Writing a regular column is one of the hardest tasks facing an automotive journalist. The prose has to be strong - the text almost certainly won't be supported with pictures - and it has to be opinionated. No one wants to read a wishy-washy column where nothing is said and little is meant. No, a column should be thought-provoking and interesting.
So it's not surprising that some of AutoSpeed's strongest writing of the last 100 issues has been found in our columns...
From the Editor
The difference between unbiased, impartial journalism and sycophantic, obsequious kowtowing should be plain to practitioners of the profession. On one hand you write the truth, on the other you bend it to suit vested interests. It's obvious to the journalist - but much harder for a reader to pick. Sure, if the writer has made it self-evident, you can see that the product review or news piece that you're being fed is simply trash. But what of sins of omission - where the nasties are simply left out?
That was Julian Edgar in October 1998 feeling cross about companies that lap up product praise, but become abusive and unhelpful when equal (or even lesser) measures of criticism are handed out. Some businesses really do believe our function is to provide them with positive publicity... weird.
He was also fired up with the credibility given to some who contribute to internet discussion groups:
Unfortunately, often these people have very little idea of what they are talking about. Their advice is frequently misleading, overly simplistic, incorrect or irrelevant. In fact, very frequently, it is all four. Concepts are frequently reduced to absurd analogies - "clouds banging together cause thunder" is almost de rigeur. Rules of thumb become physical certainties. People, proud to display the smattering of knowledge that they think they have, build upon premises of sand, making constructs that rapidly become laughable. Their acolytes, safe in their belief of their gurus' omnipotence, follow blindly. When - often 'if' - someone with real knowledge of the subject points out the shortfalls, or actually provides the correct solution, the followers often ignore the expert, instead assuming that every contribution to the debate has equal worth. Absurd statements become democratically agreed upon truths.
With people hiding behind anonymity - sometimes with multiple pseudonyms - there is no credibility quality control, no curtailment of the fanciful, no relationship between statement and personal achievement. Vested interests are often disguised; some posters delight in deliberately promulgating falsehoods. The person writing the post might be an expert in all things automotive - or one of the biggest tossers of all time.(April 2000)
In addition to Editor Edgar, Matt Cremer, Dave Rubie and Deputy Editor Michael Knowling all write columns.
Forg's Dark Corner
Matt Cremer writes Forg's Dark Corner, a column which over the issues has varied from expressing bemusement at the foibles of cars and their owners, to the defence of a beleaguered man moving from ownership of a Liberty RS to a Vo-...er...a Vol-.... a Volv-.... a Volvo! There, got it out.... Perhaps it was this experience accompanying friends on a car-buying spree that narrowed his car purchasing viewpoint:
The final port of call was the Subaru/Honda dealer. The dealership was wrapped in a hessian sack, balloons were flying, streamers flapping, and people with rock-hard smiles and clipboards were waiting to valet-park your car at no extra cost. (Nov 1998)
But being a Volvo owner has given him certain advantages:
I've made no secret of the embarrassing fact that I've become somewhat of a Volvo fanatic. Sure, it's something that's rather shameful to talk about in public, and certainly leads to a red face on occasion (like the recent trip to dinner with friends when I was standing next to the car while we said goodbye to each other, and an attractive young lady walked past and backhanded me with a sarcastic "Nice Volvo!"). But one advantage I think it gives me is that I am able to judge, with some expertise and without prejudice, the ugliness of cars. (April 2000)
These paragraphs attracted only wry smiles from our readers, but we were deluged with email when he cut loose on bikes.
I've been told there are normal people out there riding bicycles. These are people who don't have this huge throbbing vein appear on their forehead, their faces turning crimson, when somebody mentions the word "car". These people don't have a huge chip on their shoulder, aren't delighted when they annoy a motorist or damage a car, and don't delight in dressing up in fluorescent skin-tight lycra clothing. But I don't know where these people are...(March 1999)
But with bikes he was only just getting warmed up - it was really 4WD's he wanted to talk about!
