A couple of weekends ago the Countryside Alliance invited me to a fundraising
concert. Of course, I’m not really very sure what the Countryside Alliance
is, or does. In fact, come to think of it, I’m not sure what the countryside
itself is, or does, either. But this was to be quite a gig.
Bryan Ferry was the warm up for a band that had a really rather amazing
line-up. You had Eric Clapton, bits of Pink Floyd and a smattering of
Genesis. The meat was then drizzled with a spot of Andy Fairweather-Low and
served on a bed of Procol Harum.
Of course, for many, the big problem at such an event is what to wear. It’s to
raise money for the countryside so something tweedy would be in order. But
it’s a rock concert so nothing too dowdy. Oh and it’s held outside in late
May. So thanks to global warming and the drought it’ll be pouring with rain
and freezing cold. That’s a tricky ask.
For me, though, the biggest problem was what to drive. I eventually settled on
the new Mitsubishi L200 pick-up truck which, I thought, teamed rugged
countryside practicality with a dash of urban flair. Oh, and it was black so
everyone at the gig thought the drugs had turned up.
It was a wise and clever choice, but not a very nice or sensible car. A
pick-up truck, to me, should be nigh on indestructible and designed by
someone who only had access to a ruler, whereas the new L200 is all soft
curves and brushed aluminium. Furthermore, a pick-up should only be sold in
America.
In America, you see, there’s no such thing as a Countryside Alliance because
there’s no class-based struggle between a bitter-with-jealousy metropolitan
elite and a few crusty old lords who have 120,000-acre grouse moors in
Scotland.
In America everyone wants to be a part of the great outdoors. They like the
idea of cutting down trees and shooting critters in the spine. Even the most
sockless preppy from Georgetown DC is able and willing to slip out of his
loafers at a moment’s notice and into a hairy shirt for a weekend under
canvas in the woods.
What’s more, in America everyone wants to be a factory worker. They seem to
find manual labour and engineer boots rather noble. Bruce Springsteen has
more money than God but unlike Britain’s rock gods, who wear tweed and
Armani, he dresses like he’s spent all day up a telegraph pole. Only in
America could there have been a song called Wichita Lineman. An ode
to a man who spends all day long driving around a useless state, in a
pick-up truck, looking for broken telephone wires.
Here, Dave Gilmour has never seen a BT engineer in Hampshire and thought:
“Yes. I envy your clothes, your hairstyle, your life and your wheels so much
I’m going to immortalise you in a song.” As a result we’ve never been
treated to a ditty called Winchester Lineman.
Whatever; if you marry a love for the great outdoors to a sense that the
“working man” is a king, then you end up with a country where the
bestselling vehicle is a pick-up truck.
Here, things are different. At the Countryside Alliance gig the car park was
full of Kensington and Chelsea parking permits. No one there would have the
first clue how to skin a rabbit but every single one of them could have
walked blindfold from the cheese counter in Harvey Nicks to lunch at E&O
in under three minutes.
That’s because we’re civilised and the Americans are barbaric. Civilised
derives from “civic”, meaning “of the city”. Barbaric derives from
“bearded”, meaning someone who’s “in a wood and can’t find any hot water to
have a bloody shave”.
What’s more, we have no real respect for the working man. He’s very useful, of
course, when your washing machine breaks. But you’re not going to dress like
him. Or talk like him. And you certainly have no ambition to drive the sort
of vehicle he drives. Because that would be a van.
And that’s the thrust of my point this morning. That the white van is in fact
the British equivalent of the American pick-up truck. And the equivalent of
the biggest, baddest, V10est, Dodgest Rammest of the lot is the van you see
photographed here. The Volkswagen Transporter T30 TDI 174 Sportline.
Welcome, everyone, to Britain’s fastest van.
If you thought like an American, this is what you’d want. Because then people
would think you had a place in the country that you’d built yourself, and
that for a living you fixed pipes. This would be every solicitor’s dream
machine. Eric Clapton would have one. Tony Blair would have a couple at
Chequers.
So what’s it like? Well it has a jolly big boot. I lowered my trousers until
my bum cheeks were showing, went to buy some chicken feed and couldn’t
believe how much space was left over. What’s more, unlike the pick-up truck
I took to the Countryside Alliance gig, it is a secure area, so people can’t
help themselves to all your belongings at the lights.
Up front there is seating for three. One to do the driving, one to read a map
and one to sit in the middle with his mouth hanging open, looking gormless.
But in the VW there’s a problem. There’s no deep crevasse between the
windscreen and the dash, which means there’s nowhere to store your copy of
t’ Daily Mirror.
There is, however, air-conditioning, a CD player and leather upholstery. It’s
almost like being in a DFS store. Until you put your foot down.
Bloody hell it’s quick. In no time at all the speedo is reading a staggering
120mph. Then you’re right up the chuff of someone in a Ford Focus who’s
doing 40, and this is where the VW really shines. You absolutely cannot see
where the front is, so you can get really really close to the car in front
without really knowing.
That said, the 2.5 litre engine, while powerful and torquey, isn’t really very
noisy. So while the driver of the Focus can see you — you’re filling his
rear-view mirror — he can’t hear you. So he’s less inclined to pull over.
In a normal van this would be an issue. But not in the Sportline. This thing
will do 0 to 62 in 12.2sec. It’ll hit 70 in third. It is laugh-out-loud
fast.
I must say when I first saw the alloy wheels and the chromed nudge bars I had
a little chuckle. I thought it was a bit like writing “turbo” on a microwave
oven. And I allowed myself a smile when I noted it had traction control. But
it really does go — and handle — like a car. Not a very good car, mind. But
a car nevertheless.
So, do I want one? No. Not really. It’s too big for most parking spaces, I
don’t own enough stuff to fill it, and while it’s fast for a van it doesn’t
quite have the same overtaking ability as, say, a Golf GTI. Which also costs
around £21,000.
If I were an American I’d have been proud of how it made me look like a son of
toil. I could have driven around giving people in hard hats high fives. I
could have loaded up the back with camping equipment and, like Norman
Schwarzkopf, gone fishing with my kids. But I didn’t do that either.
After I’d been for the chicken feed I couldn’t think what else I might want to
do with it. So it just sat in my drive, making me very happy. That I’m not
an American. And that I’m not a van driver.
VITAL STATISTICS
Model VW Transporter T30 TDI 174 Sportline
Engine 2460cc, five cylinders
Power 172bhp @ 2460rpm
Torque 295 lb ft @ 2000rpm
Transmission Five-speed manual
Fuel 34mpg
CO2 224g/km
Acceleration 0-62mph: 12.2sec
Top speed 117mph
Price £21,090
Rating 3/5
Verdict The perfect vehicle for a British cowboy
