Clarkson on Cars

by Jeremy Clarkson

  Ford’s marketing team may have been the first car-industry people to realise what has been staring everyone else in the face for about two years – young people burdened with a mortgage are unable to meet the monthly repayments on a car, let alone the awesome insurance bills.

  And that the only people out there who can afford to buy and run a car these days are in their seventies.

  Don’t be surprised then if, in the very near future, Papa is borrowing Nicole’s car and if BMW start telling us that the centre console cubbyhole between the two front seats is the ideal place for storing incontinence bags.

  The New Range Rover Looks Like a Taxi

  I was out for dinner last night with two couples, both of whom currently drive Range Rovers.

  It’s the natural choice, as both live in south-west London, both have one child, and both go shooting every now and again. One of the cars in question even has a silver dog on the bonnet. And bull bars for those tricky moments when the oncoming mini-cab just won’t back up.

  The old Range Rover looks so damn right too. Styled by Spen King when all his mates were at Woodstock, it has weathered the vagaries of fashion well and, if anything, looks even more pertinent today than it did back in 1972.

  Certainly it’s a whole lot more regal than any other large four-wheel-drive supertanker. Especially in that sort of olive-greeny colour, with matching wheels.

  And strangely that is still true today, even with a new Range Rover in town.

  Much has been written and said about this new technological wonderwagon but here is a simple fact: I tried to hail one on Regent Street a couple of weeks ago.

  It was black and in the half light of a British winter afternoon, it was almost completely indistinguishable from the Metrocab.

  I was a little jaundiced then, even before I took a test drive, and now, I rather look like I’ve caught yellow fever. I’m sorry, but the new Range Rover just doesn’t seem to cut the mustard.

  I’ll admit, I have only driven the top of the range, 4.6-litre HSE model, and only briefly, but it was enough to demonstrate that it is neither one thing nor another.

  And it’s not hard to see why this should be so. The original Range Rover was conceived as an off-road vehicle, which after a day in the forests could be hosed down and used for a trip to the theatre.

  Over the past 24 years, the emphasis has gradually changed. Recently, most Range Rovers have been used, largely, for trips to the theatre and then occasionally, very occasionally, they’d go off road; sometimes you’d see them with both nearside wheels on the pavement outside Fortnum’s.

  I was a huge fan of the original car and even today, I stare wistfully at those great V8 monsters as they burble by. I love that lofty driving position and the way they rock from side to side when you dab the throttle.

  I also loved the fact that if I felt so inclined, I could take my air-conditioned, luxuriously carpeted car up the north face of the Eiger.

  But I will recognise that, on the road, they left a lot to be desired. My father had wanted a Range Rover for twenty years, right up until the moment he actually drove one. He pointed out that it was slow, thirsty and that in corners, it felt like a small kitchen chair balanced on a vibrating water bed.

  And in a sort of gritty, look after the pennies, Yorkshire way, he said that because he would never, ever take it off road, he’d stick with a BMW.

  There are thousands more just like him too, and it is these people that Land Rover needed to woo with its new car.

  But they couldn’t just ignore their old customer base, the people who also never went off road but who revelled in the knowledge that they could if the mood took them. And they certainly couldn’t ignore the motoring publications who would dance naked round a burning Rover Group effigy if, when they tested the new car, they found it fell over on to its side every time it saw a puddle.

  So the new car had to feel like a Jaguar when it was on the M1 and a Land Rover when it was just off the M1, up to its door handles in a peat bog. This is impossible.

  But that didn’t stop them trying. For a few years now, the old Range Rover has had air suspension but the new model goes so far into the realms of Arthur C. Clarke, that I was completely confused.

  You can make the car rise up, squat down and for all I know roll over onto its back so you can tickle its axles, but all I wanted to do was go to the pub. Pre-flight checks have no place outside the cockpit of a commercial jet liner.

  And while I’m sure the new 4.6-litre V8 chews fuel like a 737, I do not want to be bothered with a big bout of button stabbing before I go anywhere. Especially the pub.

