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Jeremy Clarkson - Last hurrahs of the petrol age
Car manufacturers, like the rest of the world, have grown lazy and are misguidedly pursuing a flawed green technology, says Clarkson. But over the next six pages he salutes the truly great machines of the past 10 years
Each decade can be summed up in a handy cut-out-’n’-keep, bite-sized phrase. The Fifties was “black and white”, the Sixties was “peace and love”, the Seventies was “Terry and June”, the Eighties was “greed is good”, the Nineties was “bloody Blair” and the decade just past — I refuse to call it the Noughties — was “the twin towers”.
We have similar reference points with cars. The Fifties was the Mini, the Sixties was the E-type Jag, the Seventies was Red Robbo, the Eighties was the Golf GTI — even though it was actually designed in 1974, the Nineties was the McLaren F1 and the decade just passed that I refuse to call the Noughties was a time when everyone took leave of their senses. It was the time of the Toyota Prius.
For about a century, there was no real change of direction for the motor industry. While there were experiments in the early days with electric and steam-powered vehicles, petrol was the obvious way forward because nothing else produces quite so much power for so little fuss and expense.
Sure, the cars that clothed the petrol engines evolved bit by bit, with fewer running boards, and indicators instead of trafficators. But then, one day, Margaret Thatcher decided the world was heating up and that Arthur Scargill must be replaced with a cleaner form of energy. As a result, the car industry, for the first time in a hundred years, made an idiotic dogleg turn to the left.
Whether you believe man is responsible for global warming or whether you don’t think there is any such thing is immaterial. One day the oil will run out and the concept of using those last few drops for personal travel is stupid.
It seems to me perfectly clear that hydrogen is the obvious replacement. It is the most abundant gas in the universe. It can be stored on a credit card. And a car that runs on hydrogen produces no noise and only H2O from the tailpipe. What’s more, you could plug such a car into your house at night and even if your house is Blenheim Palace, it will run all the electrical appliances, silently and at no cost to the environment.
Of course, the former trade unionists and CND activists who now bill themselves as eco-mentalists know this and it scares them. They don’t want the world to carry on as before with a new type of power. So they constantly point out that it’s very bothersome to make hydrogen from water.
They’re right. It is bothersome. But what happened to the days when we went to the moon and did the other things because they were hard? Why have we now suddenly decided that actually it’s much better to take the easy option?
Which brings me on to the Prius: a car that has a normal petrol engine and then an electric motor to help it along. Dead simple. But since it has two engines, it is not remotely eco-mental and will do nothing to eke out the planet’s oil reserves. But it is marketed as “green” and because man is now fundamentally lazy, it’s convenient to believe the hype.
Demand has therefore been strong, and, as a result, the entire car industry is now engaged in a headlong, blind charge to offer a wide variety of hybrid cars with two engines. And that in turn means no one is doing serious work on hydrogen.
The Pious, then — which went on worldwide sale in 2001 — is far and away the most important car of the past decade. But it is also the worst. It is reckoned by the foolish to be the Pied Piper, but it’s playing the wrong tune. It is the incorrect sat nav instruction that will lead us to a dead end. It bills itself as a “hybrid” but mongrel means much the same thing. And that’s what it is. A flea-infested, built-for-profit mutt that will be the death of us all.
The best car of the decade is the exact opposite of the Pious. It’s not a mongrel at all. It’s a thoroughbred. And it was built not because it was easy but because it was, on paper, completely impossible. It is, of course, the Bugatti Veyron.
It all began when Volkswagen bought Bugatti, and Ferdinand Piëch — the mad-eyed boss — decided he wanted his new acquisition to make a 1,000 horsepower car that could do 400kph (248mph).
No other car company could even attempt such a thing, because the accountants would make a fuss about the cost and then the shareholders would stop it. But Volkswagen is an unusual company with a curious structure, and, as a result, the boss could be as mad as he liked. And fire anyone who failed him. Which he did.
Of course, it is not that hard to produce a 1,000-horsepower car that can hit 400kph — once. But Piëch was talking about a normal road car that could be driven round town like a Golf and last a thousand years.
This is not like asking for a car to be a wife and mistress. It is like asking for a car that is a wife, a mistress, an Olympic athlete, a housekeeper, a butler, your best mate and a supermodel. It was an unprecedented undertaking.
