Worse than this, though, was the ride. On a normal British road that has been dug up by slovenly apes and repaired by companies with both eyes fixed firmly on the bottom line, it was intolerable. I do mean that. Intolerable. So bad that I actually looked forward to it running out of fuel so I could get out and have a respite from the battering.
I knew what had happened, of course. I’d been so seduced by the power and the styling and the Grim Reaper handling that I’d overlooked the bad bits. Buying one had been a bit like choosing a wife based entirely on the size of her breasts.
Honestly, I was thinking of getting rid. But then I read something interesting. The Black comes with adjustable suspension. Lots of cars do, these days. And ordinarily, my advice on this matter would be plain and simple. Leave it alone. A big car maker such as Mercedes-Benz knows an awful lot more about chassis dynamics than you do. If it thought the car could be improved by fiddling with the damper settings, it would have done so at the factory.
Adjustable suspension is nothing more than a sop to the ego of the terminally stupid. And something a salesman can talk about on a test drive, ‘Sir can tailor it to sir’s bespoke requirements, sir …’
But, I’m sorry, Mercedes has test tracks and millions of laptops. It employs thousands of doctors who have no sense of humour, just an insatiable thirst to do the best they can. So, the notion that you, in a shed, can improve on their work with nothing but a screwdriver is as absurd as trying to improve on a Gordon Ramsay soufflé using nothing but what you have in your pocket.
I was chatting about this to a chap called Gavan Kershaw a few weeks ago. Gavan is the top chassis boffin at Lotus. He is responsible for the Elise, the extraordinarily balanced Evora and, I’m told, the marvellously supple new Jaguar XFR. Most of all, though, he is the chap who designed Top Gear’s test track.
He’s a very clever boy and I trust him, so when he said he would have a look at the Black, I agreed. Mainly because, no matter what he did, he couldn’t possibly make it worse.
He didn’t. It’s still not comfy. It’s not even halfway to a nod in the general direction of comfiness. The tyres are too low-profile and the chassis-strengthening beams too vigorous for that. But his twiddles do now mean that, for short periods behind the wheel, it is possible to think of something other than the pain.
And here’s the really good bit. By making it a bit softer, he has ensured it is now nearly two seconds faster on a lap round the Top Gear test track.
And the steering, already very good, is now sublime.
Normally, I don’t really care whether car bosses read my columns. But I do hope the people at Mercedes are reading this, partly because it might cause them to think that maybe a hard ride isn’t necessarily the way forward. But mostly because a fat bloke from Turnipshire (Gavan is a bit porky) has managed to improve what they presumably thought was perfect.
I know that sort of thing makes a German very unhappy. And achieving that once in a while compensates for the less savoury parts of my job.
8 November 2009
Jack of all trades
Toyota RAV4 SR 2.2 D-4D
Sometimes, I wonder how the human race has risen to the top of the evolutionary pile when almost every single decision we ever make is bonkers. You do not see blackbirds smoking cigarettes or beavers riding motorcycles. You don’t see pigeons ignoring non-organic seeds or bison at the shops buying something they know they can’t afford. You do, of course, see elephants on unicycles, but only because we think it is funny.
Let’s look at the simple decisions I’ve made today. First of all, I hit the snooze button on the alarm clock even though I knew full well that I had to get up and go to work or I wouldn’t be finished till midnight. Then I went downstairs and had a cup of coffee, which I know will make my teeth all brown. And then I read the Guardian, which always makes me angry.
And then, instead of going to work, I put my new cabinet for drinks and guns in the back of the Range Rover. It’s an exquisite piece of furniture, this: hand-made in Yorkshire from American walnut, with brushed aluminium handles, it takes sixteen shot glasses and sixteen flutes, and there are cutaway compartments for champagne, sloe gin, soup, whisky, 500 cartridges and two Beretta shotguns.
