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Editor-At-Large: 101 things my car can do that a man can't

Janet Street-Porter
Sunday 21 July 2002 00:00 BST
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When I made television programmes we'd sit in darkened rooms on "away days" staring at banal mission statements beamed from overhead projectors. In the quest for maximum audiences with the right kind of profile, trick questions would be asked of us. "If this series was a car, what would it be?"

Woe betide any executive who came up with a macho top-of-the-range gas guzzler such as a Mercedes or a Jaguar – in other words, the kind of car they actually owned or their chauffeurs drove. In order to score points in the arcane world of BBC politics you had to sling in a lot of words like "emblematic" and suggest something family-oriented, environmentally friendly and, above all, quirky.

I was always a failure at management games like this, with a minimal knowledge of cars and a purchasing pattern so wayward that no in-depth personality traits could be deduced from them. I've driven a shocking-pink 1960s Mustang convertible, an ice-blue old Daimler, a classic Mercedes SLC, the BMW saloon I wrote off during a battle with a nasty little red Citroën 2CV at Hyde Park Corner, a new Discovery and finally a Corsa. That last word is a bit of an embarrassment, but after four years of driving an empty room around I went into a garage and asked what was cosy for £10,000. I entered a style-free motoring zone with no more mahogany dashboards. My vehicle of choice wasn't a big issue. Then, everything changed overnight. I fell in love with the Smart car.

I don't have pets or children. I have had four husbands, and three long-term partners. So you have to forgive my affection for something witty, economical, silent and reliable – qualities not generally found in members of the opposite sex. At least not the ones I've spent my life with. The Smart never answers back. It's cheap to run and doesn't want to go to expensive restaurants, costing only £13 for a full tank of petrol. You can perk your Smart up with really cheap accessories, not Gucci sandals and Richard James suits. It is small and socially adaptable, sidling into spots other more flamboyant vehicles couldn't get their rear ends across. The Smart has only two seats, so there's no chance of us giving anyone a lift home.

Two years ago I hit on a brilliant wheeze – in a moment of what seemed like unparalleled largesse, I gave my partner one for Christmas and birthday combined. Next to a normal car it looked like a pimple – a cross between a sewing machine on wheels and a mobile crash helmet. But people couldn't wait to sit in it and, unlike a dog or baby, it didn't dribble on them or poo in their laps.

Since then almost 10,000 Smarts have been sold in the UK, and today marks their biggest day yet – their first London to Brighton rally, in which 500 happy Smarts and their proud owners will participate. There will be Smarts customised with fake grass, Smarts that look like cows, shocking-pink Barbie Smarts and spotty Dalmatian numbers. God knows what fashion crimes the owners will be committing. I am informed that Michael Jackson has five and that Robbie Williams is shortly taking delivery of one, but don't let that put you off.

The Smart has certain drawbacks. Two seats, and a boot that holds meals for one and a couple of designer carrier bags. A high body that makes motorway driving in strong winds a bit of a challenge. Ours, like all the early models, is left-hand drive, which adds to the fun. You can't see out of the back window, making reversing rather tricky. An eccentric gear box means you jerk about a bit when leaving traffic lights. It's not exactly a machine to glide anywhere in.

But this is not a car, it's an act of defiance. Smart owners wave at each other. When did you last see some businessman in a Lexus waving at anyone? What's more, you can log on to the Smart Club website to exchange news and gossip. Members meet in motorway service stations to swap car panels. I admit that is rather sad, but at least they're not swapping wives, and there's no chance of picking up a sexually transmitted disease from a Smart. On the website there's a "spotted a Smart" chat room, which contains gems such as: "Saw a Cabriolet outside B&Q with furry dice!"; or "a cool model outside Leeds with tinted windows and nice little lights". It even seems that Steven Spielberg might be a closet Smart fan. One has been spotted in Minority Report, cruising below Tom Cruise when he's stuck on the side of a high building. One owner proudly babbles: "I was so happy I almost shouted SMART at the screen".

You can find all this a bit pathetic, but the Smart is a harmless diversion, possibly the world's first unmacho vehicle, a cheap and cheerful bit of fun. I came close to being unfaithful last year when I ordered a new Mini Cooper. On the day it arrived at the garage I saw a silver Smart in the City. Feeling guilty, I cancelled the Mini, and saved myself £16,000. Do you play the game when you imagine famous people in cars? Try as I may, I can't fit John Prescott into a Smart, but that's part of its charm. It's a car for plucky Brits, not pompous politicians. I am worried about the furry dice, though.

The art of Vic

Vic Reeves once painted me a picture of a cow. We were walking through Upper Wharfedale, and he knocked off a watercolour en route. It was a cow on an acid trip, in lurid black and red. Vic is not only a brilliant walking companion, he's also a passionate artist. With a degree from Goldsmith's College, somehow he got sidetracked into comedy. That surreal sense of humour can be seen in an exhibition at the Britart Gallery in Spitalfields, east London. A series of colour prints of caravans features one falling to bits, entitled Mike Tyson 2002. Lionel Ritchie is another. Best of all are his pencil drawings of Elvis, who has a flat, moon-like face and small, piggy eyes. There's a Madonna and Child featuring Elvis, Priscilla and baby Lisa-Marie wrapped in a blanket, but my favourite is a drawing of Elvis going to the shops with a little bag over his arm. Nothing is what it seems with Vic (or Jim, as I know him). On reaching his birthplace in Leeds we had tea with the owners of the bungalow he grew up in. I asked what the locals used to say about him when he was a child, and Jim wasn't too happy when one of them recalled that he used to urinate in people's front gardens.

* * *

On my trip to Hull last week, the people in charge of its new image missed an important attraction. Hull is home to Mark Hill, winner of British Hairdresser of the Year and the man who has attended to Goldie Hawn, Michelle Pfeiffer and Sandra Bullock. It costs a reassuringly expensive £95 to have a Mark Hill cut – and there's a waiting list. Move over, John Frieda and Nicky Clarke. I shall be making my way to Hogg Lane in Hull for major restyling.

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