Free Motorworld by Jeremy Clarkson Page B

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    Here was a dead person driving the nastiest car in the world with gibberish written on each of the wheels. It was funny, right up to the moment when he came back to life, got out of his car and started banging on our windows. He was shouting a lot, and foaming slightly at the corners of his mouth, but I got the picture. He wanted to do pugilism or whatever the sumo equivalent is, and I must confess the temptation to get out and kick him in the fork was strong, but instead we locked the doors.
    And continued to sit there, thanking God that we had not chosen to laugh at anyone in a black or dark-grey S-Class Mercedes-Benz.
    These cars are driven by members of the Yakuza, a Japanese criminal organisation which seems to spend a lot of its time chopping people up. Sometimes, when there is no one to dismember, they’ll chop themselves up.
    Basically, they seem to run the seamier side of Tokyo – prostitution, gambling and so on – which is obviously lucrative because many of the senior members have paid for plastic surgery to make themselves look more evil. Their foreheads are lowered, their eyebrows are moved closer together and assorted scars are added as a sort of garnish.
    They wear suits of a style not seen since Al Caponewent west, only the colours they choose are very nineties. Apple green is popular. So is sky blue.
    They don’t look when they cross the road either. I was chatting to one while strolling around looking for somewhere to do the televised interview, and when he wanted to cross the street, he just set off.
    An inconvenienced car driver dared to blow his horn and my interviewee simply looked in the direction of his bodyguard and cocked his head at the hooter-blower’s registration plate. The poor chap had to spend all that night trying to pick up his teeth with two broken arms.
    If a Yakuza member upsets his seniors, he is forced to cut off a finger of his choosing. They’re that brutal.
    This is why you don’t laugh at them in traffic jams, and also why Mercedes do not want them as customers. You see, if Mr Yakuza decides he doesn’t want to pay for his car, he won’t and there’s not a lot Mr Merc salesman can do about it.
    I heard stories about the Japanese underground movement, about how they made the Mafia look like the Brownies, but it wasn’t until I actually met two of them that I believed it.
    So here’s a tip. If ever you’re over there, you can ignore all the rules of the road but if ever you see a black Mercedes coming up behind, for God’s sake get out of its way.
    This, of course, is hard in Tokyo, because you can’t really pull over anywhere. You certainly can’t park.
    All on-street parking was filled up in 1957 so newcomers must resort to multi-storey car parks, which have to be seen to be believed. You drive onto a turntable whichspins your car round, so that it’s pointing into what looks like a cave.
    When you drive in, you find yourself on a ramp at the bottom of a lift shaft. A multitude of flashing lights signal that you have about six seconds to get out of the car, out of the building and, if you’ve any sense, on the next plane to somewhere else.
    What happens when you’re out is that the car is whisked away by what can only be described as a giant rotating vending machine. When you want it back, you put your money in the slot, punch in your code and your car is brought back to terra firma. Amazing.
    And a damn sight better than risking it on the street. If you get it wrong, and it’s easy in a country where you can’t even understand the writing, you will be clamped, which involves having a yellow tag fastened to your wing mirror.
    Astonishingly, the Japanese toddle off to the police station and pay to have it removed before driving off. Seriously, the shame of being seen with a yellow tag on your door mirror is enough of a deterrent. I told you it was odd over there.
    If you’ve parked really seriously, a tow-truck takes your car to the other side of the