Driving with the British, ironmongery with the Swedes
In my dreams last night, before I drove a zippy convertible through a British museum, I drove it on the streets of London. Everyone drove on the right side of the road and yet drove from the right side of the car. The steering wheel sat in the middle over the shifter, and you pulled it over to you. Either I invented an amazing new car, or I didn't have the imagination for English driving.
Which reminds me to visit with the Dan Neil of Britain, Jeremy Clarkson of the Times. This blog last met Jeremy when he was writing ridiculous things about foreign automakers. A check of his latest paper column confirmed the ridiculousness was still rolling. He examined why Volvo was finally making a car that didn't fit kids too well.
So, life as a car dealer is normally pretty rosy. Except for one tiny thing. It's okay if you have the franchise for BMW or Mercedes or Alfa Romeo because the car you use to go home at night will be fine and swanky. But what if your dealership sells Hyundais? Sure, you're making plenty of cash, but every night you have to go home in an Accent.
And it's the same story with Volvo. You bathe in the milk from a honey badger. You pour Cristal on your cornflakes and you gave your wife a diamond-studded vibrator for Christmas. You even have golf clubs made from an alloy of titanium, magnesium and mink. But you have to go to work every day in a ho-hum slab of Swedish ironmongery that has the pizzazz of a dead dog.
Oh sure, you've got the top of the range S80 with seats made from the bosom of a fin whale and an electric drinks dispenser. But it's still a Volvo. And you are still being laughed at by Nozzer and Ozzer at the 19th hole every Saturday afternoon.
Which is why, at the last Volvo dealer convention, you pleaded with the high-ups in Sweden to make a big V8. "I could sell thousands," you lied. And what's more, every other Volvo dealer in the world was saying the same thing.
Other segments included: "a machine that grips like a rabbit in flight," "a godforsaken faff," a Nigerian bank reference, a Ian McEwan squash metaphor, a druid reference, and a Ray Charles/cricket joke.
