and insignificant issues, it handles exceedingly well and it’s easy to surprise yourself with the velocity with which you can take corners.

To help me re-affirm my belief in the superiority of the KA’s back road ability I decided to take the need for some coffee beans as an opportunity to vigorously test my theory. Instead of going to Tesco via the quick and direct main road I went completely the opposite direction towards a road I know well which incorporates several blind crests, a few well-sighted straights, some tight and twisty hairpins and enough room (just) to safely pass other cars. At no point did I break the national speed limit, however I did take it as fast as I dared, and to be honest I could have swallowed a few more brave pills because the KA handled it with ease. The crested turns made the back loose, but in a predictable way, and the compression turns at the bottom of sharp drops showed the car’s decent traction. Like in an MX5, brakes were essentially redundant because the car’s natural balance and drivability meant that you inevitably washed off too much speed by using them. Couple the car’s ability with its small dimensions and even the widest of Transit vans didn’t pose a passing issue.

Mercer should be well aware of how well the KA does B-roads seeing as he used to own one, and it can’t have escaped his attention that even the keenest of driver’s rate the original KA’s chassis as a peach. Both the Sport KA and the Puma share a basic chassis setup with the KA, and both are rated by most motoring hacks as an excellent car for tackling back roads.

I can’t speak from first hand experience on how the MK4 TDi Golf handles however I have been the passenger in one driven by another mate – Andy ‘Danger to life’ Brown, whose driving style is ‘aggressive’. By my reckoning it was safe and predictable, but with a good amount of wallow and understeer brought on by a soft suspension setup and that heavy old burner in the nose. Basically, there was nothing about the way it took corners which made me think it could be a patch on the nimble Ford.

To back up my point some more figures are needed. Power and 0-60 is all good, but it means nothing in the real world where wheelbase, track and power-to-weight make all the difference. To start with the Golf weighs in at a whopping 1300Kg and (as we know) produces 110bhp. This gives it a power-to-weight ratio of 84.6bhp/ton. The KA weighs in at 850kg and produces 60bhp giving it a power to weight ratio of 70.5bhp/ton. Given the cars’ relative sizes this isn’t a massive difference, and couple that to a diesel engine which comes on song at 2200rpm and runs out of ideas at 4000rpm, then you constantly find yourself looking for the power band rather than just revving the wheel nuts off it.

Then we have the issue of size. A smaller car is far better for hooning around back roads because when you inevitably meet something coming the other way you are much less likely to hit it. The KA’s width and length are 1.8m and 3.6m respectively, giving a total footprint of 6.48m2. The Golf is 2.1m wide and 4.1m long, giving it a footprint of 8.61m2. The extra width and length may make the handling safer, but they don’t do anything for outright agility, and were you to meet the same Transit van in the Golf as I did in the KA, you would have needed to hit the anchors. Hard.

My final contention is based on personal experience with my previous car. The MR2 was brilliant at being hustled along a good sized B-road, swoopy A-road or back lane with perfect sight lines allowing anticipation of corners. I would leave a KA or golf for dead in these situations – no problems whatsoever. But when it comes to the matter of the wooded or hedge-lined and tight back road, where predictable and chuckable handling, small size and complete confidence are key to getting a good lick on, the much faster MR2 would have absolutely nothing on the KA. I know with certainty that on the kind of road I’m talking about I would have left me for dead were I to meet myself in the MR2 whilst driving the KA (think about it – it makes sense). The MR2 was too big, too jittery on poor surfaces and far too keen to irretrievably swap ends to allow proper back road blasting.

I’m not saying Mercer’s car is bad – in fact I think it rather good. But on this one I recons my car has the measure of his.

Racing Drivers: Any Excuse not to Overtake

2010-04-30T16:33:00.000+01:00

There was a time in my life when all I did was wake up around noon, eat breakfast shortly followed by lunch, sit around, then after dinner go out and get drunk. This cycle would continue for weeks on end. I think the technical name for it was ‘university’, but frankly I barely remember. Since then jobs and generally being older than 21 has put paid to the continual abuse of the liver, as has my friends’ reluctance to hold on to at least the last of the dying embers of youth.

This is a shame. Getting good and plastered only to repeat it the next night is a great way to live and gives rise to endless anecdotes of stupidity and poor judgement. Now, however, after four pints and at five past nine we retire to our houses to catch the 10 O’clock news and get a good 8 hours shut-eye. Friends will make excuses ranging from the implausible to the down right stupid to get out of going out and attempting to act our age and there is a certain indignance when I suggest that perhaps 23 isn’t really past it and we should actually still be propping up the bar. Frustration barely covers the feeling when all you want to do is prop up the bar for a few hours, then dance like a fool to music which will give you a headache.

I use this (true) story as an analogy to the way certain motorsports seem to be going. It’s been festering for a few years now, but it really is beginning to come to a head – this desire to see the whole ‘racing’ thing tamed into a glorified procession where the only time overtaking can be accomplished is via a well presented document of intent and ratification by the FIA.

Racing fans young and old will have heard famous stories of bravery from racing series’ past where men were men and all that mattered was winning and the correct presentation of one’s moustache. Drivers in 1950s F1 would spend the days preceding the imminent race getting hog-whimpering drunk in the knowledge that these may be their last days alive and they’d damned well better enjoy them. Indeed, one racer was to be found – by his team boss – in bed with the team’s hotel’s proprietor and her daughter prior to the 1957 Pescara GP. Stirling Moss and his co driver Dennis Jenkinson described the 1955 Mille de Miglia as ‘a bit dicey’. This is rather like describing shooting yourself in the head as ‘fairly bad for the health’ – that is to say an unimaginable understatement. 170mph on public roads in a car with cross-ply tyres and drum brakes is not dicey; it is suicidal.

Then there was the overtaking. Even up to the early 90s in F1, and in the case of the BTCC right up to the present day, overtaking was prevalent. As you still can in GP2 drivers in F1 could actually block their opponents in years past by swerving. Leads would swap over and over, and in the mid-field if you knew who was placed where at any given time you were a better person than Murray Walker. In the 90s BTCC super tourer era, big-bucks manufacturer run teams competed in proper wheel—to-wheel duels where the loser may well end up testing the structural rigidity of their car (see Mansell in (I believe) a Volvo).

Unfortunately, just as my friends now recoil at the very idea of going out and getting blotto, modern motorsports is seemingly allergic to action and proper physical driving. There is also an embargo on personality, and at the first sign of someone being interesting a new FIA directive is put in place to make sure such behaviour is thoroughly squashed. Watching a post Grand Prix press conference is even more boring than watching a prime minister’s debate. Three norms sit there and say exactly what we knew they were going to say and show relatively little emotion. Back in the days when Kimi Raikkonen wasn’t crashing rally cars a post-race interview could literally cause comatose. And it’s not much better now.

On-the track things are no better. Anything which could be considered a ‘muscular’ overtaking manoeuvre is studied in-depth by the stewards, and woe betide anyone who dares to defend their position by actually blocking the challenger. Not only will your opponents whinge at length, the FIA bores will tut heavily at you and other drivers will make empty threats about you being summarily docked points. The BTCC is much better as there are no silly double-movement rules and contact is still allowed. However, I have noticed in the first rounds of this season that incidents of contact which may have previously been put down to a ‘racing incident’ are now being be-moaned at length in the post-race outfall which is thoroughly un touring car like.

With regards to the BTCC I realise that team budgets aren’t what they used to be and at this early stage no one wants to spend two weeks panel beating only to have to do it after the next meeting. Unfortunately for the moaners, contact, crashes and poor overtaking moves are part of what makes the BTCC great, so to get het-up about it is a shot to the foot.

The state of modern F1 is inexcusable though. Lewis Hamilton has shown a willingness to drive in an exciting manner and is easily the best driver to watch. Jenson Button is equally good at overtaking, but his moves are too clinical to provide the excitement that fans crave. Hamilton has been chastised in F1 circles lately, namely by former racist Fernando Alonso who has said how he ‘will not get away with driving so aggressively for long’. Which is fresh coming from someone who only wins when his team mates are instructed to throw the race.

Instructing Hamilton to drive in a meek and retiring manner is so hideously stupid as it would remove a good percentage of what fans tune into F1 for; someone willing to put their neck on the line. Seeing someone like Hamilton take the race to his rivals and getting past them in an ‘aggressive’ manner is good to watch, and as F1 is nothing without popularity, stamping out such overtakes is a bad move.

Thankfully my old mate Sam and I have done some brainstorming when it comes to making F1 more exciting. Below are some of the measures which we have thought out:

 Mandatory Moustache: All the greats had a good top-lip barnet, and so this should be re-instated. Clearly there is a direct link between good face fungus and on-track performance. As a result waxed moustaches will be mandatory and the best will gain the driver extra points.
 Random sprinklers: Wet races sort the men from the boys, and the good racing we have seen so far this year has been brought on by a bit of precipitation. Sprinklers will be installed at the most dicey of corners and turned on at random. When it is already raining, fairly liquid will be sprinkled.
 Hangovers: It is a well known fact that Kimi Raikkonen could only do ¾ of a race towards the end of his F1 career because he substituted water for vodka in his hydration system. As drink driving in unacceptable, all drivers will be forced to get spume-inducing drunk the night prior to the race and must drive with a stinking hangover.
 Mechanic psyche-out: Pit stops are far too efficient and regimented. In the future teams are allowed to send over a mechanic to an opponent’s garage when a pit stop is imminent and try to psyche out a mechanic. This could be achieved with poking or joke telling.
 Low-downforce cars: This is perhaps a bit more realistic. Cars will only be allowed to create a pre-determined amount of downforce. Power will be unregulated, but less downforce equals more skill required and easier overtaking.
 Proper manual gearboxes: Paddle shifters are great for Playstation 3, but a bit childish for people who are supposedly the best drivers in the world. Give them back a clutch pedal and a stick and watch them screw up heel and toe downshifting.

Off-track debauchery and foolishness would also be encouraged. This sober-faced regimented boredom has to be stopped, and all drivers will be required to fill a set number of column inches with reports of falling out of nightclubs with several tarts on their arms to qualify for points.

Ok, I realise that our ideas are basically stupid, but tell me it wouldn’t be more interesting and I will label you a liar.

Is Driving a Convertible Acceptable?

2010-04-21T15:34:00.000+01:00

Thank the Lord, spring has finally showed its face and the temperature is climbing to what might be described as comfortable. As it stands I am still unemployed so I spend the best part of most days either plotting what to do, or outside soaking up the rays via the medium of my bicycle. For the time being driving has taken a back seat because first and foremost I have absolutely no reason to do it, and secondly I only have limited redundancy money and I fear one full tank could use a significant percentage of it given the price of petrol. This isn’t so bad really for reasons spelt out previously, and now that the weather’s ok there is no longer a risk of my testis freezing and falling off so cycling is actually pleasurable once again.

Upon my epic cycles I tend to use the time to mull over things in the sanctity of my own head. Things like the best means of cooling a KA with a 2-litre Zetec shoe-horned under the bonnet for instance, and whether I should buy a road racing bike instead of my old mountain bike currently shod with one road-tyre and one off-road tyre. Also whether there is actually a realistic chance of sleeping with my current muse, and whether my Number One would think it decent. I also tend to stick to the back-lanes so as not to upset anyone in a car, and because the scenery is generally better.

