Cars drive me crazy

Anne Robinson excelled on Top Gear but she still needed help from a man – The Oldie’s Matthew Norman – to buy a new motor

Jeremy Clarkson says he never did ‘women can’t park’ gags on Top Gear. Why ever not?

Women are terrible at parking. I once saw four brickies leave a building site in Gray’s Inn Road, each take a corner of a VW Golf and lift it into a space adequate for several coaches and horses, allowing the female owner to give up her struggle.

But I am not one of those women. I passed my driving test days after my 17th birthday. (The registration-plate suffix was B.)

I once chased the fraudster Emil Savundra in my Mini from halfway along the Euston Road and caught up with his Bentley by the traffic lights at Blackfriars Bridge. I wasn’t far behind the rapper Jay Kay in my timing taking a reasonably priced car round the Top Gear track during Jeremy’s time.

But now, entering a car showroom in the hope of buying a new car, I realise I look just the same as the next little old lady who takes a week and a half to do a three-point turn.

My mission is to trade in my threeyear-old Audi A6 estate for a new, smaller, zippier model.

And here’s the problem. The average male customer is specially wired to retain a terrifying amount of unnecessary knowledge on every aspect of the car he is trading in and the car he wants to buy. Whereas I, a woman, have no interest in the minutiae of the dashboard and even less in the inner workings of the engine.

There’s nothing about a flashy Audi dealership that is designed with a woman in mind. Who, wishing to part with many thousands of pounds, would want to be escorted to a desk to be interviewed by a middle-aged man who could just as easily be your accountant or your oncologist?

But there I was with salesman Nick.

Nick knows I want an automatic Audi A3 with some zip. To this I now add electric seats, brown leather upholstery, dark-grey exterior and, most importantly of all, self-parking.

‘Nick,’ I stress, ‘I have been longing for self-parking almost as long as I’ve been wishing to be as thin as Victoria Beckham.’

But in a trice the joy is sucked from my car-buying experience.

Nick’s computer says no to electric seats, no to brown leather upholstery, no to dark grey and no self-parking.

‘Never mind, Nick,’ I said bravely. ‘Why don’t we do a test drive of the two models you have standing by?’ (One medium fast, one very fast.)

And, as we walk past my A6, I ask Nick to kick the tyres and give me a rough idea of its value.

Nick returns smiling. Perhaps even a bit smug. ‘Miss Robinson,’ he says, ‘you were obviously not aware that the car you have been driving for three years does indeed have self-parking.’

So let’s take a quick look at the scoreboard so far. No electric seats, no dark-grey exterior, no brown leather upholstery, no self-parking and me looking a fool. I make it five points to Nick. Zero to the little old lady.

In a bid to reassert my authority, I explain to Nick (I think politely) that I would prefer a silent test drive. In effect, I say, ‘Nick, you have a non-speaking part.’

Yet the next thing I know, Nick is explaining all manner of car details, carburettor, nought-to-60 acceleration, fuel economy, airbag deployment and so much more.

‘No, no, Nick,’ I plead.

But the noise keeps coming, either about the working of the car or, worse, about which lane I should get into or stay in when we approach a roundabout.

Finally, back at base, I utter a sentence I had planned never in my life to use: ‘Nick,’ I say, ‘I would like to return with a man to help me make a decision.’

As it happens, Matthew Norman of this parish also drives an Audi and I plead with him to join me for the next round with Nick. Matthew says he is baffled that I should need a souped-up Audi, since I have travelled across Italy in his 1.2 litre Audi A3 and appeared completely satisfied.

No matter. With another firm plea to Nick for silence and with Matthew in tow, I set off yet again. And, yes, car details keep coming. But it no longer matters. Suddenly, I know for sure I want the 4-litre boy racer.

So clear am I that Nick becomes redundant. Matthew of this parish becomes redundant.

And, as we park, there’s only need for light banter. ‘Tell me, Nick,’ I say. ‘Do you come from a long line of car salesmen?’

‘No,’ says Nick, ‘my father was lead double-bass player in the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra.’

Final score, I think you’ll agree: game, set and match to Nick.