Born to Be Riled (37 page)

One thing is for sure though. He won’t come to your door and ring on the bell. What he will do is pull up in the middle of the road and lean on his horn, signalling that it’s time for you to stop whatever you’re doing and run outside.

This is unfair. He may have taken five hours to get there and in the meantime you may have met the girl of your dreams. Or you may be my wife who, having said
goodbye to everyone at a party, will sit down again and give everyone a blow-by-blow account of her life.

Whatever, you will climb into the back of the cab whereupon you will be overcome with a wave of nausea. ‘Can I smoke?’, you’ll ask. To which the answer will be no, on the grounds that tobacco leaves a lingering odour, thus making the car harder to sell. WHAT? Tobacco would
improve
things. A giant fart would improve things. Smearing the entrails of a dead dog into the seats would improve things.

Minicabs have a smell all of their own, a smell that could not possibly be replicated even in a laboratory. It’s a smell that doesn’t even exist in a businessman’s pants. It’s not stale sick or even the driver’s shirt. And nor is it a mixture of the two. No, it’s the smell you get from those Christmas tree air fresheners. And it’s obscene.

To take my mind off the problem, I usually try to guess what sort of car I’m in. Obviously, it will have beige, pleblon seats, and obviously it will have been made in the Far East. But is it a Toyota or a Nissan?

I can understand why minicab drivers buy used Jap boxes – they’re reliable and cheap to run – but who buys these cars when they’re new? And why do they treat them so badly?

By the time Minicab Man is falling in love down at the auction the wheels are always square, and if you look hard you’ll note that whenever you’re going along in a straight line the driver is having to turn left. And what is that noise coming from the stereo? Why is it that minicab drivers listen to radio stations I’ve never even heard of, and how can they appreciate the wailing of the sitar when the controller back at base never shuts up?

I was once picked up by the fattest man in the world in an FSO Polonez. It broke down in the tunnel at Heathrow Airport, and do you know something? I was glad.

You see, his driving was incredible. I think he’d been to see
Star Wars
and genuinely thought he could use The Force to miss oncoming traffic. As we shot through the 18th red light, I really was expecting him to turn round and ask me, in a rasping voice, about the plans for the rebel base. He even called me ‘Young Luke’.

He was the worst driver in Britain, a complete madman, and he was in a car which had started out badly and had grown worse with age. This is a terrible combination, and as I lugged my suitcases into the daylight from that tunnel I swore I’d use a better class of minicab from that point on.

And I do. The firms I call today can field brand-new people-carriers and stretched Mercedes limos. The prices reflect this but, sadly, the driving doesn’t. One bloke the other day swore vehemently at every other driver on the road, saving the real torrent for anyone who actually carved him up.

When one bloke failed to let him out of a side turning, my man began a stream of abuse which continued without repetition or hesitation for three minutes. And when he ran out of suitable English phrases and expressions, he switched to Turkish. It was both breathtaking and useful. I now know how to tell someone in Ankara that he’s a ******* **** and a ****** with a face like a dog’s ****.

I should have used this the other night on a driver who had never heard of Fulham, or a guy, a couple of weeks ago, who obviously believed that his Fiat Croma could,
given a long enough run-up, beat Richard Noble’s land speed record.

Now obviously, at this point, every licensed Archie is sitting at home beating his children with a rolled-up copy of the Style section, telling anyone who’ll listen that I should use black cabs. This is true, but unfortunately he will still be sitting there, shouting, when I next need some wheels.

So we’ll all keep on using minicabs. Just beware though. If you find yourself sitting behind a bloke who answers to the name of Darth, get out and run for your life. He’s easy to spot because he has a long black cape, a black helmet and asthma.

As I look out of the window today I can see the storm clouds gathering. Mr Blair will be torn from his mountings and the Met Bar will be forced to introduce an all-night happy hour.

The Dome will be cast into the North Sea and Rotherham will be wiped from the map. The brief sprouting of industry in Corby will be erased and easyJet will crash. Be in absolutely no doubt on this one: Recession Tony is on its way.

