by Rufus J. Flywheel (22 Jul 02)

One of the most common problems a motoring correspondent faces when taking part in a social gathering occurs when he or she is forced to reveal what they do for what might loosely be described as a living. There are about half a dozen possible reactions, of which the most hurtful is the one that goes, "Why couldn't you get a proper job?" Hurtful and difficult to explain, actually, since my own reasons for not being able to get a proper job are very complex and have to be followed by the immediate shooting of the person asking the question.

The most common reaction, however, is an outpouring of poorly disguised envy. How wonderful it must be, the questioner assumes, to spend one's life driving around in expensive new cars. The small matter of then having to sit down and write however many words the editor has demanded must appear on his desk the following Tuesday (an amount which is generally 200 words less than will actually be printed, once the subs have spat on their hands and got down to the job of reducing the carefully crafted copy to shrapnel) is rarely considered.

Nor is any thought given to the circumstances of actually driving these cars at a press launch. I admit that these events are generally based at splendid establishments. I concede that a slap-up dinner, an evening in the bar and a night in a sumptuous room (or shower thereof, depending on how the evening in the bar panned out) are generally involved.

But none of this is designed, despite public opinion to the contrary, to make us feel more kindly towards the vehicles we are about to test. It is designed to take our minds off the dreadful company we are required to keep, viz. other motoring correspondents.

The Quick And The Dead-Beat

The hacks in this business are broadly divided into two camps. On my right, the boy racers, who appear for breakfast at 7:45am and are already hitting the rev limiter before they have opened the driver's door. On my left, the old lags, who appear for breakfast at 11:15am and drive once round the block, stopping for a quick snooze on the way, before returning in time for an early lunch at 11:27am.

The former are all indistinguishable from one another, and are usually only in the job for a couple of years before moving on to earn millions as television presenters or PR directors. The latter are characters, and in some cases become the stuff of legend.

One such, now no longer among us, was called Geoff Rook. Actually he wasn't called that at all, but my solicitor (a stuffy fellow, though useful in a crisis) has informed me that for the purposes of this column a pseudonym would be prudent. As a further precaution, he entreats me to explain to all the Geoff Rooks in my voluminous readership that none of the following refers to you, so you can put those libel suits away.

Anyway, about my old mate Geoff. We were both present at the launch, several years ago, of the Daihatsu Applause, a car now barely remembered by the motoring public. Daihatsu had had the witty notion of presenting us all with watches on our arrival. Not bad little items, as it happens. Shaped to look like Delage radiators, I seem to remember, though I didn't have mine for long enough to take in many of the details. It was converted to £50 of the Flywheel pension fund in the car park of a motorway service station on the journey home.

The point about these watches was that they were not, despite the inexplicable fashion of those days, digital. They were analogue. Which meant that they had hands. Two hands in fact. Which of course is what you need if you want to applaud anything. Daihatsu . . . Applause, you see? This is what passes for wit among motor industry PR people.

Back To My Man Rook

Anyway, about Geoff. Following tradition, he arrived for breakfast shortly after 11am, grumbled his way through a plate of bacon and mushrooms, and then toddled out to the driveway of the hotel, there to encounter a line of white Daihatsus, or Daihatsi, or whatever the plural is.

This displeased him. "Hate white cars," he growled. "Never drive the things. Give me something else."

"I'm sorry, Geoff, we don't have anything else," said the Daihatsu PR man. "It's white or nothing."

"Nonsense," said Geoff. "Look over there. That's a silver one. I'll take that."

"I'm afraid not," said the PR man. "We can't allow you to drive the silver one. Our insurance won't cover it."

"I'm not driving any of those damn white objects," countered Geoff. "I insist on taking the silver one."

"It's just not possible," said the PR man, building up to a climax. "There is no way we can have you driving the silver car."

"Why not?" Geoff demanded.

"Because, Geoff," the PR man explained, "the silver car is a Ford Sierra."

Good old Geoff. They don't make them like him any more.

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