Paradigm shifts don’t frequently occur in the car industry, a sector so conservative that it still thinks The Rolling Stones are what the young kids are listening to. Which is why it’s taken the Cittoen C-Cactus six years to make the transition from cooable concept car to double-take road merchant.
When it was first announced, back in 2007, the C-Cactus concept was to radical that it appeared to have a dock for a Sonic Screwdriver. Looking back it’s equally difficult not to be impressed by Citroen’s foresight – the concept looks remrakably similar to the current trend for jacked-up supermini SUV cars such as the Renault Captur, Vauxhall Mokka and Range Rover Evoque – as it is amused by the sometimes-wonky visions of the future. Ford Nucleon? Aston Martin’s Lagonda SUV? Renault Avantine?
At the time, along with an all-electric powertrain, a diesel-electric drivetrain with a combined fuel economy of 69mpg was mooted. Such a figure seemed the stuff of a Bond villian’s dream at the time, so it’s odd seven years later to look at the raft of new cars that are capable of such figures from petrol engines. The new C1, for example, officially returns up to 74mpg without any diesel or electric trickery. This figure, it transpires, will crop up again later.
What’s interesting is that these seachanges in the industry rarely happen by accident. The economic crash of 2008 brought with it a new sudden awareness of CO2 and MPG that had little to do with saving the planet and more to do with saving a few coins when it came to renewing tax and filling the petrol tank.
EU emissions targets – fought tooth and nail by the industry at the time and written off as dangerous, unachievable and possibly insane – forced manufacturers to think differently. Hybrids became a serious consideration, as did electric cars (as did biofuel, but let’s move swiftly on). More significantly, for the C-Cactus, came a rethinking of what a modern car needed and didn’t need. Clever-clever new powertrains were all well and good, but what if the unthinkable happened – a new car was actually lighter than the ones it replaced?
The C4 Cactus concept also boasted panels made of recycled material, and while the car industry hasn’t quite gone that bonkers, the production model does have rubber panels along the sides to protect against scrapes and bunts in supermarket car-parks. What’s more they’re easily replaceable at a nominal cost, so theoretically they’ll save money on potential repairs. Opinion seems split at the moment on the airbumps, but why the heck not?
The ‘Airbump’ technology consists of pockets of thermoplastic polyurethane (TPU) filled with air and will protect against errant supermarket trolleys, says Citroen. Quite who will be brave, stupid or important enough to test this out remains to be seen – for now my money is on a young, thrusting blog called TorqueSteer! or The Sun’s motoring correspondent.
One of the things that marks this car out as a Citroen is the ability to choose two-tone body panels. For exmaple, there are C-Cacti that wear bright lemon, deep purple or a lovely pearl white metal, but have contrasting Airbums. Amusingly I found myself in one car that boasted a Shark Grey body colour with Stone Grey Airbumps, bringing to mind an episode of Red Dwarf where Rimmer paints and repaints the ship in Metallic Grey and Gunmetal Grey to the point where they can’t tell which is which.
All of this does beg the question as to whether we’ll see the likes of Airbumps adopted more and more on cars – as we have with the DS3′s personalisation – and I can’t see why not. It’s presumably cheaper than steel, it’s a smart way of styling a cost-saving and it will cut down on weight. And as our cities get more and more crowded – and resources more scarce – why not kill several birds with one stone? Without actually killing birds – or polar bears for that matter.
My money is on a new Citroen sub-brand, rather like Dacia is to Renault, even if it’s unofficial. Think BlueMotion and the like that volume marques went with a few years ago to delineate their ultra-efficient models. With the DS range already selling to the premium end of the market and in the process of being spun-off as a brand in its own right there’s a further opportunity to refocus Citroen as an mid-level brand brand while having a new budget brand. It’s having cake, eating it and then buying another cake.
Ultra-efficient, funky and inexpensive variations of platforms already used across the Peugeot, DS and Citroen brands make sense from a volume perspective and a brand perspective – particularly in the current business climate. It’s interesting that, following years of European brands trying to head upmarket to escape the squeeze from the likes of Hyundai and Kia, the volume players are now embracing the high-volume, low-margin sector and developing genuinely interesting cars.
Consider the Citroen C5 – a car so forgettable that I seriously doubt most car-buyers even know it still exists. Now consider the C-Cactus – a car as individual as it is fascinating. Which one speaks of Citroen – the brand as it is understood by car buffs and even the general public – more?
The answer is as plain as the nose on Gerard Depardieu’s face. None of this means anything, however, if the car is rubbish. Previous models that speak of design insanity – the Nissan Cube and Daihatsu Materia to name but two – have flattered to deceive. Sure, the Cube turns heads, but get inside and you’re faced with the insipid mid-Noughties Nissan fascia underpinned by the Sunday-afternoon 1.5 dci. Mutton dressed as Snail Porridge.
I was cautious when I got to sit inside a C-Cactus – indeed, I conducted a whole podcast from within the C-Cactus with MajorGav of PetroBlog – as I suspected this might be the case. For all the airbumops and lovely clean console and luggage-inspired grab handles I suspected a weedy engine and rough transmission and a driving experience less interesting that being a passenger in a Hyundai Sonata. And without going for a Clarkson-style bait-and-switch, I was wrong.
The C-Cactus is rather lovely to drive, if you accept that there will be no hooning and simply enjoy it for what it is. There are problems. Of course there are problems – there are with any car. But that shouldn’t put you off, just as indigestion is unlikely to put you off demolishing a delicious meal.
So, the rear pillars are incredibly thick – as thick as the rear screen is tiny – and make rear vision very difficult. Rear visibility is horrendous when parking as a result.
Look up and there’s a lovely blue vista of sky, assuming you’re in the UK during one of the few days when the sun is out. If it is, ultra-violent screen or no, you’re going to get hot. Whether it’s driven by the need to save weight, open up the cabin or it’s designed by a man who yearns to feel the sun on his bonce while at the wheel, the C-Cactus will get rather warm with the sun streaming in.
What else? Well, there’s no spare tyre and the rear bench doesn’t splitfold. Instead it folds down as one in a style that’s bound to stir memories of the nineties as efficiently as Wayne’s World.
There is more, depending on which model you choose. My friend, should you go with the autobox, you and the C-Cactus are not going to remain on good terms, airbumps or no.
The autobox is the worst I’ve ever come across. Every gear change is accompanied with the sort of rocking motion you might try and woo child to sleep with, only rather more vigourous, while the pause as the gear disengages suggests a toddler sucking in a breath prior to a huge screaming fit.
The overall sensation is literally nauseating as you roll back and forth. Meanwhile the car’s wafty suspension means that lateral movement is akin to a rollercoaster. It’s quite the most unusual – unpleasantly unusual – experience I’ve had while driving a car: certainly one I’m willing to admit to anyway.
While the sideways rocking that accompanies any sort of tight cornering is still present with five-speed manual transmissions, the jerking of changing up or down is not. It’s not a particularly direct or precise gearchange, but it doesn’t need to be in a car like the Cactus. This is a car built for comfort and to buy one – with it’s ickle engines and Posh Spice kerbweight – and then whinge about the driving dynamics would be as fruitless as a hot-hatch Prius.
Get up to any speed on a B-road and the Cactus takes on a character not unlike I’d imagine driving a runaway tea-trolley would be like. It’s simply not set up for it, which makes the ability to turn off stability control even more bemusing. All becomes clear within seconds of disengaging the passive safety aid, however. Reach any sort of revs – or seemingly speed – and ESP simply re-engages itself. It’s a definite Gallic finger-wag, but it probably has the right idea.