Back lanes are the traditional stomping ground of people in convertibles; middle aged men hoping to appear a bit caddish and yummy mummies towing and fro-ing from their latest affair. Seeing people in convertible cars always raises acceptability issues, and I think that it is a subject that needs to be addressed and put to rights. Is it acceptable to drive a convertible on the public highway?

After many miles, much deliberation and some pretty damned soar calf muscles I have decided that the answer is no. And yes.

The reason for this ambiguity is relatively simple. Convertibles – generally – are wrong for the type of person at the wheel, but there is usually the right car out there for the type of person wishing to drive such a thing. It’s just that 90% of people buy the wrong car. And this is a problem. It gives a bad name to drop-tops and makes the owner look foolish.

For instance, I recently saw a young chap wearing the obligatory Oakley shades and a Bluetooth headset. He was probably a thrusting young executive with an eye on the manager’s position and a lust for success. Unfortunately he will do well not to be sacked if his boss were to see him at the wheel, for he was driving a Peugeot 206CC in a dark blue hue. He even had the front to have the top down, allowing people to view him in all his foolishness. At first I thought he had just borrowed his sister’s car, but upon catching him at the next set of lights I was able to peer into the confines of this Graham Norton of the car world and see that all the CDs spread out on the passenger seat were his, and there was the kind of man-mess on the floor that could only accumulate in a bloke’s car. I had to stifle my laughter for fear of making him cry, as I should think that he had a fairly well-developed sensitive side.

For a chap such as this – late 20s, aspiring marketing man with penchant for style – I think the correct convertible would have to be a BMW 1-series. This car has the remnants of the ‘cock factor’ which befell the previous 3-series, yet looks much better than the appallingly be-wigged Audi A3 convertible. He could cruise in open topped style in his 1-series safe in the knowledge that people wouldn’t think it was his sisters’, or burst out in convulsive laughter at the mere sight of him bopping his head to whatever shite was in his stereo. They may think him a twit, but that goes with the territory.

Next victim of poor drop top choice was a slightly older gentleman trying desperately to successfully pull off a Mercedes SLK 200 ‘Kompressor’. Firstly I must point out that I think the modern SLK is a rather good looking car, if a bit tarnished by its own brush. However, there is only one sadder thing to see written on the back of a Mercedes than ‘Kompressor’, and that is CDI. The SLK 200 Kompressor is the bottom of the ladder, and barely faster than an MX5 so you just drive around proving the point that with money does not automatically come taste. As per the above I did think that perhaps it could have been his wife’s car, but he looked far too at home behind the wheel for that to be the case.

Happily there are better and more favourable alternatives for the older gent looking for some tasty wheels with a removable roof. For instance, if he really is set on the little Merc he should perhaps save a bit harder and opt for the SLK 55AMG. I saw a similarly aged bloke helming one recently and had nothing but respect for his choice. Perhaps offering a tad more dignity would be an Audi A4 cabrio. It isn’t trying to be hip and sporty, so would suit the older gent far better than the little SLK funster. He could even have it with a diesel engine, but then again that would be rather like having a pudding from a three Michelin stared restaurant served with ample helpings of thick custard.

As well as a host of poor car choices, I have also seen people who sit within their convertible motor like hand-me-down tweed at a Pheasant shoot. Perhaps the most fitting was a man of about 80 driving a mint MGB. He had the full works – hat, gloves and pilot’s jacket – all of which you just know only come out when he takes the MG out for a spin. Alongside him sat his wife, resplendent in white head-scarf and sunglasses. I should think that they’d been doing this in various cars since he used to land the ‘Spit back at Biggin after a successful sortie shooting at Jerries, only pausing for a warm pint at the White Hart in Brastead. He could not have picked a better car if he’d tried.

Then there was the young couple out and about for a country lane hoon in their ’10 plated MX5 – spiritual successor to all small convertible British sports cars of the ‘60s and ‘70s. He must have been no more than 29 and she similarly aged. They were wearing the modern equivalent of the attire worn by the old fella and his long standing Trouble and Strife in the MGB. It was clear that they were simply driving for the fun of it around the lanes sandwiched between Sevenoaks and Tonbridge, and with petrol at the price it is, my respect for them was boundless.

So, it is absolutely possible to be socially unacceptable in your convertible, but given a bit of thought you can hit it just right and capture the spirit of what owning a roofless car is all about.

Then again I rather enjoyed driving a white Series 1 Escort XR3i convertible some time ago. So what do I know?

More than I bargained for

2010-03-31T11:45:00.000+01:00

It’s kinda tough trying to keep writing things on a motoring blog when you’ve essentially stopped driving. As I have no particular place to go these days the KA gets taken out on the odd trip of no more than 15 miles once or twice a week, and sometimes a trip down to Canterbury. I’ve had it since the middle of January, and yet I’ve barely cracked 1500 miles in it – a distance I could rack up in a month in the ‘2. As a result this blog’s a bit ‘bitty’, but there is some meat in the sandwich later on.

Oh, sure, things of a motoring bent flit in and out of my head all the time – the New Jag looks like a Citroen C6 from various angles; why have BMW sold the same number of M3s as Nissan has the GT-R when the Nissan is clearly the better car; why being crashed into by a drunk driver and having your car written off is a blessing when your car is an orange Fiat. All these things come and go, yet when I try to commit them to e-paper it either doesn’t flow, or I get looking at Google street view and forget what I’m doing. Which resulted in a very burnt lunch yesterday.

Talking of street view, I have to say, what a tool – what a gadget! For some reason seeing your house/car/self on Google is about fifteen times more exciting than simply walking outside and looking. I’ve spent hours looking for my old car in all the places where it might feasibly be: and haven’t found it. I’ve looked at all the houses I’ve ever lived in and even found an old work colleague standing outside the place of a meeting. It is also good for scouting roads which look promising from the air. You can gauge how high hedges are and whether the sight-lines are any good, plus look at speed limits and speed camera locations. On top of that it’s just damn cool.

Back to the new Jag. I do have a note as a work in progress going on, but it won’t flow so I’m coming back to it another day. In the mean time am I the only one who thinks it looks wrong from several angles? Dead on the side and from the rear three-quarters it looks like a C6. This isn’t a bad thing per se as the C6 is a damn handsome car, but it is emphatically not a Jag. I will concede that the front of the new XJ is a masterpiece, and managing to make it lighter than the XF is simply mind boggling engineering (as is 22mpg and sub 300g/Km CO2 from the supercharged V8), but from all other angles it doesn’t work for me; Yet. I think it’ll grow, but from my point of view it had a hard act to follow as I adored the old XJ – a supercharged suet pudding. The old XJ looked and by all accounts drove right, but I’m hopeful that in time the new one gets better. The XF did so here’s hoping.

On to being crashed into. My old chum Dan – apparently – settled down last night for an evening of football after a hard day’s work only to be disturbed by a rather alarming crash. This crash, so it turns out, was the result of a rather inebriated man driving smack bang into Dan’s Fiat Sicento. Now several theories are currently doing the rounds: One is that the man was simply drunk and unable to drive properly, but the more likely is that through his beer goggles he saw the orange Sicento and became enraged. Think of it as a red rag to a randy bull and you’re kinda there. In his spume-filled bleary eyed anger he simply turned his vehicle into a battering ram and went for the orange peril. Seemingly the Fiat is written off, but I’ve consoled Dan with the comment that every cloud has a silver lining and he can now buy a car rather than an enlarged shoe.

In between all these activities and thoughts I’ve finally – officially – been made redundant. Having not gone to work for over two months now isn’t as bad as it could be. Money’s not tight and I’ve had some success on getting interviews for new jobs. The most promising of these is rather conveniently placed around the corner from my abode and sounds rather good. I would be working for Ward homes creating marketing reports for new plots of land on which they plan to build, and – seemingly – being paid rather nicely to do so.

The interview seemed to go ok. I went into it with a degree of ignorance on the basis that if I were to go in with pre-set ideas I’d be disappointed or simply wrong, plus I’ve made a good living winging it in the past so why not carry on. Obviously, with any interview you have to go through the rigmarole of some formal questions plus the spiel of what the job entails and ‘what you could bring to it’, but once the ceremony was over the interviewer and I got chatting about cars. Seems he was somewhat of a petrolhead – as were some of the others working there, and we spent a good 20 minutes simply nattering about cars. I hope this stands me in good stead. Petrolheads tend to keep it to themselves or within a set group of ‘safe’ people who won’t get bored and begin to dislike you, so to find one at random and have a chat was a decent ice breaker.

Coming back with a vague sense of elation about the potential job and the way the interview went meant that the next move was to plot which car I should theoretically buy. Any petrolhead will probably do this on a regular basis during lunch breaks and when they should be doing the shopping. They’ll sit themselves down with Autotrader or Pistonheads Classifieds, give themselves a budget and see what they would buy. I do this often and it’s a damn good way to waste time.

Thing is, with my redundancy package from my last job I knew that I would be putting a good proportion of it towards some new wheels. What I didn’t bargain for was that my redundancy package was precisely £1000 more than I was certain it would be. Also, using the Ward homes job as a (albeit presumptuous) given meant that my mileage would remain ultra low allowing a limited miles insurance policy and a car that will top 20mpg. Using these factors I came up with a shortlist based on the following criteria; Japanese, lairy, turbo-charged, sub 7 seconds to 60, a good one for £3500. These are the cars I came up with:

- Nissan 300ZX twin turbo.
- Mitsubishi Galant VR-4 twin turbo.
- Nissan 200 SX S14.
- Toyota MR2 Turbo.
- Toyota Celica GT-Four ST205.

All of these fulfil the criteria well, and on top of this all of them have a very good reliability record. Further research has meant that of them all, the Toyotas will be lightest on fuel (not really a concern) and the Celica easiest to insure. The 300ZX is possibly a bit too high an aim and the 200SX is a bit chavy. The Mitsubishi is great, but expensive to insure and fix.

The one of the above that is really sticking in my mind is the Celica. I sat in a GT-Four when I was about 11 and also watched Carlos Sainz rag it around in the hay-day of the WRC. This appeals to me greatly as it was by far and away my favourite rally car back in the day and also probably the best looking and fastest (to 60 – what matters) of the selection. If it all comes off, being able to buy and run a boyhood dream barely 10 years after you had it will be great. Few people achieve that, so if it happens I will count myself lucky.

Still, it all hangs on the back of getting a job so watch this space…

F1 Returns with a Whimper

2010-03-15T14:07:00.000Z

At last it seems that the winter is abating and the mercury is beginning to harass numbers above freezing. Along with the beginning of spring comes the beginning of a new year of motoring in the household White, and within the lofty realms of the motorsport circuit.

Firstly, on a personal note I no longer own two cars. Two bejewelled gentlemen came up from Hastings and bought my MR2 for less than it was worth. Still, cash is cash and better to not have a car taking up space and gently rusting to itself. I’ve already decided I miss the ‘2 however. The ka is fun, but it isn’t fast, and 2nd gear runs out of puff at 35mph instead of 65. This gearing is fine for doing mobility scooters but less good for overtaking cars – something which is somewhat more dangerous than it used to be. Foot down in 2nd or 3rd and you never feel that it’s going to make it before an opposing line of traffic makes a sticky mess of you. Still, I think somewhere along the lines someone’s had the ka chipped because it hits 100+ with relative ease and even pulls from there, which it shouldn’t be able to do in stock trim.

