Born to Be Riled (7 page)

So when I met him at Silverstone this month I was rather disappointed to note that he was surly, impatient and about as communicative as that Red Indian chappie in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
. I have had more inspiring conversations with my pot plants. And they’re dead. I told him my wife hoped he would be world champion, and he gave me a look which made me think that I’d inadvertently said, ‘You are the most disgusting human being I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.’

Later I tried again, asking him what he thought of the Mustang. Which, judging by his reaction, translates into German as ‘I know that you like little boys and I’m going to tell your team manager unless you give me some money.’ Had he driven a Mustang before, I asked, fully expecting another withering glance from the driver’s seat. ‘Yes,’ came the reply. ‘Where?’ I asked, not realizing that ‘where’, in German, means ‘I hope you fall into a combine harvester, you maggot-faced creep.’

So I gave up with the conversation and settled back to watch the fastest man in Formula One deal with the slowest sports car in the world. On lap one there were other cars on the track, so we pottered round. Then on lap two,
instead of giving me the ride of my life, Mr Schumacher chose to demonstrate the driving positions. On lap three, we were following
Top Gear
’s camera car so I asked if we could see some wild and leery tailslides. We did, but sadly each one ended up with a spin. I couldn’t help wondering if these gyrations might have been avoided if Mr Schumacher had kept both hands on the wheel. But who am I to question the ability of the greatest driver Germany has ever produced? And apart from muttering about how the Mustang had plenty of grip and wasn’t bad for an American car, he told me nothing about what it was like to drive. So I set off on my own, and fell head over heels in love.

The new Mustang’s body is not particularly pretty or brutal but it is big and eye-catching. Everyone turns to look and everyone knew what it was, even though this was the first in Britain.

To drive, it’s American and rather good in a cheesy grin, firm handshake, hi, howya doin’ sort of way. It’s a big, open, honest sort of car which despite the air conditioning, cruise control, power seats, power windows, power roof and 5.0 litre V8 engine, costs just $22,000 in the USA. It’s not very fast – ask it to go beyond 130 and it gives you a look of pure incredulity – and it treats corners with the same disdain I reserve for vegetarians. It will do everything in its power to go straight on, but there’s never a moment when you think it might go round a bend, so there are no surprises. You know where you are with this car. It also makes a good noise, unless you take it past 3500rpm when it sounds strangled. But hey, have you ever heard Stallone hit a high C?

No, the Mustang is musclebound, dimwitted and slow,
but it’s a good guy to have around town at night, looking mean and threatening.

It’s the automotive equivalent of Carlsberg Special, which is probably the reason why Mr Schumacher was so underwhelmed. He, after all, is sponsored by Mild Seven, which are the most limp and pathetic cigarettes I have ever encountered. They have about as much to do with hairy-armed Mustangs as fish.

But today, the sun is out, the snowdrops have poked their way through the ice and there’s a definite hint of spring in the air, so it seems like a good time to talk about convertibles.

It’s an especially good time, in fact, because last week I went to Germany to test the MGF VVC, the BMW Z3 and the drop-dead gorgeous Alfa Spyder.

I wanted all of them, and the Renault Spider, and the Mazda MX5, and the forthcoming Mercedes SLK. They’re all damn good. They’re all my kinda cars.

I was still agonizing over a final verdict when some friends rolled up for the weekend, one of whom was driving a new MG. Now she’s a thirty-something stockbroker, single, pretty and fully conversant with all that’s hip in the City.

I normally make a point of never talking cars with
friends but I needed to know what she thought of the MG. She reckons it’s far too noisy – no surprises there; that it’s fun – yawn; and that it’s a girly car. WHAT?

‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘everyone at work came down for a look when I bought it, but they don’t want one. They think it’s too girly.’ By now, my countenance had adopted the look of a goldfish. ‘Well it
is
girly. That’s why I chose it,’ she added.

This was a major shock because I have made it my business, in 12 years of writing about cars, never to make such a point. Talking about cars being aimed specifically at one sex or the other is about as dangerous as French-kissing a shark.

I mean, there’s a girl on this newspaper who, though heavily pregnant, commuted to and from work every day in that most hirsute of things – a TVR Chimera. Dawn French has a 150mph Mazda RX7. My wife refuses to drive anything unless it has ‘at least 200 horsepower’. And have you ever seen a woman in a Robin Reliant?

I vaguely recall my sister asking once why car interiors had to look like men’s lavatory bags, but that was a trivial thing. I’d got it into my head that women are just as likely to be interested in cars as men. And yet, apparently, the MGF is ‘girly’.

I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to figure out why this should be so, and now I’m going to attempt an answer. And yes, I know, the resultant postbag will be the size of Wakefield.