Oddly enough, the powertrains feel up to a bit of abuse. The 1.2-litre three-cylinder petrol engine has 110bhp but an eye-catching 151lb-ft that propels the water-retaining legume along at a fair lick. While the gearing is quite long, meaning it has to be worked quite hard during overtaking or any thrashing, it doesn’t feel strained when the revs are up. It will happily coast along at around 30mph in fifth gear too and anti-stall means you can gentle the car along at a shade above tickover without the car complaining. If you have a mind to you could probably hypermile all the way to the 60mpg that is claimed in mixed driving. I still managed 40mpg after some fairly expressive driving, so suspect that mind-50s will be possible. There are 107 CO2s, which is impressive for a car of this size and good for running costs. Big ticks for this powertrain.
The real gem in the engine range, however, is the Blue HDi 100 – a four-cyinder 1.6-litre diesel engine mated to a five-speed manual. The stats speak for themselves: 88mpg on the combined cycle and 89g/km. Should that prove insufficient you can spec the Cactus with smaller, low rolling resistance tyres that eke another three MPGs out of the engine. 91mpg. I am wont to scoff at claimed mileages, which are not the fault of manufacturers who make the most of an impossible job in homolgating fuel efficiency figures. As a rule of thumb, if you’re getting two-thirds to three-quarters of claimed fuel economies in everyday driving you’re doing well.
I managed just over 74mpg in normal driving conditions – a mixture of curvy B-roads and swooping A-roads with some urban driving in beautiful Aylebsury in moderate traffic – without really trying. 74mpg. That is stupendous. On a full tank – not a large one especially at under ten gallons – you could travel almost 750 miles. From Elgin to Penzance – a gnat’s chuff shy of the fabled Land’s End to John O’Groats – for £65. Quite possibly for less, depending on the weight on your car, your driving style, traffic, route and more.
Where the C-Cactus succeeds isn’t really in its nifty touches – scratch the admittedly lovely surface and you start to notice some nasty hard plastics, gaps between materials, poor rear legroom, vast rear pillars, no splitfolding rear seats… there are things that could get on your nerves here though I suspect the baggage-strap-like handles, bevels and lovely unadorned dashboard will always pull you round. The trim levels are called Touch, Feel and Style – they should be Touch, Feel and Fondle.
No, where this works is in the fact that it does work. That name isn’t simply a handy bit of marketing. If ever a car deserved a name that promises so much it’s the C-Cactus. Personally I’m hoping it’s joined by a larger model called the C-Camel. Either way, this is a car that sips petrol like I drink Laphroaig (neat, slowly and while playing cards – neat and slowly, anyway).
There are issues, to add to the flea bitings I mentioned above. To buy the C-Cactus will cost from 12,990 to £18,190, the latter for the worst of the lot – the abysmal ETG6 autobox with the less frugal of the diesels. Realistically to spec it to the levels that I enjoyed during a day’s driving around the Chilterns you’d pay closer to £20K – all three cars that I drove cost as midge shy of that landmark.
Most of the cars I drove came with a lovely metallic paint job (£495), insulated sunroof (£395), leather trim (£695), different-coloured Airbumps (£150), City Park (an absolute must at £325), Citroen’s eTouch Emergency & Assistance System (£250), body-coloured mirrors (£50) and a spacesaver spare wheel (£75). Two-and-a-half grand’s worth of extras on a car that starts at £13K.
And I wonder what the stripped-out model will be like. Alas, the three cars I drove were all of mid- or top-range spec – Feel and Flair respectively – so I can’t enlighten. But I’d like to drive that base spec model before I committed completely to the C-Cactus.
But I do love the car for what it is and what it looks like. It looks different and it’s been built by people who have managed to drag themselves out of the the same headspace that aerodynamics, cost, weight, fuel economy, drivers safety, pedestrian safety, prevailing design tastes and a dozen more factors root car design in. I celebrate cars that are different and I celebrate cars that are genuinely good at what they do.
Some people ask me how I can think that a silly Citroen is a better car than a Porsche Cayenne or why I’m more interested in curios than exotica. It’s because I’m a fan of genuine innovation, wit and flair rather than a slave to horsepower and cock-waving design. How many cars do what they say on the tin?
The C-Cactus fulfils on its promise: it’s economical. What’s more it does it with a cheekiness that’s irresistible and may just redefine a sector as conclusively as the Qashqai did a few years ago. Consider my curiosity pricked.
I stumbled in from the pub tonight and flicked through the channels until I came across an episode of Cracker. It was To Be A Somebody, the incendiary episode starring Robert Carlisle as Albie – a white, working-class scouser-turned-serial-killer – and I watched the last 15 minutes as rapt as I was when I first watched it at the age of 16.
Even then I knew I was watching something important – something that included Hillsborough, racism, working-class socialist bigotry and a host of other issues that send a shiver down the spine of any middle-class liberal. A disturbing confluence of issues – overlapping on a Venn diagram – as relevant today as they were 20 years ago.
Watching it back it’s hard to not view Albie’s call-to-arms in terms of Irish republican violence, 7/7 and even the rise of UKip, BNP and EDL. A touchstone for the disaffected white working-classes, denied the social gravity of work, unions, church and football. It struck me, although the outcomes may be somewhat different, that it’s hard to disagree with the thrust of his script.
I interviewed Jimmy McGovern in 2005 for Black & White Magazine, a Liverpool culture magazine I edited back in the day. At the end of some delicate negotiations I had an email exchange with Jimmy where we exchanged questions, discussion and gossip.
He was incredibly accommodating, polite, funny – I have not a bad word to say about him. Doctor Who was gearing up for a return at the time and he gave me some juicy gossip involving Christopher Eccleston, whom he obviously held in high regard. I also got a lovely Christmas message from him at the end of the year – I like to think he’d appreciated something in the questions I asked.
As is always the case, we lost touch and I doubt he even remembers the exchange ten years on. But I remember his personal kindness to a young journalist to whom he owed nothing – he also allowed me to sell the interview to Tribune – and willingness to engage on subjects we both found interesting. Thanks Jimmy.
Ten years on from that interview – and 20 years from the episode’s debut – the issues of which we spoke are still relevant. And, with The Street and Accused, so is Jimmy McGovern.
The following represents the compiled Q+A I assembled from our email conversations, printed in Black & White Magazine and Tribune. Inevitably I feel I was a little gauche and tactless – and wish I’d pursued certain lines on inquiry, but remain pleased with the exchange.
Can you tell us what you’re working on at the moment?
Right now I’m trying to do final polishes on the Cracker special and a six-parter for the BBC provisionally entitled The Street. As for the six-parter I’ve written only two eps and been a sort of lead writer on the others. The Americans would call it “show runner” but to hell with the Americans and their cultural imperialism. With the exception of a man called James Quirk the writers on The Street have been relatively inexperienced – but they all had good stories to tell and that’s the main thing for me. I’m sick of watching telly and seeing the same old stories being regurgitated. When I’ve finished these polishes I’ll be switching over to a musical about the history of cotton. We’re trying to blend negro-spirituals from the cotton fields with brass band music from the cotton mills. God knows if it will work.
What made you decide to come back to Cracker?
I’ve gone back to Cracker because I used to be co-organiser of the Hillsborough Memorial Golf Day and we needed a sponsor so I went to Granada and told them that if they sponsored the golf, I’d write them another Cracker.
Do the characters you create inevitably stem from aspects of your own personality – even if it’s a small one?
You’re right: if you’re in any way serious as a writer, you will always write characters based upon your own personality. That’s easy to say when it’s people like Fitz [from Cracker] because people like him despite his flaws. Not so easy when it’s characters like Albie [from the episode To Be A Somebody] but Albie was based on how I felt in the aftermath of Hillsborough. I don’t think I could have killed anybody over Hillsborough. In fact I’m sure I couldn’t. But I certainly felt like killing Bernard Ingham, Margaret Thatcher and every single member of the South Yorkshire Police. And as for The Sun… I think every single killer in Cracker has come from somewhere deep within myself.
