Austen Allegro

Well, it’s been a while since my last post, but I didn’t really think I’d get as far as I have with writing this blog anyway.

I love writing, but I never seem to be able to keep it up. Believe it or not (why would you not? It would be the crappest lie ever), there are about 5 other blog pages floating around in cyberspace that I’ve both started and discarded, untouched and I daresay unread since I last looked at them.

I find that thinking about this leads me down an eerie path.

In December 1947 we began to discover fragments of parchment in a cave on the shoreline of the Dead Sea in Israel (‘we’ as in people, not ‘we’ as in me and you. At least, I don’t think I was there…… 1947 was a bit of a blur if I’m honest)

These pieces of manuscript were to make up what are now referred to as the Dead Sea Scrolls, the oldest accounts to date of Jewish biblical history in writing. They apparently date back to around 150BC, which, without wanting to labour the point, is fucking old.

Why mention this?

Well, because of our incessant need to modernise (‘our’ as in people’s, not ‘our’ as in mine and yours. I still think file’o’faxes are a good idea), in two thousand years from now – long after every computer and every server in existence has crashed or died – unless it has been successfully copied, the vast majority of digitally written information we currently hold will be lost…… forever!

No one is going to dig up a Kindle in 2,000 year’s time and be able to use it to discern anything about how we lived over two millennia ago.

The same goes for pictures. We’re going to lose them too.

Hardly anybody makes hard copy prints of pictures any more. Photo albums are already becoming a thing of the past. As we plough on and continue to digitise everything that we produce, in 2,000 years there could well be no pictorial or written evidence that a civilization from our great grandchildren onwards ever existed if we don’t successfully copy the information we produce.

While the thought of this is slightly unnerving, thankfully it does mean that in 4012 it’s likely that no one is going to stumble across my mainly pointless internet based musings, and use them to construct a model of 21st Century life. I wouldn’t be doing us justice.

So, safe in the knowledge that my cyber ramblings will not survive the test of time, I will continue to brain-spew every now and again as fancy takes me.

I’m beginning to regret being so specific with this blog. I can usually think of a ton of stuff to drivel on about, but to try and squeeze it into a framework that involves cars, something that I don’t actually care about that much, has really managed to stifle my creative juices.

Whilst I fell in love with the idea for this blog, the trouble is that while I do get to drive a load of motors, 90% of them are just average, run of the mill, boring cars. Who wants to hear about an old VW Passat? No? What about a Vauxhall Zafira? Hmm? How about a Ford S-Max? I’m boring myself here.

I’ll give you an example of how much of a poor choice cars are for me to write about:

My grandma had an Austen Allegro when I was growing up. I have such fond memories of that car. It was green with a rectangle steering wheel and I used to sit on the bonnet (when it was parked, I hasten to add……. Not as some kind of dreadful punishment). That is my review of the Austen Allegro in its entirety.

I recently briefly considered purchasing an Austen Allegro for purely nostalgic purposes, only to discover that The Sun ran a public poll in 2008 which voted the Austen Allegro as the worst car ever made. Ever Made! That’s how ill suited I am to writing about cars.

So what is to become of this blog?

Well I reckon I’ll keep writing, and report on fancy/interesting/unbelievably shit cars as and when I get to drive them, but I think that widening the spectrum of content will do wonders in my ongoing battle against writing apathy.

So from now on you can expect erratic whimsical opinion pieces on pretty much anything that falls out of my cranium. I will try and cram cars into as many posts as possible though. For example, I was thinking of writing a post about Jeremy Kyle, and what type of car I’d most like to run him over with.

I’ve had some really good feedback about this blog, so I hope this change of direction doesn’t dishearten you my dear reader.

I’ll leave you for now with the immortal words* of the great Jerry Springer:

“Until next time, take care of yourselves….. and each other”

*Not to be confused with his other phrase:

“Somebody get me some more Viagra. I can feel my heart slowing down and I’m not red enough”

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Jaguar X-Type (via IKEA)

I went to IKEA on Monday. I hate going to IKEA. It's not the store itself I detest (although there is only so much pleasure one can derive from flat-pack furniture made out of heavily laminated chipboard with novelty Scandinavian names, which I swear are just fabricated at Head Office by making up a word with too many hard consonants and shoving some dots on it).

It's the journey there and back that makes me want to punch the whole of humanity in the face.

When you live in Brighton and you have to - one surely never truly wants to - go to IKEA, you have 2 choices of destination:

1. Up the M23 until you hit Croyden (described as 'London's Garden', mainly by arse holes).
2. Up the M23 and round the M25 until you hit Thurrock (as well as nearly every other car on the road).

Both journeys invariably turn me into a seething ball of coiled rage.

It's said that society is three square meals away from anarchy. If this is true then it would appear that no one in Croyden has eaten in over a week. It’s a place where every car becomes 'The Enemy', road markings are to be ignored at any cost, and traffic lights are just things that happen to other people.

Then there's the parking when you get there.

Whenever I go shopping I find immense joy in parking right at the back of busy car parks, where I always have a choice of spaces. Nothing could be better described as 'smug' than my face as I walk the relatively short distance from my car to the supermarket, as other drivers who got there before me are still swarming round the entrance desperately trying to park as close as physically possible to the fruit'n'veg aisle.