  Once I’d had the whole thing explained, I set off to see whether the taxi lookalike really can perform the impossible. And guess what. It can’t.

  The steering and the tendency to roll in the corners are massively improved over the old car, but it’s no Jaguar. It can’t be. It’s too tall, so the centre of gravity is too far off the ground.

  Plus, this car rides like a dream over ploughed fields – I know because I did it – and you can’t have suspension that soft which will keep a car taut and level through a tightening right-hander. Land Rover has done a spectacularly good job, technologically speaking, but to what end?

  My Dad would have hated all those buttons – he couldn’t even turn the radio on in his car – and he would point out that on the road, the new Range Rover is still no match for a BMW.

  So, the new car isn’t clever enough to woo new buyers, and to make matters worse, I fear it’s too clever for the old fans, like me. Certainly, neither of the couples with whom I had dinner last night will be buying one.

  First there’s that styling. Land Rover tried hard to make sure it didn’t just look like a large estate car, and they’ve succeeded, but only in as much that it looks like a taxi. I don’t like the square headlamps and it all goes wrong at the back too.

  Yes, it’s aerodynamically better but comparing new to old is like comparing a bungalow to a wardrobe.

  The interior is a huge improvement though. It’s bigger and the dashboard is a joy to behold – apart from all those silly suspension controls.

  It is also faster but compared to a basket of similarly priced saloons, it’s almost glacial. Yes, it’s fast for an off-roader but if you feel the need for speed, may I point you in the direction of the supercharged Jaguar.

  Yes, the top of the range Range Rover is a staggering £45,000 and for that, you get a tall driving position, the ability to tell people at dinner parties that you could, if you wanted, drive home across the fields, and A-level suspension.

  If you want more than that, you could have an Audi A8, or a Jaguar XJR or a V8 BMW or a big Mercedes, or anything you damn well want. That sort of money is going to steer a lot of people back into four-door saloons.

  Or maybe not. Because Land Rover, almost as though they know they might have a problem with the new car, are still making and selling the old one.

  It’s called the Classic, which, ominously, is what Coca-Cola called old Coke when they launched the disastrous new variety.

  I’m not saying the new Range Rover is disastrous because it isn’t. Technically, it’s better than the old one but in terms of style and price – things that really matter – it just isn’t.

  Princess Diana Drives Audi Sales Up

  When Audi launched a convertible version of the mid-sized 80 saloon a couple of years ago, I drove one and thought it nice; like shortbread with the vicar.

  It wasn’t especially fast and, though it was handsome, there was no glint in its eye. Small boys did not clutch their private parts as it slithered past.

  I seem to recall that it was quite pricey too and as a result, I figured that anyone with a bit of nous would opt instead for the Rover or the Golf and that anyone with no common sense at all would continue to buy the BMW cabriolet.

  But I was counting without Princess Diana’s social conscience. How was I to know that she’d swap that most conspicuous of things, the Mercede
s SL – for the equally German but far less obvious Audi?

  And how was I to know that she’d be photographed with the infernal thing every two hours, and that the shots would appear on the front of every national newspaper, every day?

  Her clothes may change – from a leotard at the Harbour Club to a baseball cap for her liaisons with strange men in Chelsea – but the car is constant. And this association with the most glamorous royal of them all has done nothing at all to harm its sales.

  So far this year, Audi has sold 931 80 cabriolets whereas in the same period last year, before Diana bought one, the figure was 508.

  Ever since BMW came to stand for Black Man’s Wheels, Haslemere’s Vyella and Valium brigade have been looking for a replacement and now Diana has served it up to them, gift wrapped, and on a plate. She alone has turned what might have been just another nice car into by far and away the coolest and most-sought-after four-wheeled status symbol of them all.

  And it didn’t cost Audi a penny.

