Born to Be Riled (6 page)

But according to an obscure government quango, the most irresponsible and dangerous programme on television is
Top Gear
. The quango in question is called PACTS (Parliamentary Advizzzzzzzzzory Council for Something or Other) and it says that when
Top Gear
refers to a car’s ability to ‘knock on the door of 150mph’, we are guilty of ‘glamourising’ speed. Funny that – I never knew ‘glamorising’ had a ‘u’ in it.

PACTS also says that speeding costs 1200 lives a year. Well, they’ve obviously researched this subject with the same diligence that they spell their words, because if speed really does kill, Concorde would be the most dangerous means of travel. I’ve just done a quick calculation and reckon the number of people killed by Concorde so far is zero. And that makes it pretty damn safe in my book. When will people learn that speed cannot kill someone? It needs to be mixed with something else first, like the sort of bad driving you see in Whitehall at half-past five when all the quangos are shutting down for the night.

Besides, if speed is so lethal, how come motorways, which carry 15 per cent of all the traffic in this country, account for only 3 per cent of the casualty accidents? And if you do crash on a motorway, you are three times less likely to die than if you crash in a built-up area.

PACTS is undeterred by facts, though, and backs up its claims by saying that about one-third of all fatally injured vehicle occupants are involved in a speed-related accident. What speed? 90mph? 40mph? 0.002mph? It doesn’t say.

If the people who make up PACTS are typical, I know exactly what we’re dealing with here – wizened old has-beens in Hondas who suffer from the upper-class disease of too much money and not much brain. Unable to get a
proper job, but duty-bound to do something constructive, they sit on endless committees doing good things. And just because the patron is a marquis or a baroness or a marquee, everyone they write to is supposed to fall on their sword and promise never to stray again.

When I test a car, I don’t leave out the price just because some viewers can’t afford it, and I won’t leave out the top speed either. It’s a salient point. And if I described it in a drab monotone everyone would throw chairs at the television.

If there is one character trait I despise even more than reasonableness and socialism, it’s idealism. Yes, it would be lovely if no one was killed on the roads and there was no war, but they are and there is and that’s tough titties. It’s like the NHS. It would be ideal if I had a nurse, a GP and a selection of specialists in attendance 24 hours a day, but this cannot happen. We have to be realistic, but you can bet that someone, somewhere, is prancing about on a bloody quango telling anyone who will listen that Stow-on-the-Wold needs nine new hospitals. Yes, it does, but it can’t have them and that’s an end to it.

Do you know that there are a bunch of wimmin outside Greenham Common even today. Though the base is now only used for
Top Gear
photo shoots and police driver training, they say they won’t move until the last nuclear weapon has been removed from the face of the earth. But if the entire American Pacific fleet can’t persuade North Korea to stop making its atom bombs, I really don’t think a bunch of hippies in Berkshire has much of a chance.

There’s bound to be a quango up in Whitehall where people with gout meet once a week to decide how best to
deal with these grubby New Age campers. The odd thing is that both groups of people are as daft as each other.

It seems that teenagers are leaving school these days well versed in the dangers of ecstasy, but with no real idea how to spell it.

Worryingly, these people are driving around in cars, peering at road signs and wondering why they always end up in Colchester when they were trying to get to Weston-Super-Mare.

Presumably, they cannot understand any of the information being provided by their dashboards either. ‘Why’, they will wail as they splutter to a halt on the hard shoulder, ‘have I run out of petrol?’. And how do they know whether they’re doing 40 or 90mph?

What concerns me most, though, is that these people are just as likely to be stopped in the street and counselled for their opinions as clever people like Stephen Fry or Jonathan Miller.

That is why I am always deeply suspicious of market research. I mean, if it were so good at predicting things, we’d have a Welsh prime minister.

Nevertheless, I’ve been completely absorbed this past week by the
Lex Report on Motoring
, a huge tome that’s been compiled by one of Britain’s foremost car retail and leasing operations.

It says here that six out of ten people supported the road protesters’ cause, which is an extraordinary finding when you learn that 72 per cent of drivers say traffic congestion is a ‘major’ problem.

So, what we have here is a majority of people wanting fewer jams, and a majority of people saying there should be no new roads. Hmm.

How about this one? Sixty-one per cent of the British public – the people who brought the world jet engines, hovercrafts, communism, optical fibres, television and the telephone – say that cars are only a ‘little’ more environmentally friendly than they were 10 years ago.

Nine per cent – the real dimwits – say that cars have become more damaging to the environment in the last decade.

Unbelievable. Ford has just announced that a new Fiesta produces the same amount of toxic gases as 20 Fiestas did a few years ago which, in my book, means there’s been a twentyfold improvement.

And who had heard of recycling centres in 1986? Car firms are making huge efforts to shape up, but obviously the message is not getting across.

Ah, I see now why that should be so. The report says that only 19 per cent of people trust car advertisements, and that friends and acquaintances are considered to be a great deal more knowledgeable than newspaper journalists.

I may as well give up now because
Top Gear
gets a special mention. Only 34 per cent of private buyers trust us. Right: now it’s personal.

So now I shall switch my attention to the huge section on so-called road rage.

This is the bit that’s been picked up by radio stations
and television networks all over the country but, again, I find myself wondering…

In 1995, 1.8 million people were forced to pull over or off the road, 800,000 were physically threatened, 500,000 had their cars deliberately rammed, 250,000 were attacked and another 250,000 had their cars damaged.

Add the figures up and you’ll find that 3.6 million people were abused, threatened or hit on the roads last year… which isn’t enough.