Hillsborough seems to be something of a touchtone across more than one of your works; something that has deeply affected Liverpool. Is this a fair reflection?
And you’re right again: because of that, some people think I’m a headcase, a hot-headed, angry, frustrated Scouser. But I’m not. I’m fifty-six. I’ve been married for thirty odd years; I’ve got grandkids; I play golf. The secret is, I know I’m nothing special. I know I’m not particularly good. Or particularly bad. I’m just like everyone else. And if I’ve felt like doing horrible things, then I’m bloody sure everybody else has as well. Nobody’s unique. Well, everybody’s unique but you know what I mean.
I have always seen myself as left-wing but, honestly, throughout the eighties it was hard to be a left-wing, white, working class male. We were blamed for everything: racism, sexism, fascism. And, of course, the epitome of the white working class male was the football fan. People hated them, especially people on the left. Hillsborough came out of all that and, after Hillsborough, I said to myself that I would never let people attack us (white working class males) like that again. And Fitz came after that – the first post-feminist, post political-correctness TV series.
I never had any doubts about writing the story of Albie in Cracker. In fact the Hillsborough families came to a screening and supported it. They, more than anyone, understood Albie’s anger. As for the drama-doc itself, I wrote it because the families asked me to write it. As simple as that.
Do you still have a personal faith, or are you a cultural Catholic?
I have never attacked the Catholic faith. I have never attacked any religion. There was one particular journalist who slyly hinted that I might be anti-semitic but I can tell you I’m not. The great religions, when they are properly adhered to, are a force for good. It’s the institutions that sprout up around those religions that get up my nose. And the hypocrites within them. One example, the Catholic Church sheltered child abusers for years. If it had done this out of compassion for the abusers, well that might, just might, be understandable. But it sheltered the abusers because it was frightened of losing its great wealth in the courts.
What would be the worst and the best we can expect to come out of Liverpool winning Capital of Culture?
I’m ambivalent about Capital of Culture. On the one hand, if we ever get my cotton project onto the stage it will probably be because of Capital of Culture money. On the other hand I’m not prepared to be gagged because of that. I think 2008 will pass the vast majority of Scousers by, just as whatever-year-it-was passed the Glaswegians by.
Liverpool has given you a lot of source material in the forms of Hillsborough and Dockers, albeit frequently tragic and terrible. Does this make you ambivalent about living here?
No. I thank God I was born here. I have always loved this city and the older I get, the more I love it. The people above all, their humour and passion and sensitivity, but also the river, the architecture, the parks, the history of the place…
I have always had a soft spot for Ireland. My wife has 100 per cent, pure Irish blood in her veins. And, of course, I have the obligatory great grandad who came over in the Famine. But I see myself as a Scouser, a catholic, white, working class Scouser. That means I’ve plenty in common with the Irish but, no, I am not Irish; I am a Scouser. Lots of people see themselves like that, I think, and that’s healthy surely.
Where did The Lakes come from? Was there an element of it being something that was ‘fun’ to write?
I am proud of the first series of The Lakes. The trouble was the second series. We brought in a lot of very good writers, each with his or her own “voice” so the second series went all over the place. But the first I liked. And a lot of it was autobiographical. As was Hearts and Minds of course.
I know I’ve got this reputation for grittiness but, actually, the first two things I wrote, other than Brookside, were Felix Randal and Traitors. Felix Randal was based on the poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, about a farrier in Liverpool in the late nineteenth century and Traitors was about Father Garnet’s involvement in the 1605 Gunpowder Plot.
Are there particular actors who you prefer to work with?
Because I write a lot about working class characters, I like to work with actors who are working class. It’s the hardest thing to pull off for an actor, I think: to act outside your socio-economic group. Interestingly, Irish actors can do it. It’s often very hard to spot an Irish actor’s background. But for the English it’s not so easy.
I used to fight like mad to get my programmes made in Liverpool. But I got tired of people accusing me of portraying Liverpool in a bad light. You know, the people of Manchester have never said to me, “Hey, you Scouser, how dare you portray our city as full of headcases and psychopaths!” That’s because they understand that film and TV production brings millions into the local economy.
What are you most proud of of your scripts?
No matter how well something has been done, it could always have been done better. I’m proud of Hillsborough of course because it helped people. I’d say the same thing about Dockers, Sunday and Priest. But Heart, a small movie, was a bit of a failure as was the second series of The Lakes. As for Mary Queen of Scots, I wrote it as a big-budget movie and, in hindsight, I should have fought to get it made as such. But failure is good for you, you know. Particularly if you’re Catholic.
What I’ve been up to on a professional footing over the last few months…
I’ve finished teaching at the Universities of Salford and Sunderland, with only marking remaining. Over this academic year I’ve taught around 300 students at three universities and eight modules.
I’ve edited The City Tribune over April and May, it’s a new publication whose first edition covers the International Festival of Business in Liverpool during Summer 2014. Read it here. Interview here.
I’m currently revamping Liverpool Underlined.
I’ve recorded two PetrolPod podcasts with Gavin Braithwaite-Smith. The latter was recorded at the SMMT driving day at Millbrook in May.
I’ve written a four-page special feature on cars and gadgets in the fleet sector for Professional Manager Magazine, the official mag of the Chartered Management Institute. I’ve had a number of press cars on review, including the Peugeot 2008, Peugeot 308, Nissan Qashqai, Suzuki Swift and Citroen DS3.
I’ve contributed several articles to All About History magazine, the most recent of which was on the fall of the Aztec civilisation, the front page splash – finally the A/S Level in Archaeology came in handy.
I’ve also written articles on Richard Nixon, Jack The Ripper and the birth of Hollywood for the magazine.
I’ve watched the latest series of The Great British Menu with a growing, open-mouthed horror. Not because of the litany of absurd dishes – burned food, ash and soil seems very popular this year – but because there’s some of the stupidest, most facetious plates of food being created in the name of celebrating the 70th anniversary of D-Day.
Every year the show has introduced a far-fetched conceit that is shoe-horned into programmes showing peole thinking about cooking, then cooking, then watching in lip-biting tension as Marcus Wareing asks them if their cooking is sufficiently English. Last year seemed to mark the nadir, when bewildered chefs were consistently asked if their food was funny.
This year they’re being asked if their food honours terrified Allied soldiers fighting their equally terrified German opponents. Which seems a bit like asking whether my teaching pays sufficient tribute to Norse gods – or whether the Roundheads would be impressed by my podcasts.
Leaving aside the notion of ‘celebrating’ D-Day – the line between commemoration, memorial and celebration seemingly blurred these days – how does one pay tribute to a bloody battle through the medium of food exactly? This year’s dishes have seen ammo crates, ration cards and shrapnel helmets employed to house plates of nosh. What japes. Why not go one step further?
“Adam has served his venison parcels in hollowed-out chemical grenades, with a side serving of gravy in a canister of Zyklon B.”
At what point does a pivotal moment in a war become beyond the pale? How about the liberation of Auschwitz? The detonation of Little Boy above Hiroshima? The carpet bombing of Dresden? The attack on Pearl Harbour? Presumably we wouldn’t deign to ‘celebrate’ these instances with a plate of saltmarsh lamb and samphire or a salted caramel creme brulee, nor serve a gigantic field mushroom rising above a flattened Japanese town constructed with burned edamame beans? Perhaps you think my rhetoric offensive – in which case ask yourself whether an entire programme predicated on exactly the same notion is offensive.