The list of what's wrong with SUV's and 4WD's is so long I doubt I can write it all down here. To start with, they're big and unwieldy, with road manners somewhat closer to those of a semi-trailer than a real car. With very few exceptions they have acceleration most kindly described as "modest", leaving you hanging out on the other side of the road in overtaking manoeuvres, wishing you were driving a 1976 Corolla with a two-speed automatic transmission because it has more power. And those 4WD's that are able to exceed "modest" are busy chewing through fuel as though they weighed multiple tonnes. Hang on, they do weigh multiple tonnes ...
And the handling ... ohhh, the handling. There are two types of suspension these things have, which is good for variety I suppose. There's the axle-bolted-solid-to-the-chassis type, where every little road irregularity is transmitted into the vehicle, throwing it off line; and there's the marshmallow-wallow style, which will leave passengers prone to seasickness grabbing for the paper bags. And some of them manage to combine the best of both; a good dose of bodyroll coupled with jarring shocks, bouncing the vehicle all over the tarmac. (May 1999)
And his gun just kept on blazing...
On a recent trip into the city for a late night movie, it occurred to me that the density of joke vehicles has been steadily increasing over the years. Virtually every second private car driving through the CBD on a Friday or Saturday night is one of these plastic-laden mobile Look-At-Me signs. The bad-taste car fad that I had expected to die off ten years ago has just been getting worse.
You know the comedy-capers cars I mean. They're overloaded with some combination of oversized wheels, deep heavy chin spoilers and sideskirts, huge rear wings, wheel-arch extensions, oversized exhaust tips, large bass-drivers, and stickers and decals. More often than not, something loosely classifiable as music reverberates out of the thing, although once again it usually matches the poor taste indicated by the stick-on parts ...(June 1999)
Michael's Speed Zone
Michael Knowling's best have come when he's been tired and emotional... normally as a result of a disaster involving a car.
Crrruuunch!
The words "#*^%ing Subaru!" exploded from my mouth and out the open front windows. "Here's another gearbox rebuild coming up," screamed through my mind and I started to sweat profusely. How come everything like this happens to me - am I jinxed? Am I too harsh on the car? Or maybe the Suby has the gearbox engineering of a Bernie Jones Special... Sitting stranded in the middle of the shopping centre intersection, I tried like damn to find a gear - any gear at all!
Crunch, grind, grate - today wasn't my day.
"Hey! Trolley Boy, come over 'ere and give me a hand pushing this car!" I yelled.
Perhaps there was a harsh tone in my voice, but that hat wearin' homey was over in a blink! Veins pumpin' and eye balls poppin', we pushed that reluctant AWD drivetrain into a (luckily) vacant parking bay. I hastily thanked the poor lad.
"Err, um so what's wrong?" he probed.
"Gearbox," I quipped - now get lost. Well I didn't actually say "get lost", but he saw that's what I was thinking. He accordingly vanished deep into his sea of rattly trolleys.(November 1998)
But the next mishap was even bigger - and a lot more expensive.
As I lay on the hospital bed, clad in a neck brace and staring up at the fluorescent lights, a thousand thoughts were jumping around inside my head. Not one of them was remotely good. There isn't anything to be jolly about when you've been in a car accident - especially when it involves a brand new Italian car that's just been loaned to you...
Rewinding about 12 hours, boss Julian Edgar had lobbed me the keys to Alfa Romeo's tremendous new 156 - mine for a week, and my very first AutoSpeed test car! Not one to waste an opportunity like that, I intended to drive and drive and drive... And so when a friend finished the grave-yard shift at his work, the two of us and a couple of female friends thought it would be a good opportunity to take the car on a leisurely cruise and kick back.
But our mood (and a whole lot more) was abruptly shattered by the brainlessness of the driver of a Hyundai Excel.
