British broadcaster, journalist and writer
You may have heard that at the British Press Awards|British Press Awards last week I strolled over to Piers [Morgan], the editor of the Daily Mirror, and punched him in the middle of his face. That, however, is only partly true. I also punched him on the jaw and on his cheek.
Why? Well he seems to think that if someone appears on television it is all right to publish photographs of them kissing girls goodnight and appearing on the beach while fat.
I disagree.
Reviewing music has to be the hardest, most pointless job since Twinkletoe-Winkletoe Ffiennes walked to the North Pole wearing nothing but a dressing gown and slippers. Or something. Imagine, please, being instructed to write about the latest All Saints album. You'd listen, hate it, and say so. And a week later, all the 14-year-olds who took it to number one would burn your house down.
Now that's contentious stuff. You can say a car manufacturer's new product is a waste of the world's resources and they'll do nothing. You can liken it to a cup of cold sick and refuse to test it, saying it's more boring than dying, and still they won't react. But call a car dangerous and whoa, what's this? A writ? Blimey.
I mean, it isn't as though the Saab badge stands for anything particularly dramatic. This fighter jet thing seems a bit weak somehow, and anyway it wasn't that long ago when Saab were selling their cars on the safety ticket. And before that, they were doing rallies. The result of all this haphazard marketing is that, today, the cars are almost completely image-free. And that, I suspect, is where their appeal lies. They are sold to people who don't wish to use their car as a style statement, people who simply need four wheels and a comfortable seat so that they may get to work as easily as possible... We're getting somewhere here, because if this is true it explains something else- no one has ever been carved up by a Saab. Think about it: has a Saab ever jumped a red light or tailgated you on the motorway? Have you ever seen a Saab being driven in anything other than a considerate and stealthy fashion? No, and neither have I. This is because the sort of people who are drawn to this image-free environment are the sort of people who don't use their subconscious to drive. They know that to do it properly they have to concentrate, absolutely, on the job in hand. So they do. And that's why they never carve us up.
By computing the position of various stars on 11 April 1960, an astrologer would be able to deduce that I'm selfish, arrogant and thoughtless. But this seems like an unnecessarily complicated palaver. I mean why bother with reference books and slide rules and telescopes when you can simply ask what sort of car I drive. See the car. Know the man.
And therein lies the reason why motor industry people don't fawn on journalists. They're in the hot seat, deciding who gets to drive what and who gets to go where. Why should they grovel when they know that without their assistance the motoring journalist is up the creek without a boat, nevermind a paddle?
Speed in itself is not exciting. As you sit in a Boeing, are you thrilled that it's ripping up the sky with a 500mph orgy of big numbers? No, and it's the same deal in a straight line in a straight road in a car. Two hundred mph. So what. What matters is acceleration and handling, an ability to take corners as though they're not there, and this is why the Ferrari F50 has been so well received by those who know. It's light, and simple, like a choux pastry in a world full of suet pudding.
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The greatest car ever should get out there and do the job, but it should do more besides, which is why I have to say it's the Ferrari 355. This car is as much a piece of sculpture as a lump of engineering. You could derive as much pleasure from putting it in your living room, where the piano used to be, and looking at it as you could from going for a drive.