And now, of course, the headline writers are jumping up and down, foaming at the mouth and saying that Ford should have broken the law of averages and given us more. A lot more.
They’re quite right too. The Escort is not as spacious as a Tipo. It is not as satisfying as a Rover 200. It is not as nice to drive as a 309 and it is powered by a range of engines so nasty that even Moulinex would not accept them for use in a Magimix.
The trouble is that people outside of motoring magazines will never know just how horrid the Escort is because (a) they will never drive a rival and (b) even if they did, they’d not spot the differences. People, remember, don’t care about performance and handling.
I have a Zanussi fridge. I do not know whether it has any CFCs in its engine. I do not know how many horsepower its motor develops and, even if I did, I wouldn’t know whether that was a lot or not. I do not know if the light that comes on is ellipsoidal or even if it goes off when the door is shut. I do not know whether it is made out of aluminium or carbon fibre and, more than that, I do not care.
If I were to be stopped tomorrow by a hairy-arsed student with a clipboard and asked what features I would most like to see on the fridge of tomorrow I would tell him that it should keep my milk from becoming cheese, that it should fit under the work surface and that there should be enough room inside for 24 tins of Sapporo.
I do not know if it would be possible to have a solar-powered titanium job that could double up as a food blender cum orange squeezer so I would therefore not talk to the market researcher of such things.
Similarly, a man in the street would not know of radar parking aids or variable valve-timing technology and, as a result, he would not be able to tell Ford’s market researcher that he wanted both of them on his next Escort.
Even though it might have been possible for such items to have been engineered in, Ford has obviously made them very low priorities, concentrating instead on value, appearance and quality: things people think the people want.
Of course, people want these things but they want a whole lot more besides. It’s just that they don’t know what they want until someone gives it to them. My grandfather never used to sit around wishing that he could have a remote-control television set because, in his day, such whizzkiddery was the preserve of sci-fi writers.
My great-grandfather didn’t wander through his garden on a hot day wistfully thinking about how nice it would be if someone would invent a white box that would suck in hot air and turn it into cold air, thus keeping his Sapporo cold. And that’s not only because he hadn’t got a clue what Sapporo was.
You can’t want what you don’t know exists. I think Sinead O’Connor had some sort of anarchistic viewpoint in mind when she eloquently entitled her album, ‘I do not want what I have not got’ but the sentiment holds water on a commercial basis too.
It’s fair enough to target existing Escort drivers, asking them what features of their current car are annoying. It is fair enough to act speedily on information received, but it is entirely irresponsible to let ordinary members of the public, most of whom went to state schools, decide what the cars of tomorrow should be like.
I can’t think of one great breakthrough that has been achieved through market research. Isaac Newton didn’t use a single clipboard to find out if we’d like gravity or not. Alexander Fleming didn’t commission MORI to see if we all needed penicillin. And NOP had nothing whatsoever to do with the theory of relativity.
The question Ford should have asked itself is this: how can we trust the views of a nation that, according to the market research in which we place so much faith, looks set to let a red-headed Welshman into Downing Street.
Questioning people in the street is only useful if you want to compose a silly article in a silly women’s magazine about underarm deodorant.
Radio Daze
If you think that fertiliser is interesting, that Gary Davies is a decent chap and that opera is music, then you will probably argue that Britain’s national radio stations do a good job.
However, my idea of the perfect garden is one that needs hoovering once a year. I do not like Gary Davies and I would rather listen to a pile-driver than Placido Domingo.
Traffic jams are now part and parcel of any journey in Britain and, if you get as bored with your tapes as I do, the radio should provide alternative aural entertainment. But on a five-hour journey from Birmingham to London the other day, it became more and more obvious that the airwaves in this country only cater for my mother and Stock, Market and Bankerman. They used to keep Percy Thrower happy too, but he died.
Radio 1 is slick, ‘Our Tune’ is a good laugh and Steve Wright is a funny man, but it plays sheer, unadulterated rubbish between the chitchat.
If you are more than twelve, there is Radio 2 with its comfortable disc jockeys in woolly pullies and Vera Lynn. Radio 3 does a good job if you enjoy being shrieked at by a fat tart in a tent and Radio 5 is OK for those who want to know what sort of cake the cricket commentators are eating while the turkeys on the field take tea.
That leaves the worst of the lot. Radio 4 only has three programmes: Gardeners’ bloody Question Time, which is fine if you think that greenfly on your clematis is more important than Green Jackets in the Gulf, the shipping forecast, which is of no earthly use to anyone, and The Archers, who live in a farm-subsidised world and think postage stamps are fascinating.
I wonder if David Mellor, broadcasting minister, has ever considered the plight of thirtysomethings who want the Doobie Brothers interspersed with informed comment; a sort of cross between Q magazine and Channel Four News, where Peter Sissons does the interviews and Joe Cocker does the singy bits.
At the moment, we either have Radio 1 which occasionally plays an old Beatles song or Radio 4 which, if it can find time between the weather in Dogger Bank and the state of Stefan Buczacki’s stupid rockery, squeezes Clement Freud in for a quick joke.