I will use it probably twice a year and the rest of the time it will render the car bootless and consequently unable to take dogs, wellies or even light shopping. So it’s mad. So’s my new quad bike. And so is everything I’ve ever bought. I look at all the things on my desk and I wonder: what on earth was going on in my head when I chose them? The paperweight with the globe inside, the catapult, the Bugatti Veyron cufflinks, the Insanity chilli sauce and the Sony Rolly, which so far as I can tell is specifically designed to do absolutely nothing at all.
I must have said to someone in a shop, ‘What does this do?’, and he must have said, ‘Absolutely nothing at all,’ and then I must have said, ‘Oh good. Here’s my credit card.’ How mad’s that?
What makes this state of affairs so alarming is that stupidity isn’t simply restricted to the dull masses. Those in power can’t make a sensible decision either.
You have had very senior politicians standing up and telling us that they know Iraq has weapons of mass destruction. And now you have Bob Ainsworth, who has deliberately chosen to grow that moustache.
You may remember a few years ago when Britain’s transport secretary was very fat and had no 11-plus. He made the mistake of digging up the outside lane of the M4 and turning it into a bus lane. This made not just him but the whole government a laughing stock, so you’d imagine no one would make the same mistake again …
But they have. Only more so. For the past two years my journeys to and from London have been fraught by roadworks near where the A40 crosses the North Circular. It’s been hell and has wasted many hours of my life. But I figured it would be worthwhile because, plainly, those in charge had decided to widen the road.
They have, too. But, amazingly, the new lanes – in both directions – are for bicycles only. I am not making this up. All that time. All that expense. And all for the benefit of a few idiots who can’t afford a car.
To make matters worse, no provision is made for bicycles at either end of the new lanes. It’s highway, then bike lane, then highway. So you can’t try them out without being killed on the way.
When you look at something like this you stop wondering how the human being has climbed to the top of the evolutionary pile. And wonder, instead, how it’s survived at all. Bicycle lanes on the main road from Oxford to London. Whoever came up with that sits on the Darwinian waterfall of change alongside the housefly. Seriously, my dishwasher has a bigger brain.
Of course, this collective stupidity is particularly noticeable when it comes to buying cars because only a tiny minority ever buys anything even remotely sensible. For sure, some people try. They read What Car? And they study the findings in Which? And they take test drives and they haggle with salesmen. And then, as often as not, they end up with a Peugeot. Which is like studying all the travel brochures and going on holiday to Latvia.
Style is the main problem. It gets in the way of clear thinking. We know we should have a Golf. We know it does everything we want at a reasonable price but we think it’s a bit boring to look at. So we buy a Mazda MX-5 instead.
What possible reason is there for buying a convertible? We get extra noise, a small boot, generally less safety, and for what? So that on one or two days of the year we can screw up our hairdos.
Why buy a sports car? It’ll just be uncomfortable. Why buy a big car? You won’t be able to park it. Why buy an exotic car? You know you’re only paying for the badge. Why buy an SUV? It’s only going to make bicyclists bang on your roof and be angry. And why buy something made in France? Or Italy? Or Britain? Or America? You know it’s going to explode sooner or later.
This brings me on to the Toyota RAV4 that’s been sitting in my drive for the past week.
When the RAV4 first came onto the scene, it was, for sure,
a pretty little thing – a slightly more grown-up Suzuki jeep – but it made very little sense at all. I mean, it was a four-wheel-drive car for the town. Graham Norton bought one, and that says it all.
I’ve probably driven lots of RAV4s over the years, but none sticks in my mind. And that’s why I kept ignoring the new one, even though I knew it was the first RAV4 to be available with a diesel engine and an automatic gearbox. Wow.
Eventually, I did take it for a drive, and overall, I have to say, it was pretty nasty. The seats were a bit hard. The diesel engine was a bit unrefined, and while the little television screen in the rear-view mirror that lights up when you are reversing was novel, it was too small to be of any use.
However, while it may not be a particularly inspiring car to drive, or look at, it is a remarkably competent tool to own.
