Oh gosh, is it Sunday? What, already? Er, crikey. Bit embarrassing actually
because I haven’t actually driven anything this week. Well, nothing you’d
want to read about.
I had a brief go in the new Toyota Land Cruiser but I could never fill a whole
column with that. I couldn’t even fill a sentence. It just needs one word:
“Mumsy.”
Then there was the new Renault Mégane, which has just been voted European car
of the year. This is the most prestigious award in all of motoring. Were the
fifty or so judges plied with so much free champagne that they became
incapable of making a rational decision? Their choices over the years have
been either bewildering, obtuse or bonkers. There was the Renault 9, for
instance, and the Rover SD1, which was notable only for going like cricket —
it stopped every time it looked like rain. And exactly how much
Châteauneuf-du-Pape had they consumed when they voted in the Talbot Horizon
or the Talbot Alpine or the Citroën XM? With the Mégane, though, they have
surpassed themselves. Making this the car of the year rather than, say, the
Mazda 6, is like saying no to Saving Private Ryan and awarding the Oscar to
Police Academy 7. Actually, that’s quite a good metaphor. The Mazda is like
Saving Private Ryan: important and a major departure for its creator. And
the Renault Mégane is like Police Academy 7: colourful and a bit daft.
Deciding whether you want one depends entirely on whether you like its
enormous rear end. If you do, go ahead. If you don’t, buy a Ford Focus or a
VW Golf, or anything really, except last year’s car of the year, the Peugeot
307. And there we are, you see. Already I’m out of things to say.
So let’s move on, shall we, to a car that I have not driven this week or
indeed ever: the Bristol Blenheim 3G.
I tried to drive it. I asked the man who brought it over if I could have the
keys but he was most insistent: “You can only look at it.” Well, I could
have done that using an internet. “I don’t care. That’s what my boss says.”
Ah, his boss: the legendary Tony Crook.
He was the man who rescued Bristol’s car division when the government merged
the aeroplane business into the British Aircraft Corporation. And he was the
man who throughout the 1950s used to tour the motor show stands of his
competitors — Fraser Nash and Rolls-Royce — dressed as an Arab.
“Oh, it was great fun. I used to order five or six Rolls-Royces at a time and
once I tried to buy all the cars from the Fraser Nash stand.
I insisted they sold all of them to me that day. And I had a suitcase full of
money to prove I meant business. It wasn’t really money. It was a few fivers
with lots of lavatory paper underneath but it had them fooled.”
Of course, Rolls was used to him because in the 1940s he used to pay tramps to
sit on its stand at the London motor show. Why? “Well, just to annoy them
really.”
He’s a wonderful, wonderful man and I love him dearly but he’s from a bygone
age, really, and that’s fitting because so are his cars. I drove one only
once, back in the early 1990s, and can remember to this day Crook’s face
when I pointed to the window winders and said: “It doesn’t have electric
windows.”
“My dear chap,” he said, looking like I’d just stuck a needle in his eye, “why
should it? People have arms.”
He hasn’t changed. I quizzed him last week about his new car — the Fighter —
which is due to be launched next year, asking if it has a monocoque
construction or perhaps something even more modern. “Why should it?” he
asked again. “Our engineers had a look at that but there didn’t seem any
point so it still has a separate chassis. Jolly good it is, too.”
That’s the response you get to pretty well any technical question. When I
asked about the differences between the Blenheim S and the normal car, he
said: “Oh, the S is a sporty job, different camshaft and tighter. That sort
of thing.” And the Blenheim 3G? “Yes, that runs on gas.”
Does it work? Well, I don’t know because Crook’s enormous minder had the keys
in his pocket and wouldn’t hand them over. But he did let me climb inside
and I could not believe the scene that awaited me.
This car looked like it had been made by me. And I simply cannot think of a
worse thing to say. It was awful. Beyond awful. The handle, for instance,
which you pull to open the glove box was not a handle at all. It appeared to
be a 3in length of flex from a 1940s telephone receiver which had been
crudely screwed to the wood by someone with the carpentry skills of Alfred,
Lord Tennyson. The screws weren’t level. They weren’t the same. And their
heads were exposed, burred and scarred. Like they would be if they’d been
put there by a poet.
So you see, I’ve found more to say about the handle on the Bristol’s glove box
than I found to say about the whole Toyota Land Cruiser. And I haven’t even
got to the switches yet.
The switches were astonishing. Not only did they appear to have been lifted
from my grandfather’s mahogany gramophone, which was the size of a sofa, but
it seems they’d been positioned on the dashboard in a team-building game of
pin the tail on the donkey.
Either that or someone fires them at the dash using a catapult and then nails
them down wherever they land. “Where’s the switch for the lights?” I asked
the minder. “Dunno mate, could be anywhere.” Absolutely. I couldn’t find it
but then I didn’t look in the passenger footwell or behind the sun visor.
I also didn’t find the switch for the heated rear window, but having examined
the glass I’m not sure it has one. This wouldn’t be entirely surprising. It
also doesn’t have an airbag, satellite navigation, heated seats or indeed
anything. On its official website, the company talks only about the
excellent optical quality of the glass. Well, it’s certainly unencumbered
with heating elements.
So you’re not buying a Bristol for the number of gizmos or the way those that
you do get are attached to the car. I carefully examined the front air
splitter, for instance, and deduced that it must have been put there by a
horse.
No, really. As Sherlock Holmes himself advised: “When you have eliminated the
impossible” — and it is impossible to imagine a human making such a hash of
it — “then what remains, no matter how implausible, must be the truth.” So
it was a horse.
And then there’s the engine. It’s a 5.9 litre V8 that is still made in a small
corner of Chrysler’s Detroit engine plant especially for lil’ ol’ Bristol.
It’s not green, powerful, economical, modern or quiet but it will last for a
long time.
And the same goes for the chassis, which first saw the light of day in
Ben-Hur’s chariot. I should also draw your attention to the styling which
appears to have been done by . . . well, me again actually, and the £145,000
price tag which is, let’s say, hopeful.
Customers include Richard Branson, Liam Gallagher and Jeremy King, former
owner of the Ivy, the upmarket London restaurant. They sell 150 a year and
it’s hard to see why.
What’s the appeal? What am I missing? Why would anyone buy a Bristol and not a
Bentley Arnage T or an Aston Martin Vanquish or a Range Rover or a Mini or a
Kia Sedona or a Toyota Prius even? Well, going back to my film analogy,
Bristol is Marlon Brando. Way past its sell-by date, fat and possibly a bit
wet in the panty department. But for no memorable reason, still a huge name,
still a bankable star and still, as a result, icy cool.
There’s only one reason why you would ever buy a Bristol: so that when anyone
asks what you drive, you can tell them.
Vital statistics
Model Bristol Blenheim 3G
Engine V8
Capacity 5900cc
Power No figures quoted but estimated to be around 350bhp
Torque 390-410 lb ft @ 3000rpm (estimated)
Transmission Four-speed automatic
Suspension (front) double wishbones, coil springs, anti-roll
bar, electronically controlled dampers (rear) double wishbones, coil
springs, anti-roll bar, electronically controlled dampers
Tyres 215/70 R15
Fuel 24.0mpg (combined)
CO2 to be announced
Acceleration 0 to 60mph: 6.3sec
Top speed 150mph
Insurance Group 20 (estimated)
Dimensions 1765mm width; 4256mm length; 1441mm height
Price £144,819
Verdict Even though it is badly built, badly designed and
badly equipped, the Bristol still manages to be hideously expensive. You'd
be far better off with a Bentley Arnage T. Or just about anything else,
really