Now I think it wise at this point to explain that I have never read the
Financial Times
. Also, I achieved an ‘unclassified’ grade in my economics A-level, partly because I forgot to turn up for the exam and partly because I forgot to turn up for any of the lessons either.

I’ve tried, really I’ve tried, to understand the implications of handing over interest rate control to the Bank of England, but every time I think I’ve grasped it I fall into a deep and dreamless sleep. And I’m sorry, but I really cannot work out why the Brazilian balance of payments deficit will make me less likely to buy a cauliflower.

I write this column. Rupert Murdoch gives me some of his money. I spend it. And I’m sorry, but you can wipe as much as you like off the Japanese stock market but it won’t make the slightest difference. No, don’t argue. It won’t.

Nevertheless, I am able to predict the onset of a financial holocaust because the world’s car firms are getting cocky again.

Remember what happened last time. They reacted quite late to the mid-80s boom and began work on a series of new and frighteningly expensive cars which crept onto the market at exactly the same time as Recession John started to blow things over in EC4.

Jaguar were left with an unwanted stock of XJ220s. McLaren only managed to shift 47 of their preposterous F1s. Bugatti went to the bottom of the Tiber wearing lead pants and Lamborghini ended up being run by a Malaysian pop star.

I don’t doubt for one minute that after the debâcle of 1992 every single car exec in the world declared that he would never again be tempted to make a megabucks supercar. But when the world is bathing in greenbacks it’s hard to resist, and already word is starting to creep out that the car execs have relented.

I read in this newspaper that Mercedes and McLaren are planning to make a £150,000 supercar, but as it was
in the Business section I lost the plot after that. I do understand, however, that Maserati is back in business with a new coupé and that Audi has bought Lamborghini, who are known to be working on a new one-ounce, one-million-horsepower dream-mobile. This will force Ferrari to fight back with something so light it’ll need mooring ropes.

And then there’s Jaguar who, at the Paris motor show this week, will unveil a car called the XK180. It is propelled by a supercharged V8 engine which is said to develop nearly 450bhp. And for those of you who understand, 445 ft/lb of torque.

I can’t even begin to guess how fast it will go, but as the two-door, convertible body is made entirely from aluminium, obviously it should be able to outrun a Nissan Micra.

I can tell you, however, that I’ve seen this spiritual successor to the D type and it is quite simply the most beautiful car ever made. Remarkable, when you discover it was designed on the back of a cigarette packet.

Last December, Jaguar decided to mark the 50th anniversary of the XK range and talked about turning the supercharged XK8 into more of a driver’s car, perhaps shortening it a bit and taking out some of the Houston dentistry in the suspension.

Work began in February. On Saturday mornings, a group of die-hard petrolheads could be found ferreting away in what has now become known as the Special Vehicle Operation. They went by instinct, deciding quite late on to make the panels from aluminium. And then, even later, that if they were using a new material they may as well have a new look too. It’s this sort of ingenuity,
remember, which gave us the jet engine and the hovercraft. And now it’s given us the XK180.

It doesn’t work, of course. Well no, that’s not true. It does work, but thanks to all sorts of Euro busybodery, they could never actually sell one. However, at the show in Paris they will be bombarded with requests to turn this D type dream into a production reality, and it’ll be almost impossible to resist.

I’m sure they’ll make it, and I’m sure too, that the day they choose to launch it – with a price tag of £150,000? – will be the same day that the National Lottery goes bust. And no one will buy a car that costs four times more than a large and sumptuous house.

Fairly soon now, the car industry must learn to get itself in step with the economy. As soon as the 14th floor windowsills in the City are full of men in suits, crying, they should start to work on a high-price, low-volume supercar.

That way, the car would be ready to go on sale just
after
the economy has recovered. And that, really, is the key. The economy always does recover because we’ll always want cauliflowers and we’ll always want cars that go like stink. Galbraith? It’s my middle name.