I’ve been eyeing up some tasty specimens of the MR2 Turbo as something to aim for when I get a new job, and even the BMW 535 is taking my fancy with 90s examples being available for as little as £1500. If I do get a new line of work however, I do plan on testing the Renaultsport Twingo as it still majorly appeals to me.

Anyway, to the crux of today’s ramblings: F1 has returned to our screens with all the pomp and ceremony which inevitably surrounds the world’s ‘best’ racing series. This season has been shaping up to be a classic over the winter with teams switching drivers, and old dogs coming back to see if they can learn some new tricks. Even World War 2 is being recreated in miniature according to some corners of the press.

The moves are well documented – Button to Lewis Hamilton’s McLaren, Schumacher out of his sheltered accommodation to join reformed damp squib Nico Rosberg at Mercedes, the corporate version of what was Brawn. Then there is possibly the most formidable combination of Super Spaniard Alonso and the not-quite brain damaged Filipe Massa in a car which looked immense in testing. Last of the teams which stand a hope is Red Bull – former minnows who have become serious contenders through sprouting wings and, almost literally, flying in the hands of dark horse Vettel and clumsy cyclist Mark Webber.

Then there are the new rules: for the first time since 1994 refuelling is banned, the points system includes everyone from 1st to 10th, and for a win you now get 25 points – possibly put in as a cheap move by Bernie because everyone told him to sod off when he mooted the ‘winner takes all’ idea. As per last year all tyres are Bridgestones with the rule that two compounds must be used during the race.

People have been discussing at length the no refuelling scheme. Some point at Prost as a reason why it’s a good idea, being the great tactician that he was and using the efficiency drive to his advantage. Others suggest that all you’ll get is hell-for-leather first 3/4s of races, then everyone short-shifting and haemorrhaging time in the last ¼, making it all a wee bit silly. To be honest, it’s far too early to say, and with Bahrain opening the season as essentially an extended test, we were never going to learn anything at this stage.

So, to Bahrain, and the opener to a season full of potential intrigue. In my opinion most of these ‘new-world’ circuits are to be found lacking in almost all areas that could make them great. All they seem to have done is gone to some form of circuit deign consultancy and paid through the nose for them to come up with something they hope will provide good racing. In reality they get a soulless and lifeless strip of tarmac in a desert or former industrial estate in some God-forsaken part of the chosen city. Bahrain is dull to behold and even duller when some cars are added to the equation. To add insult to boredom there is a new infield section to the track, which takes all fluidity out of the lap. The drivers hoon around the first set of corners, then – essentially – stop for about a minute whilst they negotiate an unfathomable series of slow turns.

Despite the fact that the circuit was inevitably going to be useless, there was still the potential for some drama in the first race of the season. With the introduction of three new teams this season – Virgin, Hispaniol Racing and Lotus – it was interesting to observe whether there was potential in any of the cars or drivers. Hispaniol Racing (or HRT as they are rather amusingly known) had barely managed any testing with Karun Chandhok having managed precisely no laps in the car until this point. Virgin had trouble with bits of their cars coming off and ‘Lotus’ stands for ‘Lots of Trouble, Usually Serious’ so it was expected that something would go pop on the green and gold cars.

Chandhok was actually a bit of a surprise for me personally, even if everyone else probably thought him useless. His first qualifying lap was a pathetic 2min 20 sec, however by the end of quail 1 he had put in a faintly respectable 2min 2sec. Finding eighteen seconds in an F1 car on your first drive shows there’s some talent there, however to spite me he managed one lap of the race before binning it. The other HRT broke after quarter race distance and the Virgin cars – despite showing relative pace – also went pop. It was nice to see both Lotus’ cross the line even if Trulli was nursing it around at the end. Of the three new teams, my money is on Lotus to do something this year.

Realistically we won't find any definite trends from this inaugural race of the season. What we did see is thay Lewis clearly has the legs on Jensen, and the Red Bulls are damn quick. Ferrari proved what we already knew, and the non-refuelling didn’t influence the race apart from the cars looking slow and lumbering for the first 15 laps. Schumacher was reliably Germanic but failed to re-ignite any fireworks at this early stage. Vettel was immensely fast, but a burst exhaust cost him all straight-line speed and he ended up 4th behind the two Ferraris of Alonso and Massa, and the McLaren of Hamilton.

It really was the most hyped snooze-fest in years, but once the circuit gets onto the classic GP circuits like Australia and the European stint I do think things will hot up. If McLaren can keep up with the Red Bulls and Ferrari, and Mercedes can keep Michael Schumacher in colostomy bags, there may well be the potential for a 6-way title fight.

Just don’t expect any desert-bound circuits built on the back of oil to provide the fireworks.

On the Hunt

2010-03-03T13:33:00.000Z

Good Lord Jesus Christ, job hunting is dull.

Almost all websites dedicated to the art of re-acquainting yourself with the cruel bondage of the tax man are definitely set out to be completely unfathomable. Worst offender has got to be Monster Jobs. You click about fifty different preferences which in an ideal world would slim down the search to just ten-or-so relevant jobs. What in fact happens is you spend half your day trying to whittle down the myriad of shite that is being advertised into a cohesive mass of jobs to which you might just apply. And you fail – because the end results always show farm labouring and personnel management jobs. This is a problem.

You see, ever since I was able to recognise what a job was I’ve had an overwhelming desire not to be the manager of personnel. Or ‘solutions’. Or anything else remotely blue-chip, in fact. Imagine getting up each day knowing that you have just an hour to instil within yourself the desire to actually leave your house, get into your diesel company car, and drive to a job which involves sitting in a dour office doing something so boring and repetitive that even the USA wouldn’t use such techniques in Guantanamo. And the only sad little thing which will brighten your day is a viral email showing the picture of a large man with a very small penis and some stupid strap-line. You may as well just throw yourself off a building for all the reward a modern ‘management’ job will give you.

Another problem with trawling through all the nonsense that’s out there is some of the hook lines companies use to make you look at their ads. “Outstanding candidate required urgently!” – what does this even mean? I’m more than happy being a mediocre candidate, so I simply shan’t bother applying for whatever account executive type nonsense you are advertising. “Are you a ‘can do’ type person?” – this depends rather on what the ‘do’ involves. If I am to be tasked with solving the troubles in the Middle East with nothing but a burning Koran and an American flag then I’m more of a ‘can’t do’ type person. In the same vein, I would not bother applying for a job marked as ‘Peugeot Salesman’ – I can’t do that even armed with suitcases of cash as bribes.

Sorting the stuff which involves actually adding value to society from the bumph takes up more time than actually applying for a full-time job, so as a result I shall simply set up a private business searching for people’s jobs for them. It shall be a consultancy and I shall be a ‘recruitment manager’.

In amongst all this nonsense so far you may have realised that I’m not getting out too much at the moment. Having no particular place to go of a day is both liberating and boring. On the one hand I can cycle wherever the mood takes me and wave the finger of derision at the mortals sitting in offices thinking of solutions; on the other hand when it’s cold or raining (all the time) I don’t really have the willingness to move from the sofa, and now that Christian Digby is no more To Buy or Not to Buy is simply a sad aria to a man’s life rather than a jolly property program.

Perhaps the biggest plus of not needing to drive 40 mind numbing miles in the morning and afternoons, however, is a re-discovery of a love for driving. Previous notes of mine made an example of the dreariness of commuting: the daily drivel to work to pay for the immense amount of petrol you use to get there seemed so utterly pointless. Thankfully, on the rare occasions I drive now I inevitably take the back-route and I also inevitably throw saving fuel into the same recess of my mind as the ‘account management for an international client’ jobs I see so many of.

The ecstasy of only driving 20 miles a week – all at a million miles an hour – is so great that there is a severe temptation to not bother with a silly and time consuming full time job and just plump for something part time and within cycling distance. I’m currently chewing through about £15 worth of petrol per week between two cars (don’t ask about insurance, mind) and the MR2 – potentially in the twilight of my ownership of it is beginning to make sense.

It didn’t want to start yesterday morning and required the aid of my KA to help it along electrically, but once going and up to temperature I let rip around the roads of Kent, East and West Sussex and had the sort of fun I used to get when I would drive somewhere for no particular reason. I drove like a twat as often as the traffic allowed and got lairy round a few bends as well as scaring some mere mortals in their hatch-backs on single-track roads. It was epic.

Then I took up my position for the day as grounds-keeper/farm labourer, and you know what? It was brilliant. I was working for Woman’s parents on their smallholding in early spring sunshine and it was definitely the best day’s work I’ve done since leaving Uniques upon finishing uni (RIP). Firstly, the weather was perfect; warm enough to warrant rolled-up sleeves but not too warm to make it uncomfortable. Secondly I was chief in charge of rotovating; every man needs a rotovator in his life. I now get why ploughing contests are so widely held. The constant struggle between man and earth for geometric perfection of the furrows being ploughed concentrates the mind and alleviates any thoughts of job hunting and potential financial ruin. Straightness of ploughing and the best route to follow to avoid already-ploughed sections of land becomes all that matters. Couple this with what a gloriously simple and wonderful machine that a rotovator is and you have the combination in place for a perfect days work.

Simply speaking, a rotovator consists of a small and torquey Honda single-banger coupled to a PTO (see the Oxford Farmer’s abbreviations manual) with a simple clutch and throttle mechanism. This drives a series of rotating blades in a slow but relentless forward motion whilst maintaining a decent depth of ‘dig’. There’s even a reverse for helping manoeuvre what is a heavy machine around a small area.

£60 and a slightly achy back later and I felt I had achieved more than I ever did in my year-and-a-half with Scott Wilson. The results of my toil were so obvious to see. Then I had the pleasure of driving the MR2 home and enjoying the potential for speed due to the knowledge that it probably won’t be called into action for a few days yonder. As a result I drove up the M23 faster than I think I ever have previously. The way the MR2 pulls so strongly from 70 to well over 100 is a pleasure every time you plant your foot to overtake a long line of middle-lane traffic. Pease Pottage to the M25 can have taken no more than 10 minutes (it’s 14 miles) at the speed I was maintaining, and then I even got to scare the good folk of Limpsfield and Oxted as I took to the A25 to avoid traffic.

So, after such a fulfilling day I’ve decided: I’m back on Monster jobs entering my preferences as ‘IT Consultant, Central London, Full Time, £150,000 + PA’.

It will inevitably throw up a job as a farm labourer in Wealden Kent.

The Car in your front room is a Toyota

2010-02-15T15:41:00.001Z

Being informed that my job technically no longer exists as of the 12th March was a bugger, but the good thing is that for the intermediate time I don’t have to remove myself from my sofa because I am surplus to requirement in the office. I am getting paid in full for this so for the time being I am hesitant to complain. My Ka is brilliant and the MR2 will sell eventually. All in all life is ok, and with my free time I can play large amounts of PS3 and keep up to date with any news as it happens.

Some news came out in the motoring world recently which has rocked one of the biggest corporations on Earth: the news that humans are more lacking in common sense than originally thought.

