"Oh, hello Arnold. I'd like to leave a message for Mark..."
I'd forgotten, see, to erase the hilarious voicemail greeting I'd recorded one lazy afternoon using a comedy Arnold Schwarzenegger soundboard. A Tim Westwood soundboard had embarrassed me similarly with someone a few months ago too, but I don't regret that one so much. I mean, when the opportunity to have Tha Big Dawg drop a greeting UK STYLE, BABY comes your way, you're hardly likely to pass on it are you?
When Arnie finally got round to getting the message to me (honestly, he's a good Governor and everything, but he's crap at passing messages on) I realised that the confused man was a motoring journalist from The Independent offering me the chance to take part in a test drive. You can imagine that a seasoned respectable newspaper journalist wouldn't be too impressed by the mobile phone japery of a daft Geordie, particularly as he was calling to offer said buffoon a drive in a £62,000 BMW.
With my tail lodged firmly between my legs I called him back, apologised profusely and said "yes kind sir, of course I'd like to tear around in a fast car for a few hours courtesy of a generous broadsheet." I threw a couple of long words in there, like ostensibly, just to prove I wasn't a complete moron, which ostensibly I was. As it turned out, the journalist, David Wilkins, was an extremely pleasant man and found the Arnold thing quite amusing, so he told me. He further seemed genuinely grateful that I'd agreed to take part in a test involving having a free BMW delivered to me, being given the keys, posing around for a few hours then saying that, funnily enough, I thought it was great. That's the kind of gratitude I'd like more of please.
So I went home, made a brew, sat behind my computer and 'researched' - I looked on the internet at pictures of cars. I learned that the car I would be driving was the new BMW 650i Sport, which has a 5.0 litre V8 engine, does 0-62 in just over 5 seconds and replaces the outgo...It was good, anyway.
The following day I agreed to meet David and my temporary paramour in the Washington Services car park, southbound, on Sunday. I'd like to say it was love at first sight, but unfortunately when I arrived I saw that the car BMW PR had bestowed upon us was finished in an horrific shade of maroon, and to make matters worse, it was convertible. I just don't understand convertibles, especially in this country where we get about one-and-a-half days of proper sunshine a year. Mind, if BMW sell a few of these bad boys in the summer the ozone layer might disintegrate, in which case we can all enjoy the thrill of top town, face-melting motoring. Stupid ozone layer making us all cold.
I'd arrived at the service station a bit early, so I went in for an overpriced coffee and, true to form, I went for the biggest size available, even though I knew I wouldn't have time to finish it. On my way out I realised that I was following a man who had also just bought a coffee and was making his way past all the other cars in the car park and towards the two solitary machines at the far end - my car and The Ugly Beast. "Are you walking towards that 6 Series?" I asked him. "Yes, I am," he said nervously, "you must be Mark then," he added, and our introduction was complete. However, on arrival at the car I think we both realised that we'd just bought overpriced coffees and were now in the unenviable position of having to stand outside our cars in the cold wind drinking them.
Actually, it wasn't the awkwardly silent embarrassment it could have been, mostly because we had a rather obvious talking point parked right in front of us, although I did find myself becoming rather too honest too early in my appraisal of the car. "That colour's horrific," I said, instantly realising the snotty way the comment could have been construed. I'm about to drive a genuine dream motor of mine (apart from the convertible thing) and the first thing I say is, 'yeah, it looks a bit rubbish really.' Idiot.
Then I had to balance my XXXL coffee on the top of my car while opening four of those tiny cartons of fake milk with my teeth and squeezing them into my cup with one hand. It was not going well.
"...We can get in the car of you want," said David after a bit of small talk. And it was then that I forgot I'm 26 and went into 'What Car?' mode. I'd asked him if I could put my jacket in the boot, so he gave me the key and I tried to open it. When I eventually worked out which button I had to press on the fob to get the daft thing open, I placed my jacket in the boot and remarked, "wow, that boot's TINY isn't it? If I was a golfer I wouldn't be impressed."