Is this an issue of time elapsed? I can imagine a silly programme where chefs from Lancashire and Yorkshire compete to see who can make the best regional dishes with a passing reference to the Wars of the Roses. But many WWII veterans are still alive. On that score would we serve a cocktail to ‘honour’ Vietnam vets called Agent Orange? Centre a throwaway food entertainment show around the Falklands conflict? First Iraq War? The Troubles? 9/11? Of course we wouldn’t.
So how has this one got the OK? Here’s how one foodie blog sees it:
This year’s theme is a whopper: the 70th anniversary of D Day. As such, chefs must create dishes that evoke the wartime spirit of the generation which fought for our freedom as well as honour the bravery shown throughout the Second World War.
Let’s parse this for a second. Food that accurately represents what dodging hot metal, designed to tear your body apart, is like? Food that accurately represents what it’s like to face down a Nazi war machine that exterminated six million Jews in concentration camps? Food that accurately represents what plunging a bayonet into the chest of enemy troops is like? Hmm.
There’s talk of one chef travelling to Normandy to the scene of the allied invasion; Frances Atkins retracing her father’s D Day experiences through her menu; and Emily Watkins drawing inspiration from her grandfather, a prisoner of war.
Asking someone about their experience of being a prisoner of war so you can cook some powdered-egg cake off the back of it? How can no-one see how blithely offensive this is? Here’s a tweet from the Twitter account of the same blog:
— Great British Chefs (@gbchefs) April 17, 2014
Would people who fought, killed and died on foreign battlefields care about the lack of dates on a dish created as a ‘celebration’ to their sacrifice 70 years later? My guess – and I recognise that I’m going out on a limb here – is that they would not.
Foodie types – those who commission these programmes and those who participate in them – seem to have come to the utterly mistaken conclusion that their work is in some way important. In show after show we’re showed meals that are supposed to be witty and humourous, produced by some of the most humourless, self-important and monomaniacal people who walk the earth. They have come to believe their own press – that putting a pork loin in a water bath is, in some way, worthy of praise.
It’s the only explanation for a programme where one chef asks another whether his potted shrimp dish ‘honours’ the combatants in a protracted series of battles in which 20,000 people lost their lives.
• Am I alone? Thankfully not. Here’s what Twitter makes of it.
Great British Menu: had I survived the Normandy beaches on D Day, I'm sure I wouldn't want a meal reminding me of them 70 years later.
— Gary Fairley (@StumpyRider) May 6, 2014
Many of the dishes cooked on Great British Menu this week were intended I'm sure as 'witty' and 'thoughful' tributes to the horrors of D-Day
— Mister Neil Kulkarni (@KaptainKulk) May 3, 2014
Watching Great British Menu. This year commemorating the 70th anniversary of the D-Day landings. Nobody is serving their food from an MG32.
— Foamcow (@foamcow) May 2, 2014
Good lord. The latest interminable round of the Great British Menu is premised on making D-Day themed chicken nostril parfait. Bleak.
— PeatWorrier (@PeatWorrier) May 1, 2014
Finding D-Day theme for Great British Menu a bit weird. In 70 years will someone be making a mousse in the shape of the siege of Benghazi?
— Kate Hewson (@katejhewson) April 29, 2014
The Great British Menu has passed into absurdity now. Recreating the D-Day landings with prawns
— Anita Singh (@anitathetweeter) April 26, 2014
'How much do you think this fish dinner has told the story of D-Day?' The chefs on Great British Menu do talk some cock.
— E O Higgins (@eohiggins) April 24, 2014
FFS Some tosser of a chef on the Great British Menu comparing the 'drama' of his dish to the D-Day landings! #BBC2
— Derek Murray (@DerekJMurray) April 8, 2014
— Ralf Little (@RalfLittle) April 25, 2014
Anyone else think the Great British Menu's designer food based on the Normandy landings is in really poor taste? No pun intended.
— Mathew Lyons (@MathewJLyons) April 8, 2014
My first book, Fast Cars, is in shops now. It looks like this.
I have completed an article on Jack The Ripper for All About History magazine and will be commencing my latest article for Professional Manager Magazine this month, probably on crossover SUVs.
I’m teaching at the University of Sunderland over five modules this semester. Most of the modules I’m teaching on revolve around digital and social media, including MAC114, MAC296, MAC297, MAC299 and MACM69 at Sunderland.
I am also teaching digital media at the University of Salford.
I’ve finished at the University of Westminster, where I delivered a module I wrote on News and Feature Writing.
I’m currently working on editing a magazine for the International Festival of Business, which will be held in Liverpool this Summer.
I recently attended launches for the Citroen Grand C4 Picasso and Volvo D4 engine range. I recorded podcasts at both with Gavin Braithwaite-Smith. You can hear the former below. I recently updated a page on my automotive experience too.
A few decades ago, when a hydrogen fuel-cell or the Porsche Cayenne were mere dreams in the mind of a madman, there was such a thing as a diesel-electric powertrain, pushing people and freight all over the country and no-one batted an eyelid. The diesel engine generated electricity that drove the wheels. Clever eh?
Fast forward to the 21st Century – you know, the new millennium when we’d all get to work in a flying car and eat food pills for breakfast – and General Motors has rediscovered this revolutionary powertrain. It works like this: A small engine burns petrol and, instead of driving the wheels, it generates electricity. This electricity, in turn, powers an electric motor that drives the wheels. It sounds more complicated but, weirdly, it’s more efficient (although GM has admitted that on very rare occasions – Christmas and the Queen’s birthday and so on – the petrol engine can drive the wheels directly, though this is akin to the USS Enterprise passing Warp 9.9).
But there’s more. Energy can be recovered while coasting or heading downhill, meaning you can generate more electricity from movement and gravity. More cleverness. If that doesn’t float your boat then you can plug it into the mains and charge it up at home, at work or at one of the (rather low) number of charging points around the country.
Chevrolet calls this technology Voltec – and it’s new in the automotive world. As we’ve seen, this technology has been around for a long, long time however – a sign of how slowly the car industry grasped the necessity for change that it’s only just become financially viable. Not that it is for GM, who are reckoned to lose money on every Chevrolet Volt and Vauxhall Ampera sold, of course. Whether it’s cost-effective for private, business or fleet buyers is an intriguing question too. But more of that later – here are my thoughts on the Volt (and Ampera too – I’ve driven both and the differences are not meaningful).
I love it. I wholeheartedly love it. It delights me, it amuses me, it surprises me and it wows me. Years ago we might have called this the X-Factor. Let’s say it has a certain je ne sais quoi.
The Volt looks cool; it has a certain whiff of the muscular styling that left the country with Dodge and Cadillac a couple of years back. But while they looked rather clunky – the automotive equivalent of a 20-gallon hat and Smith and Wesson sticking out of a belt – the Volt looks imposing and rather different.
Step inside and this impression continues. It’s not uncommon to see car interiors compared to TARDISes – or smart LCD screens imagined as Starfleet technology. The Volt reminds me of Blake’s 7 starship The Liberator: bright, white, smart and clean – a vision of the future from a time when that didn’t mean the dirty industrial neo-noir of how we tend to envision things to come in these permanently-disappointed days. The Volt doesn’t talk to you in a haughty voice – I’d guess Justin Bieber if it did talk – but you wouldn’t be inordinately surprised if it started yakking at you about the weather.
Start up the car and there’s a bunch of noises more akin to a gaming console firing up. That sensation is compounded by the displays that spring into life when you press the start button, swimming into sight like the interface of the 360 or PS3. This is clearly not accidental; in fact it’s one of the first of a new paradigm in how we communicate with our cars. It’s not the first example of the way that our cars will dazzle us with information via a pretty screen, but it’s one of the more noticeable.
