When you stop and think about it, there’s no real point to this newspaper’s travel section. Or any of the few remaining high street travel agents. Or indeed the BBC’s Holiday programme — wait a minute, that’s already gone. Because when it comes to taking a vacation, we only really need France.

It has beaches on the Atlantic coast where you can surf, and more on the south coast where you can spend all day pretending not to look at breasts. It has mountains for skiing and hiking. It has the best cheese in the world, the best mustard in the world and the best wine in the world.

I could go on, so I will. It has the best weather in the world, the best scenery in the world and it’s even replete with funny-looking little locals who sit outside their houses in baggy clothes. But unlike poor people in, say, India or Brazil, they don’t pester you for money, or try to sell you paper napkins and hot dogs at the traffic lights.

You could go to Arizona to see the Grand Canyon but what’s the point? France has canyons too. You could go to Russia for the culture, but why? The popes never lived in Moscow. There are no Roman viaducts in St Petersburg. You are simply wasting jet fuel.

James May once said that France only exists so we can drive more easily to Italy but this, I’m afraid, proves the man is mad. Because France has everything anyone could ever want from a holiday destination and, of course, it’s right next door.

There is a similar answer to the question of food. Every night, someone comes on the television to explain how to make a lemon sauce for your halibut and how jalapeno peppers go very well with pineapple. But I’m afraid Gordon, Ainsley, Jamie, Marco, Raymond, Nigella, Delia and the countless others I’ve forgotten are wasting their breath because we all know that what we want is bacon and eggs.

You can have it for breakfast, lunch and supper. It works with ketchup just as well as it works with wine. You can make it in five minutes, even if you are eight. And it’s impossible to get the recipe wrong.

Indeed, I have decided there is a simple answer to every choice we face in the world today. Brand of television? Sony. Music? The Stones. Pin-up? Carla Bruni. Religion? Buddhism. Phone? IPhone. Newspaper? The Sunday Times.

And that brings us on to sport. Rugby is too complicated. Cricket is too dreary. Golf is for freemasons from the Order of St Onyx. The fact is that you can’t beat football. It’s easy to understand. It flows nicely. And there’s always a local team you can support. What more do you want?

Sadly, since I’m talking myself out of a job here, it turns out there is an answer to cars as well. Over the past 30 years or so, I have road-tested thousands of models, driven hundreds of thousands of miles and written millions of words on the subject. But all the while, the answer to absolutely everyone’s motoring problems has been right under my nose. The Range Rover.

This is the automotive equivalent of France, the Sony Bravia, The Sunday Times and Mick Jagger. It is the answer.

Let us imagine for a moment that you would like to have a Rolls-Royce Phantom because you want to bathe in that glorious art deco cabin full of timber and hide. Well, a Range Rover offers exactly the same sense of wellbeing for a quarter of the price.

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