The British company charged with making the Veyron’s gearbox provides Formula One teams with their cogs and has a fine reputation for reliability. But on a track, the boxes have to last for four hours and that wouldn’t do with a Veyron — a car that was more powerful and more torquey than anything in F1.
The aerodynamicists had a similar problem. They took the car to Sauber, the F1 team, which shrugged and said it only had experience of cars up to 360kph (227mph).
The issue here is simple. You can make a shape that cleaves the air well at 400kph — about the same speed as a second world war Hawker Hurricane — but at this kind of lick, it will barely be in contact with the road. Which would make cornering a tad tricky.
And if you try to keep the tyres pressed down into the tarmac, the shape of the body will make 400kph impossible.
The first prototype had a top speed of 370kph (230mph), so to try to find more speed, the wind-tunnel boys decided to fit smaller door mirrors. A bad idea because the originals were producing downforce. Fitting smaller ones meant the car tried to get airborne as the speed climbed.
Every single person who worked on this project adopts a thousand-yard stare when asked to talk about it. The engineers who struggled to cool the W16 engine. The people who made the tyres. Even the people who made the £1,000 indicator stalks.
To drive, it’s nothing special, if I’m being brutally honest. Its engine makes a noise like a bison’s tummy rumble, and round a track it’s fast but not what you’d call thrilling. It isn’t that much of a looker either.
But Concorde suffered from problems like these. It was noisy and cramped, and while the staff asked what wine you’d like from the cellar, you knew there was no such thing. I bet it didn’t handle very well either. And yet ...
It’s the same story with the Veyron. It may be no more special at ordinary speeds than a Golf, but you always know that it can do 254mph. And you know how much blood was spilt so that it could. That’s what makes this car so special.
And what makes me sad is that in our lifetimes, we will never see such a thing again. Like Concorde, it came, it conquered and then it went, and there is not a single car company on earth these days with the time, the money or the inclination to see if 1,010 horsepower and 500kph might be possible.
The Veyron, then. The last great hurrah.
Jeremy Clarkson Last hurrahs of the petrol age review | Driving - Times Online
Car manufacturers, like the rest of the world, have grown lazy and are misguidedly pursuing a flawed green technology, says Clarkson. But over the next six pages he salutes the truly great machines of the past 10 years
Each decade can be summed up in a handy cut-out-’n’-keep, bite-sized phrase. The Fifties was “black and white”, the Sixties was “peace and love”, the Seventies was “Terry and June”, the Eighties was “greed is good”, the Nineties was “bloody Blair” and the decade just past — I refuse to call it the Noughties — was “the twin towers”.
We have similar reference points with cars. The Fifties was the Mini, the Sixties was the E-type Jag, the Seventies was Red Robbo, the Eighties was the Golf GTI — even though it was actually designed in 1974, the Nineties was the McLaren F1 and the decade just passed that I refuse to call the Noughties was a time when everyone took leave of their senses. It was the time of the Toyota Prius.
For about a century, there was no real change of direction for the motor industry. While there were experiments in the early days with electric and steam-powered vehicles, petrol was the obvious way forward because nothing else produces quite so much power for so little fuss and expense.
Sure, the cars that clothed the petrol engines evolved bit by bit, with fewer running boards, and indicators instead of trafficators. But then, one day, Margaret Thatcher decided the world was heating up and that Arthur Scargill must be replaced with a cleaner form of energy. As a result, the car industry, for the first time in a hundred years, made an idiotic dogleg turn to the left.
Whether you believe man is responsible for global warming or whether you don’t think there is any such thing is immaterial. One day the oil will run out and the concept of using those last few drops for personal travel is stupid.
It seems to me perfectly clear that hydrogen is the obvious replacement. It is the most abundant gas in the universe. It can be stored on a credit card. And a car that runs on hydrogen produces no noise and only H2O from the tailpipe. What’s more, you could plug such a car into your house at night and even if your house is Blenheim Palace, it will run all the electrical appliances, silently and at no cost to the environment.
Of course, the former trade unionists and CND activists who now bill themselves as eco-mentalists know this and it scares them. They don’t want the world to carry on as before with a new type of power. So they constantly point out that it’s very bothersome to make hydrogen from water.
