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| Moses is never about when you need him. |
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We’ve been off air for a while. There was dry rot or something in the blogging software, so we had to sit on our hands, and keep our thoughts to ourselves.
But we’re back now, or at least I am, and I thought I would rekindle the embers of our virtual relationship by telling you about the floods.
Notwithstanding the fact that I live on top of the North Downs, the road into our village is frequently flooded to a considerable depth. There is a dip between some fields that slope towards the road, and after heavy rain, it’s like living on the shores of the Ganges. And so it was last week. Several feet of water, floating logs, and water buffalo.
It doesn’t bother me; I drive a Range Rover, so three feet of water is but a mere puddle. But I get just as stranded, just as cut off from the outside world as if I were in a G-Whiz, and all because of the muppets who drive right up to the water before they notice it’s there. Then instead of simply turning round, they get out of their cars and huddle in perplexed groups like the tribe of Israel contemplating the Red Sea. Usually there’s one in wellies who will wade in up to his ankles and proclaim the water wet. Meanwhile, the road is utterly blocked, supplies are cut off, and the Red Cross is mustered.
It happens at least once a month, yet to most of our doddering village motorists it always comes as a surprise, and they are no better equipped to deal with it now than they were when De Dion first met Bouton.
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This image is from a new SEAT cinema commercial. I won’t bore you with the puerile plot, but the punch line is a woman driving off into the distance having outwitted a number of male drivers – hence the finger.
Motor journalists are supposed to exercise a duty of care and not write or say anything that is likely to encourage reckless or belligerent driving. It seems that SEAT, at least, does not consider itself to be subject to the same common-sense restraint.
Moreover, the gesture exemplifies the attitude seemingly prevalent among certain classes of young, female drivers who seem to regard any male driver, and for that matter, each other, not as fellow road-users, but as targets, to be outwitted in a show of belligerent driving that reveals inexperience rather than skill.
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If you run a new-car dealership this will make your eyes water. According to Automotive News, a GM dealership is Moscow is selling between 600 and 900 cars a MONTH. The UK average is 500 cars a year.
And apparently the profits are good, too. A UK dealer makes around 1 per cent on each new car, whereas their Russian counterparts regularly make between 3.5 and 4 per cent. It appears that Russian buyers are suckers for extras, which deliver a higher profit than the cars themselves. BMW has understood this principle from Day One.
The Russian dealers also make a decent margin on servicing, and many service departments stay open until 9 0’clock every evening, just to cope with the level of business. The Genser GM dealership – the 900 cars a month dealership – employs 200 people in its service department, which handles up to 180 cars a day.
When told by Automotive News of the average levels of sales in the UK, and the profit margins, Natalyia Ignatova, Sales Department Director of Genser, said: “You call that a business?”
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A friend of mine tried to buy some brake spares for his middle-aged Citroen. The car’s about eight years’ old and so he went to his local ‘continental’ car spares outlet. They sold him the parts he needed and assured him they were correct for his particular make and model of car.
Except they weren’t - although he didn’t discover this until he’d stripped down the brakes on his car and rendered it un-driveable. So he walked back to the shop, where he was told the correct bits were on ‘back order’, and sorry about the mistake.
A week later, the shop rang him to say the parts were in. As they were, but not the correct bits. To cut an even longer story short, my friend eventually finished up at a breaker’s yard (or whatever they are nowadays called) and found precisely the bits he needed. Total time: 12 days.
His car obviously isn’t old enough. I also need a few small parts for my car, but mine is 61 years’ old: a 1947 MG. A quick flick through an online catalogue, a short ‘phone call, and next day the bits arrived. Total time: 18 hours.
I am not sure if that’s a triumph for the Internet, or for the classic-car business. Either way, it didn’t drive me spare.
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I was surfing through some local government websites yesterday, looking for details of parking-fine revenues, when I came across this, and I quote:
‘From March 31st this year councils across England were empowered to use CCTV camera images to enforce parking fines. Prior to this ruling, parking tickets were only valid if placed on the vehicle or handed to the driver in person. The new regulations stipulate that CCTV cameras can be used only in areas where it is too “difficult or sensitive” for an attendant to operate, such as a fast-flowing road or a busy junction. Now, fines can be issued through the post up to 14 days after the alleged offence occurred.’
