Clarkson on Cars (34 page)

Now I’m not writing this from some holier-than-thou platform. When I make a mistake on the roads, and it doesn’t happen very often because I, like you, am a superb driver, I am the first to hurl abuse at the driver I’ve carved up.

The reason I feel able to do this is the reason I feel able to yell at Tony Blair when he’s on the television. There is a physical barrier, a piece of glass, between me and the enemy, and that makes me feel safe.

Shout at someone face to face and they will probably punch you in the mouth, which would hurt. But do it in the car and not only are you protected but also you have the chance to speed away should the other guy look like he’s on for some pugilism.

Now, short of making everyone drive around in convertibles with the hood down, you aren’t going to do much about that, and nor will you ever stop people losing their temper.

So what, then, can be done about Road Rage?

It’s simple. Eliminate the cause. I would never lose my temper on the road if people didn’t do stupid things, and the only way to stop that is to get stupid people off the roads.

They wouldn’t let a stupid person drive the space shuttle so why do they let idiots behind the wheel of a car? And they do, you know.

Ford has made a video about Road Rage – it’s quite good actually, even though none of the drivers have Fords – and one woman called Emma says, ‘Basically, I’ve just got to be first. I’ve got to be first off at the traffic lights and I’ve got to beat that huge Porsche following me and I’ve got to be in front of that Mercedes, particularly if there’s a man behind the wheel.’

She is obviously daft as a brush and she’s not alone. I can recall undertaking someone on the M1 who followed me for 80 miles, his face purple with rage. He was a very idiotic person too because he had a small moustache and because he mistook the water pistol I eventually pointed at him for a real gun and backed off.

To start with then, I suggest that the driving test should include some form of intelligence exam. And later, if this works, how about going the whole way and not letting dim people breed?

But in the meantime, would all you women out there who seem to be at war with men on the roads do us the service of actually declaring it. Then we can fight back.

The new supercharged Jaguar is better than a good thing. It was bitterly cold out there at seven this morning, and as I watched my postman trudging up the street, past all the cars that I have on test this week, I couldn’t help thinking that I have a better job than him.

My desk is piled high with invitations from car firms to join them on exotic trips to faraway lands. And the aforementioned cars outside include a Range Rover, a Porsche 911, a Fiat Cinqecento Sporting, a Mini Cooper, a Volvo T5 and a Jaguar.

But Postman Pat does at least need some modicum of skill and stamina, whereas all you need to be a motoring journalist is a head full of opinions.

Car testing is perhaps the most inexact science ever invented. It’s like trying to pick up a bit of mercury while wearing boxing gloves.

It’s unfair too. Car firms spend a billion or more on a new car only to have it ripped to shreds by a bunch of hacks who, myself included, rarely know one end of a shock absorber from the other.

It’s simply a case of deciding whether I like the car or not, and I’m sad to say, this sometimes has little or nothing to do with the car itself.

Most of the time, I adore the Jaguar XJS, but the last time I drove one, it was raining, I had a headache, a cricked neck and I was trying to reverse it down a narrow mews street, at night. And I absolutely hated the damn thing.

Then there’s the Toyota Starlet. This is a dreadful little car but on the two occasions I’ve been unfortunate enough to find myself in one, the roads have been empty, the sun has been out and I was in seventh heaven. The best drive of my life was in a Starlet, on a deserted mountain road in Portugal.

I try not to let outside influences cloud important verdicts but sometimes, it just can’t be helped. All cars feel good on deserted coast roads in the South of France with Tom Petty on the stereo. All cars feel bad in Acock’s Green on a wet February night.

Against this sort of background, you can see why it’s hard, and sometimes impossible, to be rational. Hell, if motoring journalists were rational, we’d all agree on what is The Best Car In The World. But we don’t.

I can’t even agree with myself. Within the space of two years, I have had four all-time favourite cars – the Dodge Viper, the Aston Martin Vantage, the Escort Cosworth and the Ferrari 355.

And now, there is a fifth. The Jaguar XJR.