They’re right. It is bothersome. But what happened to the days when we went to the moon and did the other things because they were hard? Why have we now suddenly decided that actually it’s much better to take the easy option?
Which brings me on to the Prius: a car that has a normal petrol engine and then an electric motor to help it along. Dead simple. But since it has two engines, it is not remotely eco-mental and will do nothing to eke out the planet’s oil reserves. But it is marketed as “green” and because man is now fundamentally lazy, it’s convenient to believe the hype.
Demand has therefore been strong, and, as a result, the entire car industry is now engaged in a headlong, blind charge to offer a wide variety of hybrid cars with two engines. And that in turn means no one is doing serious work on hydrogen.
The Pious, then — which went on worldwide sale in 2001 — is far and away the most important car of the past decade. But it is also the worst. It is reckoned by the foolish to be the Pied Piper, but it’s playing the wrong tune. It is the incorrect sat nav instruction that will lead us to a dead end. It bills itself as a “hybrid” but mongrel means much the same thing. And that’s what it is. A flea-infested, built-for-profit mutt that will be the death of us all.
The best car of the decade is the exact opposite of the Pious. It’s not a mongrel at all. It’s a thoroughbred. And it was built not because it was easy but because it was, on paper, completely impossible. It is, of course, the Bugatti Veyron.
It all began when Volkswagen bought Bugatti, and Ferdinand Piëch — the mad-eyed boss — decided he wanted his new acquisition to make a 1,000 horsepower car that could do 400kph (248mph).
No other car company could even attempt such a thing, because the accountants would make a fuss about the cost and then the shareholders would stop it. But Volkswagen is an unusual company with a curious structure, and, as a result, the boss could be as mad as he liked. And fire anyone who failed him. Which he did.
Of course, it is not that hard to produce a 1,000-horsepower car that can hit 400kph — once. But Piëch was talking about a normal road car that could be driven round town like a Golf and last a thousand years.
This is not like asking for a car to be a wife and mistress. It is like asking for a car that is a wife, a mistress, an Olympic athlete, a housekeeper, a butler, your best mate and a supermodel. It was an unprecedented undertaking.
The British company charged with making the Veyron’s gearbox provides Formula One teams with their cogs and has a fine reputation for reliability. But on a track, the boxes have to last for four hours and that wouldn’t do with a Veyron — a car that was more powerful and more torquey than anything in F1.
The aerodynamicists had a similar problem. They took the car to Sauber, the F1 team, which shrugged and said it only had experience of cars up to 360kph (227mph).
The issue here is simple. You can make a shape that cleaves the air well at 400kph — about the same speed as a second world war Hawker Hurricane — but at this kind of lick, it will barely be in contact with the road. Which would make cornering a tad tricky.
And if you try to keep the tyres pressed down into the tarmac, the shape of the body will make 400kph impossible.
The first prototype had a top speed of 370kph (230mph), so to try to find more speed, the wind-tunnel boys decided to fit smaller door mirrors. A bad idea because the originals were producing downforce. Fitting smaller ones meant the car tried to get airborne as the speed climbed.
Every single person who worked on this project adopts a thousand-yard stare when asked to talk about it. The engineers who struggled to cool the W16 engine. The people who made the tyres. Even the people who made the £1,000 indicator stalks.
To drive, it’s nothing special, if I’m being brutally honest. Its engine makes a noise like a bison’s tummy rumble, and round a track it’s fast but not what you’d call thrilling. It isn’t that much of a looker either.
But Concorde suffered from problems like these. It was noisy and cramped, and while the staff asked what wine you’d like from the cellar, you knew there was no such thing. I bet it didn’t handle very well either. And yet ...
It’s the same story with the Veyron. It may be no more special at ordinary speeds than a Golf, but you always know that it can do 254mph. And you know how much blood was spilt so that it could. That’s what makes this car so special.
And what makes me sad is that in our lifetimes, we will never see such a thing again. Like Concorde, it came, it conquered and then it went, and there is not a single car company on earth these days with the time, the money or the inclination to see if 1,010 horsepower and 500kph might be possible.
The Veyron, then. The last great hurrah.
Jeremy Clarkson Last hurrahs of the petrol age review | Driving - Times Online