Largely, local radio is terrible too, but in London, where there are twenty stations, we have something called GLR which broadcasts, if ever you’re down here, on 94.9FM. Conceptually, it’s excellent.
Before it began in 1988 we were teased with a test transmission tape featuring non-stop Led Zep, Bob Seger, the Doobies and Steely Dan.
My appetite whetted, I tuned in on day one and found the disc jockeys were every bit as good as the music. When the radio alarm went off, I was treated to a man called Nick Abbott who rang up public figures every morning and insulted them. They had Tommy Voice, Johnny Walker and Emma Freud too. It was a damn good station.
But, systematically, the decent presenters have been shunted into late-night slots or ejected altogether. Their replacements, complete with horrid regional accents, are bad enough, but chief horror is Janice Long who, along with a sidekick called James Cameron, does the morning show.
Cameron is supposed to play at being Peter Sissons while Long spins the discs. Unfortunately, she can ‘t go for more than a minute without sticking her left-wing nose into the news items.
Every day, I leave Balham rubbing sleep from my eyes and arrive in Fulham half an hour later spitting blood and screaming blue murder. Yes, the traffic on the Trinity Road is partly to blame but worse, much worse, is that woman. I even dreamed about her last night. Things are getting bad.
I listen to her for two reasons. Firstly, there is no alternative for all the reasons I’ve already outlined and, secondly, I simply have to know how far to the left you can lean on a major radio station without falling over. It has now become a battle of wits: will she get fired before I go barking mad?
A spokesman for the station described her as an ‘Earth Woman’, saying she is a veggie and a bit left wing. He even admitted that the finger had been wagged at her after an interview she did with that actress woman who wants to be an MP but won’t ever make it because she’s got bosoms like spaniel’s ears.
If Long wants to harp on about organic vegetables, then why doesn’t she buy a psychedelic bus and move to Glastonbury wher
e I’m sure the audience would be more appreciative. There is no place for an ‘Earth Woman’ on a station which is aimed right at the jugular of 25- to 40-year-old ‘discerning’ listeners.
I wouldn’t mind but her brand of socialism has rubbed off on the news staff too. Only the other day, one, probably another ‘Earth Woman’, was reporting on a demonstration in Wandsworth, home of the lowest poll tax in Britain.
She claimed she had talked to residents who would willingly pay more for better services. Were these interviews broadcast? Were they hell. Did this woman really expect me to believe that there are people who want bigger poll-tax bills just to keep the Janice Longs of this world in odd-shaped carrots.
Then the reporter had the audacity to claim that Wandsworth was at a standstill because of the huge demo. Well, I was there at the time and I’ve never seen the one-way system flow so freely. The ‘huge’ demo she was referring to involved six people. Three were women and four had beards.
It seems GLR’s traffic reports are politically motivated too. Certainly, they’re usually pretty inaccurate. One day soon, Mrs Thatcher will be blamed for the weather.
GLR is still on trial. Apparently David Mellor doesn’t like it and unless the audience figures improve soon, the BBC’s Board of Governors will close down the only radio station I know that gets close to making life in a traffic jam bearable.
Horse Power
Obviously, in this green and caring land of hope and glory where man s best friend is a dog, one has to be a little careful when advocating the slaughter of an entire species.
But let’s face it – what possible good are flies? Have you ever tried to sunbathe when a bluebottle has designs on your arm? And why, when you’ve wooshed him off 30 times, does he still try to land? Worse, have you ever tried to sleep when there’s a fly in the room? Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz bump. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz bump. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz bump. If evolution has rendered the mole blind and turned the seal from a land-based mammal into a furry fish, why can’t a fly get to grips with windows?
And what the hell are flies full of? What is that yellow stuff that splatters all over your car windscreen when a wasp decides to headbutt your car?
There are countless dangerous, ugly or just plain useless species which serve no purpose whatsoever; David Attenborough finds a couple of hundred every week. But worst of the lot – worse than an electric eel, worse than a bluebottle, worse than a rat – is the horse. Unless of course it’s first past the post in the 3.15 at Doncaster with ten of my pounds on its nose.
When it was fashionable to wear armour, the horse was as important to personal mobility as the Ford Escort. But thanks to the Ford Escort, we do not actually need horses any more. I know they did the Boers a big favour and Custer would have been even more buggered without one, so maybe we do owe them a small debt of gratitude, but in a world of modems and faxes, the only use I can think of for the common or garden horse is as an ingredient in glue.
Things wouldn’t be so bad if horsey types were all from the land-owning classes so that at least when they took their stupid animals out for a ride, no one else would be inconvenienced. Unfortunately the middle class, as usual, has stuck its nose in.
And because the idea of land to the middle class is a lawn, it is forced to exercise its infernal pets on roads. That’s bad enough but there are some professional bodies which do the same.
If the army has enough money to transport an entire division halfway round the world, if it can afford to buy nuclear weapons which, let’s face it, are not cheap, then how come the Blues and Royals are given horses to move around London on. What’s the matter with motorbikes?