This is news to me, and I guess to most of you, too. So before you next dart into the newsagents or offy, don’t simply scan the vicinity for wardens – look up, and if you can see a camera, it can see you.
Check out the site in question for yourself: you will find it here. Has anyone been caught this way?
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What do you do when you are locked out of a press car, miles from home, and the press car contains your entire life-support system - ‘phone, wallet, specs, money, etc. etc?
I thanked my lucky stars. I thanked them that my partner was locked out with me, and in her handbag, along with the usual bottle jack, creosote (makes her look sun-tanned), Polyfilla (cheaper than Max Factor), torque wrench, and general landfill material, was a ‘phone. And with that ‘phone I called an Audi press officer (thank you J) who gave me the number of Audi/Volkswagen rescue.
No waiting. No “You are number sixteen in a queue”. No Mozart for broken-down motorists. Just the words you want to hear: “How can I help?” Ten minutes later, I got a call from a mobile technician: “I will be with you in half an hour.” And he was.
I won’t tell you how he retrieved the keys, except that the process was slick, caused no damage, and took fewer than ten minutes. In future, I shall always lock myself out of an Audi.
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For sale: 1985 Blue Volkswagen Golf. Only 15 km. Only first gear and reverse used. Never driven hard. Original tyres. Original brakes. Original fuel and oil. Only 1 driver. I am selling it because I want to buy a car with better fuel consumption. Please see photo.
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Apparently the six-word novel is all the rage. A development of Japanese Haiku poetry, the six-word novel is presently thought to represent the height of literary genius.
But the genre is not new. Hemingway once wrote a truly poignant six-worder: ‘For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn’ and described it as his best work.
Not to be outdone, I have written some six-word motoring novels.
Man buys new Scirroco. Divorce ensues.
Rich divorcee crashes new Ferrari. Result.
Diplomat speeds. Child dies. What diplomat? (True story)
Demand biofuel. Africa starves. Climate unchanged.
Spotted GATSO. Missed van. Another SP30.
Diesel drowned. Assasination? Smoke, no spark.
Please feel free to recommend any of these for a Booker prize, or have a go yourself. Best entry wins a jar of torque.
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Someone has just sent me a press release that lists the nation’s ‘favourite’ classical music tracks, according to the Performing Rights Society.
I don’t propose to tell you what those tracks are, but it did set me thinking. What piece of music would I want to listen to if I was stuck in a five-mile tailback on the M25? I know such a thing is hard to imagine, but pretend it could happen.
Without a doubt, I would play Handel’s aria ‘Ombra mai fu’, preferably sung by the soprano Jennifer Johnston, whose voice is to opera what Charlotte Green’s is to the shipping forecast. Not only would I forget all about the traffic jam, I wouldn’t be tempted to while away the time on my mobile: it’s hard to talk with a lump in your throat.
I couldn’t find a Jennifer Johnston recording, but here is Jennifer Lamore singing the same piece, bizarrely in a scrap yard. Enjoy.
What would be your queue music?
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I see that in a recent ‘survey’ by an insurance company, the Snake Pass has been voted Britain’s best road. That must be by the locals. I doubt that more than 5 per cent of the population could point to the Snake Pass on a map, let alone find it. Satellite navigation has taken the place of good, old-fashioned geography and nowadays most people arrive at their destination without knowing how they got there.
If the Yanks ever switch off their satellites, the population of that tribe of short people who live in long grass will swell by millions, overnight.
Anyway, back to the Snake Pass. Provided you know how to overtake, to experience the Snake it at its best, drive westwards, although that has the disadvantage of depositing you in Glossop, which is as wrist-slashingly dreary as it sounds. By way of compensation, God created West Sussex, where you will find some of the most picturesque roads in the whole of Britain, especially those that run along the foot of, and over, the South Downs.
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