After the impact, I felt all the blood in my body rushing and I vice-gripped the steering wheel, teeth clenched. I felt like a kettle about to boil over. Our car had come to rest a few metres into the vacant intersection, so I quickly threw a U-turn to make sure the stupid *%^@ that had rear-ended us had no chance of getting away. We pulled up behind their significantly mangled vehicle and I hustled myself around to the back of our red beauty to sight the carnage. Oooh, shit...(September 1999)
Sophisticated Side
Dave Rubie's life is a mesh of family and cars and work. Mostly family and cars.
I was facing the classic situation of "in comes the baby, out goes the sports car". Frankly, I couldn't believe it. Sure, there are numerous ads in the Saturday papers from sweat-beaded fathers who have fallen into the same situation, but I just figured I'd be smarter and be able to weasel out of it. The Spider was an integral part of how I defined myself; it attracted attention and admiring glances, puffed out my ego, told the world I was affluent and stylish. I couldn't let all that disappear and be just another shopping mall-crawling Dad in a Simpsons T-shirt and a sensible sedan. (Jan 1999)
And when that new baby has joined another child, other car aspects also needed to alter...
"Toddler" driving means one hand on the wheel, one eye on the road and the other hand and eye desperately searching for whatever object the toddler has just thrown away. Keeping in your own lane is somewhat of a challenge when you're not looking at the road, but it's worth it just to keep the little darling quiet. Toddlers do this for fun some of the time.
The best part is they are mostly incapable of telling you exactly what it was that they threw away. This means that the rear-view mirror should be permanently skewed downwards so you can track what the last thing was in your toddler's hands. There's nothing worse than fishing around on the floor of your family truckster, digging through mounds of toys, 3 month old chips, discarded Chup-a-chups and other disgusting sticky objects, triumphantly retrieving Barney only to find the kid wanted Pooh Bear the whole time. All the while you've inadvertently caused three accidents while your car weaved all over the road like you were fishing for vodka instead of toys.(July 1999)
But our favourite columns from Dave have been about the relationship between man and machine, that indefinable connection which makes driving a vehicle - any vehicle - such a joy. Even a beaten-up old truck.
Sort the gearshift first. I always like to find the gears before I start any vehicle, just in case the clutch is frozen and the handbrake is weak. The clutch seemed OK, poking out from the floor at the angle that means you step on it rather than push it forward. The gearshift itself was a long delicate walking stick whose connection to the gearbox wasn't immediately apparent. I did eventually find five gears (and reverse) hiding in there, although the spring-loaded mechanism that returns the shifter to the 3rd/4th plane had long gone to Busted Truck Part heaven. It was a diesel, so I paused a little before twisting the key through to the start. The glow plug warning light disappeared and she rattled into life.
She? I already liked this truck! It was also about the seediest, dodgiest piece of transport I'd ever sat in - let alone driven on the highway. The engine sounded gruff but idled as smoothly as could be expected. Confidence rising, I pulled out of the carpark and gingerly prodded the brakes to see what they were like. Like nothing, is what they were like. I pushed a bit harder, still nothing. Harder again, gritting my teeth now. Reluctantly, the truck slowed. With a grunt I pulled out onto Pennant Hills road (no power steering either) and did my level best to keep up with traffic.
To be a smooth driver in a truck is to be well rewarded with steady forward progress. Try fighting it and suddenly you're scrabbling for gears, mistake compounding mistake and costing precious momentum. It's a lesson not so easily understood in a vehicle with plenty of power and agility, but one worth learning. I often wonder if modern cars, as competent and effective as transport as they are, haven't robbed a generation of the romance of the road, that sense of achievement of coaxing a not-so-dependable machine to your destination in reasonable time without breaking anything. Mechanical sympathy is hard to generate for a refrigerator, and increasingly so for a blandly competent modern car. I'll gladly take the modern car if I'm in a hurry next time; I don't think I'll enjoy it as much as that little beat-up truck.... (February 1999)
His description of New York taxis was just wonderful:
The "Crown Vic" is to New York taxis what the Checker cab used to be. Big, accident-warning yellow barges swimming in packs down Manhattan's busy avenues, their terminally destroyed suspensions allowing them to wallow and heave rhythmically up and down on the uneven pavement as if that were the way they breathed. (November 1999)
But Dave's writing is not always deep and meaningful! In a light-hearted piece, he penned some manufacturers' warning stickers appropriate for a range of cars.
