Someone with a cruel mouth and a spiteful demeanour announced the other day that all car advertisements should carry a government health warning. Driving while pregnant harms your baby. Cars lower your sperm count. That sort of thing.
The Rolls doesn’t look or feel old-fashioned at all. Everything, from the unpainted bonnet to the backwards-opening suicide doors to the rattan carpets and, yes, even the teak sunseeker-style decking on the back, makes it look as fresh and as futuristic as tomorrow morning’s papers. Maybe its back end is a bit wonky, but other than this the styling, roof up or down, is just the most inspired piece of automotive design since ever.
And then my wife came home.
Jesus H Christ, she said. What is that monstrosity doing here? An argument ensued. She said it was vulgar. I said she was from the Isle of Man so she’d know. Some doors slammed. And I went for a drive.
Oooh, it’s big. Sumo-wrestler big. Eighteen feet long and six feet wide big. But you ignore this and assume that because it’s a V12 convertible it must have some sportiness in its complexion. I did. But it doesn’t. In fact it is hard to think of anything in the world that is less sporty. Mount Fuji, perhaps. But that’s about it.
It is not built for speed or grip. It is not built to excite with its handling or the roar from its exhaust. It is not built to be safe, or frugal, or cheap. It is not built to do any of the things we have come to expect of cars in recent years. It is not built to go places.
It is built to arrive. This car, then, is not a car at all. It is a fanfare. A blast of trumpeteering to silence the crowds when someone special is about to enter the room. The reason why there’s no advertising for this car is simple. It’s built to advertise you.
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