If you have any charge in your Volt’s batteries, you will pull away with the gentle, almost imperceptible, whoosh of an electric car. This is a genuine thrill that has yet to wear off for me and it’s a constant audible reminder that the car you’re driving is Other, something new.
It’s at this point that the Volt can go one of several ways. It is an electric car, with caveats. It is a parallel hybrid, if you drive it that way. It is a series hybrid, if you run out of electric charge. It’s a plug-in hybrid or a KERS-powered hybrid, or both. Or it is essentially a petrol car with some brake energy regeneration. It depends entirely on how you drive it and how you treat it. And that determines entirely how much it costs to run.
Drive it as a pure EV – this is possible if you follow a logic diagram and can tick yes all the way down – and your bank manager will kiss you. Drive it as a pure petrol car – this is possible if you take every path of least resistance – and your bank manager will tut and shake his head. Children will cry when they see you and you will feel all hollow inside. The difference, over 10,000 miles a year, could amount to thousands of pounds.
Still, either way, Boris will ensure that you don’t pay the Congestion Charge in London; the Treasury won’t be chasing you for any road tax and neither insurers nor your local repair man will be your friend as you’re unlikely to be putting as much business their way. If you ran the Volt purely on electricity it could cost you as little as £5,000 to cover 10,000 miles in a year by my reckoning (I have a C in GCSE maths so make of that what you will) – perhaps less than half of a similar petrol car.
That means the quoted fuel economy and CO2 figures are quite, quite meaningless. That’s not Chevy’s fault, but these European homologation numbers seems to get more absurd with every new car. You might as well ascribe a mile-per-gallon rating of 270mpg to your house, cat or Yorkshire Pudding as the Volt. The answer, in my view, lies somewhere between 40mpg, 80mpg and N/Ampg. Where 270mpg comes from is a genuine mystery to me. So too the 27g/km for CO2. Eh?
The Volt is, then, a tool and it’s up to you to use it in the way for which it was designed. You wouldn’t buy a hammer to fix your broken china pot nor a bicycle to cover your daily 100-mile commute. The Volt can be used incorrectly in much the same way, though the worst that can happen is that you blow a lot of money on a cool car – you wouldn’t exactly be the first to make that mistake. Use the Volt well – remember how we’re taught that electricity can be our friend if used properly? – and I think it could the start of a beautiful friendship.
If this were a Top Gear review then, at this point, I’d do a massive switcheroo and suggest you shouldn’t buy one. So should you buy one?
No. And, yet, yes.
Car-buying is about to become a heck of a lot more complicated. Oh, sure, these days you have to factor in running costs to special offers, divide by cashback, multiply the finance and reverse the polarity of the neutron flow. But that’s child’s play to what’s coming. It is phenomenally hard to work out whether a car such as the Volt will save you money.
To do so you need to know your annual mileage, your electricity tariff, your most likely commutes, the proximity of various charging points and your projected savings on the likes of road tax, insurance and maintenance over, say, seven years. Got that? OK, here’s your next task.
What are the Volt’s likely resale values? How long will the battery last? Should you buy a wallbox for faster, more efficient charging? Will a new generation of superconductors make electricity much cheaper? Will petrol prices rise exponentially in the next decade? You might even have to bear in mind the prevailing temperature in your part of the world, how hilly your commute is, how busy it’s likely to be at certain times of the day, whether you mainly drive in urban or motorway environs…
Only you can answer any of these questions. In the same way that fleet managers spend time poring over spreadsheets, gnawing on a pencil and frowning before handing you a piece of paper on which they’ve written VAUXHALL ASTRA and HYUNDAI i30, you will have to calculate up to a dozen factors – some of which will be hedged bets and best guesses – before deciding whether the Volt will save you money.
My own experiences with this car, in this area, have left me nonplussed. On the launch I was mightily impressed by the figures achieved and potential savings. On a more recent encounter, when I racked up around 600 miles in the car, I was less impressed. Whether because of my style of driving (fairly conservative, believe it or not), weather or other conditions, I got barely 20 miles from charging the car up – a long way shy of the potential 50 miles the Volt is capable of.
For those 20 miles I had the car plugged in to the mains at 120V for around 12 hours; by my reckoning at a cost of about two quid. Now, how far would a new diesel engine at 50mpg combined cost to cover the same distance? I suspect the difference is down to a few pence. I’m well aware of the other financial savings on road tax, maintenance and the like, but the Volt has an asking price of around £30,000 (£35,000 without the government incentive for which it currently qualifies), perhaps double the price of cars that offer comparable size, performance and economy. There are numerous cars that go for £30K but I find the most instructive example to be the Jaguar XF. A Jaguar XF!
I could say more – in fact I once delivered a piece to camera, in one take, on the mathematics of electric cars that lasted well over a minute and has driven all who’ve seen it to horrible tears – but I think the point is made. You will spend a lot of time figuring out whether an EREV makes sense for you – and when you have it you will need to have your wits about you like never before.
Because while you can drive the Volt as if it’s a pure ICE car it would be utterly pointless to do so. It would be like insulating your loft and then leaving all the windows open in Winter. It would be like buying a Toyota Prius and driving it down the motorway at 90mph. It would be like pateintly collecting and sorting all your recycling every week before throwing it in the bin. As a pure petrol car the Volt is a little short of poke and returns about 40mpg. Further, like the Prius example, there is no point in buying one if you have a heavy right foot – you’re simply chucking money down the drain.
30 years ago you had a simple choice. Small family car; big family car. Little car; big car. Slow car; fast car. Cheap car; expensive car. 4-star petrol, manual, two seatbelts and a choke. Not any more. Rather like the way that privatisation has made choosing an energy provider a baffling and distressing paper-chase of incomprehensible tariffs, car-buying is becoming similarly discombobulating. Whether this concerns you or not depends entirely on your approach to buying and owning cars.
If you’re a worrier, a pen-chewer, a bean counter then the coming age of EVs, EREVs, hybrids, turbo petrols and ultra-efficient diesels are going to make your life a living hell. If, on the other hand, you simply buy cars because you like them – and to Hell with the cost – you might revel in the dazzling range of choices.
And I think the Volt (and its Ampera sibling) might just delight the discerning car-buyer. It’s new, quite different, vaguely futuristic and exciting in the way that few new cars are. It’s a technological marvel, it has style and it’s a car that certainly says something about you. I’m not entirely sure what it will say, but I perceive a much bolder, more offbeat, pretentious-in-a-good-way vibe to the Volt. That name, that powertrain, the gaming-like interface and the fairly radical centre stack. It screams that it is different to the rest of the car parc; a commitment to awkwardness; a statement of uniqueness.
The Volt is, in essence, the new Saab. I can imagine architects driving this car. Doctors, dentists, history teachers. People who own a coffee table book of Klimts, the DVD of that Scorsese film on Bob Dylan and a black rollneck sweater. Glib? Yes, I don’t care – you can read the What Car? review if you want luggage space or ISOFIX information. The Volt is the new Saab, you read it here first.
That means the Volt is my car of 2012, not because of its economic or ecological credentials, not for its rather ordinary driving manners or somewhat awkward use of interior space. But because of what it is not. It is not like most other cars; it is not like any other cars. It makes driving feel like a new experience again – new skills to learn, new sensations to come to terms with – a car that feels like a kick up the arse in its use of computer trickery to communicate and cajole.
It’s the way that GM has not made a hair shirt of this car; rather something bold, futuristic and exciting. Instead the differences are made a virtue; accentuated and pushed to the fore – an ECU that has more information than you can comprehend, showing you what your car is doing in real-time and making it a defining factor of what this car is all about.