The Ford Probe
"Note that in spite of the name and smooth contours of this vehicle, please to not attempt to insert it into your own or another's bodily orifice."
The Ford Falcon AU
"Ford Australia is an Equal Opportunity Employer, and as such have many blind people working in our styling and marketing departments. While the outside of your new Ford Falcon might be visually challenged, please take the time to run your hands over the contours and note that despite its repulsive looks, it's the nicest feeling new car available."
The Holden (Chevy) Suburban
"A map for the interior of this vehicle has been thoughtfully placed in the glovebox. The glovebox is located directly in front of the front passenger seat. Please contact your dealer if you have problems finding the front passenger seat."
The Mercedes A-Class
"It has come to the attention of Daimler-Chrysler that some A-Class owners are replacing their Mercedes badges with those from the "Fisher-Price" toy company. Daimler-Chrysler warns that your warranty may be void if you increase the perception that your A-Class' styling was copied from any child's toy, pending litigation from Fisher-Price."
I was also going to make a warning sticker for myself for my Alfetta:
"Please note: This car came pre-rusted from the factory and may exhibit new rust blemishes up to 30 years after delivery or until the entire car turns into some shiny aluminium drivetrain pieces and a brown pile of ferrous oxide. This process is a feature of cheap Eastern European steel and should not be reported to Alfa Romeo Australia. Please refrain from parking your vehicle anywhere near a new Alfa dealership, because in no way do Alfa Romeo Australia seek to be associated with your grotty old car or the grubby-handed old parts network that kept your abomination alive...." (March 1999)
But driving your own car - even if at times it's a rusting Alfa - sure does have some major advantages over public transport:
When you wait at the train station, everybody standing there looks completely normal. Just your normal, everyday guys and girls in their work wear, buying tickets and waiting patiently for the train to arrive. I was reassured by their obvious routine, assuming that the courteous shuffle used to obtain a train ticket was an indicator of the character of the rest of the ride.
Wrong. The train arriving turns them into freaks and morons. Freaks who want a seat and let you know with their elbow. Freaks who cough, splutter, dribble and sneeze in your left ear when hospital would be a more appropriate place for them. Freaks who think bathing is an optional part of their lifestyle and breaking wind is a valid public form of personal expression. Morons who treat the floor like a garbage bin (do they do this at home?). Morons who talk loudly on mobile phones so you can hear how pathetic their lives are. Morons with personal stereos cranked so loud that you expect blood to drip from their ears.
This particular morning we had a gaggle of giggling high school children, all bubble gum (which you know will end up stuck under the seat and shortly thereafter on your pants) and bitchiness. We had Sweaty Bob, short sleeved and scratching the parts that last night's binge drinking didn't reach. We had Scowling Susan, defending her forty centimetres of seat with elbows sharper than her countenance. We had Barry the Bored Businessman, attempting to read a broadsheet newspaper and looking like the required origami was getting the better of him.
We all studiously avoided eye contact and grimly settled in for the ordeal.
I sure loved that first train journey. Getting sneezed on, jostled, squeezed, all the while enjoying the air-conditioned compartment. Air-conditioning? I think all the air-conditioning units were bought from wrecked 1973 Ford Fairlanes, one unit per train carriage; barely enough to combat the heat from the Walkmans, let alone Sweaty Bob next to you trying to find out which pub he'll be collapsing in tonight.(February 2000)
But our very favourite Sophisticated Side is too good to be segmented into a 'best of' coverage like this. It's not flippant, or funny, or cool. It's just very good writing indeed. You'll find it in its entirety at "Sophisticated Side".
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