However, because IKEA is constantly so bloody busy, there is always the inevitable game of 'Hunt the Space' to be played, regardless of where you are in the car park. It's fun for all the family.

"THERE'S ONE, THERE!"

"that’s the bit where you park your trolley Ebs"

"ok..... THERE'S ONE, THERE'S SOMEONE LEAVING"

"No, that other car's waiting to get in"

"oh..... THERE'S ONE"

"that’s the trolley park again Ebs".......

So that's Croyden in a nutshell.

Should we head for Thurrock then and take the M25 instead?

The M25. A place where the tail-gater is to be found in his natural habitat, majestically leaping from car to car in an apparent desperate attempt to mate with them.

I used to think that I was being really clever by saying "I hate people who say they hate people for having just one flaw in their character" (I know, I'm a complete prick), and while I still stand by that rather wanky piece of pseudo-philosophy, you've got to work pretty bloody hard to get into my good books if you are partial to tailgating or use your phone while driving.

I shouldn't have to explain why tailgating makes me angry. Bottom line, if you do it all the time there's a chance you're going to kill someone one day. I'd very much not like it to be me thank you very much. The same thing applies to using a phone while driving.

In fact, the sight of a driver guilty of either of these Offences (and they are Offences, with a capital 'O') makes me want to abandon my own journey, follow them home, and put dog shit through their letterbox (which while also being an Offence with a capital 'O', would be Satisfying with a capital 'S').

However, despite making the 126 mile round trip up to IKEA (we settled on Thurrock in the end, as I just wasn't up for crawling through 'London's Garden' in the Bank Holiday traffic), we didn't buy anything!!

The reason we went in the first place was to pick up a set of shelves for Ebony’s bedroom, but I knew that once we were there Mrs W would no doubt want to ‘get her shop on’. I was all ready to dutifully shuffle round the aisles with my customary fixed grin and my boredom fully suppressed.

However, to her credit we headed straight for the shelves and, with a small pit-stop to service a leaking baby, then ploughed through to the warehouse at the end to claim our novelty named laminated chipboard prize.

The moment we saw it in all its flat-packed glory we both knew it would never fit in our car. There may have been some swearing.

Back on the road empty handed then. More tailgating, more phones and for some reason, lots of personalised number plates. I don’t get the thinking behind personal plates. If you want me to know that you like to waste money, why not just throw a handful of tenners out of your window every few miles?

Well, that's me done for this rather ranty post, but I guess I’d better mention a car before I sign off seeing as that’s the whole reason why this blog exists in the first place. 


Let's see, I drove a Jaguar X-Type for the first time last Saturday. It was alright.

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Porsche 911 Carrera

What’s your dream car?

Because I know nothing about the intricacies of motoring, my own answer to that question has no choice but to creep into the realm of fantasy.

What’s my dream car? Well for a start it would look like an actual rocket. The seats would be made of that memory foam that no one can afford. The top speed would induce time travel and it would be more fuel efficient than the sun. Oh, and it would fly.

Well, last night I may not have driven my dream car (which, now I read that back to myself, is essentially the DeLorean from Back To The Future), but I did drive what many consider to be one of the ultimate luxury cars, the Porsche 911 Carrera.

I don’t get nervous about driving posh cars any more. Throw me an £80,000 Range Rover and I’d happily rag it around country lanes like it was a wooden go-cart. Give me a Jaguar XK and I’ll drive you home blindfolded*. But there’s something about a Porsche, something that says “please be careful with me”, which is why I was slightly shaking as I turned the key.

After the initial excitement of driving through central Brighton in a proper sports car, I settled down and started to pay attention to some of the finer details.

For a start, it was a lot heavier than I was expecting. The steering wasn’t exactly hard work, but it wasn’t feather-light either. This meant that while the car is beautiful and elegant to look at, it feels meaty and solid on the inside. It’s the car equivalent of a Beef Wellington.

The engine made all the proper grunty noises when I finally got to open up on the duel-carriage way, but it wasn’t as poky as I was preparing myself for it to be. I found myself sitting in a Porsche 911 Carrera actually being disappointed by its performance. I felt like such a tosser.

I did really enjoy the ride. It was mega comfortable and there’s a certain amount of ego inflation that can’t be avoided in a car like this. I didn’t just overtake cars, I overtook cars. That’s not to say that I was speeding (of course I wasn’t) but there’s something to be said about knowing that you are definitely driving the fastest car on the stretch of road you’re on. It’s quite a sensation.

The dashboard looked like KITT from Knight Rider and this made me very happy.

For a reminder of both that dashboard and David Hasselhoff’s abysmal acting, please watch this clip:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qb6dswG-nKw

So, in conclusion, I like the fact that I can say I’ve driven a Porsche 911 but I think that ultimately the full experience was wasted on me. I’m sure there are a million people out there who would happily sell their own grandmother for a car like this, but I’m just not one of them.

It’s just a car!

That said, I’ve driven a Porsche 911 Carerra. Ha!

*may not be 100% factually accurate.

 

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