Minehead. And then someone else would rise to their feet and point out that some of his voters work in a caravan factory and that they’d be out of work, claiming benefit.
And that would be it. Caravans would stay.
Whereas under my system the bloke in a cardy would weigh up the issues over a slurp of Kenco and say, ‘No, they must go.’
In twelve years of writing about motoring I have only touched on this issue once because it did not seem important. I lived in London, and on the rare days when I sallied forth to the Provinces I was on a motorway.
But now I live in the Cotswolds and it’s unbelievable. I’ve just taken delivery of a new supercharged Jaguar, and so far I haven’t had it past 20 because round every corner the road is blocked by a Sprite Alpine.
I was stuck behind one called Sprint the other day. How can you call a caravan a ‘Sprint’?
And when they’re parked in a field they hardly blend into the environment. As Mark Wallington says in his magnificent book,
500 Mile Walkies
, ‘Why can’t they be painted black and white, and given udders?’
As a child I went on a few caravan holidays and I remember wondering what we were doing there. I mean, we lived in a large farmhouse in the countryside and now,here we were decamped in a small box in the countryside – feet away from a fat family whose daughter, Janet, had woeful diarrhoea.
This, however, is not the issue. If people want to spend their precious vacation in a metal container, in a field full of other metal containers, eating shabby food and defecating in a bucket, fine.
The problem with caravans is that you can’t simply beam them to a site,
Star Trek
style. You must hook them up to the back of your wheezing, asthmatic car and, with absolutely no training whatsoever, tow the damn thing into some of Britain’s greener parts… like here.
People. As you look in your rear-view mirror and see a trail of cars stretching back to the horizon, do you not feel even the smallest pang of guilt? Do you not feel that it might be a good idea to pull over and let everyone by once in a while?
Do you not vow that next year you will undertake the journey at night, when you would be less of a bother?
Or do you secretly relish having the power of being part of a tiny, tiny minority who, for a few hours a year, can control something huge like traffic speed. Did you dream as a child of being a councillor? Or joining the parks police? Go on, admit it, you did.
You are a mealy-mouthed little twerp with no regard for others. In the last few weeks you’ve made me late for every single appointment, and you don’t give a damn.
If caravans can’t be outlawed, and without my new system of government they never will be, there should at least be some new rules.
Anyone wishing to tow one should be forced to take a complicated driving test. They cannot be towed by anycar with less than 300 ft/lbs of torque. They can only be taken on the roads between 2 and 6 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. And they should incur road tax of £200 a foot.
Blind leading the blind: Clarkson feels the heat in Madras
This is what it said on the first page of my joining pack for the world’s weirdest motorsport event. ‘Rallying has never featured very significantly in the lives of blind people.’ No, and neither will it. Men can’t have babies. Fish can’t design submarines. BBC producers can’t make up their minds. And blind people don’t make very good rally drivers. However, they can navigate. More than that, in the last six years there have been 25 rallies in India where the co-drivers have had more in common with a bat than Tony Mason.
Now, to be perfectly honest, I’m not talking about the sort of rally where the car’s wheels only ever touch the ground in service halts. No, this sort is best described as a treasure hunt. Even so, disappointingly, there are rules, the worst of which is that all cars must be fitted with seatbelts. This meant that when I took part there
And that would be it. Caravans would stay.
Whereas under my system the bloke in a cardy would weigh up the issues over a slurp of Kenco and say, ‘No, they must go.’
In twelve years of writing about motoring I have only touched on this issue once because it did not seem important. I lived in London, and on the rare days when I sallied forth to the Provinces I was on a motorway.
But now I live in the Cotswolds and it’s unbelievable. I’ve just taken delivery of a new supercharged Jaguar, and so far I haven’t had it past 20 because round every corner the road is blocked by a Sprite Alpine.
I was stuck behind one called Sprint the other day. How can you call a caravan a ‘Sprint’?
And when they’re parked in a field they hardly blend into the environment. As Mark Wallington says in his magnificent book,
500 Mile Walkies
, ‘Why can’t they be painted black and white, and given udders?’
As a child I went on a few caravan holidays and I remember wondering what we were doing there. I mean, we lived in a large farmhouse in the countryside and now,here we were decamped in a small box in the countryside – feet away from a fat family whose daughter, Janet, had woeful diarrhoea.
This, however, is not the issue. If people want to spend their precious vacation in a metal container, in a field full of other metal containers, eating shabby food and defecating in a bucket, fine.
The problem with caravans is that you can’t simply beam them to a site,
Star Trek
style. You must hook them up to the back of your wheezing, asthmatic car and, with absolutely no training whatsoever, tow the damn thing into some of Britain’s greener parts… like here.
People. As you look in your rear-view mirror and see a trail of cars stretching back to the horizon, do you not feel even the smallest pang of guilt? Do you not feel that it might be a good idea to pull over and let everyone by once in a while?
Do you not vow that next year you will undertake the journey at night, when you would be less of a bother?
Or do you secretly relish having the power of being part of a tiny, tiny minority who, for a few hours a year, can control something huge like traffic speed. Did you dream as a child of being a councillor? Or joining the parks police? Go on, admit it, you did.
You are a mealy-mouthed little twerp with no regard for others. In the last few weeks you’ve made me late for every single appointment, and you don’t give a damn.
If caravans can’t be outlawed, and without my new system of government they never will be, there should at least be some new rules.
Anyone wishing to tow one should be forced to take a complicated driving test. They cannot be towed by anycar with less than 300 ft/lbs of torque. They can only be taken on the roads between 2 and 6 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. And they should incur road tax of £200 a foot.
Blind leading the blind: Clarkson feels the heat in Madras
This is what it said on the first page of my joining pack for the world’s weirdest motorsport event. ‘Rallying has never featured very significantly in the lives of blind people.’ No, and neither will it. Men can’t have babies. Fish can’t design submarines. BBC producers can’t make up their minds. And blind people don’t make very good rally drivers. However, they can navigate. More than that, in the last six years there have been 25 rallies in India where the co-drivers have had more in common with a bat than Tony Mason.
Now, to be perfectly honest, I’m not talking about the sort of rally where the car’s wheels only ever touch the ground in service halts. No, this sort is best described as a treasure hunt. Even so, disappointingly, there are rules, the worst of which is that all cars must be fitted with seatbelts. This meant that when I took part there
Similar Books
