By the time
you read this I will be married and on the other side of the world,
enjoying little cocktails with little bits of fruit bobbing in
them. I may or may not be wearing a shirt so loud you can possibly
hear it.
I will not be stuck
in a southern European border town, pinned down by a maniac with
two Alsatians, insisting that I am an illegal immigrant and a
threat to his nation. True story, bad holiday.
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So forgive me if
this column reads with the bitter longing of a man trying to leave
the office to have the best fortnight of his life but, as my mother
always said about her own wedding, “it is what it is”.
Of course, being
away from the magazine, I will miss the New York and Beijing car
shows. More accurately, I will miss reading about them online at my
desk.
There’s the MG Icon
to look forward to at Beijing, if you like Mini Coopers that look
like they’ve been stretched in a particularly vigorous wind tunnel.
Or a special edition of the Range Rover Evoque which, as the press
releases never fail to tell us, has something to do with Victoria
Beckham. I haven’t felt this level of excitement since her single
‘Out Of Your Mind’. Finance aside, this is a car that raises only
one question in my head: What would a 4×4 designed by Dane Bowers
look like?
Still, China,
according to the last few rounds of quarterly results, is a land
where some serious cash is being spent on automobiles and there’s a
long list of prestige brands represented at Beijing: BMW, Jaguar,
Aston Martin, Bentley, Rolls-Royce, Mercedes, Audi, Porsche… If I
am to spend late nights thumbing through the internet for images to
pine over now I’m married, it’ll have to be from these press
releases.
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By GlobalDataNew York, by
comparison, has an odd trajectory. I read that Cadillac, Nissan and
Mini will be represented. So far, no distraction from packing my
sun tan lotion and guide books.
Then I read Charlie
Sheen’s going to be the face of the new campaign for the Fiat 500
Abarth, which makes its debut before better-treated journalists at
New York. Consider my interest returned. Here’s a sporty version of
a city hatchback given the chequered racing stripes treatment both
in livery and front man. I am an F-18, bro, indeed.
Compared to the US,
land of big suspensions, poor mileage and wide bonnets, relatively
powerful city cars do not invite the same derision in the UK.
Indeed, the Abarth showroom in Portman Square, Marylebone, rubs
shoulders with high-spec department stores, five-star hotels and
million-pound pads. Its high ceiling and pristine façade promise
that the bold-coloured cars within, loaded with turbo engines and
punchy break horsepower, are just as worthy of attention as the
Bugattis, Porsches and Bentleys of Berkley Square.
Add in the claim by
Fiat that the 500 is among the lowest depreciating cars in the UK
and you have something small, feisty looking, overloaded on pep,
starting from a glamorously high base and refusing to come down.
Suddenly, the match with Sheen fits in to place.
If the Abarth
itself is not enough to melt the faces of those who drive it and
have children weep over their exploded bodies, my follow-up piece
dedicated to the recent quotes and behaviour of Sheen in a review
of the car would at least be a tonic to those who spotted all the
references in it.
Which is possibly
the best publicity Fiat could hope for in a promotion built around
saying: “Wink, wink, we’ve got a celebrity pariah in our
car”.
No, truly, the
story from New York, the singular revelation that makes me just the
tiniest bit sad to be away from motor journalism and swimming
through clear ocean the temperature of my bathwater, is the
worldwide debut of Terrafugia’s street-legal airplane.
Let me spell this
out for you: A. Flying. Car. In theory, I could give money to a
company for a flying car and then drive my flying car home. My.
Flying. Car.
Yes, it looks like
a plane with folded wings on the motorway. No, you would never be
able to park it in town. I don’t care about any possible calamity
mixing petrol with jet fuel. As far as I’m concerned, this thing
runs on the dreams of a seven-year-old boy.
It means Back To
The Future Pt II is that little bit closer to reality and that
makes my inner-child want to halt all this grown-up business of
matrimony and professionalism and just run round and round my desk
with my arms out shouting ‘vroom’.
Whatever the
impracticalities of such a machine, I guarantee, however, it’ll be
far more comfortable than 17 hours in the air in economy
class.
Mahalo, for now, Terrafugia.
