Every week the television survival expert Ray Mears goes off to some far-flung
corner of the planet to live on a diet of beetles and sludge. And every week
he wraps up the show by explaining that we in the West have much to learn
from the indigenous tribes he has met.
Really? What exactly do I have to learn from a man whose wardrobe extends to
three pairs of snakeskin underpants? Except that we can't really call them
underpants since he doesn't wear them under anything.
For sure, Ng could show me how to make a twig into a spear, but think of what
I could show him. A mobile phone, for starters. I think if you'd been
brought up in the jungle you'd be pretty damn impressed with an Ericsson T28.
And what about a Teasmade or cufflinks or central heating or an M16 assault
rifle? I'm sorry, Ray, but the world's remote tribes have a damn sight more
to learn from us than we have from them.
This is not a fashionable view. It is an unwritten law for all journalists
and broadcasters that the people of the Third World are somehow better and
cleverer than us. We're always being told how the Kalahari Bushmen can build
a house from leaves and bark. Great. But that's only because they haven't
heard of a cement mixer.
And sure, those Sudanese women are jolly clever, balancing water pitchers on
their heads. I could never do that. But then I don't have to because here in
the West we invented plumbing.
I once fell into this trap. Years ago I summed up a programme I'd made about
Vietnam by saying that pretty soon it would all be ruined and clogged by the
western car firms who'd arrive with their 4x4s and their sports coupes. This
is true. It would be ruined . . . but only for me. I liked the mopeds and
the bicycles. It was sweet.
There are certain countries at which you are allowed to poke fun. Germany
heads the list with America and Belgium in hot pursuit. But Israel is right
out and so is anywhere in Africa, anywhere in the former eastern bloc and so
is China.
And that's a problem because this week's car is the Skoda Superb which hits
two of the four no-go areas. It is built in the Czech Republic using a
chassis that was designed for China.
Can I "do" China? Oh, what the hell. I went there once, back in
1986, and it was without any shadow of doubt the worst place in the whole
world. Think of Greece without the cooking and you're on the right track.
Some of it was my fault. This was my first ever long-haul flight so I decided
to stay up the night before and get hog-whimperingly drunk. Then I'd sleep
on the plane, right?
Wrong. You can't sleep on a Chinese plane, for two reasons. First, all the
other passengers do that throat clearing noise, constantly, and second, the
airline plays a non-stop 14-hour semi-animated kung fu film through
loudspeakers in the cabin. Headphones are not provided.
So I arrived in Beijing with a catastrophic hangover and no sleep to find it
was 100 degrees and raining. And that rather than going to the hotel, we
were being taken by the authorities straight from the airport on an
un-air-conditioned minibus for a tour of the Forbidden City.
This is the world's least interesting tourist attraction. Essentially you
walk through a sort of Chinesey doorway to find yourself in a courtyard with
a Chinesey door in each of the four walls. It doesn't matter which you go
through because you'll find yourself in another courtyard exactly the same
as the one you've just left. So you walk though the next Chinesey door and
guess what, you're in another bloody courtyard facing another bloody
selection of Chinesey doorways. And this goes on for miles and miles and
miles.
Inevitably I got lost and didn't find the start point until an hour after the
minibus had left.
So there I was, first time out of Europe with no money, no Chinese, no idea
where I was staying and the worst hangover in the history of man. And all
the locals did was point and giggle and say "Gwaillow", which I
think means monster-faced barbarian half-devil. "Yes, but at least I'm
not wearing pop socks, short arse."
I have also been to Prague and I didn't like that much either. Oh, the
central bit was jolly lovely, but that's like judging London on Leicester
Square. The rest was scary and dark and full of people who I imagined were
trying to stab me in the back of the legs with their poisoned umbrellas.
So a Czech car with a Chinese chassis does not fill me with much hope. And
that's before we get to the badge.
Skoda is to the motoring press what the Kalahari Bushman is to travel
writers. Something to be pitied and respected in equal measure.
We're forever being told that before the Russians rolled into town Skoda was
the best car maker in the world, an engineering powerhouse, patent holder to
everything from the wheel to the windscreen wiper. And that now it is once
again riding the crest of a wave.
No, it's not. Skodas are just Volkswagens made by people who are prepared to
slave 27 hours a day and pay the mill owner for permission to come to work.
Think about it. Volkswagen makes an elongated version of the Passat for the
Chinese market because over there a Passat is like Shergar made out of
myrrh, and then thinks, "Ooh, we've gone to all the bother of making
this stretched chassis, let's give it to the Czechs."
The result is the most hopeful piece of badge engineering yet seen: the Skoda
Superb.
We're told it's a rival for the Peugeot 607, which means it's not aiming that
high. And it's a good job because if it had been gunning for the real stars
in this firmament — the Audi A4 and the Mazda 6 — it would have missed by a
mile.
First, the Superb is not what you'd call a good-looking car and nor is it
that good to drive. I tried the 1.8T Classic, which floats alarmingly at
speed and has weird gearing. In third you can get it to a hundred.
We're told that the Superb is well made, for a Skoda. But that's like being
fun, for a vicar. Without tearing it to pieces, I'd say it was as well made
as a Fiat but that the quality of the materials was a notch or two down on
VW and Audi.
The best bit of the Superb is how much space you get for the money. My 1.8T
Classic costs £15,800 — that's £500 less than a Passat with the same engine.
But the Skoda is much, much more commodious in the rear.
Which is great if you . . . er, I'm a bit stuck. I suppose it might be great
if you want a minicab — your passengers will be able to slouch much more
comfortably. But if you do want a cab, in which case you're only interested
in space and value, let's not forget that you can have a similarly large
Citro'n C5 at the moment for £12,500.
If there is some special reason why you need club class legroom in the back
of your car, and you really want a Skoda, then the Superb is fine. Of course
it is. When all is said and done it's just a Volkswagen.
But no matter how many times we're told differently, Skoda is still the
crappiest badge that money can buy. Telling people you have one marks you
out as someone with no style at all.
As the old Chinese saying goes: "You can only wear the waistband of your
pants above the top of your trousers if they are Calvins."
Not that David Attenborough would ever do such a thing. But then David
Attenborough doesn't drive a Skoda either. I don't know that for a fact and
yet, somehow, I just do.
Vital statistics
Model Skoda Superb 1.8T Classic
Engine Four cylinder, turbocharged
Capacity 1781cc
Power 150bhp @5700rpm
Torque 155 lb ft @ 1750rpm
Transmission Five speed manual
Suspension (front) multi-link with four transverse control
arms and torsion stabilisers, (rear) compound-link crank axle with torsion
link stabilisers
Tyres 205/55 R1
Fuel 34.0mpg (combined)
CO2 202 g/km
CO car tax £1,437 for a higher-rate taxpayer
Acceleration 0-62mph: 9.5sec
Top speed 134mph
Insurance Group 11
Price £15,800
Verdict Built about as well as a Fiat with materials that
aren't up to Volkswagon's best, the Superb is the style-free choice for
those with little imagination
