Recently, I wrote in another part of the paper about the difficulties of
trying to work while staying for the summer at your bolthole in the country.
There are too many distractions, the view is too consuming, the children too
needy and the constant longing for a beer too overwhelming.
Well, soon all the problems will be erased because a government think tank has
looked carefully at the question of second homes and has announced that the
rich bastards who have them should be forced to rent them out to
underachieving, fat people.
Hmmm. I wonder. Did it deliver its findings to Gordon Brown at No 10, or to
his second home in Buckinghamshire? And how does it think such a scheme
could possibly work?
Many people, for instance, claim they live in Monaco for tax reasons. Whereas
in fact, all they do is buy a small flat and employ an estate agent to pop
in every morning to make a few phone calls. The bills are then used as proof
that they were there.
Second-home owners would adopt similar tactics here. Or they’d say their
country cottage is their primary residence and that their apartment in
London is a pied-à-terre. Then, the local council would have to prove
otherwise by going through everyone’s knicker drawer and employing men with
binoculars and coffee breath to follow us about.
I fear the government think tank hasn’t considered any of this because it was
so consumed with bitterness, hatred and envy for people with money. It is
not alone.
Just the other day, I read a report that said musicals in London’s West End
are bucking the trend with higher than ever audiences. This, you might think
if you were a normal, well balanced soul, is a good thing. But sadly the red
top reporter was not. He was just bothered that bigger audiences meant
Andrew Lloyd Webber would have even more money. And that made him
incandescent with fury.
Why? It’s not like Andrew Lloyd Webber spends his evenings being carried
around council estates in Slough in a sedan chair, waving his jewels out of
the window. He just gets on with his life in a way that has no effect
whatsoever on the way you live yours or I live mine.
It’s like being kept awake at night with a burning sense of envy about Cliff
Richard’s youthful good looks. What should we do? Take a Black &
Decker sander to his cheekbones? Why? Because disfiguring Cliff’s face won’t
make any difference to your own.
I don’t yearn for many aspects of the American way but they do seem to have
this dreadful bitterness under control. When they see a man pass by in a
limousine, they say: “One day, I’ll have one of those.” When we see a man
pass by in a limo, we say: “One day, I’ll have him out of that.”
All this past week, I’ve been driving around in a Rolls-Royce coupé and it’s
been a genuinely alarming insight into the bitterness of Britain’s obese and
stupid underclass. Because when you drive this enormous monster past a bus
queue, you realise that hate is not an emotion. It’s something you can
touch, and see and smell.
Just yesterday, a man in a beaten-up van deliberately straddled two lanes to
make sure I could not get past. It would have made no difference at all to
his life if I’d done so, but there was no way in hell he was going to let a
Roller by. I find that shoulder-saggingly depressing.
I also find it wearisome that I must now go on to say what the car is like.
Because I know this article will appear on the website, where readers will
be invited to have their say. And some will wonder why, once again, I'm
reviewing a car that so few people can afford.
Well, yes, I could tell you all about Hyundai’s new supermini, which, let’s
say, 5% of the country could buy. But what’s the point because the other 95%
aren’t interested.
Perhaps 0.01% can afford a Rolls but a huge number of those that can’t are
still interested in knowing what it’s like. Because contrary to the
teachings of Britain’s think tanks, there’s no harm in dreaming . . .
The Rolls-Royce Phantom has been a success story. More than a thousand have
been sold already and, much to the surprise of everyone, a great many are
actually driven by their owners. The Maybach is for chauffeurs. It feels all
wrong in the front. But when you’re in the back of a Rolls, you spend most
of your time dreaming up reasons for firing the man in the peaked cap and
taking the wheel yourself.
It is an epic car, quite unlike anything else in the world. Because every
single atom of every single component is designed only to make your life as
quiet and as comfortable as possible. There is no sportiness in the mix
whatsoever.
I imagined that the coupé would continue to amble down the same road. But no.
BMW, which owns Rolls, says it’s aimed more at “the driver”. And because of
this, it is the first Rolls-Royce ever to be fitted with a sport button.
That’s like putting Prince Philip in training shoes. Pointless. Just leave
it alone. I did.
There are some other issues as well. You cannot see much out of the tiny rear
window, the backward-opening suicide doors are a nuisance in tight spaces,
and the interior is polished so vigorously that everything reflects
everything else. You spend half your time being startled by shadows. And
when the sun is low in the sky it bounces off the dash in a glare so vivid
it can detach your retinas.
Then there’s the sat nav, which comes from BMW. It’s hard to fathom, is devoid
of any useful information and powered by a program that’s part fiction, part
comedy. Oh and when you want to tighten the scale when approaching a
complicated junction the whole screen goes blank until you’re on the other
side, going the wrong way.
Worst of all, though, are the seats. They are too hard, there is no side
support at all and after one four-hour drive, I had backache. “Good,” you
might be thinking, if you are in a government think tank. “That means the
rich bastard won’t mind when we force him to rent his stupid car to a fat
woman in the north.”
Ah, but you see, in a Rolls all of these faults are lost in a sea of
unparalleled joy.
Providing you leave that sport button alone, it will sashay down a motorway in
such a way that there’s no need to worry about whether it is better to
arrive or to travel hopefully. It doesn’t feel like you’re doing either.
It’s like you’re in a big kapok ball.
Mind you, it is still pretty fast. Its performance figures are nearly as good
as those of a Maserati GT. And it would be faster still if the slushmatic
box didn’t take a full second to make sure each gearchange is as smooth as
possible.
It’s equally relaxing in town. While everyone else frets, the only thing you
need worry about in the Rolls is keeping your eyes open. Speed bumps? Bah.
Take them as fast as you like.
It must have half killed BMW to make a car this way because it, like every
other manufacturer in the world, always puts a bit of hardness into its
products. This means they are compromised everywhere just so they can take
Stowe Corner at Silverstone without falling over.
Because the Rolls cannot take Stowe Corner very well, it is sublime in the
real world. The big 6.75 litre V12 blows up its fuel in such a way you don’t
know its happening. It’s like being moved around by a muscle. The suspension
feels like six miles of silk and everything you touch inside the car feels
like it was made over a period of several years by a man from the 19th
century in a brown store coat. Let me put it this way. The trim alone weighs
more than an entire Triumph Herald.
Complaining, then, about poor rear visibility is like Arthur Negus complaining
that one of the doors on a Georgian tallboy is a bit sticky. It’s part of
the price you pay for something that feels, looks and is genuinely
beautiful.
So there we are. If you are the sort of chap who likes to drive his own Rolls,
there’s no point dragging around the six acres of empty shag-piled splendour
you get in a Phantom saloon. Yes, the coupé is £27,000 more expensive but it
is easier to park. And it does come with a Range Rover-style drop-down boot
lid you can sit on when having a picnic.
The only proper drawback is the loathing from other road users. But you know
what. That’s their problem, because style and comfort are not deadly sins.
Envy, on the other hand . . .
THE CLARKSOMETER
Rolls-Royce Phantom Coupé
ENGINE 6749cc, V12
POWER 453bhp @ 5350rpm
TORQUE 531 lb ft @ 3500rpm
TRANSMISSION Six-speed auto
FUEL 18mpg (combined cycle)
CO 2377g/km
ACCELERATION 0-60mph: 5.6sec
TOP SPEED 155mph
PRICE £296,500
ROAD TAX BAND G (£400 for 12 months)