  This product-placement business normally costs rather more than that. When Cliff Barnes arrived at the Oil Baron’s Ball in Dallas in a new Range Rover some years back, it was rumoured at the time that Land Rover had forked out upward of £10,000 for the privilege. And Barnes, remember, was the loser, the no-hoper, the wally who was forever outwitted by the Ewing boys, both of whom had Mercs. As did their wives, their parents, their children, their mistresses and, though it was never made public, their dogs.

  Nevertheless, Land Rover’s US operation must have figured it was worth it. I guess it was the same deal in Britain with Lady Jane in the Lovejoy series.

  In this country, Ford is the biggest player on the product-placement scene, ensuring that all the right people are seen in their cars. Ever since Z Cars, the televisual boys in blue have had a matching oval badge on their wheels – it gives the whole range a nice ’n’ cosy feel.

  Even today, Ford is always ready with a Mondeo should the producers of The Bill need some wheels. And do you remember The Fourth Protocol, the Freddie Forsyth flop? Ever think it was strange that everyone in the whole film was running around in Fords, clean ones too, with all the extras?

  Ford supplies the royals with cars too, though like all manufacturers, it’s tight lipped about the association. But a spokesman was willing to admit that free loan cars are currently out with David Bellamy and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa.

  Oddly, Dave only gets a Mondeo while the Dame has a Scorpio; the old one I presume. The new one would scare all her audiences away.

  Ford also ensures that Britain’s top players on the motor-racing scene drive their cars. Jackie Stewart has one, as does his son, Paul. The entire Benetton team has used them all this season, as does the Andy Rouse racing stable. Even Michael Schumacher has one. And so, until recently, did Jeremy Clarkson.

  The man at Ford says that before despatching a car into the hands of the rich and famous, a number of things have to be taken into account, like: is this the sort of person we want to see in one of our cars? Timmy Mallett, for instance, would struggle to prise an XJS out of Ford’s luxury division at Jaguar.

  Surprisingly though, when asked if they’d give Rod Stewart a Fiesta, the man ummed and ahhed. ‘Well, we’d have to look into it.’ Sorry Rod, I tried.

  Mr Stewart, of course, is well known for his long association with Lamborghini. Open the trade pages of any secondhand-car newspaper and anyone selling a Countach or Diablo will claim that Rod used to own it.

  At least Chris Eubank has the decency to make sure his used Range Rovers never get into the secondhand columns. Though, worryingly, his current car, a 6.3-litre Aston Martin Virage, is still up and running.

  This is the trouble. When a celebrity actually hands over a wad of their own Melvins for a car, there’s not a whole heap that a manufacturer can do.

  And that can lead to all sorts of trouble. BMW desperately tries to cultivate that clinical, sharp, efficient image and doesn’t mind one bit when George Michael is spotted outside the River Café with the top-of-the-range 850.

  The man’s albums are produced with the same sort of clinical efficiency. Listen Without Prejudice is exactly what BMW would expect their customer base to slide into the CD player before they go for a drive.

  Derek Hatton, on the other hand, is very probably the sort of person BMW would not want to be seen in their car. Yet we all know that at one time Degsy did indeed waft from council meeting to property deal in a 635.

  Jaguar too is in the same boat. I’m sure they’re absolutely delighted when senior government figures are seen on the news, whizzing down Whitehall in an XJ6, but how happy were they, I wonder, when the Duchess of York bought a soft-top XJS?

  Reliant is another case in point. When Princess Anne used to rush from horse race to magistrates’ court in her old Scimitar GT/E, it gave the car some street cred that might otherwise not have been forthcoming for what was a Ford engine wrapped in plastic.

  When she sold it, the car was doomed and now Reliant is left with its three-wheeler which was quite funny even before Del-Boy Trotter bought one.

  And famous people can do a lot more than enhance, or dent, the reputation of a car. They can, in some cases, make or break it.

  Since Rowan Atkinson stopped writing in Car magazine about his love affair with the Lancia Delta Integrale, the importers have packed up and gone back to Italy!

