Well summer’s here and all the automotive mass-producers are at it again, foisting their tarted–up pipsqueak cars on to a stupid public. I saw a truly dreadful pink, convertible Nissan Micra the other day, driven by a young lady with sunglasses nailed to the top of her head. PINK! I ask you! The rag-top was down, the breeze rippling her shiny hair and jostling the 23 soft toys dangling from the mirror. I say “rag-top” which makes it sound like the swashbuckling, erm, well, rag-tops of days of yore – you know, Morgans and MGs and Astons – but in fact its not. It’s a state of the art piece of folding roof kit every bit as efficient as anything you’ll find on top of a five litre Merc or equally grunty Jaguar. What a bloody waste, putting it anywhere near anything as utterly boring as a Micra.
Mind you, the past masters of le tarting-up are those cunning French chappies at Citroen. All their engines are the same old weak-kneed clattery things which have been around since Gottlieb was a lad, but now you’re offered the exciting option of interchangeable, differently coloured inside fittings! All in one car! Now let’s see. How do I feel today? I feel green-ish. Click, click, green interior. And Citroen, along with Renault and most other big makers of ordinary motors have adopted twinkly fairy lights around the headlights. Very pretty.
Well that’s it until next time when I was going to shred electric cars, but that’s been done (mostly by me), so I’ll probably have a go at those infuriating fellow-motorists who, when asked, “What sort of a car was it?” reply, “Ooh, I don’t know. They all look the same these days, don’t they? Hang on, wait a minute – yes, yes, it was blue. It was definitely blue. Or possibly red.”