The MG is a girly car, first of all because it’s small. It only has two seats, which says to other road-users: ‘Look at me. I don’t have children. I’m single and have no baggage.’

I know of one girl who used to drive around in an equally tiny Honda CRX. Whenever she saw an attractive man alongside, she’d make sure her ringless wedding finger was clearly in view. This was annoying because, at the time, she was my girlfriend.

By way of comparison my wife drives a Volvo 850R, which is equally clear-cut. ‘I am married and I’m on my way home from the supermarket, in a hurry, because the girl-child needs feeding.’

The MG is also cheap. Perhaps women feel that they have no real chance of being a main board director or a guitar wizard and are therefore more ready to settle for second best. I, for instance, want a Ferrari and am half-heartedly striving for that goal.

If there were no chance of achieving it, maybe I’d quit saving and settle for the £17,000 MG, which, let’s face it, is a mid-engined, droptop two-seater. And in the real world, it’s just as fast as a 355 anyway.

Or perhaps women are more sensible and practical than men. Maybe, even if they could afford a Ferrari, they’d still buy an MG.

Then there are the lines. You could say it’s small and curved and almost dainty, which makes it a sort of designer handbag in metal, a pink mackintosh which is to be worn rather than driven.

I think people will say the same of the Alfa Spyder when it comes out later this year, but the BMW Z3 is different. It has an aggressive, out-of-my-way stance. Ideal for the City boys but less appealing in the Peter Jones curtain department.

The trouble is that I’m floundering around here in uncharted waters. Having given it some thought, and
having spoken to a number of girls, I now believe there is such a thing as a ‘girly’ car.

And I do think the MG may be such a machine. Men I’ve talked to don’t like it much and, when pressed to explain why, most say they don’t know. I, on the other hand, do like it, which calls my whole sexuality into question. I can’t play football either. This is worrying.

A Rover spokesman told me to relax. ‘You’re not gay,’ he said, ‘men are buying the MGF in British racing green and red. Girls are buying it in bronze and that horrible lilac. It’s not a girly car, but there are girly colours.’

Phew. Mine’s an MGF then. In red.

This week, I have my sensible trousers on and I’m only talking to petrolheads; people who see the car not as an art form, nor as a conversation piece, but as a machine.

When I learned to drive in the late 1970s, just about everything on the road had rear-wheel drive. Front-wheel drive was something in a Mini, something that had no place in the hubbub of saloon bar, saloon car chatter.

But today, of the 200 different cars on sale in Britain, over half send their power to the road via the front wheels. As far as the manufacturer is concerned, such technology makes the car cheap and light.

And in a traffic jam in Newbury, the average motorist
doesn’t really care. Just so long as the damn thing moves when the traffic shuffles forwards, who cares whether there’s a prop shaft or not?

Well me, for a kick-off.

In a small-town car, front-wheel drive is eminently sensible. Apart from the lightness, the simplicity and the vital cost factors, there are fewer bulky components taking up space that, more properly, should be used for people and stuff.

It’s the same deal with ordinary saloon cars and, especially, people carriers. No one buys a Ford Galaxy so they can give it the full moo on the A40.

But in a thrusting, hirsute sports car with bulging pecs and a rippling, washboard torso, front-wheel drive is rather suspect. Saab once said that it is ‘undesirable’ to feed more than 170 horsepower through the front wheels.

Odd then, that its top models are now putting out more than 220 horsepower. This means the front wheels have to deliver that to the road, while dealing with the burden of steering too.

Anyone who’s accelerated hard in a powerful front-wheel drive car will have felt what’s called torque steer, as the steering wheel squirms from left to right. It’s horrid.

It seems perfectly obvious to me that in a performance car the front wheels should steer and the rear wheels should be the propellant. I really do believe that BMW continues to dominate the sports saloon market because all their cars are rear-wheel drive and consequently feel more… together.

And it isn’t just the ‘feel’ either. Rear-wheel drive cars are faster, otherwise they wouldn’t have to carry a weight penalty in the British Touring Car Championship.

Yes, Golf GTis and similarly powerful Peugeots and Fords were a laugh but they were a triumph of engineering over design. If these companies had been serious about making performance cars, their high-speed models would have had rear-wheel drive.

And it’s the same story today with coupés. The Fiat is lovely and fast and it really does grip and go but, as far as the enthusiast is concerned, drive goes to the wrong end of the car. And it’s the same story with the VW Corrado, the Ford Probe, the Vauxhall Calibra, Honda Prelude – even the new Alfa GTV.

Try to hustle any one of these cars through a bend and the front wheels will run wide in a nasty bout of bowel-loosening understeer.

However, help is at hand from an unexpected source. The Nissan 200SX coupé has rear-wheel drive. The turbocharged engine’s 200 horses are fed down a prop shaft through a limited slip differential to the tyres at the back.