The first time I drove this remarkable new car, I was in Scotland and therefore hungry – food is never recognisable as such up there, so I tend not to eat much.

It was also raining hard and 321 brake horsepower engines go together with streaming-wet country lanes about as well as haggis and chocolate. I knew it was a good car, a very good car, but it wasn’t until I had a go in it in England that I realised that good is too small a word. Senbleedingsational is better.

It was getting on for midnight and the darkened and deserted M40 stretched out for a hundred miles. Bob Seger was in the boot and the stars were out.

The exterior temperature gauge showed it was 11 degrees so there was no danger of ice, and the headlines that morning had talked of Home Office cutbacks so the chances of encountering a police patrol were even more remote.

The big cat was impressive enough, thundering down the outside lane – quiet, unruffled and smooth as you would expect, but it was snarling rather than purring and the fat tyres were making pitter-patter noises; unusual in a Jaguar saloon.

So even though it was late, I turned off to see what the monster could do on normal roads. What it can do is unscrew the top of your head and insert a small egg whisk in the resultant cavity. This car is astonishing.

The steering is perfect, weighted so well that you can feel exactly what the front wheels are doing, and you know precisely what the back end is up to, almost as though it’s in telepathic contact.

And if you choose to ignore the signals of impending doom, the traction control gently pushes the accelerator pedal upwards, against the pressure of your foot, first as a reminder that it’s time to back off, and then more urgently.

It does this rather a lot because that six-cylinder, four-litre, supercharged engine is sublime. It may only do 14 mpg but as the rev counter surges round the dial, in an unending quest for the red zone, and the automatic gearbox blurs the changes, I must confess I’d have been happy with 9 mpg, or less. And yes, I do pay for my own petrol.

Back in London, I recalled its ability to hurtle through tightening bends with almost no body roll at all, as it slithered down the Earls Court Road, ironing out all the bumps and ridges. Here is a car with leather seats, cruise, control, beautiful black wood trimmings and matching hide upholstery, which when you’re in the mood, can transform itself into a snarling beast with spiky teeth and a penchant for red meat served raw.

Only the BMW M5 can perform this amazing feat even half as well, but it costs £52,000 and the Jaguar is only £45,000.

Within a month, I’m quite sure, I shall have driven another car, on a better road, in finer weather and with faster music on the CD, but for now, the best car in the world is the Jaguar XJR.

So, the police are going to stop answering burglar alarms because nine out of ten times, they find, after a tyre-squealing journey, that the damn thing has gone off by accident.

That, we hear, is a waste of man hours and thus, a waste of money. So, if economics now determines which crimes are investigated and which are not, then I would hope that we’ll see an end to radar traps. What’s the point of pointing a hairdryer at a stream of motorists all day when nine out of ten are doing nothing wrong?

Actually, the point is simple. A constable is an inexpensive commodity whose time is more than paid for by the resultant fines. Motorists are easily caught, and are subjected to ridiculously heavy fines. Simple economics.

So, the message here is simple. If you’re going to break the law, make sure you do something that requires an enormous amount of police time. Indiscriminate murder is good, as is fraud, but the best crime of all, these days, is to be a solicitor.

First, you can sit around all day, fiddling your time sheets instead of actually helping your clients to buy a house. And then in the evenings, you can dream up slogans for your new adverts on the backs of buses.

I saw one the other day and was so shocked, my trousers nearly caught fire. I don’t remember the exact wording (though I suspect the word ‘hereinuntoafter’ had crept in somewhere) but the gist was this: if you’ve been injured anywhere, give us a call and we’ll get you some compensation.

What I should have done is run into the back of the bus and sued the idiotic lawyers who put the ad up there, saying that their stupidity made me lose concentration. And I’d have won.

There have been more ridiculous cases recently. One man has won £300,000 damages after his car skidded on ice and hit a lorry. It seems he managed to convince a court that this was, in fact, the council’s fault for not putting enough grit on the roads.

A traffic warden is currently suing her employers for lung damage caused by being on the street, breathing in exhaust fumes.