You see, there was a time when faced with a problem which involved taking three very simple steps to rectify, even the fruitiest of cakes could manage to work them out and put them in a close to correct order. Unfortunately it has recently been proven that modern man has all the problem-solving abilities of a wet newspaper. This has been an exciting find for anthropologists, but for Toyota it’s been less of a boon.

Now driving – in general – is not difficult. You operate what is essentially a 110 year old machine with the help of some pedals and a disc-shaped object. Modern cars are so advanced that even the pedals are becoming increasingly redundant. The only real difficulty when driving is negotiating around other humans who may be the type to whom 2 and 2 makes Belgium, and the location of the seat of the EU is 4. Still, in general most cars travel in the same direction as one another for at least half of the width of road on which you are driving, so all you really need to be able to do is recognise when to speed up, when to slow down, and when to twirl the disc-shaped object in the correct direction.

What has been proven by Toyota recently, however, is that when faced with the problem of one of the four main controls of the vehicle not doing exactly what the driver expects it to do, most people will glaze over and accept crashing as inevitable. Or if American, reach for the ‘cell phone’ to post a Twitter requesting information as to what to do. Which still is, as it has turned out, to crash in a large and dramatic fireball.

It is unfortunate when people – who would have you believe that they are the cleverest beings on Earth – cannot solve what is a very simple problem. It is even sadder that the press and powers that be have it necessary to instruct people how to overcome a simple situation when faced with it.

Obviously, what I’m on about is Toyota’s accelerator and brake issues. Seemingly some people have found that these controls don’t always operate properly – either sticking on or staunchly refusing to work. And now faced with an alarming number of potential litigation cases from the home of casual litigation – the USA – Toyota has been forced to recall several million cars to finish building them by fitting them with pedals which work.

Tragic as it is that at least four lives have been claimed due to an accelerator problem, I struggle to have much sympathy. The BBC gave us an insightful demonstration of what to do if first your car, then your ability to string two thoughts together fails you. So you would think that someone faced with a sticky accelerator could recall this knowledge. But unfortunately – as anthropologists have discovered – what in fact happens is that the person faced with this situation gets their phone out, goes to BBC iPlayer to see if they can find the news report with the correct instructions. Then, when they can’t, they call the police for advice. At this point they reach a corner and duly hit a tree; Darwin Awards notches up another candidate.

I’ve been in the situation (all be it as a passenger) when the throttle of a car jams open. What the driver (my dad) did was both unexpected, and clearly the work of a genius. Realising that the ability to modulate the acceleration of the car had been removed, he depressed the clutch, pulled over, and turned the engine off: The three simple steps to non-death. Magically he did not even hit the kerb, let alone a tree. For this display of thought he is a now a candidate for president of the Royal Society. I’ve even been in the position (in a Toyota Yaris) of the brakes deciding not to work on a mildly greasy and bumpy road (the conditions compleinees have found this phenomenon to occur). I too am now a candidate for the Royal Society’s presidency because what I did was identify that the brakes were not engaging, remove my foot from the pedal, then put it back on at which point I was rewarded with retardation of speed.

My father and I must be in a minority, seemingly. We are blessed with the ability to think which has rendered us able to not catch fire, drown in the bath, or wire up a plug with nothing but some bailer-twine and the grace of God. I can only assume, given the furore surrounding Toyota, that around the Western world people are going to swimming pools, ducking their heads under and never coming back up. All because they failed to link not being able to breathe with the need to resurface. Equally, I’m fairly sure that just the other day I witnessed someone falling over and just lying there because they couldn’t link falling over with the need to get back up again. They’re probably still there if the street sweepers haven’t been in the mean time.

I think there is some comfort – and indeed opportunity – to come from this saga. Since the MR-S roadster was phased out it’s fair to say that Toyota has struggled to make anything that you might label ‘interesting’ or indeed ‘fun’. They do ‘dull’ and ‘boring’ with conviction, and a grey Auris is the very definition of the word ‘tedious’. But Toyota’s ability to create machines which make you warm and fuzzy with excitement has eluded them. Until now.

Now all you need to do is hurry up and buy a 2nd hand Toyota within a batch affected by the braking and accelerating problem, and not get it fixed. Imagine the potential fun? You could be driving along quite normally when all of a sudden you are no longer in control of your speed and you cannot slow down. This would be fun – avoiding other objects which would otherwise result in death – and to top it off you could even practice brain training and work out for yourself how to overcome the situation. That Nintendo DS which you were convinced would stop you getting Alzheimer’s can go on Ebay.

Then if you make it home at full speed, you can come to a stop in front of your TV in the middle of your front room.

How brilliant is that?

What is the Appeal of Audi?

2010-01-25T13:38:00.000Z

Every dog has its day apparently.

Quite why a dog has a particular day is open for debate, but the sentiment stands to reason. With the faddy nature of society, it is more than likely that almost everything ever conceived will be popular at some point – even if it is for five minutes.

For instance, the Soda Stream; a brilliant invention allowing you to carbonate any drink you so wished. Tea, coffee, prune juice, all was fair game with the Soda Stream, but as soon as they became popular, so they disappeared from the public consciousness. Same with John Barrowman – that screaming self-exposure fanatic from the United States of Scotland. Here is a man whose favourite past time is exposing his genitals to chat show hosts, but seemed to be more omnipotent than God at the beginning of last year. He even released a single. Which was diabolical.

Cars have much the same faddishness about them. Manufacturers’ fortunes and popularity ebbs and flows like the tides, being awash with praise and plaudits one minute, then left high and dry the next. Few ever manage to crack the art of remaining popular for any significant length of time.

Ford could perhaps claim a static fan-base, but when you think back to the whimsical affairs of the 90’s and the drop-off in sales associated with it, even their fortunes have bound and re-bound. The Mk5 Escort was a dog; ugly to behold and with the driving dynamics of melting ice cream. A mate of mine in school had one with the old 1.3CVH engine and it was terrible. It pitched and rolled into corners like a ferry and the engine sounded like it was gargling on knitting needles. It was about as fast as long-shore drift and made with the same soul as the cheese that you get in a Big Mac. The contemporary Fiesta wasn’t much better, and the Scorpio had a look that could kill at 1000 yards.

Up in the higher echelons of cardom there is Mercedes Benz and BMW – locked in a constant power-struggle in which there will be no ultimate winner. Both try to out-do one another by fitting the latest must have (but probably don’t need) gizmo which removes another element of the skill of driving.

Both, also, have had their phases at the top of the heap. Merc were at their best in the 70s and 80s, building cars which would have survived the cold war had someone actually pressed the button. Such was the build quality of Mercedes’ cars around this time that many of them which originated in Europe now ply their trade on the hot, dusty and unmade roads of Africa. Even then they will plod on and on, surviving comings together with Elephants, monsoon rains and civil wars.

Unfortunately for Merc, come the 90s they stopped hewing their cars out of Iron and igneous rock, and turned to a more economical approach. Gone were the hydraulically operated hinges and windows and in was an approach to manufacturing which clearly involved throwing the parts at the bare body shell and hoping they would stick until the warranty was over. BMW capitalised on this and their cars benefitted from Mercedes’ failings.

Throughout the 90s a BMW was the car to have if you were in the market for a posh and sporty executive saloon. The M-cars, dreamt up in the 80s, came to fruition and a series of stonking M3s and M5s sealed BMWs reputation as a seriously good car builder. A reputation for reliability and drivability pedalled by the motoring press along with a badge which was bound to pull women meant that a ‘beemer’ was the must have accessory of the thrusting executives. And up until a couple of years ago it still was the refuge of the ‘cock’ – the short sleeve shirt and Bluetooth brigade.

Audi had always been seen as a more accessible route to Germanic quality. Slightly posher than VW, it filled the gap between the mainstream and the uber saloons of BMW and Merc. I always rather liked the look of the 80, and the early A4s also looked rather good, however there was always a nagging sense that they were VWs in drag. Component sharing probably didn’t help this either. More recently, however, they have really come into fruition; the current fad has definitely been for Audi over the last five years.

Personally I can’t quite put my finger on where all this started. I suppose the last gen A4 was handsome and the A8 has been the choice of the ‘thinking’ chief exec for some time now, but there wasn’t a particular car or event which stands out in my mind as genesis for the Audi fad. They’ve always been well built and subtly stylish, and have also had less of a stigma attached to them as their older rivals, Mercedes and BMW. They have been a major part in the public and motoring consciousness since the days of the Quattro and Group B domination, yet their hay-day is only five years old. Why is this?

Well, BMW became the home of the aforementioned ‘cock’. The type of bloke who thought that tailgating was fun and that pastel shaded shirts were socially acceptable. From the lowliest 316 compact up to the rip-roaring M5, the BMW driver was typecast and unfortunately the typecast was often correct. The number of times a 318is has tried to race me for no apparent reason beggars belief, but thankfully the 318is wasn’t particularly sprightly so I have – more than once – taken them in my old Ka. Merc’s problem was that the type of person that drove their cars thought that pringle-patterned clothes were socially acceptable, and he also had a heart condition resulting in a countenance which was of a similar hue to a tomato. The ageing of the Mercedes driver and the idiocy of the BMW driver meant that the moneyed middle classes had nowhere else to go. This is why Audi became popular.

Unfortunately I just don’t get the appeal. The new A4 looks like it needs liposuction on its rear and the new A6 looks precisely the same as the old one. The A3 is so boring it makes me fall asleep, and the TT has always been the reserve of the kind of person who knows what a pedicure involves. The cocks are in on it too – leaping in huge numbers from their BMWs into the four-ringed wonder of the TT, RS4 and A3. See a set of running lights (which look like a council house at Christmas) bombing up behind you and you automatically know it’s a wide-tied nobber in an A3 1.9TDi – which is so slow that when I drove one it was out-dragged by a mobility scooter.

Then there are the more ‘niche’ cars Audi are producing. Niche marketing is a German speciality and Audi has gotten involved with the Q7 and now the Q5. Both of these are dog ugly and both are excessive when you may as well go for an A6 Allroad if you’re desperate. The A5 is not ageing well and the A5 sport hatch is such a swipe at the intelligence of normal people that I want to write a sternly worded letter to Audi.

Finally we have the icing on the cake – the A3 cabrio. Now, sporting a canvas roof rather than a folding tin top has benefits for the look and weight of the car, as it doesn’t require heavy and cumbersome retraction gear, and the boot doesn’t need to be longer than the deck of an aircraft carrier to store said roof. Unfortunately you can spec the roof in a variety of colours for the A3, and overall the transition from tin top to soft top has been rather unsuccessful. From the side it looks like a Mk3 Golf cabriolet – almost identical in fact, and when I saw one the other day (white with a black roof), I thought it looked like it was wearing a toupee. The red option roof is also an affront to common decency.

Thankfully, Audis’ days are numbered. The same fate will befall them as did BMW a few years back which will leave the door open again for the next fad. My guess as to who that will be? Proton, step up. The plinth is yours.

Internal Combustion is Rubbish: Long Live Internal Combustion

2010-01-12T11:06:00.000Z

“It is an undeniable fact that the ice caps are melting, and it is almost certainly down to us in some way.”