While the rear door opens sideways rather than upwards, which might be a nuisance in tight parking spaces, there’s no denying there are many treats in store for the dull and the practical. Instead of fiddling about for hours to get the back seats down and ending up with broken fingernails, and them still in place, you simply pull two levers and, plop, they fold down flat. Then you have a van.
Up front, you get leather upholstery, Bluetooth, air-conditioning, automatic wipers and headlights and heated front seats. About what you’d expect for £25,000.
Yes, you can have more style and panache from a Ford Kuga or a Honda CR-V but they aren’t really designed to go off-road and, these days, the RAV4 is. It has a device that stops you rolling back down hills – for when you can’t be bothered to use the handbrake – and another that keeps your speed down on steep descents. There’s even a locking differential.
In other words, this is a car that can be used on the farm and on the road and on the school run and for trips to the megastore. It does what a small off-road car is supposed to do, and it was made in Japan, so it will last ages.
In short, it is the sort of car you would buy with your head. Which is why no one will buy it at all.
15 November 2009
Land Rover leaves behind the murderers
Land Rover Discovery 4 3.0 TDV6 HSE
I don’t understand the Land Rover Discovery. It’s like torque and electricity and Peter Mandelson. We know it exists and we know what it does. But we can’t explain it very easily. In the olden days, it made sense. There was a big hole between the utilitarian, bring-your-own-earplugs Defender and the Range Rover, which had gone all Surrey, with fancy carpets and seats smothered in cow peelings. In other words, there was no car in the Land Rover line-up for the true countryman, who wanted one car to take his cows to market and his family to the pub. The Discovery filled that hole nicely and, as a result, became very popular with murderers.
Occasionally, the Disco was bought by a farmer’s wife but mostly it was bought by people who like complicated guns and camouflage trousers. These people label themselves ‘off-road enthusiasts’ and ‘green-laners’ but it’s all just a front for murdering.
Why does anyone need camouflage trousers? It’s because they want to hide from the police in the woods. And why do they have a Discovery? Because a Discovery can get very far into those woods, which means bodies can be buried in places where they won’t be found by pesky dog-walkers.
You may wonder why they chose a Discovery rather than, say, a Toyota Land Cruiser, but that’s because you’re not paying attention. Like murderers in hillbilly America, ‘off-road enthusiasts’ are practical people who enjoy mending engines and gearboxes. A Land Cruiser never goes wrong and, as a result, provides no opportunity for tinkering.
And, again, like the American backwoodsman, the British rural murderer is a fiercely patriotic soul who shoots squirrels and badgers simply to prepare for the day when he is called upon to kill Communists and immigrants. Furthermore, if he had a Toyota he wouldn’t be able to get as far into the woods, so his bodies would be discovered and there’d be much unpleasantness.
You think this is nonsense? Really? Well, next time you are in the British countryside, look carefully at the person driving along in an old Land Rover Discovery and ask yourself a simple question. Would you let him take your daughter for a picnic?
Anyway, after Ken Noye was sent to prison, Land Rover stopped making a car for murderers and brought out a new Discovery. And, frankly, I couldn’t work out who it was for at all.
First of all, it had an extremely odd chassis arrangement. I shan’t bore you with the details here but the upshot of this peculiar decision was simple: the car weighed 2.7 tons. That is a lot. And that meant the fuel economy was dreadful.
There were other problems, too. Yes, it had seven seats, but raising and lowering those seats was extremely complicated and required the use of two hands. Which was a bit of a nuisance for the sort of person who needs a seven-seater car – school-run mums. Who usually have to get the seats up and down while carrying a toddler or shopping. This, you knew, was a car designed by men in wellies who had no concept of children. But that’s gone now and we have an even more puzzling Discovery to try to fathom.
Apart from some fancier headlamps, it looks pretty much the same as the last version, but inside it’s even more upmarket, with lots of soft-touch this and electronic that.
Underneath, they’ve fiddled with the suspension set-up to make the steering more precise, they’ve lost some weight, and now you can specify the 3-litre twin-turbo diesel engine that first saw the light of day in the Jaguar XF.