And best of all, there’s a chap who fell asleep at the wheel and, in the ensuing crash, suffered severe facial injuries.

Well, now call me old-fashioned, but I reckon that this is his fault. But no. He’s found someone to sue. The producers of the Radio Four play that moved him to the land of nod perhaps? No. In fact, he’s suing Ford for not fitting an airbag to his Sierra.

If he wins, and on current form, he may well do just that, it’ll open the kind of floodgates not seen since Moses finished his river-bed walk. Common sense will take a back seat to the lure of huge, six-figure settlements. It’ll be like a cross between the National Lottery Instants game and
Don’t Forget Your Toothbrush
.

‘Lose a fingernail in your car’s door handle… and go to the Caribbean.’

I’ll be in there too. If I am caught in a radar trap, I shall sue Jaguar for selling me a car that was capable of breaking the speed limit.

The motor car will become a warning notice on wheels. Do not lean out of the window while the vehicle is in motion. Do not insert a tape in this stereo while driving. Do not speed. Do not attach the battery terminals to your testicles.

I have argued for some time that everyone, at the age of sixteen, should be forced to sign a form which says that they are entirely responsible for their own actions. Trip over a paving stone and it’s your own fault. Skid on ice – well, you shouldn’t have been going so fast. Got poisoned while serving as a traffic warden – diddums.

But this will never happen. The Americanisation of our legal system is underway and even Paul Condon’s fantastic decision to outlaw Freemasonry in the senior ranks of the Met police won’t help.

There is a plot but, for once, the Freemasons are not responsible. This time, it’s the old boy city network.

For sure, the old lady who sews her fingers together while working at a toy factory may walk out of court with a couple of hundred grand but you need to look behind the headlines to find the real winners.

First, there will be the solicitors and barristers who will help themselves to a slice of everyone’s win.

Then there’s the insurance companies who’ll rack up the premiums to ensure businesses and local authorities are sufficiently covered in case a monster damages claim comes their way.

Life-insurance salesmen and stockbrokers will take up residence outside the High Court to catch the stream of people coming out with fat cheques in their damaged paws.

These pinstriped scavengers can be stopped but it’s a brave government who’ll take the necessary steps.

At the moment, a great many of the ludicrous actions are being paid for out of the public purse. Well, if legal aid were to be scrapped, completely, they’d never get there in the first place.

And don’t worry about innocent men being wrongly convicted in criminal courts. We’ve already established that the police can’t afford to trace or arrest anyone these days, except errant motorists who all plead guilty anyway.

If it is felt that legal aid is vital in a fair and just society then we must add a little twist to the American legal system where lawyers only take payment if they win the case.

What we must do here is agree to hear the cases but insist that if the claimant loses, his entire legal team is shot.

In the meantime, I’m going to bring an action against Volvo. Yesterday, I drove to Brands Hatch with the sunroof open and the resultant wind ruffled up my hair. It made me look foolish.

Yesterday, I drove a car which, under my new system for measuring a car’s acceleration, ranks as terrifying.

Under the old system, I would have said it gets from 0 to 60 mph in 3.8 seconds and that as a result, it’s the third-fastest-accelerating car in the world behind the McLaren F1 and the Bugatti EB 110.

It’s called the Westfield S8 and though my drive was brief – just a few minutes – I have to say that never, not once, ever have I experienced anything quite like it.

I have never driven a McLaren and after describing it in this newspaper as somewhat overpriced, I doubt I ever will, but I have had a go in the Bugatti, and the Lamborghini Diablo and all sorts of other supercars which, even by NASA’s standards, are fast.

But they all have roofs. You sit there, entirely surrounded by metal, cosseted by creature comforts. They may be loud and proud but compared to that Westfield, they are Austin Maestros, shrinking violets, wallflowers with no dates for the prom.

The Westfield has no roof to speak of, no doors, no windows, no stereo and not much space either. It is tiny and as a result it weighs less than a packet of fags, but under the bonnet is a 4.3-litre V8 engine which develops a massive 350 brake horsepower.