I subscribe to the above but am currently re-evaluating whether they really are melting, or whether the ice caps were just fed up with being at the top and bottom of the earth and fancied a change of scenery. They seem to have settled on a short excursion to the UK which – in case it has escaped your notice – is blanketed in an apocalyptic six inches of snow. Obviously, with such a depth of snow lying on the ground I had thoughts of that film where the plane crashes in the Andes and the surviving passengers eat one another. I had to weigh up who to eat first; the cat or my girlfriend, because Tesco was out of reach and at any rate, it had long since run out of Milk and Bread.

In reality, the snow meant that I had an excuse to stay off work and re-discover the joy of sledging. It also meant that I had plenty of time to think. So along with many other thoughts such as whether a ratchet is the tool of kings and whether there is anything more disappointing in life than melting snow, I decided within my mind that the internal combustion engine is a stupid invention.

If we stand back and look at the internal combustion engine objectively, it beggars belief that it ever became our staple diet for mass movement. In terms of efficiency, power and cleanliness it would probably rate alongside fitting a drafty 16th century barn with an oil-fired central heating system to keep your hay warm. You would spend an inordinate amount of money on something relatively complex which essentially pisses money up the wall and would only make the temperature marginally warmer, whilst using more than its fair share of fossil fuels.

There are, and have been since before internal combustion was mastered, many more efficient and clean ways of making people move without the need for physical effort. Electricity, for instance, is far more reliable and efficient. Whereas a petrol engine may achieve 20% efficiency and a diesel approaching 40%, an electric motor will easily achieve 70%. Which is just better. On top of the efficiency is the fact that an electric motor has very few moving parts – 1 – and therefore won’t break as easily. Plus all the power is available from 0 rpm.

Obviously, electricity storage isn’t easy when using batteries, but with Hydrogen fuel cell technology (which has been around since the 1830s), there is a ready and massive source of potential energy which is easily stored. Yes, people often come back with the argument that Hydrogen is rather explosive – something anyone on the Hindenburg could vouch for – but when a car crashes and the petrol tank ruptures, the results are much the same. You will still emerge in a ‘well done’ state.

The jet engine is also vastly simpler than the traditional internal combustion engine, and for its current applications is also far more efficient. It may not be quite as successful in terms of powering a car as has been proved with various attempts, but for its chosen application it is far better.

Our addiction to the petrol engine is rather unusual compared to most other areas of society. Generally we try to ‘improve’, so rather than burning peat on the fire, we now switch on the central heating. Rather than dunking women in rivers to ascertain whether they’re witches, we can now press the red button or spend £1.50 on a text to decide. And instead of drinking excess mead and indulging in a duel, we now sup our own weight in lager and partake in casual violence… I guess some things never really change.

And so it is with the car. Despite the ability by any car manufacturer – apart from Proton – to produce something electrically powered which would be viable through the use of Hydrogen, they carry on churning out the same old. Yes, better, cleaner and more efficient than the last generation, but still essentially the same powerplant as Karl Benz came up with all those years ago, a powerplant which wastes a good proportion of its own power merely keeping itself going. Seriously, so much of an engine’s oily bits are there not to propel you forward, but simply to keep the repetitive cycle of combustion occurring. Pulleys, belts and bearings, pumps cams and shims are there sapping up the potential energy in the petrol merely to allow the engine life. Forward propulsion comes way down the list after more of the energy is lost within gearbox bearings and differentials. In short, an engine is wantonly wasteful.

But, I get it. I understand the reason behind carrying on with internal combustion – and not from a manufacturer’s accountant’s point of view either. Whilst realising during my thinking time that internal combustion engines are rubbish, I also realised that their flaws are what makes them great.

All that energy wasted through heat, noise, vibration and the like gives an engine extra dimensions to its personality. Absolute efficiency is boring and lifeless, whereas a big, thirsty V8 which shoots half the petrol that goes in straight out the exhaust is exciting and has character. Its vices make its personality, and the inefficiencies are part of the entertainment value. An engine is a car’s heart, its life comes from under the bonnet, and in that respect it has human qualities. You can hear when it is ill or in pain, and you can feel when it is running sweetly. The waste is beside the point, because the noise and vibration and inefficiency are utterly human. We can relate to it.

Think about it this way; a person has a heart, lungs, a liver, kidneys, stomach, guts and various other bits which do things unfathomable to most people. All of this stuff requires food and drink to keep it going, constantly. A failure of one part means that a person cannot function properly – just as a malfunctioning part of an engine will reap the same result. And just as an engine spends most of its time simply keeping itself going, so the constituent parts of a person spend most of their time keeping the other parts running.

So a switch to electricity may be the way to go, but there won’t be as enthusiastic a following of the electric motor as there is to the internal combustion engine. ‘Volt heads’ are going to be harder to come by than petrol heads; that I can guarantee.

An electric fuel cell may be the future, but it is undoubtedly devoid of soul.

Christmas Car(d)

2009-12-22T12:16:00.000Z

It would be fairly easy for me to launch into a spume filled rant about how obscene Christmas has become these days. There is plenty of nonsense to use as ammunition. And so I shall.

Corporate Christmas cards are a real and present issue at this time of year. You are forced to tow the company line by sending whatever nonsense they dictate you should, and equally painfully you must receive the rubbish from other corporations. Scott Wilson’s efforts have – in my short experience of two Christmases – been bloody awful. Amongst the worst in fact.

Last years attempt was jolly good in theory. Get some adolescents to draw artistic interpretations of Christmas cheer with elements of the engineering undertaken by this particular consultancy. Obviously, this idea was thought up by those in the PR department so they could leave the work to someone else and all go on holiday. Upon inspecting the cards, the appearance was one of very ‘contemporary’ design. Which PR probably liked. They consisted of some substance spilt onto a page, at the bottom of which was the name and age of the youth who conducted this artwork. Your immediate thought was that they were either messing around, or were very arty indeed, and the random spillage actually had a deeper meaning.

What Scott Wilson failed to print on the cards, however, was the fact that the adolescents involved were a wee bit special needs. And actually had spilt some kind of fluid onto a page, and probably been very pleased with the results. Pointing this out would have been a good idea, as many people did wonder about the ham-fisted approach the artist had taken to drawing a tree – therefore highlighting the meaning of irony.

This years’ affair isn’t much improved from last year’s exploitation of children who had been forced to thrust a paintbrush in the general direction of some paper. What it is, is a Blue Peter card requiring self assembly. It is supposed to represent a snowflake, but frankly it represents a colossal waste of money. As per last year, the PR team all fancied another week in Andalucía and outsourced the design to another company. What they then conducted is a process called ‘taking the piss’, whereby they blew a fortune on what is – unequivocally – complete corporate shite.

I also have a big problem with the moniker ‘Seasons Greetings’. What does it mean? Do I receive another card in spring wishing me some more seasons’ greetings? Or is the season greeting me via the middleman that is a multinational corporation? I don’t know whether any of these are the correct interpretations, but I fear that what the card is trying to say is ‘Merry Christmas’ – a banned phrase because of its Christian connotations.

Which leads me on to another real problem I have at this time of year; where’s Jesus in all these festivities? Christmas – by very nature of the name – is based around the Biblical figure of Christ, and therefore should probably have something to do with him, no matter how many religions exist in this country. But obviously, according to the type of person who says ‘I always put milk in my instant coffee before the hot water so it doesn’t scald the beans’ (which is the biggest load of horse shit since time began, as a good coffee relies on scalding hot water for good flavour, and the instant stuff is nothing more than a reconstituted drink anyway) Christmas is a pagan festival, hijacked by those scandalous Christians. I swear, if anyone says that to me this year I shall find and new and intriguing use for a bauble which will not be the least bit pleasant.

Then there is the problem that when it looks like it’ll be a wee bit chilly, everyone on the roads suddenly loses all ability to drive. This manifests itself in several different ways. We have those who become so cautious that they essentially sit at the wheel crying and shaking with terror whilst believing that 12mph is ‘a bit excessive’. Then we have those who carry on as though normal levels of traction are available on ice, and as a result wheelspin and skid everywhere. Lastly there are those who purposely drive like complete idiots in the belief that they could handle any slide that occurs.

When Kent turned from a greeny browny colour to a blanketed white landscape on Friday last, I did the sensible thing. I took one look out of my window and decided that I would spend the day making snowmen rather than attempting to get to a job in which I mostly do nothing. Obviously, rear wheel drive in snow and ice is properly fun as it allows drifting and good long burnouts to be undertaken in empty car parks. And come the afternoon when necessary supplies of coffee were low, I did indeed take the beast out to nearby Sevenoaks and undertake some car-park drifting. This had the unfortunate effect of pulling off the undertray of my car as I had mis-calculated the depth of the snow, and the lowness of the ‘2.

The undertray incident was unfortunate not only for the fact that it came off, but also for the fact that it decided to make its bid for freedom not in the deserted car park, but on the A25 whereupon it was run over by an old man in a Mondeo who probably didn’t realise that some of the words I shouted at him even existed. Still, no harm done – it will go back on once I’ve re-attached my fingers from my frost bitten first attempt at fixing it.

Worse than that though was the state of the driving of a minicabber who attempted to drive up the modest slope into my road by way of applying full throttle. I heard him struggling and went outside to join another neighbour and help push. He’d already hit one car, and didn’t seem to understand us when we told him to put it in 2nd and use low revs. He squealed his way up the road, no doubt causing several other crashes that night. Hopefully one of them will have been a fatal; one mini-cabbing victim.

My last complaint is about the person in the silver Mazda 3 who decided that 12mph was fast enough on a main road. I wouldn’t usually condone overtaking on sheet ice, but I did it anyway as frankly, 12mph is not acceptable unless you are on a bridge that is 2 inches wider than your car which crosses a pit of lava. There is caution, then there is failing to drive with any obvious forward momentum.

Despite all this moaning, I love the snow and I adore Christmas. And in some ways, people’s inability to cope with relatively innocuous driving conditions is part of this, so long may it continue. After all, wouldn’t life be boring if the roads were always clear and everyone drove well no matter what the prevailing weather.

There would be nothing to talk about.

Car Bonding

2009-12-14T13:48:00.000Z

In my family, bonding with inanimate objects is widely accepted as the norm. Old televisions, sofas, coffee mugs, towels, coat hangars; anything is fair game when it comes to imbuing something inanimate with a personality. My sister and my father are especially bad at this – examples being my sister nearly killing herself in the waves when on a trip to the coast to save a piece of seaweed which had become a pet, and my father’s inability to walk past a lone soft toy on a shelf. He has to buy it because he feels it may be lonely sitting there on its own, which is clearly a sign of madness, and means that his house is full of rubbish bought on a whim to save it from becoming lonely.