I remember with vivid clarity the moment when I began to grow up. I was 22 years old, standing in a hardware shop asking the assistant if I could buy a washing-up bowl.

Until that point I had spent my money on beer, cigarettes, rent and, begrudgingly, the occasional Christmas present. Never before had I wasted it on something useful.

I remember vividly driving home staring at the bowl, knowing with crushing certainty that pretty soon I’d be out there buying light bulbs and white goods, things from which I would derive no pleasure whatsoever.

Fifteen years later, stage two was reached and I retuned my car stereo to Radio Two, and then this week I reached stage three. I did the school run.

And from now on there is no chance of enjoying an impromptu night out with friends, lest it become a hazy stumble into the early hours. You can’t go to bed at four in the morning when you have to be sober and hearty just three hours later.

And let me tell you this. Buying a washing-up bowl was dull. Turning to Radio Two was inevitable. But the school run is hell on earth, because it removes the last vestige of fun from the concept of motoring. It turns a car from a thrusting symbol of virility into a tool, a tool that goes head-to-head with a washing-up bowl. And loses.

For a kick-off, I have to forget all about Terry Wogan. Instead I’m forced to listen over and over to Aqua’s ‘Barbie’ song, which lines up alongside the ‘1812 Overture’ as the least appropriate morning music ever written. Should I ever meet this Swedish band, I promise you this: I will kill them.

And then there’s my son, who, at the age of two, can identify every single car on the road. On its own this would be a source of pride, but what turns it to something less savoury is the fact that he
does
identify every car on the road.

We have to drive along with a Swede telling me that life in plastic is fantastic while the boy child shouts out the name of every car going the other way. He can’t say ‘Good morning’ but seems to have no problem with ‘Daihatsu’.

Obviously, I would like to get the journey over as quickly as the Mondeo’s V6 engine will go, but there’s a pressure valve built into every parent which activates as soon as children climb into the back of a car. Suddenly, I lose the ability to overtake.

I may be stuck behind a tractor and the road may be clear for 200 miles but I am incapable of dropping a cog and going for it. When I’m driving with the children, I become exactly the sort of person I shout at.

There’s another issue too. You daren’t overtake the car in front in case it turns out to be another parent taking their children to the same school. You’d be classified as a maniac and your children would be bullied.

So we all drive along at 2mph, each of us being bombarded with Aqua, until we arrive at the maelstrom itself, the school gate. And at this point the gene which controls manners and common sense is simply switched off.

You stop the car wherever it is physically possible to do so, not caring two hoots that you happen to be in a bus lane or blocking in someone else who is very obviously just about to leave. You want those children out of your car NOW, and frankly you will use battery electrodes and skewers on anyone who dares to get in your way.

And once the children are in the classroom, the craving for adult conversation becomes impossible to resist. You are desperate to talk to someone who can say more than plastic, fantastic, Suzuki, Rover and BMW.

So you will talk to anyone, completely forgetting that your car is in the middle of the road with three of its doors wide open.

In his ill-fated White Paper, John Prescott declared war on the twice-daily school run as perhaps the major cause of traffic congestion in our cities today. And he’s right. I know he’s trying to do us a favour. He’s been there, though in his day it was probably the ‘Birdie Song’ and ‘Agadoo’, rather than ‘Barbie Girl’, and he wants to save the rest of us from the horror. It’s a nice thought John, but the simple fact of the matter is this. I cannot put a four-year-old and a two-year-old on a bus, for one very good reason. Round here, there isn’t one.

And I’m loath to fix up an organized rota either. I don’t want to sound twee here, but it seems silly to entrust the two most valuable things in my life to someone who, for all I know, isn’t a very good driver.

Some people aren’t, you know. They get the clutch and the rear-view mirror muddled up, even when they’re on their own. And it gets worse when they have a people-carrier full of chanting four-year-olds.

And you can’t very well say to a parent who is offering to take your children to school, ‘Yes, but first of all, let’s see how you handle power oversteer.’

I’m afraid, therefore, I’m on the school run right up to the moment when life reaches stage four. And I start gardening.