  In all seriousness, Aston Martin might not have survived into the seventies were it not for James Bond. The DB5 was an absolute pig to drive, but 007 gave it class.

  Not being a football fan, I’m not sure whether this works or not, but every time another overly coiffeured manager is fired, we’re always treated to shots of him climbing into the very latest, most expensive Mercedes coupe. Is this a rule? Must all football managers have Mercs in the same way that their charges all have Toyota Supras?

  Is this a good thing? Certainly, I would never buy a Supra or a Mercedes coupe because of their association with hooliganism. Nor would I buy a Mitsubishi Shogun either. Dave Lee Travis has one.

  Bryan Adams has a lot more taste. His chosen four-wheel-drive car is a Land Rover, which appears in every photograph of him as surely as Diana’s Audi.

  Chris Rea goes even further. Though a complete Ferrari nut, the man who made goatee beards popular long before Take That were into short trousers has a Caterham Super Seven, which, he says, is the sort of car Ferrari should be making these days.

  It’s simple and uncomplicated and liver-crushingly fast and Chris loves it so much, it’s a regular fixture on his album covers.

  Finally, there’s Volvo. Now here we have a company that is so desperate to change its image that I fear Penelope Keith would be ordered from one of its showrooms. I’m surprised the new range of adverts – ‘more turbo than diesel’ – and – ‘drives like it’s alive’ – don’t, at some point in the text, order women in head scarves to get lost.

  Volvo is spending a million pounds on its racing programme – hell, even I have one now, but this, of course, is not enough.

  Randall and Hopkirk is back on air – and what happened to Humber after one of their Super Snipes killed Hopkirk? So what Volvo needs to do is pay for someone to rerun The Saint.

  Star Car – Alfa Romeo Spider

  Usually, when a car goes out of production, there are no tears. There are no announcements in the papers and nobody sends flowers because nobody cares. One day you can buy a Ford Sierra. The next, you can’t, and life goes on.

  Occasionally, though, a car goes to that great scrapyard in the sky and people do care. One such car is the Alfa Romeo Spider, born in 1966. Died June 1993. Flowers to the crematorium, please.

  These days, European cars stay in production for six or seven years, Japanese cars last only four, and so the Alfa has indeed managed something of a feat by lasting, virtually unchanged, for 25 years.

  On the face of it, a car designed before anyone had even heard of Sergeant Pepper is going to be technologically challenged in 1993. Com
pared to the Mazda MX5, the Alfa is slow, rattly, rough, cramped, and blessed with truly awful handling characteristics.

  I took one last drive in this relic last week and was horrified to find that the rear tyres always squeal when pulling out of side turnings and that negotiating a roundabout gives you the impression of being involved in some sort of rodeo championship.

  Left turns are out of the question too, if you’re tall, because the driving position is so awkward.

  In the year when Donald Campbell died, the Spider was probably superb. But today, it is terrible.

  Except for one small thing. The Graduate is a fondly remembered film for a number of reasons: the sex scene with Anne Bancroft, the Simon and Garfunkel score, the smouldering beauty of Katharine Ross and the birth of a new superstar in the diminutive shape of Dustin Hoffman.

  But while a few of the details have become a little hazy, everyone remembers what sort of car he drove. A red Alfa Spider. The impact was enormous. Indeed, today in America, the car is called the Alfa Graduate.

  Because of that film, the Spider is by far and away the most loved, cherished and sought-after sports car in the world. Everybody, especially women, turn and stare when it lurches by. Everyone I know wanted to borrow it. Old ladies cooed. Old men went all nostalgic. Young men looked at their Golf GTis and wondered.

  They say that image doesn’t sustain an inferior product for long but the Spider shows there is a serious flaw in this argument. You might not like the car very much but the idea of it makes people go all gooey.

  When Marianne Faithfull announced that at the age of 37, Lucy Jordan had never been through Paris, in a sports car, with the warm wind in her hair, everyone knew the sports car in question would have to be an Alfa Spider.