Perhaps the strongest strain of this particular manifestation of fruit cakery is saved for cars in the household White. A car may as well be a pet to all intents and purposes. It is treated with respect, given a name, taken to the vets (garage) when it is feeling ill, and congratulated on moving its users from place to place without breaking down or spontaneously combusting. Which is daft because most of the cars we have ever owned aren’t exactly built with passion and soul, as the following run down will show:

• 1984 Talbot Solara in Blue. This car was originally my Granddads, but he handed it down upon purchasing a Vauxhall Carlton. It was named ‘George’ and had character, if nothing else. From what I can recall, it has a 1.5 litre engine which sounded like a sewing machine/Ford Fiesta and drank oil at a similar rate to petrol. I’m fairly sure it blew a head gasket, and come 1992 my dad was to be found, of a Saturday, replacing the sills with fibreglass. Sold for banger racing in 1994. R.I.P.
• 1990 Renault 21 GTX, bought in 1994. Now, you probably won’t know this, and definitely won’t care, but the GTX was never officially sold in the UK – it was imported! Hardly a Jap-spec Skyline, but our import ’21 was still very much part of the family. Having wailed and sobbed for hours when George I was driven away never to return, my sister imaginatively named the Renault ‘George II’; George is dead, long live George. Anyhoo, this car was hideous to look at, but at least had a willing engine which – in true White tradition – blew a head gasket on a particularly cold winter’s day. My dad also removed the front bumper on the church gate – fixed with ample bailer twine.
• 1997 Renault Laguna estate – with the optional boot seats. To satisfy an expanded step-family, the 7-seat Laguna was bought – from new – which was quite a big deal. Named Viki after the ‘VKE’ ending of the registration, the Laguna has been perhaps the longest lived of the White motorcars. I always thought the MK1 Laguna was rather handsome, though build quality was an issue on many. However, the interior was mint to its final day, but the rate at which the Laguna got through clutches was quite special. I think it was up to seven in about 140,000 miles. Traded in as scrappage, the Laguna spent its whole working life in the family and became a good friend to my dad, who was clearly sad to see its demise. Still, towards the end it dropped oil faster than you could fill it, and although it never broke, it always sounded like it would.
• 2003 Ford Ka in base spec named ‘Touser’ due to the ‘TOU’ designation on the number plate. This car was bought from new to fill the needs of my sister and myself once we’d passed out driving tests and also as a run-around. My dad and sister got first dibs, and had run it in nicely before I took the helm in late 2004. By this point my sister had gone to university and sixth form was in full swing for me, which meant that a car was the must-have accessory. The Ka always was a brilliant car, and I still want one. It never broke down, although Ford parts lives were terrible so it usually needed something doing to it, and it rusted like no new car should. Still, you could drive it like you stole it and still get 40mpg, and it was quick enough off the mark to beat most things to 35mph – all you need in town. I took the Ka with me when I moved out, only giving it back when I purchased my MR2 and it has since been traded in, but I miss it.

The crux of this issue is perhaps the time you spend with a car. As I’ve written previously about certain roads, certain cars invoke a bond which you wouldn’t expect to happen – such as those listed above, all of which are rubbish in many ways, but all of which have feeling associated with them. Not feelings of wanting to mate with the exhaust pipe or gearstick mind.

The bond between man and machine has come to my attention again recently. This time, it involves a good friend who is selling his Alfa Romeo Mito only four months after getting it for the simple reason that he hasn’t bonded with it. I don’t think his 100 mile per day commute has helped, as such a drive makes you want to stick bread sticks up your nose and plead insanity, but having chopped in his much loved Ka and spent a further 10K he was at least expecting a small twinge of pleasure whilst driving.

I have to say, I can see his point. My MR2 is the first car I’ve ever personally owned, insured and run, but I feel little emotion towards it. Sure, it’s nice in a childish kind of way to be seen cruising around in town, and sure, it goes fast and handles neatly, but if I walked up to it this afternoon to find it all on fire, I’m not sure I would be particularly bothered. My commute of 80 miles per day doesn’t help – that’s for sure. Economy driving a sports car is rather like drinking two pints and calling it a night: desperately sad.

I think I’m going to take a lead from my good friend and his Alfa experience. He’s scratched and itch, and so have I. I’ve owned a sports car for a year and gained some pleasure from that, but like him I think I shall soon give up the frivolity of on-road speed and buy something boring for mile-munching. Unlike my good friend and his Alfa however, I shall use some spare funds in a carry-over from my last bulletin: I shall buy a go-kart – probably in the latter part of next year - and spend my weekends grinning like a buffoon. Having put up with the monotony of on-road commuting, I think I owe it to myself.

Watch this space.

Some Say…

2009-12-08T12:25:00.000Z

Anyone who plays a generic games console regularly will probably know of the ‘on line’ phenomenon. No longer will games suffice if you can’t go onto the interweb and play against other like minded individuals. Only they generally aren’t particularly like minded. In fact I’m often uncertain that they are even minded.

The general rules of online gaming – especially on the Call of Duty Series - go like this: Get into a game ‘lobby’ and wait for it to load. During this point all of your competitors are lined up on the screen, and often they have microphone headsets so they can ‘chat’, but what tends to happen in much abuse is dosed out at random. Then you play a game which involves shooting people squarely in the face. If you do well, once the game has finished you can be relatively certain that some spotty oik from Pennsylvania will either shout at you through his microphone, or some angry Frenchman will send you a message in broken English expressing how homosexual you are.

This is tedious – the torrent of abuse rendered by twelve year old Americans for being better than them, but the plus sides to online gaming far outweigh the minuses. Playing against a Frenchman and having the ability to figuratively shoot him in the chops is infinitely rewarding, and if you branch out into motor racing games you can end up playing against some truly excellent competitors.

Seeing as you need a bank account so large that your statements creak under the weight of all those noughts to afford to partake in actual motor racing, online gaming provides a damn-near free alternative. For the price of an interweb and a Playstation 3 you can become a digital Lewis Hamilton – an e-carnation of the driver you always knew you were. It is monumental fun, and nowerdays damn near as real as reality – so much so that ‘GT Academy’ takes the best online racers and whittles them down to just two who are then thrown into a 24 hour endurance race. In a real car.

Even better, if you completely bin it online, you don’t need to worry about being killed or even slightly maimed, and the cars generally bounce off of barriers rather better than real ones do. The only thing online racing really lacks is the feel, smell and raw excitement of real motorsport. This is where Karting comes in.

If you were to substitute the price you would pay for a monthly interweb subscription and a Playstation 3, you would probably have enough money to keep a casual karting habit going for a year.

I first went Karting on a friends’ birthday when we were about 12 years old and I loved it – screaming along at a barely comprehensible 30mph. I think I was doing quite well too until the inevitable large and dramatic crash happened. One absolute mother of a bruise later and my desire to go again wasn’t dented even slightly – even if my legs were. But it’s taken me 11 years to get round to having another go, and given the amount I enjoyed it I think I’ll now become a regular.

Firstly, I must point out that it had been raining all day and the track was wetter than the sea on a rainy day. The karts run on slicks which provide the square root of no grip whatsoever, and getting used to the way they handle takes a couple of laps. So dressed up like a red and black version of the Stig, we all took to the circuit and put out the feelers for where the grip lay. What I found was that wherever you were on the track, the grip lay elsewhere. The steering wheel was basically redundant, only giving a hint to the kart as to the direction of travel in which you wished to go.

Another thing to remember is that having only rear brakes means that if you step on the pedal too hard, you spin. Also, if you tread on the throttle too early you spin. Come into contact with the kerbs and you spin. Overcook a corner and you spin. Basically you drive from one spin to another, and if you see someone ahead of you spinning and you attempt to avoid them, you spin. Direct drive with no differential certainly doesn’t help matters.

Still, between unwanted rotation it was an absolute hoot. The method for a successful lap seemed to be trail brake into the slower corners to loosen the rear, turn the steering wheel to indicate your desired direction, then tread on the throttle to bring the back end round. More often than not this results in a huge tail slide or drift, but the karts are hugely controllable so this isn’t an issue. In fact, I found that driving with the rear pointing in a slightly different direction to dead ahead to be more rewarding and spent (I would guess through looking at others) more time than anyone else on track in a large and spectacular slide. On faster corners it seemed to be best to lift slightly, turn and feel the understeer build and then plant it to get the turn-in.

I would like to admit at this point that I was by no means even remotely the fastest person on track. A mixture of spending most of my time trying to overtake others and spinning wildly meant that I never really got a good sequence of hot laps together. It certainly didn’t help that the fastest man on circuit had taken his Mini Cooper Works on a track day the previous day and was clearly well into his motorsport. (Racing driver excuses)

Having come off track the lack of getting near the fastest lap times paled into insignificance. I’m completely sold on the sheer fun of karting and will be going again some time in the near future to work on my Stig act. I’m even beginning to give some thought to buying a kart (which start at £500 2nd hand with engine) when I have some space to keep it. Surely it has to be the cheapest motorsport going, and hideously simple machines on which to work at that.

In the mean time I shall be online on my PS3, taking the torrent of abuse from lonely geeks for being relatively proficient at both shooting people in the face, and driving a virtual car around a track. Call it practice.

The Birthday Card of Assumption

2009-11-23T12:14:00.000Z

I read an article recently in The Telegraph in which it was announced that scientists were a mere twenty years away from coming up with the gift of eternal life. This is jolly exciting, but frankly pales into insignificance when you’ve just turned 23 and realise that you’ve been driving for 5 years, the smoking ban has been in place for over two years, and hangovers abound like a tropical storm in your head when you dare to have more than 4 beers. Then you realise that you will never go you university again unless you become all unemployed, and the desire to go on in a monotonous job wanes.

Still, having birthdays will never get old, despite signifying getting older. Receiving gifts for no effort other than that of living for another year is my kind of reward system. It also provided me with my topic of the day – that of card based car assumptions, which are not only foolish, but ultimately, dangerous.

It began when I opened some of my birthday cards in the morning. To be honest, I barely paid attention to the nature of the cards, but rather flicked them open to see whom it was from and the amount of money they had lavished upon me. In the cold light of day and once the obligatory hangover had cleared however, one of the cards stood out to me like a petrol head at a Green Party rally. You see, upon its countenance was the unmistakable – if not marked as such – depiction of what can only be described as a Porsche Boxster.

Now the Porsche Boxster is a fine specimen of automotive technology. From what I’ve read and watched, it is Germanic precision at its finest – an ‘uber’ sports car which is devoid of a gender bias and can provide all the thrills of sports motoring, and almost none of the spills. I respect the Boxster hugely and am even relatively fond of the new shape now that it’s stopped resembling a bar of Imperial Leather. I’m sure that if I drove on I would sing it’s praises from every roof top I found myself upon.

Yet, it is completely inappropriate on the birthday card of non-specific age which could, potentially, be given to an impressionable child.

Firstly, it isn’t a desperately pretty car. A BMW Z4 Coupe (old shape) is much better looking, as is a Nissan 370 or even a Mazda RX8. There are enough boring or just down right ugly cars already out there, without hoisting bad taste upon the next generation of drivers.

Secondly, and most importantly, when I was of the age of impressionability, the unmarked, yet unmistakable cars that were depicted upon the front of birthday cards were Lamborghini Diablos and Ferrari F40s. These were cars which were, and still are, so completely desirable that their very image could cause a faint tingling sensation. Receiving cards like this at the age of eight could bring something out in a young boy (or girl) – a need to own one – and as a result, there is the chance that they could become a modern-day industrialist. An innovator or someone that comes up with an evolutionary technology. Someone rich beyond everyone’s modest dreams.

This could happen because cars such as the Lamborghini Diablo and Ferrari F40 cost so much that you had to be cripplingly rich to own one. In fact, cars such as these are accumulating in value, so anyone unfortunate enough to have earned their first million 10 years after receiving a Ferrari F40 card at the age of 10 will still be saving.

