Gridlock (13 page)

Of
course
they accept that there are
genuinely disabled
people and they would not
dream
of depriving them of a place, but really, sometimes, you
do wonder.
After all, are these people
really
so disabled? Lots of people get aches and pains, they don't all go putting stickers on their cars.

It was because of this type of thinking that Deborah had no objection to traffic wardens, she was merely surprised to discover that Toss was one.

'I just thought that a cool, black guy like you would be a DJ or something,' she added.

Toss looked at Deborah slightly pityingly, as a fond uncle might look at an idiot child, or an MP might look at a constituent.

'Listen, girl, you're not thinking straight right? You have not thought this one through at all. Let me ask you this. If all the cool geezers was doing the scratchin' and the mixin' and the "ooh get down-in" right? Then who would there be to get down? Who would there be to strut? No-one, that's who. Check out the theory, girl, it's watertight.'

'So why a traffic warden?' asked Deborah, who could not fault Toss's disco theory.

'Because, girl, I like the streets. I like to cruise around and hang and chill and check things out. This way I get to do it all day,
and
I get a wicked uniform, know what I mean,' and Toss laughed, 'aha ha ha.'

'Is your name really Toss?' asked Deborah who wanted to get everything sorted out at once.

'Nah, it's Tosh, Harold Wilson Tosh. But all the kids at school, right? they called me Toss. Which is understandable, y'nah what I mean? Because like Tosh to Toss is only one letter change to turn it into a wicked joke you see, girl? So I said to them, I said OK, guys, you can call me Toss right, because right, and get this, because right,
I
don't give a
. . . Wicked riposte, right? Aha ha ha.' Toss had clearly told this one before, and it had not improved with age.

'Quite wicked,' said Deborah rather doubtfully, and she let Toss have her spare room. That had been three years ago and Toss had not changed.

'Toss,' said Deborah, 'Geoffrey's going to have to stay here for a while. There are some people trying to kill him,' Deborah added.

'Don't worry about it, Geoffrey,' said Toss. 'You'll get used to it. I'm a traffic warden, I have people trying to kill me every day.'

'No, Toss,' said Geoffrey. 'Really trying to kill me.'

'Exactly, guy, that's what I'm saying,' replied Toss. 'I need a gun, I need armour and a gun. A traffic warden is at the
sharp end
of the twentieth century, guy. When the dust settles, we
are
the enforcers, the last line of law. After us, man, it's anarchy. We are
that
close to the edge,' and Toss proferred his thumb and forefinger to emphasize his point. 'They should do a film you know? It would be wicked! Clint Eastwood as a traffic warden, right? He gives this car a ticket OK? thus keeping open the city's life-lines, and letting the ambulance with the little girl in a coma get to hospital, right? Then the geezer who owns the car comes up with his portable phone and his cheese and ham croissant, and his Psion organizer—'

'Yeah, Toss . . .' Geoffrey attempted to interject, but Toss was on a roll.

'And the guy starts crying right? He says, "Oh go on, mate, let me off, I've only been gone three and a half days, I'll move it now. Go on, mate, be a mate." And Clint says, "Sorry, guvnor, but it's the law. I'm really sorry, but I have to do it." And the guy says, "Well you little fucking shit, give 'em a uniform they think they're fucking Hitler. I hope you die of cancer, cunt!" And then Clint gets out his Magnum and says, "I keep the city alive, arsehole, and you're dead." Then he shoots the geezer and has his VW Golf crushed up into a tiny cube. It'd be a brilliant film, wouldn't it?'

Toss spent his entire day being either pleaded with or vilified, and, like many people in high-stress jobs, he tended to take his work home with him.

'It is mayhem out there! The minute word goes round that anything above fifteen inches of London kerbstone has become vacant it is a battle zone, guy! They're all screaming "mine, mine" and spitting and snarling and throwing boiled sweets and road atlases at each other. People will
kill
to park! They will kill
themselves
to park. There are geezers out there will eat their own
testicles
to get just one wheel within a yard of the pavement, you hear what I'm saying? We are talking Conan the Barbarian in a Vauxhall Astra! He is growing horns and a forked tail here! He is a
Panzer Commander]
Left hand down, right hand down, left hand down, right hand down, left hand down, right hand—'

'Toss!!' said Deborah.

'Both hands down at the same time.'

'The point is, Toss,' said Geoffrey, 'there's just too many private cars.'

