It all started with DJ Tim Westwood, the source and inspiration for the
monster that is Ali G. It was all a bit of a joke: nice white boys dressing,
acting and even talking like they were black; now everyone’s at it.
Two City types meet in a pub, both young, blond, Pink shirts and subtle suits.
Everything about them is very white except the way they shake hands. Both go
for the West Indian technique of balled fists and knuckles touching.
Next day, and a kitchen in west London: pine floors, Poggenpohl kitchen
appliances, Mark Williamson handiwork. The Persil-white 15-year-old son is
coming home from a night out with friends. “Man, it’s kicking out there
tonight. It’s a war zone,” he says.
And then we have the so-called Lotto Lout, the young man with a criminal
record who won £9.7m on the lottery. He’s a white boy but he turned up at
court the other day dressed like Snoop Dogg — baggy trousers, chains as big
as a Brunel backdrop and with more gold than the souk in Dubai.
Now look at my daughter, for whom the world is divided into two parts: cool
and not cool. There she is, nine years old, at a private school in Oxford,
modelling her life on the beach vendors in Barbados. Dr Cool, the man with
the aloe (and the cocaine) — he’s all right. Prince Charles, he’s groovy for
sure, but cool? Like . . . no way!
And your kids. Ever wondered why their trousers have to be worn so low
on the hips that you can see their pubic hair? The trend started in the
jails of America, where the po-lice would take your belt to stop you hangin’
yo’self. Low-slung trousers mean you’ve been inside. And being inside is,
well, cool.
Then there’s you. You didn’t buy Tatler when it had Naomi Campbell on the
cover, but you eat Dorset Super High Fibre cereal because Jamaican guys say
it’s better than Viagra. You used to think plasma televisions were vulgar,
but now that they’re “bling” you want one. You hate rap, but love Eminem.
You don’t want more immigrants but if someone offered you a
diamond-encrusted Mac-10 you’d buy it like a shot.
Recent surveys suggest that in the absence of any white subculture such as
punk, people are turning to black culture instead. Apparently we’re even
starting to speak Blinglish, peppering our everyday conversations with words
like “buff” and “standard”. This hasn’t yet happened in Chipping Norton, and
that bitch ho at the post office has not inquired after me mampi and me
hench, but I’m sure she soon will.
If we’re all going to be niggaz, we’re going to need some appropriate wheels.
In the past that would have taken us straight to the door of BMW, an acronym
for Black Man’s Wheels. But that was then, and in the old days car firms
didn’t like the association with black culture. Now they love it. In America
black rappers have taken to driving round in Cadillacs and this has totally
transformed the brand. Not that long ago, Caddies were bought only by little
old ladies in Florida retirement communities, and now they’re the hottest
ticket in town.
Bentley, too, is reaping the rewards after Wyclef Jean bought a Continental
GT, but the biggest winner, the ultimate rap-mobile, is the Lexus. The
demolition job done on the brand by Steve Coogan, who gave Alan Partridge an
IS200 in his most recent television series, has been overturned by the black
man’s love affair with this Japanese upstart. Sales are through the roof.
Check out song lyrics to see what I mean. Sarah Jones, in Your Revolution,
talks about “The Versaces you buy or the Lexus you buy”, while R Kelly says,
“The way you do things you do reminds me of my Lexus, cool”, and 2 Pac &
Outlaws wrote, “She’s snorting dope in the back seat of Trigg’s Lexus”. Then
you have Allied Meta-Forces with the unforgettable, “Get blast for ya
necklace, leave ya brains on the dash of ya Lexus”.
So I borrowed one of the new RX300s and went for a drive with Nas’s Watch
Dem Niggas on the stereo — “Crime infected. Drivin’ a Lexus, with a
death wish”.
This new quasi off-road car will afford you more respect from the brothers,
and your children, than a Porsche Cayenne V6 or a BMW X5 3 litre. But is it
any good?
From the outside it doesn’t have the traditional Tonka Toy chunkiness you’d
expect of off-roaders, and on the inside, apart from a mildly raised driving
position, it feels like a Lexus saloon — there’s wood and leather along with
the most beautifully organised dashboard I’ve ever seen.
Then there’s the quality. Toyota actually employs a man whose sole job is to
ensure switches have a robust but smooth feel, and a satisfying click when
you push them. It shows. And the stereo is magnificent, while the ride
comfort is extraordinarily good.
Like the Range Rover, the Lexus is of monocoque construction which — in top
models at least — is supported by adjustable air suspension. But unlike the
Range Rover, or any other off-roader I’ve driven, it doesn’t fidget or
bounce. It would certainly make a stable gun platform in any drive-by
shooting. The old RX had an awful ride, but this one gives no impression at
all that you’re in something that’s designed for the big outdoors.
Perhaps because it wasn’t. There are no buttons to push if you get stuck in
mud, no transfer box or locking differentials, no gubbins to keep you moving
when nature would rather you didn’t. But what you do get is a camera in the
rear tailgate to help you park.
And it’s very clever: you pull up in front of a parking space then press “I
agree” on the dash-mounted TV. A box comes onto the screen showing you how
much you need to turn the wheel in order to park. Follow the instructions
and you’ll slot into the space perfectly.
This, then, is an off-roader designed for the urban jungle. Maybe that’s why
the boot is too small for shotguns and hunting rifles, but the glove box is
large enough to hold an Uzi.
So far as peeps are concerned, you get five beautifully trimmed leather seats
and that’s it. They don’t swivel or turn into sherry trifles, and nothing
pops out of the boot floor.
Which brings us, in sepulchral silence, to the RX’s biggest problem: I don’t
know what it’s for. When we buy off-road cars it isn’t because we want to go
off road, it’s because we like the raised driving position and the sense of
solidity, and we’re prepared to put up with the downsides — the ride, the
fuel consumption, the lack of performance, and so on.
But you don’t get any sense of chunkiness with the Lexus. As you drive it you
can’t help thinking: “This feels exactly like a normal car.”
So why not buy a car instead? It’ll be faster, more comfortable, and will do
more than 23mpg. What’s more it’ll be the GS300, which is as cool as they
come, the chilliest model in the Lexus line-up. Nirvana for P Diddy,
ambrosia for 50 Cent (or 28p, as I call him, to annoy my kids).
Lexus engineers were probably hugely pleased with the RX300. “Rook at how such
a big, high-liding car is so sophisticated and smooth.” But in making it so,
they’ve erased all the appeal, thrown the baby out with the bathwater. It’s
good for an off-roader, but only because it isn’t one.
So what’s the alternative for around £37,000? I’m no fan of the BMW X5 or the
VW Toe-Rag, the Porsche Cayenne V6 isn’t very bling, the Mercedes ML is 500
years old, the Discovery is for murderers (they all have one) and you’re
more likely to find an NHS dentist in Scarborough than a Volvo XC90 on the
roads. So that leaves the Range Rover, which unfortunately is a deal more
expensive.
Still, don’t give up hope. Simply study the teachings of BG in his song I Be
Thinking. He wisely says: “I be loaded, thinking of Range Rovers. Maybe I
could get a Range Rover if I stay my ass sober.”
VITAL STATISTICS
Model: Lexus RX300 SE-L
Engine type: V6, 2995cc
Power: 201bhp @ 5600rpm
Torque: 209 lb ft @ 4500rpm
Transmission: Five-speed automatic, four-wheel drive
Tyres: 195/60 R15
Fuel: 23.2mpg (combined)
Top speed: 124mph
Acceleration: 0 to 62mph: 9sec
Price: £37,825
Verdict: Apart from guaranteeing respect from Compton to
Chipping Norton, what is it for?