You see, I have a great deal of sympathy with people who become angry and frustrated while in their cars, because losing your temper is part of the human psyche, as natural as smiling or having sex.

Wetties ask why we don’t lose our rag quite so readily while walking down the pavement, but that’s a stupid question. If someone inadvertently brushes past you in a shop doorway, it’s no big deal.

If, however, by not paying attention, their car brushes against yours, you will be without wheels for a week or so, there will be a fight with the insurance company and you will almost certainly end up poorer as a result.

And that’s if you are lucky. If you’re on foot, even the biggest Mickey Skinner-type impact won’t cause much damage, but on the road, it’s different. You could wind up dead or paralysed, and that’s certainly a good enough reason to get out of your car and smash the other guy’s teeth in.

A few years ago, I was desperately late for a wedding and, while overtaking a Volvo, found another car coming the other way. I dived back to my side of the road and very nearly caused a huge shunt.

At the next set of lights, a huge Irish person heaved
himself out of the Volvo and spent a couple of minutes trying to throttle me. That was road rage.

But it was my fault. I deserved it. I nearly killed the poor bloke and I consider myself rather fortunate to have escaped from the encounter with mild bruising. I deserved more.

Frankly, if more people behaved as responsibly as that large Irishman the standard of driving would improve. You’d think twice about cutting someone up if there was even the remotest possibility that you’d end up impaled on your gear lever.

When I see that there have been 3.6 million examples of road rage in the last year, I say to myself that there must have been 3.6 million examples of bad, inattentive or selfish driving.

I think it’s fair to say that you can judge a city by whether or not you feel the need to go to an amusement arcade. If it’s sunny and warm and the bars are full of lively and interesting people, you won’t give ‘Space Invaders’ a thought.

But if it’s dull and the people are awful, then the idea of pouring hundreds of pounds into an arcade game becomes quite tempting.

In Perth, we went to an amusement palace every night and I discovered the Sega Rally machine.

With this computer game, you choose what sort of car you want and whether you need manual or automatic transmission, and then you’re among the make-believe mountains in an increasingly difficult game of pure skill.

When the car slides, the wheel fights in your hand. When you crest a brow the seat moves, and all the time a computerized co-driver is warning you of unseen hazards ahead.

Of course, the other cars are driven by silicon chips, but in our arcade four machines were linked so we could race each other.

Now this was something else, because what we have here is racing without the fear. It is driving quickly and irresponsibly with no risk of death or injury. Even Steven Norris would be forced to admit it’s safe and environmentally friendly.

Obviously, you can’t go shopping in a Sega, but people don’t go shopping in supercars either. Supercars are designed to be fun, to put a big grin on your face. And so is the Sega.

When you come flying over the crest of a hill in a Porsche, only to find there’s a 90 degree right-hander ahead, you will probably wind up dead. At best, it’ll be written off, your insurance premiums will go nuclear and you’ll be off work for a week while they mend your nose.

Do the same thing in a Sega and you will spin, your seat will rock about a bit and the cars you’ve just overtaken will get back in front. You will lose the race, of course, but it will only cost you a pound to have another go.

At a stroke, therefore, the Japanese seemed to have delivered a hammer blow to Europe’s sports car industry.

Porsche is obviously aware of what they perceive to be a very real threat. They know that no one will spend £50,000 on a fast car if they can spend £15,000 on a machine that lets you go even faster in complete safety… and with no Gatsos in every village.

Thus, they’ve tamed the 911.

In the past, these three little numbers have been the automotive equivalent of 666. The rear-engined Beetle on steroids took no prisoners and would punish any mistake by hurling itself into a hedge upside down, and on fire.

I’ve always bowed my head slightly whenever a 911 burbled by because the driver, very obviously, was a reincarnation of Sir Galahad – brave beyond the ken of mortal men and hung like a baboon too.

To drive a 911 quickly required more than talent. It needed bravery on a scale that would leave even Michael Buerk breathless.

All these thoughts, and more, were crossing my mind as I trudged across the drive last week for my appointment with the Reaper. There, under a foot of snow, was a 911 targa Tiptronic.

As I fired up the beast, my Adam’s apple ricocheted twixt chin and sternum like a pinball. A thin sheen of sweat formed on my brow even though it was minus four out there.

Here was a car with tyres like garden rollers and a top speed of several hundred miles per hour. And here on the radio were a bunch of stupid DJs telling everyone to stay at home. Me? I was off to Telford.

Since then, I’ve been to Doncaster, Lincoln, Birmingham (twice), London and Oxford and I haven’t crashed. I’ve driven with the roof tucked away under the rear window. I’ve had the gearbox in manual mode, swapping cogs by pressing little buttons on the steering wheel, but not once did the Porsche deviate from my chosen line.

Yesterday, I had built up enough confidence to really fly on a road I’m learning to love, and it was a sensation. When the understeer built up, I just backed off and the car shuffled back into line, with no fuss and no drama.

I didn’t much care for the Tiptronic because four gears aren’t enough, and I still think the dash is worse than Winalot, but this was a car you drove through the seat of your pants, a car that talked to you, a car that was alive.

It was also a supercar that I had dared to drive when the weather suggested I should have been on a bus. No way would I have taken a Ferrari out in conditions like those.

The Porsche has that Beetle-like unburstability so that no matter what is coming out of the sky, it will always be fun.

But you can’t race your friends in a Porsche. You can’t tear down mountain roads with your hair on fire. And if you go through a village at 120, the residents won’t be lining the streets to cheer you on.

And that’s where it loses out to the Sega. As cars go, the 911 is right up there with the best but, when it comes to a battle between European flair and Japanese technology, Japan wins.