'You telling me!' said Toss. 'It's like trying to get fifteen heads into the same hat, it
cannot be done
!!'

'Well exactly,' said Geoffrey, 'and what we as a society have to do . . .'

Deborah could stand it no longer and decided to go out for a drive.

Having turned off the news Digby sat alone in his hotel room for hours, until eventually steeling himself to the awful task of writing a letter of resignation – a letter that would end his meteoric political career. Wearily he crossed to the writing desk. The chocolate wafer which the maid had left beside the kettle, and was going to be his treat, seemed hollow now (it was), the neat little soaps occasioned him no glee, his life was over.

'My dear Prime Minister,' he began, pausing to consider the correct wording for such a momentous letter. 'Deeply though I regret that our long association . . .' There was a rustle of paper. Somebody had pushed a note under his door. Digby picked it up and read it, there was not much to read.

'From the Office of the Prime Minister. Please be informed that your resignation as Minister for Transport has been accepted.'

It was the cruellest blow of all. Not even an 'I shall always appreciate your friendship'. Drink/drive resignations were treated more kindly than this. Tears welled up in Digby's eyes and as they dropped onto the Prime Minister's note, or rather the note from the Prime Minister's office for it was not even signed, Digby had but one thought in his head – to get Sam Turk, the man he wrongly believed had destroyed him.

Why had Turk done it? Hadn't Digby apologized enough? Why destroy him? And in such a cruel cynical manner too. Such a wicked, vicious blow to deliver; to destroy him over railways! What vindictive irony, to force Digby to sacrifice his entire career in transport over a railways announcement!

Digby could not even take any satisfaction from the thought that Turk would be as irritated by the spoke that Digby's improvised speech had put in the road wheel as Ingmar Bresslaw had been. All he knew was that Turk's punishment of Digby for ticking him off over the Patents Office break-in had been terrible indeed. A huge, cruel, unjustified punishment far in excess of Digby's crime. Digby swore he would remember Sam Turk for what, Digby supposed, Turk had done. And Digby did.

Way, way above Digby's head, in every sense of the word, further up the road at the top of his hotel, in the Prime Minister's penthouse bunker, a crisis meeting was in progress. The Prime Minister and the Home Secretary were listening to Simon Rodney Butterface in gloomy silence. Ingmar Bresslaw was also in attendance, plus one or two other ministers – empty suits so lacking in distinction that at times it was possible to forget that they were in the room at all.

Simon Rodney Butterface was the chairman of the party. He was considered an intellectual, which, by the sad standards of the Cabinet of the time, meant that he knew who Shakespeare was. It was Simon Rodney Butterface's job to ensure that the party would be re-elected at the next election. A job which, up until now, had merely involved delivering the official pompous sneer at anything that the Leader of the Opposition said and sending his long, damp tongue slithering along the corridors of certain 'proudly independent' British newspapers until it located an editor's anus in which to gently insert itself. Not arduous tasks by any means, and Simon Rodney Butterface had, up until the evening in question, had plenty of time to work on a slim volume of verse he was compiling entitled
The Glory that is England.
However, tonight was different. The party was in crisis and Simon Rodney Butterface's plump face sweated under his Brylcreemed hair.

'Parkhurst's speech was a disaster, Prime Minister,' he was saying. 'As I know you are aware, we were absolutely counting on the secret Road-Building Agenda to provide a short-term financial stimulus in the run-up to the next election. The sort of plans we were preparing to sneak through would have provided up to half a million extra jobs. If we cancel our plans, the result will be that we will fight the next general election with the true state of the economy obvious to the electorate, in which case of course we will lose.'

The Prime Minister visibly blanched at this gruesome reminder of political mortality.

'Oh I'm quite sure we could never lose with you at the helm, Prime Minister,' slobbered one of the faceless, empty-suited ministers on the fringe of the meeting.

'Who the hell are you?' enquired the Prime Minister, noticing the speaker for the first time.

'That is your Minister for Agriculture, Prime Minister,' murmured Ingmar Bresslaw.

'Don't shout, Ingmar,' said the Prime Minister, a murmur from Ingmar Bresslaw being something akin to a town crier who has been given a packet of throat pastilles and a megaphone for his birthday.

The Home Secretary spoke up.

