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.”
Poop-poop
Jemery
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