‘Never
mind the programme, have you seen the mag?’
“Lots of power,” screams Tiff as he
executes a wheelie on a deserted airfield. The rear of the eighty-thousand pound
motor car hurtles in a wide circle and the tyres protest at their torture with
an ear-splitting howl and a vast cloud of rubber smoke. Tiff has to shout
because of the noise and he is searching for another mangled metaphor or
strained simile to demonstrate his cleverdick mastery of journalism. He gives
up, and instead shouts “This is fun!” , checking the tailspin with an easy skill
that has crashed many cars over the years. The car screams off down the runway
and hurtles into a wide bend, Tiff see-saws the steering wheel as the expensive
tyres scrabble for grip, clinging to the tarmac with desperation as if aware
that, with this maniac behind the wheel, if they give up their grip it’s the
scrap heap for all of them.
Back at the production team there is a collective wince as Tiff loses it for
a third time, spinning into the grass beside the roadway in a huge cloud of
gravel and torn grass. Even from this distance they can hear Tiff whooping with
glee. The test car rejoins the track for yet another superfluous example of
atrocious driving, the engine howling like a banshee and the tyres screaming for
grip, leaving black sticky marks on the concrete to mark their passing.
Another man joins them and they look at him warily, for he is the new
Comptroller. They grunt a greeting and the Comptroller is about to reply when
Tiff screams past them, engine howling and supercharger whistling. Then they
relax: Tiff is on the straight and even he can’t crash in a straight
line. The trail car with the camera crew roars past, vainly trying to keep up.
“Dear me,” The Comptroller says mildly, peering after the vanishing Tiff.
“Does he always do that?”
“Yep,” says the soundman loyally. “He’s testing the parameters of the new
car.”
The Comptroller nods, already bored: he’s heard it all before. His eyes
wander in a broad circle over the acres of deserted tarmac and grass. High above
them, a skylark is bravely singing, trying to establish his territory over an
invading Tiff. “Don’t they land ‘planes on these places any more?” The
Comptroller asks.
“Not when we’re filming. We’ve hired the place for the day.” The gaffer tells
him.
Tiff has spotted the Comptroller and roars in to join them. He removes
another years worth of rubber off the tyres as he slides crabwise to a halt and
switches off the engine. It appears to the Comptroller that the car seems to
sigh with relief when Tiff jumps out, but it is probably his imagination.
“Hi boss.” Tiff shouts cheerily: years of valve bounce and tyre scream have
made him deaf as a post.
“Hello.” The Comptroller answers weakly, wrinkling his nose as the tyre smoke
wafts past them. “I popped in to have a chat.”
“Oh good.” Tiff roars, looking for a maxpac coffee.
“Yes. The programmes you do. Caught one the other day, and I was a bit –
surprised.”
Tiff winks at him cheerily. “That’s the way,” he bellows. “Got ‘em, you see?”
The Comptroller stared at him; Tiff had lost him already. “The thing is, what
about the cars?”
Tiff gives that wry grin and cocks his head the way he does with people who
don’t talk his language. “Oh, we blast ’em and slide ‘em
and spin ‘em, but we don’t pay for ‘em,” he roars. “No cost implications
at all.”
“No, I know that,” the Comptroller explains patiently. “I know you do all
this,” he waves his hands round the airfield. “But what are the cars like to
drive on the road?”
Tiff stares at him.
“In traffic.” The Comptroller adds.
Tiff’s mouth flops for a moment, but no sound emerges.
“How well does a car overtake a lorry on a hill in pouring rain, in the
dark?” the Comptroller goes on. “With luggage, a fractious wife and two carsick
kids on the back seat?”
Tiff’s mouth falls open as his eyes search the Comptroller’s face for a trace
of the joke. When he fails to find it, one corner of his mouth tugs downwards
petulantly. “But …“ he shouts.
The Comptroller persists. “How do the seats feel after five hours driving
from Ipswich to Penzance? How good is the ventilation on a blazing hot afternoon
trapped in traffic at Camberwell Green? Does the aircon work when the engine is
at tick over, like you are most of the time trying to get to Heathrow on the
M4?”
“But ... but …” Tiff struggles for an answer. Finally he gets it out. “We
drive them on the road ... “
“Yes, on deserted country roads, and even then you drive too fast, and I
wonder how you never managed to meet a tractor on one of those bends. But I’m
talking about real motoring. You know the thing; where you pay for your
own petrol, and insurance and -“ he looks down at the still smoking
rubber on the test car, “ - Tyres. “
The Comptroller is warming up, now. “… Where deprecation comes out of your
wallet. And you’ve actually paid for the car and now you have to drive it
for at least two years, maybe more. And then you find that it can’t overtake a
milk float because the engine isn’t torquey enough and the gear ratios are
chosen only for economy, the car seat puts your back out after two hours, it
costs a fortune to service and the headlights are crap, and the first time
you’re stuck in traffic you find out the aircon compressor switches off when the
car is on tick over.” He smiles at Tiff, whose face, is even blanker than usual,
and shrugs. “That sort of thing.”
Tiff stares for a moment. His ears were still ringing, but he has caught most
of what was said. “But …But … “ he stares around at the rest of the crew for
inspiration. “But that would mean … “
“Working for a living? Yes. See to it, would you?” The Comptroller nods to
the rest of the team and climbs back into his Daimler.
Tiff stares after him as the Daimler purrs away for the main gate. “Bugger!”
He turns back to the production crew. “Well, I’ve got bad ears!” he bellows, and
waves at the test car. “So who’s going to drive this up to Glasgow and back?”