'We have to cancel the plans. They were dependent on the legislation we've been pushing through committee on reducing the influence of the public on public inquiries. Thanks to Parkhurst everyone will be able to see that for what it is now, a transparent ploy to pave the way for unrestricted road building. Even if we force it past our lot by getting the whips to chew a few backbench bollocks, the rural lords will junk it, they don't want motorways through their game parks . . .'

'But Prime Minister,' pleaded Simon Rodney Butterface, 'we have to press on and damn the reaction. Quite apart from the fact that if we don't there will be nothing to cover up the recession, there is the road lobby to consider. Road lobby contributions to party funds are some of the most generous we receive. I can assure you we shall lose those contributions if we renege on our sworn promise to deliver road contracts.'

'Prime Minister, we have no choice!' insisted the Home Secretary. 'The public will never accept such radical plans.'

'Then the public must be forced to accept them,' said the stern voice of Ingmar Bresslaw.

'Ingmar,' replied the Home Secretary testily, 'I bow to none in my appreciation of your power and influence, but I fear that even the mightiest mandarin in the Civil Service cannot force the British public to accept the wholesale concreting of their country.'

'I can make them plead for it, Home Secretary. And I am going to.'

'And how, may I ask, do you propose to do that?' enquired the Home Secretary.

'People have got it too damn easy at the moment,' replied Ingmar. 'What we require is a transport crisis. A transport crisis of such proportions that the apathetic public will scream for action, drowning out the shrill voices of the environmentalists.'

'So what do you propose to do?' asked the Home Secretary. 'Sit around and wait for a gridlock, hoping it falls before the next general election?'

'Oh I think we can be more specific than that,' replied Ingmar.

Whilst Geoffrey Spasmo camped out at Deborah's place, working on the transport of the future, Sam Turk, the man who had forced him into hiding, was considering the problems of the transport of today. He was in his hotel conducting a cost evaluation exercise with his lawyers. Inwardly, of course, he knew that once he set in motion the grand plan, of which Geoffrey's engine was the centre, problems such as the one he was presently dealing with would be small fry indeed.

However, he was still head of Global Motors UK and there were appearances to be kept up.

The debate surrounded the Mark II Crappee which was to be released four years hence. Anti-lock, non-skid braking really should be included, but it would be expensive. What Sam wanted to know was, would Global Motors be in any way liable for the higher levels of death and injury which would inevitably follow from not fitting the brakes? And if yes, would the damages that ensued be greater or less than the enormous cost of retooling?

This simple debate Sam, who knew his motoring folklore, called the Pinto problem. The Pinto problem was first pointed out by a man named Ralph Nader who noticed that the Ford Pinto had a fuel tank located under the sill of the boot, which would turn the car into a fireball when hit by even quite gentle shunts. Ralph reasoned that, since Ford must know that they had a problem, they must be debating whether it was cheaper to change the car or let people die and fight the damages in the court.

That was the Pinto problem, and Sam was facing it again, just as he faced it with every new car launch, because, in fact, the anti-lock braking under discussion had been around for forty years. The question had always been whether it was worth putting it in. So far the answer had been 'no'. It was 'no' with the Crappee and it had been 'no' with its predecessor, the Moritz, which was why Deborah faced a lifetime without the use of her legs.

Yes, the Global Crappee had killed before and would kill again. It had been killing for years. It had not been caught and brought to book because it had committed its earlier crimes under a different name. Then it had been known as the Global Moritz.

But surely not? After all, as anyone remotely interested in cars knew, the Moritz was a classic of the old school and the Crappee a modern upstart. How could anyone possibly equate the two cars in any way, let alone suggest that they are to all intents and purposes the same car?

The Mark I Moritz had been introduced in 1965 and it was considered by those who love it to be the greatest flower in the Global garden.

The Mark II, which followed in 1971, is also held in deep affection. In some inner cities it is known as the black man's Rolls-Royce because it is favoured by slick and cool young blacks. The Mark III, although much more recent and hence less imbued with irrational nostalgia also has its aficionados. Basically, the Moritz, originally conceived as an unglamorous family car, had, with the passage of time and the adoption of second-and third-hand models by groovy youths, become very cool. It is certain that none of those who love and cherish the Moritz, who polish it, tune it and hang fluffy dice from the mirror of it, would be seen dead in one of these crappy new Crappees.

'Not as throaty,' they would say, 'not as gutsy,' they would add, 'no bollocks to speak of whatsoever' Which shows just how stupid people blinded by style can be, because the Moritz and the Crappee are definitely the same car.

