What Could Possibly Go Wrong. . . (11 page)

It emerged recently that the least reliable car you can buy is a Range Rover. An extensive study found that on 02-registered cars, there was a 56 per cent chance of a fault developing within a year. My own findings suggest that brand-new models have a battery issue that could put you on the bus in weeks.

To make matters worse, the company’s designers seem to be hell-bent on ruining the quiet, restrained, tasteful looks with more and more chintz. The front end now looks like a branch of Ratners, and soon, you get the impression they will fit fake Roman pillars on either side of the driver’s door. I suspect they won’t be fully happy, though, until the whole car is made from onyx.

I don’t doubt for a moment that it is all very lovely if you live in Alderley Edge, but in the rest of the country, where showing-off is considered poor form, it’s all just too vulgar and horrid for words. Small wonder, then, that we are starting to see a re-emergence on the streets of the Mercedes G-wagen.

It’s been on sale in Britain before but now it’s back in two versions. Both are long wheelbase but one is from AMG and therefore has a supercharged V8, and the other is the one I’ve been driving for the past week, the G 350 Bluetec diesel.

It is extremely handsome. Restrained. Dignified. And cool in a menacing sort of way. If it were a gun, it would be an AK-47. It is, then, the complete opposite of the modern-day Range Rover, which is like a gangsta’s diamond-encrusted Colt. Small wonder that in Notting Hill many media types even stopped pedalling for a moment to give the big beast an appreciative nod.
People like looking at this car. It feels, therefore, worth the £81,700 asking price. Driving it, however, is a rather different story.

You may remember that recently on
Top Gear
I brought news of a half-million-pound E-type Jaguar. Built by a company in East Sussex called Eagle, it was the most beautiful man-made thing I’d ever seen. Better than the Humber Bridge. Better than the Riva Aquarama, even.

However, it was nothing like a modern car to drive. Yes, many of the components were brand new, but you couldn’t get away from the fact that the basic architecture came from a time when people would travel miles to gawp at a top-loading washing machine.

Then there was the Jensen Interceptor that I reviewed earlier. The idea was brilliant. You had the beautiful Italian styling from the days of the loon pant and the tie-dye T-shirt, but you got a modern engine, modern brakes and modern suspension. Sadly, you did not get antilock braking or airbags or a satnav system. Or wipers that could wipe the windscreen.

I can see why you would be interested in buying an updated Jensen or an Eagle E-type. They are approximately 18,000 times more interesting than the modern-day equivalents from Jaguar or Aston or Mercedes-Benz. But for every point you score on the kudosometer, you will lose one when you run over a manhole cover. Or into a tree.

The G-wagen is much the same. It was originally designed for the German army in the 1970s, which means that, underneath, it is made from 1970s technology. This means that on roads you know to be perfectly smooth it will pitch and writhe about like one of those bucking broncos you can now rent for children’s parties.

It’s amazing. I remember driving a G-wagen in the early Eighties and I thought back then that it was extremely refined and that it rode very well. By today’s standards, though, it is absolutely woeful.

And the steering is worse. You need a block and tackle to turn the wheel, and even if, by some miracle, you do manage it, the car will stubbornly refuse to actually go round the corner.

In an attempt to make the interior feel modern, the car is sold as standard with things such as cupholders and climate control and a rear-view mirror that dims automatically when it’s being blinded by the car behind. But all of these things have been shoehorned into a cockpit that was designed before electricity was invented.

This is particularly noticeable when you try to operate the command and satnav centre. It is very difficult, because the only place it could be fitted was right down at the bottom of the dash, next to your left ankle.

And even if you could read what the buttons do, there is absolutely no chance of pressing the one you want because as you extend your left arm into the footwell, you will run over another piece of grit and the whole car will leap about as if it’s been hit by an RPG.

Then there’s the driving position. Because people in the army like to be extremely uncomfortable at all times – this is why all British military equipment comes with as many sharp edges as possible – Mercedes decided that the seat should be mounted only 2 inches away from the steering wheel. You drive this car like you sit at a kitchen table.

And yet you pray the journey will never be over because you know that when it is, you will have to get out and close the door. This is not actually possible unless you have just won a competition to find Britain’s strongest man. And even if you have, you will still need the silver and bronze medallists to give you a hand. The tailgate is even worse. To open this, you need a JCB. And there’s no point because the boot is nowhere near as big as you might have been expecting.

