Category: The European

When I arrived in Australia, I saw a land of milk and honey. A land full of sun-kissed blondes and brunettes, sand and sun. I had landed in Bondi in the middle of December after a trip to Thailand which deviated as far from the conscientious traveller as you can imagine. Eat Thai food? You’re kidding. We watched James Bond in Siam Square after having eaten at Hungry Jacks and at McDonalds and ingratiated ourselves with every local within 500m of the Kho Sahn Road and no further for fear of missing out on happy hour.

Australia looked to be just more of the same boozing and sitting on the beach and I loved it the moment I saw it. My mate Chris, as big an automotive tragic as me, was immediately taken by the cars here. We would cross four lanes of traffic to see what would now qualify merely as “a shitbox”. But, to us at the time, it was like landing on another planet and discovering squirrels with two heads. Every so often a bogan would roll past in a VN Commodore with enough modifications to make Max Rockatansky’s Interceptor look like an OAP special and, having been raised on one litre French hatchbacks, we would stop and drool. Yeah, I know.

Arrrrrrrr, ooh arr me hearties. September the 19th (mark it in your diarrry) is International Talk Like a Pirate Day, and for people not inclined to wear pink or buy a bear, these sort of days form an integral part of the calendar year. While your colleagues may applaud your Movember cultivation in the name of charity, some events are best left for the self, an indulgent ego trip for the soul to enlight and enliven the 262nd day of the year. It’s either that or celebrate the Solomon Islands joining the United Nations.

A little research had me reciting some Pirateese with far greater competence than when I nervously entered my fifth form GCSE Oral French exam. The entire charade revolved around me actually speaking another language other than francofied english for the benefit of the Yorkshire exam board, represented in this case by a small Sanyo tape recorder on a desk in a cold, unused classroom. My meek attempt to ask directions to the railway station had my dear French teacher waving manically the direction of the relevant verb tense behind the tape recorder as though it might see him with me moving from present to past like a manic fifteen year old Doctor Who. A charades champion he was not, and a B was, frankly, far greater reward than I deserved, thanks in part to his valiant effort.

The language of Pirate on the other hand revolves around a lot of poor grammar and a lot of ‘arrr’. For example, when stuck for something to say simply utter ‘arrr’. For example:

Pirate One: Me boys n me we was cuttin the ‘ole bunch of lubbers into pieces and sendin’ ’em to Davey Jones’ locker, so we was.
Pirate Two: Arrr.

If only I could have arrr-ed my way to La Rochelle railway station.

Those of you who follow The European may have been wondering where I’ve been these last few weeks. Some speculated that I went to ground for suggesting Audi designers as lazy and had been stalked by some polo-necked hitmen sent out to crush my fingers in the tight and visually arresting shutlines of a new A8. Except there aren’t any on the A8, so I’d have been fine.

Truth is, it’s Christmas-ish and frankly I couldn’t be arsed to write a bloody thing. The weather has been miserable in Sydney but rather than take to my ageing Thinkpad and bash the keys until something resembling an article ended up on the screen in front of me, I took my ageing Thinkpad and bashed the keys until I found something interesting on Youtube instead. Given I have addictively low levels of brow, I tend to end up watching the sort of crap that doesn’t even get you a KFC voucher from Australia’s Funniest Home Videos. Whether you know when you’ve hit rock bottom is a matter of debate but it was somewhere between watching the french version of Avril Lavignes ‘Girlfriend’ (hey hey you you, je n’aime pas ta copine, no way no way, tu as besoin d’une nouvelle) and discovering (late) a notorious video known casually as ‘2 girls 1 cup’. Either way, I knew I had officially exhausted web 2.0, which lead me to something to called a ‘book’ which lead to something more visually stimulating and known as a ‘magazine’.

Come December 24th, with the door to our other business firmly locked, my partner and I follow the star all the way to the nearest newsagent and pay our respects to the new born January issues of a variety of glossy monthlies. Played out in Newslink is the alternative ending of the global finacial crisis where we end up weighed down with booty in an orgy of spending. Hers, being mainly local titles with bylines like ‘Why We Don’t Need Men’ next to ‘How To Satisfy Your Man’ invariably comes in for less than twenty bucks. Mine however takes the financial might usually reserved to rescuing British banks as it composes ten airfreight issues of whichever car mags take my fancy (all of them).

This week Audi launched its latest fat saloon, the A8. Some might describe the A8 as ‘the third way’, avoiding the default choice of BMW’s 7 series and the big Benz S Class. Arguably, the A8 isn’t even a third way any more, Audi having craftily ensured that a variety of Variety starlets are caught by paps, sans knickers, stepping out of the Ingolstadt liner in front of waiting cameras at every opportunity. Left of centre is now the mainstream and certainly this is how Audi want you to think about it.

In the three horse race that the large executive car market really is, it’s actually then in last place, and it’s hard to describe it as anything less than stuck behind the barriers while the S Class trots around the winner’s enclosure. Audi knows this, which is why they try so fah-king hard to make you interested in the A8. Cutting edge Bauhaus design has dominated Audi cars for a decade or more now but then, just as they begin their colouring in of the new design, the new Jag XJ arrives and takes the beauty crown. Fretting, the Audi exterior design team put down their crayons and gave up, leaving it identical to the last one. Instead the designers threw whatever budget they saved on outside design on the gadgets inside, shoving touch screen this and widescreen that into every soft touch surface that you’d care to look at. A few gadgets will surely get the punters in.

It’s not older, it’s been aged.

So, I have fifty grand burning a hole in my pocket or at least sitting in my bank. Technically my share portfolio. Technically I don’t even have it. I’m lying again. Let me explain.

If you’re as much as a car bore as me then you’ll have played this mental game yourself, and for the amateurs it usually starts with a million dollar budget but the pro’s will set a much tougher budget for themselves, typically less than a hundred grand. The task is simple: set your limit and then go on the hunt for something to satisfy your inner driver.

Since its launch AUSmotive has been a solo affair. After 18 months it’s now time to branch out with a new column called The European. Who or what is The European? Well, that is a closely guarded secret as you will read below.

AUSmotive has been bringing you the best and most up-to-date daily European motoring news in Australia for some time now. It has a reputation for honest, up front stories about the European motoring scene and the most interesting motoring stories from around the world.

Rather foolishly, that’s all on the line now.

With the swagger of a drunken showboater on Melbourne Cup day, The European will appear every couple of weeks to tell it like it is. No fence sitting. No traction control. You’re either with me or against me.

To protect my family, it’s essential that I remain anonymous. The last time I wrote for a daily newspaper, where I stated that from time to time I drove with my fog lights on “for the glamour”, we were inundated with emails threatening us with cheap phone deals, unclaimed African lottery winnings and penis extensions (although police say no link was ever established to anything I had ever written and that it was entirely because I had been browsing lecherous websites).

I can’t take that chance again. I’m no longer ready to live so far over the edge, my face and name known from Taree to Townsville, so it’s important I’m only ever known as…

…The European.

Watch this space.