This fact came about as a solution to the principal problem that all mass car manufacturers encounter, which is the colossal cost of retooling their empires to produce something actually new. Consider the dilemma faced at Global Motors UK in 1971, some six years after the Moritz had crashed onto the market and established itself as the top selling family four-door in Britain, and some eighteen months since a disturbing fall in sales had first been noted. A drop of sales which strenuous market research revealed had been caused by a growing perception that the Moritz was rather old hat and very much a Sixties car. The young Seventies family man listening to Bowie's 'A Space Oddity' on his eight-track cartridge player was loath to purchase the same car that his fifty-five-year-old father might own.

The solution was simple, of course: produce a new family saloon. Six years had, after all, seen definite innovations in performance and safety. Unfortunately this solution was entirely out of the question. Global Motors UK had hundreds of millions tied up in equipment and facilities that could only produce the Moritz. To start all over again with an entirely new car would mean re-equipping all their factories, and redesigning all the machinery. Faced with this horrendous prospect the Global executives decided to forget about the idea of a new car and just carry on making the old one.

And so, in 1971, came the Mark II Moritz. It looked like a new car, it was advertised as a new car, but it was in fact the same car with much more curve over the wheel arches and different-shaped brake lights.

In 1977 came the Mark III, exactly the same car again, except this time, rather squarer and carrying major glove compartment innovations. This sold well until 1984 when with great fanfare Global Motors again introduced to the world exactly the same car but with radically improved rear windscreen shape and on the Ghia model, a challenging third ashtray.

Certainly there had been improvements, of course the technology surrounding cars had changed, but basically, it was the same car.

And so, after four versions of the Moritz, Global Motors UK arrived at the Nineties and the momentous decision to cancel the old faithful, to put an end finally, once and for all, to a much loved motoring legend. There were nostalgic articles in the papers, an unpleasantly trendy documentary 'appreciation' on the telly, where a lot of expensively haircutted journos, singers and comedians established their working-class credentials by going on about how much they cherished the memory of their Mark I Moritz and what 'a bleeding serious motor' the Mark II had been. All in all, there was a deal of ballyhoo and the Moritz was regretfully laid to rest never to appear again . . . Until the following month when the Moritz Mark V was introduced, except it was called the Crappee. And what Sam Turk had to decide was, when they brought the Crappee out again in a couple of years' time, should they fit better brakes?

One Moritz is particularly relevant to this story. It was a blue Mark III, bought new in 1978 by a Mr and Mrs Sinclair who kept it till 1985. This particular Mark III was what they call a 'Friday afternoon car', i.e. a car that has endless niggling problems and is hence deemed to be a car made in a rush on Friday afternoon when everybody is really bored with the work and no longer gives a toss. Actually the car had been assembled on a Tuesday morning and had endless niggling problems because everybody was really bored with the work and no longer gave a toss. It was Henry Ford who invented the Friday afternoon car, and also the Tuesday morning car.

After Henry Ford, every car was built on a metaphorical Friday afternoon when everyone was really bored with the work and didn't give a toss. For it was old Hank Ford who, after deep thought and much experimentation, perfected a brilliant system whereby the life of a car worker could be rendered catastrophically boring. After years of painstaking research Henry invented a process so brilliant in reducing the quality of millions of people's working lives to crucifyingly turgid, tedious wage-slavery, that he was rewarded by becoming one of the world's richest men. True, he paid well and his assembly line methods made it possible to produce cheaper cars, hence making them widely available (a rather mixed blessing as things turned out), but the human price was considerable. With his revolutionary production line process Henry reduced his workers to being merely the most sophisticated machines on the factory floor.

Having introduced the production line, Henry, like most other car makers, was surprised by the level of industrial militancy he encountered. Auto workers, over the years, have often gone on strike. Almost exclusively, these strikes have been over wage claims, causing many, not least the employers, to complain that auto workers are concerned with nothing more than money, caring not a jot for either company or product. In this complaint the employers are, of course, right. However, in expecting
esprit de corps
on the production line they are pushing it somewhat. It is too much to ask of an individual who has been deprived of every possible emotional and intellectual connection with the job he is doing that he should then take a pride in it.