Yes, the engine is modern, and as a result it produces very little by way of oxides of nitrogen – wow! However, it also produces very little power, and certainly not enough for a car that
weighs more than Scotland. The result is a top speed of 108 mph, which is what most automotive experts call ‘strolling’.

It’s hard, really, to think of any good points at all. I liked the fact that it is a proper off-roader with proper off-roading features. I also liked the television sets in the back, but they were a £1,940 option. I liked the reversing camera, too, but that was an extra £460. In fact, my test car was fitted with so many options, the actual price was £94,200.

I will admit that even though this car is made by hand, it appears to be very well screwed together and, yes, the looks are appealing. But do not imagine for a moment that just because it has many modern features and is still being made today that it is a modern car. Really. It’s an Austin Seven in a fat suit.

I would, therefore, still choose a Range Rover instead. Yes, it is more likely to drain its battery of juice when you’ve left it for two minutes outside the newsagent’s. And, yes, the new front end appeals only to jackdaws. But at least it can run over a pothole without breaking your back, you can open and close the doors without using heavy lifting gear, there’s space for a human being behind the wheel and it’s capable of getting from 0 to 60 before you do.

28 August 2011

I spent a day last week recording the voice for a new satellite navigation system. This meant sitting in a darkened room saying, ‘In 200 metres, turn right. In 200 yards, turn right. In 300 metres, turn right. In 300 yards, turn right. In 400 metres, turn right. In 400 yards, turn right …’ It wasn’t as interesting as it sounds.

It also felt slightly ludicrous, like I was the kettle on the bridge of a nuclear-powered Nimitz-class aircraft carrier: an old-fashioned ingredient in a world that’s not old-fashioned at all.

Have you ever stopped and wondered how the satnav system in your car works? It’s astonishing. There are twenty-four American military Navstar satellites in space, around 12,500 miles from Earth. At any point on the planet’s surface, there is a direct line of sight to at least four of them.

But they’re not standing still. They’re moving. Which means they are not fixed points as such. So, the little receiver in your poxy Volkswagen has to find them, and they’re only the size of wheelie bins, then work out precisely how far away they might be at any given moment. We’re talking major algebra here.

And bear in mind that the device must work out how long it takes for the signal to reach an object in space that is moving at several thousand miles an hour. That means a clock that can keep up with the speed of light. Get it wrong by a thousandth of a millionth of a second and your VW will think it’s just outside Kiev.

And then, when it has worked out where you are on the surface of Earth, it must compare the information with an onboard road map. And it still isn’t finished because you’ve just asked it to
get you from where you are now to a postcode just outside Pontefract. This means it must analyse the 246,000 miles of tarmac in Britain and work out the fastest route. And if it takes more than five seconds, it knows you will be sitting there saying, ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Come on. You useless piece of junk.’

In the early days of satellite guidance, mistakes were common. The first time I ever used such a system, it tried to direct me through Leicester Square, which had been pedestrianized by the Iceni. And only recently, the systems fitted in BMWs absolutely refused to acknowledge the existence of the M40.

I spent a lot of time thinking, Crikey. This whole thing was designed so the Americans could post a cruise missile through a letter box 7,000 miles away and it can’t even find a sensible route from Beaconsfield to London. Now, though, I have to say, mistakes are extremely rare.

Which is why I’m always surprised when an old lady driver tells hospital staff the reason she drove her car off a cliff, or through a river, or into a cave full of wolves, is because the satnav system in her car told her to.

You hear these stories all the time. People who turn left at a level crossing, straight into the path of the four fifty from Paddington, or left at a crossroads that isn’t there, and into the saloon bar of the White Horse in Tiverton. I’ve always assumed that people like this must be stupid. However …

Earlier in the summer, while filming in the south of France, I set off in a large convoy of camera cars and crew vans to a pre-determined location. We were being led by a man whom we shall call Rod. Which is a bit annoying for him because I’ve just remembered that is his actual name.

Anyway, Rod had programmed his portable satnav to where we were going and off he set. Alarm bells began to ring in my car when we turned onto a very small country lane. And they became very loud indeed when the lane became a track. And then it stopped.

Rod was absolutely perplexed. His satnav system was saying
we were just 500 metres from our destination, which may well have been true, but the only way we could have got there on the route it had in mind was if we’d turned ourselves into goats. Many people blamed Rod for this. Me? I blamed the French.

Satnav was fitted to the all-new Audi A6 I was driving last week. But it could do something other than find wheelie bins 12,500 miles away and get you to Pontefract. It could also operate your headlights, altering the shape of the main beam, depending on whether you were on a country or urban road or a motorway, and even switch everything on at junctions so other road users could see … that you’ve apparently gone mad.

