Or it could have been a Daewoo Pinky-Ponk, or a Fiat Molecule. I am not sure. I had a bag over my head.
The thing is, I am not much interested in cars. That is to say, I am not much interested in cars that a) I can afford, and/or b) that do not come from the classic era in car making (ie from the invention of the car until about the Ford Sierra, after which all cars started to look the same.) (Although thinking about it, the Ford Sierra looked fucking futuristic when it first came out, and I’m sure was cited as such by leading opinion-formers, eg John Craven).
So actually, I have nothing against getting a Kia Ninky-Nonk, or a Suzuki Pootle, or a Daihatsu Chihuahua © or whatever, as millions of people drive around in these every day and they are perfectly happy and I would not like to look down on them. Except I am a very very shallow person and I worry that people would point and laugh and think that I am less of a man.
“Are you all right in the back?” asks the LTLP, who is in the driving seat, next to the man from the garage.
I consider this. “It is surprisingly roomy,” I reply honestly.
“That is because of the upright driving position,” assures the salesman. “There is a lot more room than you think. Although the boot is a bit on the small side,” he admits. The car climbs the hill to the dual-carriageway like somebody has forgotten to untie the big elastic that holds it to the showroom.
When we are a few miles on we stop, and the LTLP and I swap places. I turn the key to re-start the engine. There is an alarming noise!!!
“Er, the engine is already running,” explains the salesman. “I didn’t turn it off,” confirms the LTLP.
I apologise. “It’s – erm – a very quiet engine,” I report.
I drive around for a bit. The salesman has lots of impressive facts. Basically it will do about a grillion miles per gallon, or, if you don’t have any petrol, will run on cress. The driving is not too bad when you are not on fast roads, but it is time to be getting back.
“Where’s the clock on this thing?” I ask.
“Aha!” replies the salesman. “There is a clock as standard on the de luxe LX model.”
I check my watch.
Later on, I confess to the LTLP that I am not sure that I am ready to buy a car like this. It is nothing really to do with any machismo or false male sense of dignity, image etc. It is just that I do not think that sort of car really suits the manner of driving that we do or the type of roads that we do it on.
The following day, I mention to one of the fit milf mothers that we have test-driven a Kia Ninky-Nonk, as we pull up together at the nursery in our standard issue nursery-attending black middle-class sporting estate cars.
A pool of wee forms underneath her as she collapses in gleeful mirth, pointing at me and laughing and covering her mouth with her hand.
Is that organic cress? This could be your way out, Jonny! (Btw as this is my first post i’d like to also say thank you for the entertainment. I look fwd to it every Weds!)
When I sent my husband and ex-friend Mike to buy me a car, all I asked for was a CD player and air conditioning. I assumed they’d sort out it worked. I got neither, and the bloody thing exploded its radiator at the top of the Queen Elizabeth bridge at the Dartford crossing.
Don’t accept a car that isn’t up to your requirements, Jonny. or am I too late?
Mm, nice car. Deceptively spacious.
The Ninky Nonk, eh? I have the Proton Plinky Plonk and wouldn’t swap it for the world. I tried driving Mr Grigg’s LandRover Libido this week but had to phone him when I couldn’t make the thing move, however hard I pressed down on the accelerator. Just before he answered I realised I had my foot on the brake.
Well, there’s one unanticipated perk to the Ninky-Nonk right there – can’t think of many other ways you could get a milf to smile, let alone indulge your perverse interest in what we shall in this family-friendly environment euphemistically refer to as “watersports”. Of course, if you took the bag off your head more often you’d get the pee, but sadly not the smile…
I share your disdain for these hateful modern car “designs”, Jonny. That lady was quite right to urinate in front of you like that.
While watching “The Omega Man” the other night, I couldn’t help but envy Heston’s choice of vehicles. He starts out riding around in a sweet all-white interior, cherry-red 1970 Ford XL convertible. When he crashes that one, he saunters over to a dealership and commandeers a baby blue 1970 Ford Mustang (also a convertible), and as he peels away you can see a gorgeous yellow Opel GT parked next to it. Later, you see that in his barricaded garage, he’s got a burly 1968 Cougar.
Now I ask you; if the world ended tomorrow, and the only wheels our species had to combat photosensitive albino mutants were Suzuki Poofies and Kia Piffles, would we deserve to survive?
No sir. We would not.
Hullo JHJ and welcome!!! Am I an ‘every Wednesday’? That is not by design. It is just the way it sometimes turns out.
Can I add to spazmo’s comment that I am sceptical that if I were the last man on Earth and being constantly chased around by mutant albino zombies, I wouldn’t get a fricking convertible. I would get one with a really solid roof, and central locking.
Plus on reflection I’d get those tyres that run for hundreds of miles whilst flat, and those xenon headlights that are really irritating to normal people, let alone light-sensitive mutations.
Good points, to be sure (though roofs tend to restrict targeting when firing your assault rifle upwards during albino ambushes).
And, if you must go modern, remember: sundown is a terrible time to realize you didn’t get a de luxe LX model that has the clock feature.
The car climbs the hill to the dual-carriageway like somebody has forgotten to untie the big elastic that holds it to the showroom.
That’s when a pool of wee formed underneath my seat, right then.
I’ve decided to use the Top Gear method entirely. My next car must a) cause someone like Jeremy Wotsit to gurn and make that cow-mating noise, b) be capable of playing football, ski-jumping, and out-running a tank, and c) come with the Stig in so I won’t have to actually drive (unless I feel like it of course in which case he can sit in back with his ‘learning Esperanto’ cd’s).
Ha ha.
I think I know what my next vehicle is going to be: a van. Never driven one before in 25 years and on Tuesday I took one down to that London from Crewe and came back on Wednesday. And round the Norf Circliar as well in heavy traffic! I got to have conversations with gesticulating women in my wing mirrors after they thought I’d cut them up on roundabouts and everything. It was a VW Bastard 3.0 TDi. Recommended, Johhny. You can hide from the marauding albino zombie mutations in the back under a blanket.
Z, I used to work at the Dartford Crossing. You are very brave, breaking down at the top of the QE2. We used to get barn door sized truckers who refused to drive over and had to get one of our staff to do it for them as they sit in the passenger seat whimpering and vomiting and refusing to look out of the window. I’ve also been up the top of one of the pylons, which is ossum, as they say somewhere else.
I am always nervous being driven by the LTLP over the QE2 Bridge. It is nothing to do with the height. But she keeps missing the hopper with her pound coin, and having to get out of the car whilst people sound their horns and fall about laughing whilst pointing at us.
Couldn’t you get a horse-drawn carriage? It’s more romantic and you can keep the horses in your backyard with the chickens.
And no-one will dare laugh at you, you can tell ’em you’re saving the world from pollution and so on.
I feel your pain, the woman in my life has just announced that she adores the Nissan Cube, quite possibly the worst car in history. Shoot me now please.
“one of the fit milf mothers”? Is that the direction this PSD is taking, since you’ve been seduced by Twitter?
Did you make those car names up?
Don’t touch anything that struggles up hill. But where the blazes do you find a hill in Norfolk.
The only thing that rings true in this story is some lady weeing with laughter.
Golly Pat, you have gone all formal on us!!! What does the D stand for?
Speaking of bright headlight, in Australia they have one with such a harsh glare they call it ‘mean mother’. Or so I’ve been told.
That was a mistake. I need to alter my autofill and I don’t know how to and sometimes I forget to do it manually.
Dixon – keep it under your hat.
Funny article. I currently drive one of the afforementioned cars, opting for an engine upgrade resulting in an increase in power to that of a reasonably priced food mixer.