How many decades have passed since the first diesel-electric trams and trains? 50 years later EREVs and plug-in hybrids will be the norm soon – the opportunity to offload responsibility for power generation onto national grids will be too good for car manufacturers to resist. It’s ironic that this very old concept has been reanimated as a car of the future, but that’s what it is. And guess what, we can expect to see petrol-electric trains using this form of powertrain again in years to come. Good ideas never die – they just go out of fashion, but then they come back. The Volt is the new Black.
Buying a car is ridiculous, when you think about it. What else would you spend ten, 15, 30 or even 60 grand on, having consulted a few mates down the pub, at work or in the extended family? I can spend a good five minutes comparing nutritional values and prices-per-kilo of cereals I’ll spend two quid on. If I were to scale that up to £15,000 how much more time, relatively speaking, should I spend researching a car purchase? (the answer is 860 hours if you’re doing the maths).
You might peruse the web – or buy a What Car? compendium of reviews; such an information overkill I genuinely wonder whether anyone finds them useful at all, apart form an exercise in confirmation (or conformation) bias. And what of the myriad online car guides? I’ve come to suspect they’re virtually useless unless there’s a recognisable brand name behind them. Google has killed them off in the search engines, so anyone without a recognised, trustworthy name is toast.
So, people look for peer reviews. Friends, family, experts they may know. Terry bought an Astra and he loves it. Jackie had one of those German ones and it’s nothing but trouble. Dad has always bought Fords… People like familiarity when it comes to spending lots of cash. They do not like, well, unfamiliarity.
Just ask any Chinese manufacturer – Brilliance, Great Wall, Geely, Chery, SAIC – how easy it is to break into a Western market. All have baulked at the prohibitive costs and long-term investment required to bring a new automotive product to market, or made a piecemeal entry. And we have some recent salutary lessons about what happens when foreign brands come to British shores – though if Dodge had ever brought the Challenger to the UK they could have chalked up at least one more sale.
Bringing a new car manufacturer to market is very hard. Again, people like known, trusted names when it comes to big-ticket purchases. There’s the lack of a dealership network, the lack of brand recognition, the lack of peer knowledge. Very few people in the UK have driven an Infiniti, never mind owned one – that rules out one of the best ways to market available to a manufacturer looking for conquest sales.
And when you’re looking to take customers from manufacturers with loyal buyers like Mercedes and Lexus – or the ‘cool’ exec brands such as Audi and BMW – you have your work cut out. Infiniti has a car to rival virtually ever car in the premium range. A compact exec with convertible and coupe versions; a large exec; a crossover SUV and a large SUV. Throw in a hybrid and you’ve ticked virtually every box. The only problem is, very few people know about them.
So, Infiniti has a challenge stiffer than Mark Webber trying to get his hands on the new Red Bull Racing front wing. But it does have a significant advantage over the Chinese. It has strong product. And it has the fastest man in the world signed up. At the time of writing Sebastian Vettel has just won his third successive F1 championship; he’s the youngest man ever to take three titles, nevermind three successive titles.
Win on Sunday; buy on Monday. That’s an old maxim known throughout the world of car sales. But does it make any sort of sense? Will people rush out to their local Infiniti dealerships – now at six sites predominantly in the south-east and Pennines – and put down a five grand deposit on the EX crossover SUV simply because Vettel came sixth in Brazil? Well, no, but the Infiniti livery plastered all over Seb’s car, helmet and overalls certainly won’t do any harm in giving the brand a leg-up in the consciousness of the UK’s 30m drivers.
Nor will having a halo product with Vettel’s name plastered all over it. The Infiniti FX 5.0 Vettel has taken the manufacturer’s largest car and transformed it into an absolute weapon; a chrome- and metallic-bedecked SUV with badging, vents and actual spoiler. An F1-esque spoiler on an SUV. Oh yes. Inevitably there’s a load of carbon fibre all over the shop, inside and out, and a power is boosted to 414bhp – 30 more than the standard FX 5.0. That makes it capable of a frankly ludicrous 186mph with the speed limiter removed (155mph in the UK).
And the Vettel Edition is keen to shout about it. A ridiculous engine note that suggests nothing less than approaching death from above has serious intent. Like nature’s colour-coded warning signs – bright reds and yellows for ‘do not approach’ – the sound of an unblown 5000cc petrol engine is engaging on a primal level.
So it’s fast, it’s loud – but how does it handle? Sadly I have to report that I can’t offer a full assessment. On the dispiriting network of roads and estates around Stockport there wasn’t much opportunity to see what this luxo-performo branding exercise was made of.
Which is a shame because the power delivery is wonderful and it feels capable of a lot. What I can tell you is that a lot of body roll has been ironed out with the lowering of the suspension and the various aerodynamic tweaks the Vettel boasts. It’s got a lot of downforce and it’s pretty slippery so it would be interesting to see what’s it’s made of on a track. The steering is pleasingly heavy and fairly direct; the ride fairly comfortable despite the stiffened springs. Even so, the Vettel weight over two tonnes. It feels big – and squeezing this left-hand-drive beast through rush-hour urban traffic wasn’t especially relaxing.
Off-roading? Well, I guess you could if you really had to. But would you take a £100K beast like this into the rough stuff? I suspect not, and with that ground-hugging style I’d suggest that some of the green stuff you might see by the side of Herman Tilke’s finest is the worst you should attempt in this peculiar SUV. In that regard the Vettel edition reminds me of the more exotic versions of the Porsche Cayenne; a big car that’s designed to be fast and luxurious first and worry about CO2 emissions and dragging a caravan to the Dordogne second.
Though I regard the Cayenne with the same amount of fondness as I regard Bernard Ecclestone, I’d suggest the Vettel loses out to the GTS on pure performance. And the big Infiniti is never going to best some of the blingier Range Rovers in the key departments, even though it does feel like it would dispense with the Rangey like Seb passing Schumacher (respect, but not much) when it comes to driving dynamics.
The Vettel is powered by a 5.0-litre petrol engine, with more power coming from a remapped engine and redesigned exhaust system. That makes 414 horses and over 380 torques; 62mph in 5.6 seconds. There are splashes of Brabus-sourced carbon all over the car in an effort to get the car over the 300km/h plus an F1-inspired rear foglight. There are no roof rails and the brakes are ported from the standard car.
At £105,600 it’s almost over double the price of a vanilla FX. For that not-inconsiderable amount of cash you get that £5K carbon fibre spoiler, alloy wheels that are almost five kilos lighter than standard rims and an interior bedecked in carbon, Alcantara and magnesium.
This car is a tank. A nuclear sub. A juggernaut. It weighs two tonnes and it’s still really fast. Inside you feel cosseted, enclosed – the wheel comes out and the chair moves forward when you get in – it makes you feel like an almost-organic part of the Vettel. A velvet glove inside an iron bastard.
But there are problems. The 21-inch wheels look absurdly big and are just one of the elements that conspire to make the Vettel a rather ugly car. Inside – despite all the expensive materials – it doesn’t look especially different from the other Infiniti interiors. And it costs £105,800.
So, this Vettel-badged SUV is something of a curate’s egg. I wonder if the Vettel association might have found a better outlet with the GT-R within the Renault-Nissan Alliance (a term that always puts me in mind of Star Trek realpolitik, like the Klingons and Romulans have joined forces). Let’s reflect for a moment on what this alliance puts out. The world’s best-selling electric car; hybrids; tiny seven-grand city cars; a supercar; a range of SUVs, including a genre-defining crossover; pick-ups; little vans; big vans; execs; coupes; hot hatches; supercars and some of the most ridiculous cars that ever lived – I’m looking at you Juke-R and Twizy.