Hustle this car through a corner and the tail will slide, giving a fun-filled few moments of laugh-a-minute oversteer. Accelerate hard and the rear will squat, forcing more pressure on the driven wheels, giving even more grip.

Yes, cry the poseurs, this is all very well but the Nissan looks like the dinner of a dog, and have you seen those Bri-nylon carpets? I don’t like the dash either, because it’s too shiny, and why can’t it be a hatchback like all the others?

And I can hardly go down to the golf club and tell everyone I’ve bought a Nissan. I mean, a Nissan for Chrissakes. They might think I have an Almera.

Shut up. I agree the Nissan badge is to cars what Findus
is to
haute cuisine
. I know the 200 is no styling
tour de force
and I agree that the interior was designed by someone who should really be out in the factory flowerbeds, digging up weeds. But who gives a damn?

The aristocracy is known for concealing its enormous wealth. Lord Fotherington-Sorbet drives a crap car and wears rags because he is accustomed to money and feels no need to play the peacock every time he goes out.

And it’s the same deal with the Nissan 200. It doesn’t need a Rolex on one wrist and a chunky ID bracelet on the other. It has no need for medallions or satellite dishes. It’s a serious player and can therefore sit back with its light under the thickest bushel on the road. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Nissan didn’t deliberately get a gardener to do the interior.

If you truly like driving, by which I mean you derive pleasure from how a car feels, then this is the one for you. You may look good in a Fiat and you may be able to snap knicker elastic if you have a Probe, but if you want a ‘real’ coupé, it has to be a Nissan.

It may well be irritating to sit there, being gently marinated in your own sweat. But the fact is that roadworks are the inevitable result of a thriving society in
which 42 ton trucks thunder up and down the highways and byways, bringing fresh produce to your corner shop. However, there’s a worrying trend. For the last four weeks, London’s South Circular Road has been closed due to an entirely new sort of roadwork. I have been marooned by gridlocked traffic for more than a month. And it’s not because the road had worn out or because some vital underground maintenance needed to be carried out. No, they have dug up the main artery between south-west England and the City because Cableguyz, our local cable TV company, decided to drive one of their JCBs through a water main.

You’ll know when the cable people are about to come round, because you’ll wake up one morning to find the pavement outside your house looks like one of Joseph’s more vivid overcoats. All the electricity, gas and water routes are individually marked out in different coloured chalk so that they know exactly where to dig when the time comes.

When the time does come, your street begins to look like the Somme. If they don’t park a JCB on your car, they’ll encase it with mud. And then, when all their carefully laid chalk marks are covered with more mud, they’ll wait for you to step into the shower before they drill through the water pipe. You get out and are half-way through writing a book on your computer and they’ll cut the power. Then, in the evening, when you have eight people coming for dinner, they’ll sever the gas. Outside, there will be troughs both at the top and bottom of your road, so even if you could get to your car, there’s no way you’ll be able to drive it anywhere.

A day or two after they finish, a man with a bad suit
and a cheesy grin will knock on your door asking if you’d like the cable service which, in case you hadn’t noticed, is now available in your street. If this happens, there’s only one course of action – you must punch him straight in the mouth. What you must not do is invite him in and sign all the various forms which spew out of his plastic briefcase.

If you do, more men will come round to drill great big holes in your walls, just so that your television can show exactly what was coming in anyway, via the big council house wok on the roof.

I now have cable television and it is a disaster. It tells me what is happening in Lewisham, and at night it shows me a bunch of overweight German blondes with black pubic hair having simulated sex. There are two 24-hour-a-day news services, both presented by people whose teeth are so white I can’t look at them, and reruns of programmes which weren’t funny 25 years ago – and which are very not funny now.

I can see French game shows and, if I tune into QVC, I can buy a video recorder from Tony Blackburn. Yesterday, a woman spent one hour trying to sell me a necklace, so I tuned to MTV, where Prince was singing a song called ‘My Name Is Prince’. Blimey.

Most of the 36 channels on offer are scrambled, and if I want better porn or big bucks films or, perish the thought, football, I need to dig even deeper into my pockets. And I refuse to let my money be used to dig up your street. It’s not sociable.

To be fair, I do get a great deal of motorsport on my television these days, but car racing without the Murray Walker soundtrack is like holidaying in a caravan – it’s not really a holiday at all. The only advantage Eurosport has is
that it covers post-race press conferences, whereas
Grandstand
switches immediately to cricket as the chequered flag falls.

But is this worth £168 a year, when you get the BBC for half that? Plus, the BBC doesn’t dig up your road, sever all your essential services, cut off your telephone for two days or send cheesy salesmen round wearing awful clothes.