Retuned for the Disco so that it produces 241bhp, it’s epic. Yes, it sounds a bit coarse and diesely when you fire it up, but thereafter, it’s sewing-machine smooth, nicely zingy and almost unbelievably economical. Drive carefully and you’ll get 30mpg.
I liked driving the new Disco very much. It was smooth, quiet and extremely comfortable; the steering was good, the driving position was excellent and, while you still needed two hands to move the seats about, the seven-seat practicality was a bonus as well.
Then there’s the price to think about. The range starts – with the old 2.7-litre version – at £32,000, while the car I tested is £47,695. I’m not going to pretend that this is cheap but it is £17,000 less than a diesel-powered Range Rover TDV8 Vogue.
And what exactly does the Range Rover have that the new Discovery does not? They have the same off-road gubbins, and the Disco has – for an extra 600 quid – the same brilliant command system, which means five exterior cameras feed images of what they see to the screen on the dash. You can choose which feed you want to look at, and even zoom in on things you find interesting.
The idea is that you can spot obstacles as you drive off-road, but it’s huge fun to switch between the images as you drive on-road, making your own movie. It gets better. It’s possible, through mind-boggling technology, for the passenger to watch a DVD while the driver – looking at the same screen – sees the sat nav map. How brilliant is that?
Yes, the Range Rover has a V8 engine, but the Disco, with its new V6, is only 0.4 seconds slower to 60. And that doesn’t seem like £17,000-worth of lost oomph to me.
It used to be that the Range Rover felt more of a luxurious car. Not any more. With its hand-stitched leather and ‘mood’ lighting, the Disco is just as palatial, and you have exactly the same imperious driving position. The conclusion, then, is simple. If you want a go-anywhere luxury car, buy the Discovery 4.
Except you can’t, because when you drive along in your new car, no one will think, ‘Ah, there’s a canny chap. He’s saved £17,000.’ They will think, ‘Oh dear. Poor man. He can’t afford a Range Rover.’ This is known, in my head, as the Porsche Boxster syndrome – you buy one if you can’t afford a 911.
In the same way, it’s impossible to drive a Discovery without thinking of the Range Rover. I’m not talking about the (ghastly) Range Rover Sport but what I call the ‘proper’ Range Rover – aka the best car in the world. There is something about a Range Rover that makes you feel better even though the Discovery feels similar to drive. I can’t
explain this any more than Faraday could explain electricity. It’s just a fact.
All you ever think in a Disco is, ‘God. I wish I had a Range Rover.’ It’s like being on holiday in Port Grimaud. You’re in the same country as St Tropez. You’re on the same bay. You have the same weather and the same food. And you’ve paid less. But you’re not actually in St Tropez and that makes you feel constantly disappointed with your lot.
Of course, you can argue that you bought the Discovery because you need seven seats. But if you need seven seats, the Volvo XC90 is a more sensible, more practical, easier-to-use and less expensive solution.
So there we are. The Land Rover Discovery 4. It’s excellent. Don’t buy one.
22 November 2009
Ye gods, it’s smashed through the apple cart
Audi A4 Allroad 3.0 TDI Quattro
As we now know, there are one or two flaws in the concept of global capitalism. For example, if you have a suit and a side parting, you can use money that doesn’t exist to create money that does, in your own bank account. And you can keep on doing this until the whole world goes completely bankrupt.
At the other end of the scale there are problems, too. For instance, if you are very fat and lazy and you cannot be bothered to get a job, the system will only really care about your plight when you die and you have to be hosed out of your front room because the neighbours are complaining about the smell. ‘And who’s going to pay for that hosing?’ the men with side partings will say.
Still, I believe that the upsides for those of us who are not very lazy but do not have side partings far outweigh the downsides. Let me give you an example. It is now almost impossible to buy a washing machine that is anything less than brilliant.
Round the Bend Page 32
