Notes from the Hard Shoulder

Notes from the Hard Shoulder

James May

Language: English

Pages: 224

ISBN: 0753512025

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Top Gear presenter and columnist for the "Daily Telegraph" James May brings together another brilliant collection of his most controversial and humorous writing. From tales of motoring adventures through India, Russia and Iceland, to classic articles on essential subjects such as driving songs and haunted car parks, these gems from the number one car connoisseur will take readers on a motoring journey that will amuse and entertain in equal measure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

consider chopping in his Ford GT for one. He certainly would, I decided, if I had anything to do with it. And that bit wasn't too difficult, because he clearly wanted one already. I could point out that his new book was selling very well (unlike mine) and that he had earned, both financially and morally, the right to a new Lamborghini. In fact making him buy the thing was clearly a job for a Shopping Dare amateur. So now the game took a new twist. Clearly he didn't need persuading to buy the

we switch to summer time and is disseminated with radio and trip computer info via an in-dash display facility. The ventilation system is now by rotary knobs instead of sliders and my car had excellent optional air conditioning, which is an essential accessory in this weather – if you turn up at a customer's with wet armpits (highly likely in this easy-iron polyester shirt) then you might find yourself with a major disincentive in the agent/client interface which no amount of aftershave will

quieter, more peppy. That's a grade 15 car, though. Sharp ridges, such as expansion joints, cause a bit of a clang but it's more a noise than a feeling. There's a grittiness in the suspension that complements the rough edge on the engine and spoils Vectra's composure, but overall the ride is like a good sales pitch – firm but compliant. Even at 120 the Vectra stayed stuck nicely on the road, only crosswinds interrupted by lorries causing a slight waywardness. Not so bad that I couldn't steer

actually getting lost. The omnipresence of the great saint was a glaring portent that escaped me in the excitement generated by the unveiling of the car that would be our trusty companion for the next five days. Bought new (locally, of course) in 1967 and promised to Sophie when she was a small child, the Cinquecento was a monument to the sort of originality that old car collectors covet. Every last piece of paperwork ever generated by this car, even old tax discs, survives in ordered,

to go 'anywhere within reason', it seemed like a good scheme to spend four whole weeks driving all the way from London to the heart of South Africa. A couple of events served to quash this idea. Firstly, and quite by chance, I met a bloke in a pub who had made precisely the same journey in his own Land Rover, and it had taken him six months. Then another bloke called Bin Laden started a war, as if to reinforce my late grandmother's contention that you should never trust a man with a beard. It was

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