Fast-forward to 2009 and my Porsche Boxster card: as happy as I am to have received a card from some relative or another, I felt that it is simply not inspirational enough. If I were a ten year old boy looking for inspiration as to what to own when I grow up, a Porsche Boxster is simply too achievable to inspire hard work. A Porsche Boxster is so achievable in fact, that as a fresh 23 year old with a modest wage and a taste for unleaded, I could almost certainly afford to go out and buy a decent second hand model right now. This is not good enough. I should have a card with a Veyron on it – something I can realistically never hope to drive, let alone own.

In brutal honesty, you may as well give a ten year old a birthday card with the picture of a three-bedroom semi and a Ford Mondeo on it. Settling for mediocre will not inspire your children to study hard and achieve straight A’s in everything they ever do. It will not come up with the cure for Cancer, and it will certainly not design the next generation of Petrol engines. They will settle for a job in ‘solutions’ and grow up with a ‘can do’ attitude. They will have an unhealthy penchant for computers and walk around looking like a character out of Dr Who with one of those Bluetooth headsets. They may even – God forbid – buy some pastel shade shirts with wide ties. Would you like your kids to enjoy pastel shirts and wide ties?

Without wishing to take it too far, I am of the opinion that a Porsche Boxster on the front of a ten year olds’ birthday card could be the beginning of the end for Britain. We are still a great engineering nation, and one in which it is very possible to achieve your dreams without much more investment than a bit of time and effort. Allowing kids to think that a Porsche Boxster is what they should be aiming for will be the end of this. When everyone wants to be a middle-manager in some blue-chip company based in Slough, our engineering and entrepreneurial attitude will cease to exist. Britain will no longer have a Raison de’ Terre.

So, a stark word of warning: I’m old enough to realise that as good a car as the Boxster is, it is nothing more than a jumped up sports car, or deflated 911 – in other words I got away with it. If, however, you buy this card for your child, they are doomed. Instead, buy them a picture book of exotic and expensive cars. It will breed a good attitude.

On the flip-side, if you don’t like someone else’s kids, buy them a Boxster card, and laugh as they fail at everything thereafter.

Grey Ribbon

2009-11-17T12:15:00.000Z

Lets face it, driving is a fairly monotonous task which for most people is nothing more that the bit in-between where they’ve been, and where they’re going. Generally, it’s drudgery incarnate; boring beyond the knell of man and to be avoided where possible. I like this view, and it is one I agree with wholeheartedly. Driving can drive you to distraction, it can drive you round the bend – and if the journey’s been particularly fraught it can also drive you to commit pugilism. Worst of all, you may well end up in a supermarket car park where you will be set upon by people trying to park with the same accuracy usually reserved for American missile strikes.

It is clear to anyone with even half a brain that the train is a better bet. Most of the time you can just sit down, spread out and relax. You could read the paper, play on your iPhone or set someone’s hair alight for instance. You can’t do any of these things whilst driving. On top of the boredom, lack of relaxation, other drivers who are clearly trying to run you off the road and inclement weather, there is the issue that 99% of roads in the country are full to the brim.

Sitting in traffic is possibly the most terrible thing you can do to yourself – other than camping and watching ITV. It is so frustrating that from time to time people will literally burst all over their steering wheels once their blood pressure rises beyond the point at which nuclear fusion occurs. I can barely put into words the lengths I will go to if it means avoiding traffic jams, but these lengths would include severing my own limbs, trading my car in for a Rover, selling my family to slavery and even voting for the Green Party. In the past I have been known to take de-tours so protracted that I’ve taken in completely different countries just to avoid a 45 minute jam on the A30.

When the roads aren’t clogged up like a northerner’s artery, they fall back to being dull. Main roads are full of Vectras and Mondeos and the back roads are full of Tractors and Horses. The chances to get up some speed and enjoy one’s self are minimal – you may get a chance of a Sunday lunch time or of an early summer morn, but generally your fun will be thwarted.

This brings me onto the subject of ‘great driving roads’. A lot has been written on this subject, and anyone who takes and interest in where they’re driving is likely to have one. Often it will be linked to a single drive you had on that particular stretch, or a fond memory of a time when the road was yours and no one else’s. Personally I would go for the A272 through West Sussex and the A39 in Cornwall. Both of these roads are linked with holidays – good memories – and with the A272 at least, I was on it at about 5am, so the road was mine. I also experienced flight in a car on the A272, and the A39 – I seem to remember – had a rather challenging series of corners on the way to Padstow. Other lesser roads which I deeply appreciate include Stone Street to the south of Canterbury, and the lanes to the east of Broomfield towards Chislet, Upstreet and further towards Preston and Ash.

Most of the above have common denominators. At least three of them are what local authorities would class as ‘dangerous’; all of them were experienced by me within three years of passing my driving test when I still had colossal bravery (stupidity) behind the wheel; all of them were driven in my Ka – a car I still miss. Memories of driving these roads are branded on my memory and the mere thought of them makes me want to jump in my car right now and go for a blast. Stone Street can be driven (when the conditions allow) at very high speed, and the lanes to the east of Broomfield allow for great forward visibility and a mixture of corners with which to grapple. Slinging the Ka round here in the dead of night on my way home from some event or another is what driving should be about every time I get behind the wheel.

You may, also, have seen Top Gear at the weekend. Unhappy with the ‘greatest driving road in the world’ they found in a previous series, they set off in three GT cars (well, two and a Lambo) to trump the Stelvio Pass – a road whose very name makes Petrolheads the world-over go all gooey with excitement. Weirdly, they headed for Romania which doesn’t really smack of a place where you would find a strip of tarmac to rival the Stelvio. Romania makes you think of Borat, Oxen, poverty and Gypsies; not driving Nirvana. Still they generally bumbled about doing the kind of things that most blokes would love to do (drive a Ferrari in underground tunnels? Erm, Yes please!).

The road that they finally reached has now enraptured me. I have to go there. I’ve spent the last two days Googling it – the Transfagarasan - and working out whether I could drive there, do the road, and return without my girlfriend suspecting. She’s banned me from ever going there on the basis that I’d probably come home in a box. And she’s right, but what a way to go.

From above this grey ribbon looks amazing – sweeping S-bends make way for quarter-mile straights interrupted by abrupt hairpins, all situated on the edge of some simply stunning scenery. As said on the show, it looks like someone has taken all the best corners from all the best race tracks in the world and strung them together. The very idea of driving this road has come to me every ten minutes since I watched Top Gear and I fear it is an itch I will need to scratch in the next few years at least.

It’s generally accepted that cars can jolt emotions. Desire, envy, hate, excitement and joy; these are all linked with something as tangible and visceral as a car because it is an emotive object. It divides people, brings them together and makes them think – a car is difficult to ignore. Roads on the other hand are just grey strips of civil engineering – devoid of soul and character, accepted as simply being rather than invoking joy, detest or discussion. Most people would drive the Transfagarasan and enjoy the pretty scenery, perhaps slow down to take it all in, but forget that what they are on is the most amazing rollercoaster they never realised was there.

For those of us who can find the time to appreciate these amazing grey strips of ribbon and use them to their full extent, driving may just pull back some of its excitement. God knows it needs it.

The Peril of the Supermarket Car Park

2009-11-12T16:05:00.000Z

It’s probably a fair assumption that the trenches in World War One were a fairly bad place to be at the height of battle. If you weren’t up to your armpits in mud, and if your trench foot hadn’t turned into trench leg you were probably going to be sent over the top, and if this happened you may find that if you returned, you had taken on some of the properties of Leerdammer. In other words you would be full of holes. The lucky ones got their limbs blown off in shelling attacks and never got to experience no mans land.

I should imagine that central Kabul is relatively perilous too. Perhaps not as bad as Belgium in 1916, but a bit dicey none the less. Kabul is probably more like the rougher parts of town on a Saturday night where the chances of you getting beaten to death or stabbed are perceivably higher than in the better parts of town at 1pm on a Sunday. You would pay for a taxi to get through them so that some drunken oaf lacking in intelligence doesn’t attack you for absolutely no reason in other words.

Back up the peril scale, and towards the top in terms of every day hazards, however, we have the supermarket car park. Several hundred square metres of free-for-all; the results of which can be anything from mild terror to complete death.

Car parks in general are terrifying places to be. Though taught in lessons, the ability to park eludes many drivers just as the ability to find actual talent eludes the X-Factor. Most tend to drive forward into spaces leaving the reversing bit till later whereupon they will use guesswork to remove themselves from their space. Many others simply opt for ‘abandonment’. Abandonment is a practice adopted by older people, or those with a pathological inability to reverse a car into a space large enough for a super-tanker. It consists of getting the car into a position vaguely associated with a kerb-line or parking space, and then simply walking off – therefore ‘abandoning’ the car to the mercy of the parking wardens.

The supermarket car park is the real battleground though; a modern version of the Ardennes in winter 1944, or a suburban Helmand. Here, a spectrum of society comes each day to do battle, bringing with them their weapons of mass destruction. Assault rifles and grenades are substituted with Mercedes and Volkswagens. Where improvised explosive devices are missing, the humble Kia Picanto takes their place – ready to remove your limbs at a moments notice. In short, they are best avoided.

I would like to avoid stereotypes, but it’s impossible to as in this case, stereotypes are a perfect reflection on reality. Attending Tesco for the weekly shop – as you do – is a literal minefield of the elderly and of womenfolk all struggling to position their cars properly. The old tend to take their time, which is frustrating for a young thrusting fellow like me to whom parking is a doddle. Arthritis, decay of grey matter, loss of coordination and driving a Rover Metro are all factors in this lack of ascertainable movement.

I don’t like knocking older drivers too much though; when they were ‘lad they probably flew Spitfires and shot at Germans – something that should be applauded. And we’ve all heard the old phrase ‘the last time he looked in his mirrors he saw one of those new Ford Cortina’s’, so I won’t repeat it. In fairness, when your neck would more likely break than be able to turn on its axis, we shouldn’t expect the elderly to hurry up. They are far more likely to be trying to take care than some people, and any crashes that may occur would be devoid of malice. Plus they saved our skin in World War Two.

Whereas the elderly are easily avoided, the inattentiveness of the ‘Coffee mum’ isn’t. I’ve been through this before, so I won’t labour you by railing against the size of their cars and the despicable nature of their tan. However, it is worth a mention that science has proven that women struggle to park more than men do. Also, women tend to be the cause of what I call the ‘Supermarket Slant’.

The Supermarket Slant can be seen in any supermarket car park. This occurs when one person lazily parks their car in such a manner that it is at an angle within the space. When the next person comes along to fill the adjacent space, they too are forced to adopt a slant. So it goes on, rather like a game of dominos, that all cars parked in the same row of spaces will adopt this angle. If you were to set up a time-lapse camera you could probably see patterns within this slant as it sways from one angle to another to reversing the direction of the angle altogether. Watching such a film sped up would probably reflect a wave-like pattern and be a thing of patterned beauty.

The supermarket slant is perilous as it promotes what the American’s call the ‘fender bender’. This occurs when someone trying to join in the slant mis-judges the angle and clips the bumper of the car in the next space. Usually, the offending party will simply drive off in this circumstance – furthering the apparent danger of leaving your car for any length of time outside Sainsbury’s.