And this is just the flake on the tip of the iceberg. Because there is also a device that can spot bikes and suchlike in the blind spots, and another that flashes up a warning message on the windscreen via a head-up display if it thinks you are travelling too close to the car in front. Then you have night vision, which puts a
Blair Witch Project
image of the road ahead on a screen in the dash.

You can even drive this car when you are fast asleep. Citroën was the first car manufacturer in Europe to introduce lane assist, a device that buzzes if it thinks you’re drifting out of lane on the motorway. Audi, though, has gone one better. Providing you are travelling at more than 40mph, its system will actually steer you back in line. And if you have the active cruise control switched on, it will even brake on your behalf if there’s an obstacle ahead. All that’s missing is an alarm clock to wake you up when you arrive at your destination.

Wi-fi? Well, as we know, this doesn’t work in a house if the walls are more than 2mm thick, but somehow, Audi has made it work in a car. Which means that actually you could drive down the motorway, catching up on your emails, safe in the knowledge that the steering, braking and navigation are all being taken care of by electronics.

Of course, you might think that this veneer of mostly optional electro-trickery has been fitted to mask the shortcomings of
a fairly dreary car. But no. It’s lighter than the old A6 and, even though it’s shorter, it’s more spacious inside. It is also extremely well made and finished beautifully. It is a wonderfully nice place to sit, and thanks to absolutely fantastic seats, comfortable too.

Until you set off. Yes, you can adjust the way the gearbox, the throttle and the suspension behave, but the simple fact is that no matter what settings you select, this new car does not ride quite as well as the BMW 5-series. It doesn’t handle as well, either. And the entry-level 2-litre turbodiesel engine is not quite as refined as the unit that BMW uses. But that said, it should be capable of averaging 57 mpg, which is remarkable.

So. Yes or no? Well, I much prefer it to the overstyled Mercedes E class, which was designed mostly to take Carol Vorderman to the airport. And I think for a number of reasons it is better than Jag’s XF, but what about the 5-series?

Tricky one. Taken in their base forms, there’s no way to split them, really. The Audi matches the 5-series for economy and the Beemer is slightly nicer to drive. They really are Manchester City and Manchester United.

For sure, if you fit a few options to the Audi, you will have something that is mind-bogglingly good. But if you’re not careful you could end up spending more than BMW charges for the bigger-engined 530d. And that’s better than mind-bogglingly good. All things considered, that’s probably the best car in the world right now.

4 September 2011

A man died recently. He was called Lieutenant-Commander Peter Twiss and he began his career, quietly, as a tea taster for Brooke Bond. Then, in 1939, he joined the Fleet Air Arm where, as a carrier pilot, he had much success in the Mediterranean, earning a Distinguished Service Cross and bar.

In 1943 he came back to Britain and switched to the twin-engined Mosquito, in which he spent a great deal of time bombing France and generally shooting down German Junkers 88s. Before the war ended, he left for America where he became Tom Cruise, testing naval fighters.

After the war ended he became a test pilot with Fairey Aviation and on 6 October 1954, he took the experimental Fairey Delta 2 on its maiden flight. I had a model kit of one of these as a child and thought it to be the most beautiful thing in the world. For Twiss, though, it was more than just that.

He became convinced that the delicate little jet with its Concorde-style drooping nose could fly faster than anything else in the skies at that time. And so, five months after a US air force Super Sabre had set a new record of 822 mph, Twiss climbed aboard his beloved FD 2 and headed for a course that had been laid out along the south coast near Chichester.

Flying at 38,000 foot, he did indeed break the record. Although actually what he did was smash it. Because the average speed of his two runs was 1,132 mph. Twiss, then, had become the first man ever to beak the 1,000-mph barrier. And for his services he was awarded the OBE and the threat of several
lawsuits from market gardeners in Sussex who claimed his sonic boom had smashed all the glass in their greenhouses.

You might imagine that after he retired from test flying, he’d put his feet up and do a spot of gardening. But no. After 4,500 hours in the big blue, in 148 types of aircraft, he appeared at the helm of a Fairey Marine speedboat in the Bond movie
From Russia With Love
and features in
Sink the Bismarck!
at the controls of a Fairey Swordfish torpedo plane. And he developed cruisers. And flew around in gliders and was married five times.

This is what I call a proper life. A full life. The life of a man who could lay on his deathbed and think, Good. I didn’t waste too much time in the ninety years I was awarded.