So the Sinclairs had their Tuesday morning/ Friday afternoon car for seven years, during which time it led a pretty unremarkable existence. It went to work, helped with the shopping, did Europe on four occasions and spent an inordinate amount of time at various garages where men in blue overalls would stare at it sadly, suck in their breath through pursed lips and say, as if it broke their hearts, 'S'gonnacostyaguvna.'

Mr Sinclair had heard the phrase 'S'gonnacostyaguvna' so often he felt it should be his epitaph. He informed his wife that when he died he wished to be cremated, for fear that any preparation for burial might involve a pimply, eighteen-year-old undertaker poking around the corpse for a while before sadly informing Mrs Sinclair that the job would take a fortnight and that he couldn't guarantee a result seeing as how the corpse had clearly been carelessly handled in the past, and above all, it was definitely gonna cost her.

The Sinclairs were careful drivers and during the seven years they owned the dodgy Moritz they bucked national trends by having no accidents in it at all. The car itself suffered one minor scratch at the hands of Sean, the Sinclairs' eighteen-year-old son. He was in the process of getting down to things with his girlfriend when their clumsy writhing about accidentally released the handbrake and the car rolled a few feet backwards into a tree.

This accident is important because it may serve partly to debunk one of the most enduring myths of motor transport. The myth that it is comparatively simple and also deeply desirable to have it off in the back seat. Anybody who has found themselves trying to do the business with one foot out of the window, the other one stuck in the glove compartment and the gearstick up the arse, will know that they have been conned.

In the USA where the legend began, back-seat banging was once possible in comparative comfort. There was a time when Detroit turned out great football-pitch-sized cars with enormous, bench-back seats and open tops to allow for the ecstatic extension of a leg. Way, way back, in the great American decade you really could do it in a Buick, get pawed in a Ford and have it away in a Chevrolet – certainly then, but not now. Sadly, you can do fuck all in a Vauxhall.

Yet the myth remains, the goal to which the whole of adolescent America seems to have aspired these four decades past, hasn't changed and, since what is teencool in the USA is by definition teencool everywhere else, the shagg'n' wagon lives. Cars are still sexy.

The great racer Stirling Moss claimed that there are two things a man will never admit he does badly, drive and make love. Which is a strange irony, because most people are not particularly good at either. None the less Stirling was probably right, it is difficult to imagine a bloke in a pub saying, 'I nearly caused an accident last night then went home and couldn't get it up.'

It isn't just adolescent dreams that connect motoring and sex. It is a reality re-enhanced through every aspect of marketing from bikini-clad girls at motor shows to husband/wife power games in Renault ads. The sales people would have us believe that the connection is that, like sex, motoring involves surging, powerful rhythmic motivation, ease, space and freedom of movement. This, of course, had nothing to do with most people's experiences of driving, or indeed sex. Perhaps a more realistic explanation of why driving is like sex is because it involves an awful lot of hanging around, followed by a bit of vague shunting, a great deal of frustration, and a brief, desperate surge before grinding to a dirty, sticky halt again.

It is said that the car is a phallic symbol. It is often claimed that the shape and aerodynamics of sports and racing cars are reminiscent of the penis. Well, whoever it was who first coined this extraordinary equation must have packed something very strange indeed in his pants, or else possessed a car that was slightly banana shaped. The E-type Jaguar is reckoned by car image makers to be the most phallic of all cars. Well all right, it's longer than it is wide, but really and truly it's about as phallic as a coffee table. When people look at an E-type, they might marvel at its slick lines and wickedly smooth contours, but it is only conditioning that would make any bloke ever say 'that looks like my knob'. In fact there has only ever been one popular (as opposed to image-created) equation between the sexual organs and a motor car and that was in the 1950s, in the USA, when Ford produced the Edsel, the greatest single failure of any car ever. Years in preparation, meticulously conceived and designed: it none the less completely flopped. Market research produced the stunning revelation that the radiator grill reminded people of a vagina and that was why they weren't buying it. No doubt, if the E-type Jag had
really
reminded people of a todger they wouldn't have bought that either. The moral of the story is that people like their sexual organs in their underwear, not in their garage.

Anyway, the Sinclairs had the dent, that Sean's ardour had caused, hammered out and it cost them. A year or two later, they decided to purchase the all new Mark IV Moritz, and sold their Mark III to Bob, a watch salesman. Bob already had a nice new company car. The Moritz was to be for fun, he was going to customize it, which he did, jacking up the rear end and installing a huge bendy aerial that stretched in a great loop from one end of the car to the other.