A new type of disfigurement has come to Britain’s towns and villages. It’s
worse than illegal fly tipping, and worse than those Styrofoam takeaway
containers that carpet every provincial city centre at three in the morning.
It’s even worse than stone cladding. And it’s all the fault of your local
authority.
Many years ago I remember taking a mock advanced driving test, during which
the examiner asked, out of the blue, if I could describe the last road sign
I’d passed. It was easy then . . . but not any more, because now you go past
a road sign every 1.3 seconds.
I first noticed it last week, coming into London on the A3, and now it’s
driving me to distraction. Every lamppost, every telegraph pole and every
branch in every tree is festooned with instructions about what the motorist
may or may not do at that particular moment.
You’re on a red route so you have a sign, then another, and then another
explaining exactly what that means. But you know what it means, and you know
you’re on a red route because there, at the side of the road, painted
clearly on the orange of the bus lane, or the green of the cycle path, are
two red lines.
If there’s a bus lane, then there will be signs telling you what that means
too. And then things really start to get stupid. You’re told that the
central London congestion charging zone is five miles away. Why? Lots of
things are five miles away. You’re also told that there’s a speed camera
ahead, that there are bus-lane cameras, that you’re near a library, that
there’s no left turn into Acacia Grove . . . and what’s this? Oh, that you
’re entering a “drinking controlled zone”.
It’s got to the point now where there are so many signs that they blur into a
background hiss of white noise. It’s a bit like the warnings you get before
a film on television. In the olden days, when the announcer said in a solemn
BBCish tone that the film about to start contained violence, you knew you
were in for a 90-minute bloodbath with many severed heads. And so you sat a
little more upright in your Parker Knoll Recliner.
But now, when they say the film contains mild violence and strong nipples, you
just go into a trance. Yeah, yeah, yeah. And then you’re surprised and
horrified when the movie starts with a shot of Al Pacino having his arms
sawn off.
This is what’s happening on the roads. They can put up a sign saying there are
speed bumps ahead, and even if it isn’t blocked by another sign saying the
road to the left has children running around on it, it really doesn’t
register. So you hit the sleeping policeman doing about 80mph. And your back
snaps.
The reason, of course, for all the signs is . . . lawyers. After your back has
been broken the council can send its legal team round to the quadriplegic
department of the local hospital to explain to your relatives that,
unfortunately, no claim for damages can be made because there was a sign
warning motorists that there were humps ahead.
That’s why you get those idiotic messages on the motorway matrix boards these
days; if they tell you it’s windy, you can’t sue anyone for being blown into
a bridge parapet. And you won’t be able to argue, of course, partly because
they’re right and partly because you’ll have lots of tubes coming out of
your nose.
The upshot is that every single street is now a Technicolor blaze of legal
disclaimers and nonsense. Not only is this ugly, but it’s dangerous too,
because not that long ago, when you ran off the road, the chances of hitting
a sign were slim. Now, though, you're almost certain to hit something
thanking you for driving carefully through the village.
Sadly, I can only imagine that things will get worse, because soon the sign
advising you that you’re entering a nuclear-free zone will have to be
translated into 14 languages, and there will have to be some sort of
mushroom-cloud pictogram as well, for the educationally challenged.
Then, of course, there will be signs telling you not to smoke within 250 yards
of any inhabitable structure, and more signs explaining that the town centre
you’re entering is off limits to off-road vehicles.
I can smell this one coming. There is such a palpable sense of hate and bile
among ordinary road users that if big 4x4s were to be banned from built-up
areas the roads would doubtless immediately unjam themselves. I agree with
you all. I too think these school-run mums in automotive leviathans should
be horsewhipped to within an inch of their lives. And I’m speaking as
someone who actually owns one.
But the trouble is that 4x4s are like nuclear weapons. Because you’ve got one,
I can’t put my kids in a normal hatchback, because if we were to crash into
one another yours would survive and mine wouldn’t. So I have to have one
too.
The only solution is for the bosses of GM and Ford and Toyota to meet in
Reykjavik and come up with a Salt treaty of their own.
But then what will we do? We’ve become accustomed to the rough and tumble
interiors and the vast acreage of space. So how could we go back to a simple
Golf after that? Happily, there’s no need, because while you weren’t looking
the car makers introduced a new breed of car that is no bigger than a normal
saloon, so it won’t clog up the roads like the fat in David Bowie’s artery,
and yet inside there are seven proper seats with seven proper seatbelts.
Vauxhall was first out of the trap with its Zafira — which I’ve written about
many times before. It’s rather good, and now it has been joined by the
Renault Grand Scénic — which is ugly and made from tracing paper — by the
Volkswagen Touran — which is like the Black Hole of Calcutta — and by the
Toyota Corolla Verso, which is excellent.
I know, I know. You can’t conceive of the insanity that would have to blow
through your head before you’d consider changing your Range Rover for a
Toyota Corolla, but bear with me here.
According to the boffins at Euro NCAP, the independent body that tests cars
for safety, the Corolla has a top-notch five-star rating, whereas the Range
Rover has to make do with just four. Yes, in a head-on accident between the
two, you’d be better off in the off-roader, but if you run into an enormous
warning sign, amazingly, you’d be better off in the little Toyota. What’s
more, if you go for the Corolla, it means your sex life can be more
carefree.
You see, with those seats that pop up out of the boot floor, you don’t need to
worry about condoms, or interuterine devices, or going into reverse at the
last moment. Thrash away. If the resultant baby paste hits the bull’s eye
and you end up with another child, at least you won’t have to buy a new car.
The best thing about the Corolla Verso, though, is the quality. There’s a
robustness which you simply don’t find in any of its rivals. This car looks
like it was designed by someone who actually knows how destructive children
can be.
Kids never understand that their feet are going to be further away than they
were the week before. So they break stuff. Mine smashed a Renault Scénic to
pieces the other day in about 15 minutes.
I have to say at this point that the Corolla is not that pleasant to drive,
with roly-poly handling and a cement mixer of an engine, but come on; with
the possible exception of the Porsche Cayenne, your average off-roader isn’t
exactly a Ferrari, is it? Finally there’s the question of money. A
top-of-the-range 1.8 litre Verso is £18,795, a little more than its main
rivals, but three times less than you’re asked to pay for a less practical,
less safe and more antisocial Range Rover.
I’d like to think, then, that this review is a signpost to a better and less
congested future. But unlike the council signposts it doesn’t mess with the
view, and if you don’t agree with what it says you can at least use it to
light the barbecue.
VITAL STATISTICS
Model Toyota Corolla Verso T2
Engine type Four-cylinder, 1794cc
Power 127bhp @ 6000rpm
Torque 126 lb ft @ 4200rpm
Transmission Five-speed manual, front-wheel drive
Acceleration 0-62mph: 10.8sec
Top speed 121mph
Fuel 36.7mpg (combined)
CO2 184g/km
Suspension (front) MacPherson strut with anti-roll
bar
(rear) torsion beam with anti-roll bar
Price £14,995
Verdict Not much fun to drive, but safe for and from your
children
Rating