It is absolutely absurd that I should be held up every morning by one of the world’s most respected, feared and best-equipped armies as it plods through Hyde Park on animals that, in the modern world of warfare, are as pertinent as a bow and arrow. I am no military tactician but if I were to be given the choice of a nag or a Challenger in battle, I just know I’d take the tank.
The army aren’t the only operation in London to use horses either. One of the breweries – I forget which and I’m certainly not going to bother finding out and give it advertising space in the process – delivers its beer on horse-drawn drays.
Even though it is pulled by two magnificent shire horses of a size that would keep Evostick in business for months should they ever be melted down, it has a top speed of 1 mph.
And don’t give me any claptrap about the environment on this issue because I would far rather breathe 0.00000001 mg of nitrogen oxide than slither about in a sea of manure. And if you reckon that the dray holds up 2000 cars a day for an average of five minutes each, that’s the equivalent of one engine running at its most inefficient speed for one week.
Commercial operations that use horses on the road are antisocial and as environmentally friendly as the Rother Valley and there can be no excuse. It’s just a cheap publicity stunt. But what of the people who ride their horses on the roads when they aren’t even advertising anything? Perhaps Evostick should consider melting the owners down too.
The other weekend, I went for a ride on a horse so big it was a bison. Described as a bit frisky, which turned out to be like calling Cannon and Ball a bit not funny, we spooked and skipped our way round some Scottish back roads for an hour.
Most passing cars slowed down by some margin but even when the steel dragons were crawling along at 20 mph, the demon horse jumped about like it was limboing up for an assault on the non-stop pogo dancing record. It was worse if the car was a bright colour and worse still if it went through a puddle while going by.
My leading rein explained that some horses are worth £,20,000 and that because this figure was way in excess of what the average Scot spends on a car, drivers should get out of her way.
She pointed out that horses are nervous beasts, rejecting in the process my suggestion that they’re daft, and the slightest sign of something out of the ordinary may cause them to bolt. Christ, if they can’t cope with a car going through a puddle, I sincerely hope that when the Martians do arrive, they land at Hickstead.
If it were left to her, and others of her ilk, we would all have to buy Toyota Camrys and if we did encounter a horse while out driving, we should do a smart about turn and find an alternative route. I even noticed that the back window of her car sported a warning that she slowed down for horses. When she breeds, and horsey people do, frequently and with much vigour, doubtless she will have a baby-on-board sticker too.
I have to go now because I’m due at Lingfield this afternoon.
Non-Passive Smoking
I like gambling. Just the other day, I relieved a colleague of £10 when he discovered that Eddie Jobson did, at one time, play for Curved Air. Later today, I will win another £10 when I prove to someone else that Tom Stoppard wrote The Russia House.
My new wager is a tad more risky. I have bet a leading figure in the motor industry that by 1999, Audi will outsell BMW by two to one on the British market. For the record, BMW currently outsells Audi by the same margin.
My reasoning is simple. Audi is responding to changing public demand better than BMW. Audi was the first to get a baby in its television advertisements, Audi was the first to get catalytic converters standardised across its entire range, Audi was the first to use nothing but galvanised steel and Audi is first off the marks with Procon Ten.
Performance, handling and sheer macho thrustiness have been eschewed by Audi in favour of trees and flowers and having horrid accidents without dying. Audi is on the ball.
BMW is not. The filofax is dead. Nineteen-year-olds on £200,000 a year are no more. Estate agents, praise be to the Lord, are in the mulligatawny up to their scrawny necks and we laugh at people with double-breasted suits and mobile telephones.
So why, if all these have gone, should we expect the car that went with them not to go too? Bye bye BMW. Hello £10.
This probability became a certainty when I noticed, among a
ll the hype about performance, handling and macho thrustiness in the blurb on the new 3-series, a small but vital point. You are able to buy these new cars without any ashtrays.
Well that does it. In recent months, I have become increasingly fed up with the drivel bandied about by hairy-bottomed do-gooders who want us all to take up jogging. And not even jogging on a horizontal basis either, which it seems renders us likely to catch AIDS.
I may however catch cancer or thrombosis or angina or any number of nasties that my packet of Marlboro insists are a virtual certainty should I choose to indulge in the contents.
My simple answer to this is so what? If I choose to cash in the chips early and shuffle off the mortal coil at 60 or so, you clean-living types should be grateful.
I will never buy a pair of those fur-lined boots with zips up the front and I will never get in your way in the post office, failing to get my mind or my arthritic fingers round the hard ECU or whatever currency has replaced Sterling by then.
I will never demand money from the government every time it drops below 70 degrees and I won’t clog up the roads in my ten-year-old Maxi with 600 miles on the clock. Dying before you’re an old-age pensioner is the most socially responsible thing you can possibly do.
And if you manage to kill yourself in such a way that the treasury benefits, so much the better. On this front, you have two choices: fill up with four star and drive over Beachy Head or, and this is the option I’ve chosen, smoke 40 cigarettes a day for 50 years.
In today’s money, I will have given the chancellor £30,000, thus paying for a hospital ward that I will never use. Now THAT is public spirited.
Also, I will give tobacco companies about £20,000 which helps keep unemployment down and motor racing alive.
Clarkson on Cars Page 13
