As I write, the Grand National has just been run in a bath of warm sunshine,
Chelsea have beaten Blackburn in temperatures better suited to cooking meat,
and the newspapers are filled with gloating pictures of people being all wet
and soggy in the Costas.
Britain, we’re told, is hotter than Athens. Which isn’t so much a piece of
news as a yah boo sucks to the poor bastards who’ve shelled out for an
Easter holiday in the Med.
I think this is a rather mean trait, especially since I recently spent two
weeks in Barbados under a dome of grey skies and light drizzle. “We’ve never
known anything like it,” said the locals, as though that might make us feel
better. The Daily Telegraph certainly didn’t, with endless shots of pretty
young girls frolicking in the daffodils back home. The captions didn’t say,
“Hey w****** in the Caribbean. How do you feel now?”. But that was the
inference.
We all want a holiday once in a while — I can’t see what’s wrong with that:
it’s not paedophilia — and all we want from our holiday is a bit of
sunshine. It’s not much to ask; a bit of skin cancer to go with your
chablis. So why should those at home be encouraged to laugh if it’s grey and
miserable?
Oh, I’m long past the age when I care two hoots about a tan. In the past I’d
stake myself out on a day bed and lie there blinking the sweat out of my
eyes and rubbing Mazola into my secret gentleman’s areas. This would make me
look rich when I got home. But by the age of 37 I’d realised that most of my
hard-earned brownness would be left in a series of unpleasant flakes on the
homeward-bound aeroplane seat.
So I’d arrive back at Heathrow with one completely see-through layer of skin
straining to stop my internal organs sploshing all over the luggage
carousel. And I’d be in screaming agony because I always always always
forgot to put sun cream on the top of my feet. So they looked like
championship salamis.
And it got worse when my hair started to recede, because then my afro was no
longer able to protect the top of my head. The result was that every morning
my pillow was covered in what can only be described as a Guardian reader’s
lunch.
That’s why I gave up sunbathing and decided to spend my time under a hat, a
tree and a roof. It shouldn’t really matter, therefore, that I had lousy
weather in the Caribbean this year. And yet it did. Sunshine, whether I’m in
it or indoors looking at it, lifts my world and my spirits. I think more
clearly, I write more coherently. I feel better.
A while back some American doctor, who wanted some money, came up with the
concept of seasonal affective disorder, or Sad. You may think it’s idiotic,
suggesting that people get depressed if they don’t see the sun for long
periods. You may argue it’s just an excuse for Scottish miserabilism.
But genetically I think I may be 98% bear, with a sprinkling of hedgehog. All
I know is that a bougainvillea bush on a grey day is just another plant. In
the sunshine it can take my breath away. A well lit bougainvillea can even
make Greece look civilised. Similarly, a ski resort in the cloud is one of
the ugliest places on earth. And yet in the sunshine it can be one of the
most beautiful.
My office window here at my holiday cottage overlooks the sea, which for most
of the year is a big wobbly grey thing from which I pull lobsters. On a
sunny day, however, like today, it’s a shimmering, glinting, dazzling,
inviting navy blue mass of possibilities. It makes me want to run about in
the fields singing.
Happily, due to circumstances beyond our control, Britain is becoming warmer
and more sunny, but even now you can never bank on it. Just because you go
to bed on a Friday under the dying ambers of a vivid scarlet sun doesn’t
mean it’ll be there again in the morning. Red sky at night...who knows?
That’s why I’ve always argued you should only plan a barbecue when it's
raining. This dramatically increases your chances of it being sunny when the
charcoal reaches its correct operating temperature.
And on the road, what you need is a convertible car. Yes, I know a convertible
is always going to be heavier than the saloon or hatchback on which it’s
based because it needs underfloor beams to replace strength lost when the
roof was removed. And yes, I know that because of the weight, and the loss
of structural rigidity, a convertible will never handle or accelerate quite
as well as a normal car. But who cares when the sunlight is flashing its
radioactive Morse code through the overhanging trees, and the morning dew is
picked out in the overnight cobwebs and you have an excuse for putting on
your Aviators and listening to some Don Henley.
This brings me on to the Ford
Focus CC, which like most of the mid-range convertibles these days has a
metal roof that folds electrically into the boot. On paper this sounds good.
It means that when you’re driving with the roof up it’s as quiet and as
refined as a normal saloon. And when it’s parked the roof cannot be slashed
by vandals.
There are, however, some drawbacks. In order to fit into the boot a roof that
is big enough to shield four adults the rear end must be as big as an
aircraft carrier. You only need look at Peugeot’s effort to see the ugliness
that can result.
What’s more, you are bound to end up with very little space for rear
passengers, and when the roof is down almost no boot space at all.
At first it looks like the Ford suffers from all these problems and more. The
extra weight, thanks to all the ironmongery, means the 1.6 litre version
will barely move. Unless you want a diesel, you really have to go for the 2
litre, and even this struggles. And despite the best efforts of Ford’s
chassis engineers, who are some of the best in the business at the moment,
it’s not what you’d call a sprightly point-and-squirt car. It feels like
you’re driving around in Al Gore.
So yes, you get the vandal-proof roof but the price you pay is limited rear
space, a small boot, a dramatic loss of performance and some suet in the
handling mix.
And yet, after a few days I began to like this car very much. Yes, it has the
bulbous rear end, but actually when you stop and look at it, as a whole, you
have to admit it’s a very elegant car. I don’t know why but it puts me in
mind of a Riva speedboat parked in Portofino with an Agnelli at the wheel.
It has a Sixties playboy look somehow.
And while it may not be the best handling car in the world, it rides
beautifully, soaking up the worst bumps and potholes without a murmur of
complaint. In short, it’s tremendously comfortable.
Of course, at this point you may be saying that you don’t care, because it’s
still only a Ford Focus. True enough, but it’s built in Italy by the people
who styled it — Pininfarina — and it’s available with a range of colours
both inside and out that are bound to appeal.
Will it go wrong? Well, I’ve had one of the old Focuses for six years and it’s
still as tight and reliable as the day I bought it. So no, I don’t think so.
It isn’t what I was expecting, the Focus CC. I thought it’d be an updated
version of the old Escort cabrio, a molten banana with an Essex girl at the
wheel. But it isn’t. It’s a refined, elegant, comfortable and remarkably
well priced tool that’s ideal for those of us who are 98% motorist and 2%
hedgehog.
Vital statistics
Model Ford Focus CC-3
Engine 1999cc, four cylinders
Power 143bhp @ 6000rpm
Torque 136 lb ft @ 4500rpm
Transmission Five-speed manual
Fuel 37.7mpg (combined)
CO2 179g/km
Acceleration 0-62mph: 10.3sec
Top speed 130mph Price £18,795
Rating 4/5
Verdict More Pininfarina than Ford
