Free Clarkson on Cars by Jeremy Clarkson

clutched our mouths and went green when presented with this sort of addenda.
    A problem here is that while they realise the British and the Japanese have different tastes, they seem to think we are like the Americans. I haven’t heard such a loud chorus of ‘Oh no we’re not’ since I was at a pantomime back in 1968.
    Funnily enough, Daihatsu are one of the better interior stylists. God knows how they do it.
    It’s hard, as I said earlier, to form cast-iron opinions after two days of fact finding, but certainly, the Japanese cannot be underestimated.
    We already know that a great many Japanese cars are equal, if not superior, to their European equivalents but this is not the issue here for a couple of reasons. Firstly, such discussions are getting boring now and secondly, Britain, at least, is protected by import quotas.
    It’s the latter point which is what I’m most concerned about and not just because every Japanese company, including relative minnows like Daihatsu, have either established some kind of assembly base in Europe or are about to do so.
    No, come 1992 when internal borders between member states of the EEC are broken down, the gentlemen’s agreement that currently limits Japanese imports to 11 per cent of the UK market will be worth less than a Lira.
    Daihatsu admit they expect to sell more cars in Britain after 1992.
    One day, someone is going to have to get round a table with the Japanese manufacturers to see what can be done; and I don’t envy whoever gets this job.
    He’ll feel honoured with all the bowing, he’ll be overawed at the politeness, particularly if he’s French, he might even feel sorry for them. Certainly, long periods of sitting on the floor will make him uncomfortable and, thus, he might concede more than he might otherwise.
    One thing, though: he must never be rude. I learned this by telling the driver of a Toyota Crown Royale that his car was very nasty. Luckily, we moved off before his verbal abuse turned into a full-scale kung fu demonstration.
    We must face facts. In ten years’ time, I shall be driving a Daihatsu Charade.
    If it’s the GTti, I won’t mind an iota.

Pedal Pusher
    If the Queen were to have a sex change, one of your eyebrows might shift inadvertently upwards an inch or two. If Mike Tyson were to be exposed as a closet ballet dancer, the other would surely join it.
    If I announced I had bought myself a bicycle you would faint and probably die.
    The bicycle was not invented for people with beer bellies like barrage balloons and lungs like Swiss cheese. People like me in other words.
    Nevertheless, two weeks ago, in a moment of unparalleled rashness, I decided to invest in a three-speed Raleigh Wayfarer.
    This is why.
    Platform boots may come and lamps with oily bubbles in them may go, but the White Horse is here to stay.
    This drinking establishment situated in the heart of Sloanedom, on Parsons Green in south-west London, regularly takes in excess of £4000 a day. And much of this income is my personal responsibility.
    Since it became fashionable to drink there some six or seven years ago, a host of competitors have opened up, ranging from champagne bars to riverside inns to spit and sawdust pubs resonating with some of that renowned London character.
    But they’ve failed and you still can’t get a drink in the White Horse without queuing up for hours. Days even.
    Since I moved to Fulham back in 1984 I have lived within an easy stroll of this cultural oasis, this spiritual haven. And it has therefore been no hardship to drive home from work, abandon the wheels, and sally forth on foot for an evening spent expanding the girth. I do it a lot.
    The trouble is, though, that I recently moved to a new flat which is simply too far away. I once tried walking but ended up in an oxygen tent. I’ve tried driving, but tomato juice gets to be as dull as wallpaper paste after 23 pints of the stuff – no matter how much Tabasco they put in it. I’ve even tried finding a