This brings me neatly on to a track called ‘Time’ from Pink Floyd’s
The Dark Side of the Moon
, which is about how we waste and fritter our days away, waiting for someone to show us the way.

This is how most people live. Life is long and there is time to kill today. But, actually, there isn’t. Life is desperately short and no matter how much you do, there’s always a twang of regret that you didn’t do more. No matter how much you see, you always think that if only you’d gone round one more corner and over one more horizon, you’d have seen something else. I bet when Tom Jones is summoned by the grim reaper, he’ll think of a girl that he could have slept with but didn’t, and that will make him a bit sad. I bet that even Peter Twiss spent at least some of his life wishing he could have shot down one more German bomber and gone 1 mph faster in that Fairey Delta.

I’m in the same boat. God knows, I’ve travelled over the years, but instead of reflecting on all that I’ve seen and all that I’ve done, I will go to my grave thinking, Shit. I never went to Pontefract.

This is why, if you have the wherewithal, it’s very important that you go out tomorrow morning and buy a supercar.

I’ve had my share of them over the years and they are all stupid. Impractical, ruinously expensive, difficult to park and they
leave you with dirty fingers every time you open the bonnet to retrieve your (very small) suitcase.

However, that said, supercars are to cars what jet fighters are to the Airbus that took you to Corfu this year. They are built to excite the speed gene that lives in us all; they are designed to release the cocktail of chemicals that is titillated when we are small and we are pushed higher and higher on the swings.

What’s more, supercars are the last great division of the global motor industry where engineers and stylists can try out new ideas and new ways of thinking. When you build a car that can travel at two hundred and something miles an hour, you need to make the brakes from exotic materials and think carefully about what effect the air has at those sort of speeds. Anyone can make a saloon. It takes a genius to make a supercar.

At present, there are two standout examples of the breed. The McLaren MP4-12C, which is science and maths, and the Ferrari 458, which is also science and maths. With a bit of Renaissance art thrown in for good measure. Both use brute force to give you the go, the periodic table to give you the stopping power you need and Palo Alto electronics to give you a level of grip in the corners that beggars belief.

And yet, if I were in the market for such a car, I’d buy neither. I’d buy the Lamborghini Gallardo LP570-4 Spyder Performante.

Let me talk you through the name. LP says that the V10 engine is longitudinally positioned in the car; 570 is the metric horsepower that Lamborghini claims it delivers – it’s equivalent to 562 bhp. The -4 signifies that it has four-wheel drive. Spyder tells us that it’s a convertible, and Performante that it’s the performance version of something that’s pretty damn fast in the first place.

The extra oomph comes mainly from a raft of weight-saving measures. Carbon fibre, for instance, is used to make the huge engine cover, the door panels, the seats and even the bits that shroud the door mirrors. It sounds, then, like this is another example of science and maths. But it isn’t.

Ferrari and McLaren, first of all, are racing teams and Lamborghini isn’t. Lamborghini therefore feels no need to give its customers a taste of Formula One, a taste of all that behind-the-scenes trickery. Lambos are designed mainly to make a lot of noise and cause small boys to clutch at their private parts in excitement.

So, while the Ferrari howls and a McLaren hums, the Lambo bellows. And while the racers were styled by aerodynamicists, the Lambo was designed to make people say, ‘Wow!’ Which it does.

What’s more, with most serious supercars, you would never buy a convertible version, because you’d know it wasn’t quite as good, dynamically, as the stiffer, more rigid hard top. But since you don’t buy a Lambo for the last 0.01 of a g it can generate in the bends, who cares? Best to have no roof, really. That way you can hear the engine more clearly more of the time.

And anyway, it’s not like the Performante dawdles. The acceleration is savage, the braking is fierce enough to tear off your face and, unlike most four-wheel-drive cars, it does not resort to chronic understeer when you exceed the limit. Plant your foot into the carpet mid-bend and it’s the tail that lets go in an almost cartoonish fog of tyre smoke and noise. In a Ferrari or a McLaren, you concentrate when you are driving quickly. In the Gallardo, you can’t. You’re too busy laughing.

Oh, and there’s one more important point. Ferrari recently started to offer a seven-year warranty, which suggests that it has great faith in the quality. But in the past few years, since Audi took over the factory, I’ve never experienced any mechanical malfunction at all in a Lambo.

Go on. Buy one. You may think it’s a stupid idea now, but trust me on this. On your deathbed, you’ll remember a drive you took in it. And you’ll go through the Pearly Gates smiling.

11 September 2011