Clarkson on Cars Read Online Free Page A

giggling mess as I shrug nonchalantly and, fighting back the tears of humiliation, stroll away as if it doesn’t matter.
    But with the threat of an £80 experience among the stars at San Lorenzo hanging wearily about my person, there is no alternative and I find myself approaching the damn thing, dripping like ageing cheese in an old sock.
    Inevitably there’s a queue. Inevitably a gang of screeching Hoorays fall in line astern of me. Inevitably I programme in the wrong number twice and inevitably I’m told, to the accompaniment of a crescendo of shrieks from the Ruperts, that I’m a miserable pauper.
    Boarding the tube at Sloane Square, I consider my predicament and weigh up the consequences of a late arrival at Fulham Broadway. They are too dire to contemplate. Eighty quid is a lot of money for a pauper. Oh God, please help.
    Now I bet you didn’t know that God works in Volkswagen’s press office. Because after my return to the den of iniquity that afternoon, Charles, who is VW’s effervescent delivery driver, wandered in brandishing the keys to a 16-valve Scirocco I was due to test that week.
    And joy of joys, nestling in that sombre but tasteful interior was nigh on two grand’s worth of Panasonic Vodaphone. Better still, VW would pick up the tab for any calls I made.
    If the meeting in Twickenham dragged on and I found myself in the kind of snarl-up only the A316 can muster, it was a simple question of ringing the beloved and thus avoiding an £80 outlay that would mean I’d have to live on a diet of small Macs and stickleback and chips for the forthcoming decade.
    Sure enough, the meeting did go on and on, despite endless tutting and continual references to Omega’s finest. And sure enough every Cherry this side of Chernobyl was on the 316, misjudging approach speeds and getting confused by roundabouts.
    At ten to eight I realised there wasn’t a hope in hell of getting to the Broadway on time and resorted to the Vodaphone. ‘Hello sweetheart… no, don’t shout at me… no, listen… I wa… Becau… No, I’m using a car phone and if this Nissan gets out of my way I’ll be with you in about twenty minutes.’
    That simple message cost VW 10p and saved me eighty quid.
    This phone-in-the-car business was definitely worth looking into. I had at my disposal a Panasonic EBC1044 with hands-free facility which retails for £1774 excluding VAT. On top of this outlay you are faced with a £50 connection charge and a monthly fee of £25.
    Calls made between 7.30 a.m. and 7.30 p.m. from Monday to Friday cost 25p per minute but at all other times the cost is a mere 10p per minute.
    Any one of VW’s 350 dealers can fit the hardware, which is broken down thus: £1375 for the handset and a complicated-looking box which was in the boot, £290 for the hands-free facility, £28.95 for the mounting kit and a whopping £79.95 for an aerial which would have to be replaced every time Chelsea played at home.
    Hands free, for those of you who’ve just returned from a sightseeing trip on Voyager Two, is a wonderful innovation which allows a driver to hold a conversation without taking his paws from the wheel.
    You simply dial up the number you wish or, if it’s logged in the set’s memory, press the appropriate code number, and hey presto, the job’s done. A couple of seconds later you’ll hear the ringing tone from a speaker located near your right ankle. The microphone into which you speak is attached to the sun visor.
    Trouble is, those without cars are unwise in the ways of modern automotive technology and, on one occasion, I noticed a few raised eyebrows from the incumbents of a bus queue as I sat in a traffic jam shouting at my sun visor.
    Because the Scirocco GTX 16v is a left hooker, they were that much closer and consequently their surprise turned into uncontrollable mirth as I went on to tell the visor I would meet it in the pub in ten minutes.
    Then there was the instance when I called a friend to ask about the