You might wonder what Renault-Nissan gains from a costly, long-haul launch of Infiniti and its already-large range of executive cars. The answer is margin. Sell 100 Nissan Pixos or sell one Infiniti FX with all the toys. Factor in economies of scale, the spreading of production costs – platforms, powertrains, fittings – across millions more cars, and there’s more imperative. Modern car-making is all about leveraging – and that brings us nicely to Sebastian Vettel.
Because the team that has won the last three Formula One titles is now called Infiniti Red Bull Racing – and it’s a partnership that goes well beyond naming rights. Technology transfer, the champ’s name on a car and the fastest man on the planet at the wheel. The Vettel Edition is really an extension of that branding. As such it doesn’t really feel like a car to be assessed alongside the G Convertible, M hybrid saloon and EX crossover I have also driven and enjoyed. In fact, against those cars the Vettel Edition feels like a concept more than anything – there for show, with a metaphorically hollow interior.
So, yes – it’s a struggle to launch a new car manufacturer in a new market – and it’s debatable how good the Vettel Edition is in isolation. But Renault-Nissan is playing a long game, in which Vettel and his souped-up SUV are simply the initial moves on the board. It is looking to Infiniti – and beyond.
Citroen has a reputation for innovation and creativity. Thinking outside the box, or blue-sky thinking they call it these days. I tend to think of it as a dash of typical French insouciance, stubbornness – in the same way that in the French countryside they defend the right to drown sparrows in armagnac: why shouldn’t we have air suspension? Why shouldn’t we have a steering wheel that doesn’t move in the middle? Why not sell a vast Gallic barge that costs forty grand and sells in single figures (in its last full year the glorious C6 sold just six models).
So it seems fitting that Citroen has seen fit to reinvent the MPV with the new C4 Grand Picasso. How so? Well, it looks nothing like an MPV. There’s something of the hatch, estate and even SUV about it. From the rear three-quarter angle it looks very smart, depending on the trim level the interior looks Audi or BMW-class; a spot of DS class bleeding into the C range.
The facts and figures look promising too. The new C4 Grand Picasso sells from £17,500 and is the first model on the new PSA Peugeot Citroen EMP2 platform, which you can expect to see pressed into employment on many more cars on UK roads across the Citroen and Peugeot ranges and, conceivably, Vauxhalls if a mooted tie-up with General Motors Europe goes ahead.
It’s shorter in height and length than the previous model and weights 140kg less, no mean amount on such a car, and yet has more interior space. Boot space is ‘class-topping’ and extends to 630 litres and a load space of 2.5 metres with the front seat folded down. You could probably fit two horses inside.
Citroen is good at this sort of space-juggling and the interior gives the driver and passengers much more visibility too, with exquisitely narrow A-pillars. The panoramic sunroof, which comes as standard, is wonderful – flooding the cabin with light – and the sliding sun visors a clever touch. There is more glass here that a Richard Rogers tower block.
What else? Well, Citroen says it’s the first car of its class to sneak under 100g/km with the 90bhp eHDI powertrain. Good for them; there are many powertrains available of petrol and diesel flavour. While I wasn’t able to sample the petrols I can report that the HDi 90 manual VTR+ – feels underpowered and the e-HDi 115 manual 6-speed Exclusive feels about right.
The drive and ride? Well, this is where things get tricky. While Citroen says handling has been improved the C4 Picasso doesn’t feel very nimble. Not only that, the car feels unsetlled over poor road surfaces, even breaking traction when cornering at a sedate speed over some uneven tarmac at one point. While the car will cruise comfortably and take speed bumps in its stride, it crashes over potholes. Like the DS5, it feels too stiff to me.
But here’s the thing. Do customers really care? Citroen says that of all the customers who’ve given feedback on their DS5s – a car that every single motoring journalist I’ve discussed it with has criticised the ride – not one has mentioned the ride quality. This touches on something we mull on PetrolBlog from time-to-time – do car-buyers give a hoot about the things that car nerds think are important? Clearly not, the Citroen Xsara Picasso sold 2.5 million units and was one of the most unpleasant cars I’ve ever driven. Objectively bad, I’d say.
The new C4 Picasso is not objectively bad. It’s not even subjectively bad. It’s a car that has a lot going for it and the sort of car that people who buy SUVs will love. But there are a couple of things that are objectively poor: the binnacle under the seats (there are more storage spaces here than a Google server farm) has a sharp, hard edge that’s more than capable of inflicting a nasty scratch.
The seven-inch touchscreen isn’t especially intuitive and requires a patient finger – the manual equivalent of having to talk to someone stupid very… slowly… indeed… Users of smartphones will be tearing their USBs out in frustration. On all trims bar the top-level Exclusive+ the trim on the seats feels cheap and rather nasty; the manual tailgate feels heavy and doesn’t have a grab-able handle; difficult if you’re a bit wee and weak. I can never seem to get quite to grips with Citroen seating positions. And the ride just doesn’t make sense to me.
The good? The more powerful engines are lovely and refined, the gearbox smooth, the running costs good, the safety rating and technology impressive, the interior space clever and plentiful, the looks different and natty and the ultra-low loading lip and boot floor something to genuinely get excited about, if you’re inclined to get excited about such things. Exclusive models upwards get Citroen’s space-age rear LEDs that are spiffing and the interior on the range-topper a real revelation.
These models start at £23,460 for the THP 155 manual 6-speed Exclusive+ and they’re a very strong proposition indeed. It’s got lots of lovely toys, including active cruise control, a blind-spot monitoring system, park assist, and electronic footrest and massage seats and an electronic tailgate with a memory function. But it’s the quality of the interior that really sets it apart – the top-spec car is seriously good quality. So much so I’d defy anyone to tell it apart from an executive-level interior without some serious prodding and chin-rubbing.
To lob in another physcial expression of doubt, the new C4 Picasso has left me scratching my head. The VTI models are lacking in some departments; the Exclusive seem to want for very little. Roughly half of these models – when specifications and engines are taken into account – would leave me cold. The other half I would doff my hat towards.
No other car has left me with a feeling of existential crisis. Citroen listened to its customers when building this car; it filmed their interactions with it and asked them what they wanted. The result is somewhat schizophrenic but it seems to be what customers want – I can’t help thinking back to the Xsara Picasso, easily the worst car Citroen has made in the last 20 years and probably the best-seller.
Acknowledging all that, does it matter one jot what I think of the C4 Picasso’s ride quality? Am I, essentially, obsolete when it comes to writing car reviews? Aren’t we all? Has anyone, out of all the people who have asked for my advice on buying a car, ever taken it? Not many, looking back. Most of them bought a bloody Audi A3, after all.
To sum up, this French MPV ticks all the boxes it needs to, gets a qualified pass on a couple of others and flunks the ones that don’t matter. Isn’t that a perfect lesson in how to make a volume car in these straitened times? Perhaps manufacturers should stop listening to motoring journalists; the last time they did the result was a To sum up, this French MPV ticks all the boxes it needs to, gets a qualified pass on a couple of others and flunks the ones that don’t matter. Isn’t that a perfect lesson in how to make a volume car in these straitened times? Perhaps manufacturers should stop listening to motoring journalists; the last time they did the result was a Suzuki Kizashi with a CVT and 2.4-litre petrol engine.
Citroën has built a new C4 Picasso that it knows car-buyers will like, with 10,000 orders on the continent already. In that context a motoring journalist complaining about stiff suspension seems a little like a restaurant critic complaining about the gherkin on his Big Mac.