As a final danger, we have the fact that in supermarket car parks pedestrians, trolleys and cars come together in an unhappy dance of spilt ketchup and emergency avoidance. Obviously, in any car park people and cars will meet, however the level of traffic and movement associated with a supermarket car park makes this especially risky. As food shopping is a laborious task devoid of enjoyment, once people have filled their trolleys, they tend to make a mad dash for their cars and omit the desire to look at their surroundings. I’m surprised by the lengths people will go to reach their own vehicle. People will happily walk behind reversing pensioners and supermarket slanters, forgetting any sense of self preservation by dicing with the Range Rover driven by the distracted fathers and quite possibly jumping over bonnets then running along whole rows of car roofs simply to unload a Snickers and a copy of ‘Nuts’ magazine.

All this madness has to stop. Soon enough there will be a series of deaths linked with rage, pensioners, trolley dashing and the aforementioned supermarket slant. I would propose some crazy scheme whereby you must have a proven ability to park to use the spaces nearest the supermarket doors, but I can’t be bothered. What you should do is shop online and get it delivered, thereby removing the tedium altogether. Yes, you will receive the wrong stuff completely due to the uneducated oaf shopping on your behalf, but think of it this way: everyone likes a lucky dip, so why not do it with your shopping?

Climate Change and the Great Animal-Based Lie

2009-11-06T08:55:00.000Z

Being a human, there is a greater than average chance that you produce some form of carbon emissions. No matter how green your armpits, you will be responsible – in some way – for adding carbon dioxide to the atmosphere. Personally, I know that I’m responsible for a good few tons simply because my commute to work means that I drive around 16,000 miles per year. Also, because I do not appreciate the idea of being turned to ice, I sometimes turn the heating on when things get really frosty indoors. On top of all this it is my aim to gain a pilot’s licence when I can afford it, thus allowing me to fly around polluting the atmosphere in the most efficient way possible. Think of it as direct injection for greenhouse emissions.

I’m all up for saving the environment however, and I applaud anyone who makes moderate sacrifices to cut their carbon output. So long as people keep some perspective on things, it is wholly possible to improve your green credentials without affecting your quality of life in any way. You can even feel smug about it if you like. God knows that anyone driving a Prius goes about their driving with a smirk and a heightened sense of ‘holier than thou’ directed at everyone else. Their car produces less CO2 than yours (officially), so therefore they are a better human being. Forget the fact that they’re on a motorway and the electric motor is just dead weight at those speeds, and the puny 1.5 litre engine is struggling to better 40mpg whilst lugging the equivalent to a transit load of pig-iron; their car has ‘hybrid’ written on its rump.

Climate change activists are – in general – a fairly eccentric bunch. You get this sense that because they feel that they are conducting the most important mission since man first stood on his hind legs, they can berate normal people for simply going about their business. Obviously, those involved in the crusades thought that they were embarking on the most important mission ever, and look how badly that turned out.

Climate freaks also love to take you on a guilt trip – it’s a tried and tested tactic prone to success. Accusations of failing on the part of someone who is doing nothing other than driving to work of a week day and having the heating on can have quite an impact on some. This can result in the unfortunate – and frankly inhumane - act of getting a bus to work.

Intrinsically linked with the greenies are the animal protectionists. Though they care more about animals than ice, they are essentially reading off the same hymn sheet and their campaigns are linked arm-in-arm. Lately, WWF has had a big push on TV advertising – asking us to sponsor some kind of animal as a Christmas gift for someone. Well firstly if someone sponsors a sheep as a gift for me they are officially no longer my friend, and secondly, WWF are speaking bare-faced lies in their adverts. Let me explain:

One of the latest and emotive adverts is appealing for Polar Bear sponsorship. We see a selection of these delightful animals trudging across the ice; generally hunting; rearing young; swimming. The voice over explains that the Polar Bear is struggling because of the effects of climate change. This – we are told – is because there is less and less summer sea ice which is the traditional Polar Bear hunting ground. This continued pressure – we are assured – will eventually lead to the demise of this glorious creature.

All very interesting stuff, sure to make some people pick up their phones and pledge £2 per month, plus to turn down their two-bar fire. Unfortunately we’re being fleeced because I happen to know some facts about Polar Bears which tell a rather more truthful story.

Firstly, it is true that the sea ice in the Arctic is shrinking which indeed limits the traditional hunting ground of Polar Bears. Thankfully the bears are intelligent enough not to sit on a diminishing lump of ice all day and are strong swimmers. This allows them to swim to land, where they hunt – successfully – on non-traditional hunting grounds. Secondly, despite apparent pressure on their habitat, Polar Bears are at their most numerate for over 40 years due to protection given by various governments. Their numbers are increasing, not diminishing. Thirdly, land does not tend to melt or sink and there is a surprising amount of it in the arctic with enough separation from the hunting grounds of other bears to support lots and lots of lovely white Polar’s.

Though the protection of animals is not absolutely linked to motoring, the whole climate debate certainly is. Increased propaganda – some accurate, some spurious – makes us drivers more and more of a target for lunatics who think that the world is coming to a fiery end. We’ve even been told to stop eating meat lately due to how energy intensive it is to produce. So if you like a bacon butty and own a car, you are Satan basically.

What people need to do is get a sense of perspective. I would rather solve third world debt than spend billions on reducing carbon emissions, and for every green-tea drinking climate activist there are a thousand Africans who can’t afford to live. I know who I would rather devote my attentions to. Equally, as bad as the plight of some animals is, Stephen Fry proved recently with that ‘Last Chance to See’ program (in which we didn’t really see anything other than Fry falling over on a boat), that these various species that are dying out aren’t particularly important on a global scale. Again, I’d rather spend £2 a month on feeding a family that would have otherwise perished because they can’t afford to inoculate their children.

As I’ve said many, many times previous, do what you can but don’t be taken in by the nonsense. And one other little aside to warm the cockles of those with potato-skinned shoes: car ownership is going up, and will continue to do so. However, car usage is slowing and will flatten out in the not-too-distant future. This is good for all of us as it means we can all own lots of shiny cars, but if the figures are correct we will be using them for pleasure rather than for the drudgery of commuting. This is a good thing.

Institute of Advanced Stupidity

2009-10-22T14:33:00.000+01:00

I should imagine that by now you have probably seen those posters in public toilets instructing you how best to go about urinating or defecating. They also provide great advice about how best to go about washing your hands. Obviously, this stuff is very useful because until these posters were in place, I was going around crapping myself and my hands were dirtier than a Vietnamese slurry farm.

They have appeared most recently because of the ‘outbreak’ of swine flu, which is essentially a cold with a fancy name. My office decked out the toilets with informative posters giving pictorial guidance about how to rotate ones hands under a running tap, whilst applying more soap than an omnibus of East Enders could provide. Apparently I’ve been doing it all wrong. Having successfully managed to urinate in the round-about area of a urinal, I have previously given the hands a quick rinse under the tap and then dried them with whatever happens to be provided for doing so.

What I should have been doing is using laser guided techniques to ensure that all of my urine stream hits the correct spot, used the British Standard ‘shake’ for any excess drippage, and then dipped my hands in acid for approximately a year to remove all possibility of infection from anything. I should not prepare food with hands only mildly rinsed; I should not touch communal surfaces like kettle handles or hand rails; I should retire immediately to an hermetically sealed cabinet, and - for piece of mind - lock myself forever in a seal of formaldehyde.

We’ve also been provided with handy leaflets on what to do if we think we’ve got swine flu at my place of work. It gives a rundown of symptoms, all of which we already knew were associated, and then informs us that we should immediately call HR. Personally I’m wise enough to stay at home with even the mildest of diseases, and calling HR doesn’t seem like the way to stop a pandemic of illness within Strategic Consultancy to me.

I can understand the provision of guidance on hand-washing techniques and what to do in case of feeling mildly ropey in a school or in a place frequented by the great unwashed, but in an office full of people who are well educated it is insulting. Most people skive off at the merest hint of a blocked nose and I’ve never come across anyone in the toilets urinating in the sink and then washing their hands in the toilet bowl, so therefore I think we’re all probably doing ok.

As much as reading these leaflets instructing you how to do the bleeding obvious can make you angry, something I heard recently made me physically recoil with utter incredulity.

It was a statement from a colleague who had come down from another office for a few days to work in the cut and thrust of transportation consultancy in Ashford. She had recently taken her ‘Advanced Cycling Accreditation’, which I’ve never heard of but probably involves proving that you won’t fall off when circulating some cones. During her ‘training’ she’d been taught ‘techniques’ for cycling on certain types of road. Quite why you need different techniques is beyond me, but as I’m not ‘advanced’ who am I to argue?

The technique that made me keel over and have a coronary arrest was that which should apparently be employed when on ‘relatively lightly trafficked urban roads’. This, so the training states, comprises of cycling smack-bang in the middle of the carriageway so that cars cannot pass. You should continue to cycle in the middle of the carriageway until you have a queue of – say – three cars behind you. At this point, you must look around, make eye contact with the lead driver, and only then pull over and allow them to pass. This – apparently – is the ‘advanced’ way of cycling along a road.

Now let me tell you what would happen if I were the lead driver;

I pull up behind what I can only assume is someone taking the right-royal piss, probably some eco-hippy who views cars with the distain only reserved for Nick Griffin by normal people. I sit there for perhaps fifteen seconds at a steady eight miles per hour, gently stewing and going increasingly red in the face. I attempt to overtake, but as the cyclist is in the middle of the road, my progress is thwarted. Then, this pathetic specimen of a person turns and makes eye contact with me, at which point I have two fingers very much raised in their direction. As they pull over to let me past, I floor the throttle and run them down, as does everyone in the queue that has built up behind me.

This, I feel, is not too harsh a punishment for being a complete nuisance. I would actively encourage someone to burn down the house of a noisy neighbour, so why not run over a cyclist that is being equally as antisocial?

Over the period of the last 12 months I have cycled approximately 1000 miles. I spent most of this on the road, keeping tight to the kerb and therefore out the way of anyone wanting to come past. I didn’t mind if people cut it tight around me as long as they didn’t actually hit me. I pulled over for cars on country roads where passing points were minimal. I used cycle paths where necessary. I kept my wits about me and ensured that at all times I was minimising the inconvenience I caused people. This is called being a good cyclist – and a safe one at that. Also, the idea of turning round whilst making forward progress to make eye contact with the lead driver just smacks of a collision with an unseen obstacle.

I’ve also been doing some work on road safety just recently. As part of the audit process it is your job to go out there and assume that all users of a scheme are completely devoid of common sense. Things raised in the latest audit for a cycle/foot crossing of a main road ranged from ‘moving signs so that pedestrians and cyclists do not collide with them’ (as if a large green placard is inconspicuous), to ‘consider re-arranging the geometry of the crossing point so that it encourages people to look when crossing the road’ (as if people just step out onto a main road with nothing but an assumption and the grace of God).

Advice dished out to cyclists which encourages them to compete for road space with larger vehicles is dangerous. At best someone will shout some abuse and perhaps throw something at them. At worst someone will do the sensible thing and run them off the road. Cycles have a tenuous right to be on the road - as guests - and as a result they should make sure that their cycling is exemplary and courteous to their hosts.

The rules are actually very simple:
• Never ride to ‘make a point’
• Keep out of the way of things that can make you injured
• Keep your wits about you
• Use cycle paths wherever possible
• NEVER PAY ATTENTION TO ANY GUIDANCE THAT ASSUMES YOU ARE AN IDIOT (unless you are)