My first column for Professional Manager magazine, written in 2012
At the turn of the year the press is full of ‘best of’ lists: albums, films, adverts, cars – you name it. I’ve been pondering my cars of the year and have found it very hard going. A few years ago, they were neatly segmented by fuel, segment and more. Not any more.
This year there’s a dazzling spread of vehicles that are hard to compare to one another.
Rather like a radical new album from a favoured band, I’ve been unable to figure out whether I’ve liked a lot of last year’s new metal or not – mainly because they’re so… new. Plug-in hybrids, electric cars, extended-range electric cars – these are whole new genres in motoring.
Over 2012 I’ve driven several electric vehicles, ranging from the charming and ridiculous Renault Twizy to the suave and grown-up Vauxhall Ampera (AKA the Chevrolet Volt – it’s the same car underneath). On the whole I can’t help but feel very impressed – and a little bit excited – about the technology. Driving electric vehicles (EVs) is a thrill that has yet to wear off.
However, when I come to write about them I find all the usual downsides stacking up: range, battery life, residual values, real-world costs, the lack of infrastructure – the evidence against electric cars seems damning, and it makes them hard to recommend to the majority of private buyers.
I suspect that most fleet managers share my reservations about this new glut of eco-cars, despite the potential for substantial fuel savings and a nice little green tick on your company’s end-of-year report, the marketing value of which can be significant. For this admittedly large group, the cons still outweigh the pros.
But what of the rest? Despite my reluctance to recommend EVs – or Extended Range Electric Vehicles such as the Ampera/Volt – to the majority of fleet managers, there are business sectors that I think would enjoy huge benefits from taking a punt on one these battery-powered machines.
A friend of mine – a bona fide genius as I’m sure he won’t mind me saying – is working on a medium-sized electric van, the kind used by florists, builders, caterers and so on. He believes the vehicle will sell like petrol in a fuel strike. Why? Because he’s done his maths.
He knows that most delivery vans have a static, daily round-trip; he knows that these vans are likely to be stored in a depot with ready access to charging facilities overnight (when electricity is cheaper); he knows that few of these vans will ever be required to travel further than the range they’re equipped with; and he knows that businesses who run large fleets will be interested in savings on fuel, tax and maintenance. As a result his van is designed to tick all of those boxes – and very little else. It’s a product designed for a very specific buyer.
I suspect there’s a similar algorithm that fleet managers could use to figure out if the new generation of EVs from Nissan, Renault, Chevy and Vauxhall will meet their needs. Many will find that they’re better of sticking with their high-efficiency, low-CO2 diesel models – the usual suspects on those end-of-year ‘best of’ lists. But those fleet managers who get their calculators out might just find some extraordinary upsides to taking a punt on electric.
Bright sparks – six EVs to check out
Using General Motors’ revolutionary Voltec technology, the Volt uses an electric motor to drive the wheels, powered by either batteries or a petrol engine. As such it can be used as a pure EV or as a conventional petrol car.
Vauxhall’s take on the Volt is essentially identical, but trim levels and prices differ slightly. At around £30K for both, however, these cars face some stiff competition.
The current leader of the electric-car pack, the Leaf is Ford Focus-sized but a pure EV. Claimed running costs are eye-catching, but the radical nature of the Leaf may deter buyers.
Renault’s second-generation EV is Fiesta-sized and has a fast-charge capacity. It looks normal, which could be a big plus, has a sensible asking price and a range in excess of 100 miles.
Toyota Prius plug-in
Whether cars are classed as EVs seem to be a matter of semantics or marketing as much as anything, but the new Prius can be plugged in and charged electrically – and offers a limited EV range. Stiff asking price though.
With an initial price tag that could stun an ox, the iMiEV wasn’t a quick seller; however, Mitsubishi has lowered prices and makes some eye-catching claims to the iMiEV’s capabilities.
My second column for Professional manager magazine, written in 2013
My generation long-since became sceptical of ITALS Tomorrow’s World ITALS-esque claims of how radical technology will very soon make our lives easier. X-ray glasses, tea-making household robots and a contraceptive pill for men? Anyone seen any of those down the shops? Thought not.
Yet one of these fabled never-never inventions is close at hand – the self-driving car. Volvo, Audi and Toyota are ploughing resources into motors that can drive themselves. Meanwhile, the likes of Google and Apple are looking very closely at how they can integrate their technology into cars. In many respects, the technology for these futuristic vehicles is mature.
We already have the radars and cameras that judge the distances to nearby vehicles and read road signs; algorithms that calculate whether a crash is in the offing or adjust adaptive cruise control settings; servos that control steering wheels and pedals; stop-start systems that cut ignition when the car comes to a halt.
The implications for safety and fuel economy are varied, but the potential to free up drivers’ time while on the road is obviously significant. A colleague once told me of a former boss who insisted that his employees were able to study and complete paperwork and conduct telephone calls all while at the wheel. While that’s obviously barking mad, it may not be for long.
So what do we need to make these road-borne offices a reality? Answer: data. The vehicles need to be able to receive, crunch and transmit huge amounts of data on traffic, location, speed, acceleration, and myriad other factors. There is no existing platform by which cars can send and receive vast quantities of information in this way. But connectivity is the next big thing in carmaking. It’s fair to say we’re heading for a paradigm shift in the way we build and use cars.
The modern car is close to being a movable communication device. Part-phone, part-computer, part-vehicle, it will take the initiative should circumstances demand it. The pan-European eCall initiative – designed to relay data to emergency services in the event of an accident, mirroring systems already offered by Volvo, Peugeot, Citroen and BMW – becomes a viable project with such connected cars.
Concepts such as pay-as-you-drive insurance – or road tax – become possible where real-time data can be transmitted direct from the car. Think cars that inform fleet managers when services are due – and whether breakdowns are imminent. Cars that feed back driver behaviour in real time, perhaps even to other cars on the road. Cars that can download software patches and upgrades in the way your smartphone or tablet might. It becomes difficult to predict where this might take us very quickly, but mobile service providers, satnav manufacturers, warranty providers, insurance companies, leasing companies and government treasuries will all be watching developments very closely.
The end point of all this is the car-as-smartphone. You won’t need to connect your wheels to your phone; your car will be your phone. Or tablet, or PC. I’ve sat, agog, in a Range Rover watching live television on the Jaguar Land Rover dual-TV screen, but that’s nothing compared to a car that is connected with the web, the car behind you, centralised weather and traffic stations; perhaps even your house.
By the end of the decade every new car that hits the road will have the ability to communicate with every other car on the road. Terabytes of data will be harvested every second on cars, drivers and roads. The ramifications are enormous, fluid and not necessarily easy to predict but, amid the plethora of possibilities, the connected car is the final piece in the jigsaw puzzle to creating a driverless world. And that’s one Tomorrow’s World-style forecast I’m happy to put my name to.
Satellite navigation that can aggregate traffic reports have been around for a while, but the next generation of satnavs will use telemetry from other cars to construct best-bet routes in real time.
Designed to prevent an accident from happening in the first place – and mitigate the worst of an accident if it should prove unavoidable – technologies such as traction control, brake assist, ESP and ABS are making it harder to crash a modern car.
The seeing car
Many cars can currently park themselves, with only a modicum of human input, while others offer cruise control that adapts to the speed of the car in front. Volvo cars can tell if you’re wandering out of your lane, check your blind spot and even if you might be feeling drowsy.
Make a phone call, ask your satnav to make a phone call for you, toggle media. Voice control currently means your attention needn’t waver while driving; in the future it could mean asking your car to take you home, tell your partner know you’ll be home late or pop the kettle on ready for your return.
Like electricity connecting up a grid, web access will join all the constituent parts together – feeding vital data on other roads and road users to navigation and driving systems that can make a self-driving car a viable prospect.