What? I may as well have got my tape measure out and measured the aperture. Who cares? But I was all 'hmmm, yes, one's golf club transportation requirements are a concern in this car class, so that scores this model down for me', as if I was the man to make or break 6 Series UK sales targets for BMW. Although, as it turns out, I'd pointed something out that David seemingly hadn't noticed, unless he was just humoring me. But regardless I quickly remembered my place and just got in the car.
And dear me, what a car. This was unlike anything I'd ever sat in the right side of before - it was amazing. I instantly forgot I had someone else in there with me and started pressing stuff, as you do. David was very blasé about the whole thing and completely non-patronising, just telling me a couple of things he thought I might like to know about the car and letting me get on with it. So I lowered my seat as far down as it would go, brought the sweet, sweet thick-rimmed steering wheel closer in towards me and pressed the big black button named 'START'.
To my surprise, the car was really quiet inside, which was actually a bit of a disappointment because I wanted it to roar like that lion who works for MGM. I expected it to, in fact. I pulled away tentatively, all the while the number '62,000' lodged in my mind, and we headed north up the A1.
I thought I'd go towards my parents' place in Ponteland because there are a few twisty roads up there, but alas, when I got there I was invariably stuck behind some Sunday driver determined to spoil my fun. After that we headed back up the A1 for a while, before stopping for a brew at some tiny little service station where I got to chat with David about being a journalist. Motoring journalism is, after all, what I'd like to do with myself when I'm a grown up.
He'd actually spent most of the way around Ponteland and up the A1 telling me about various ways in which I can crack into motoring journalism, all of which were useful and some of which quite eye-opening, and he was surprisingly willing to talk about cars, which was great given that most people must ask him about that most days. By the way, if you're after a fast hatchback he reckons you should buy a Ford Focus ST220.
After we finished our brew and headed back into the car park, David suggested we take the top down for the journey back to the coast. Why I agreed to it I don't know, but I found myself bombing down the A1 with no roof at 80mph, screaming at my passenger during normal conversation in order to be heard. At this stage I should explain that for some reason I'd decided that this would be a good day to try out a new hair product, something that would give my barnet a more natural look. The problem was, its holding properties left a little to be desired, so by the time I'd done 40 odd miles at motorway speeds my mullet was akin to an emu nest. (Do emus have nests? A big bird, anyway.) And we still hadn't taken the photos.
So we got to the coast and decided to find somewhere to take some photos of me and the car for the paper. Eventually we found a nice little spot looking out towards the sea, but unfortunately we had to park the car on a single track road which led to a car park, thus blocking off any number of motorists just so I could have my picture taken next to this poncy looking convertible. I was wearing a tank top too. A mostly pink tank top. And don't forget the hair.
Slightly embarrassed, I put the top back up - again a simple button pressing affair - and we headed back home. At this stage I decided to take the car out of automatic and try the sequential manual gear shift for a while, but it made me want to drive too fast so I put it back into automatic.
So, the car. Well, it was amazing, but to be honest I'm not sure whether it was £62,000 amazing, although that might be down to the colour / convertible combination. I reckon that chopping the top off a car takes most of its character away because it ends up just looking like a straight line from the side. Plus, convertibles are heavier and cloth roofs look a bit silly, like having a tent on your car. Before I saw it, you see, I'd imagined it would look like this:
...Now THAT'S a £62,000 car right there. Check out those gangsta rims.
The engine, it goes without saying, was insane, all 5.0 litres of it. Although it didn't turn my face inside out like I'd expected it to, it was so effortlessly fast that most of the time I genuinely didn't realise what speed I was doing. On the motorway, 70mph (ahem!) came up in the blink of an eye, but it was still really comfortable, quiet and smooth. The coolest, and probably most necessary, feature was the head up display which projected your speed onto the windscreen in front of you. Nice.
The interior was lush, too. All black leather, including the little dial for the onboard computer - the controversial iDrive system, for anyone who cares, which has apparently been simplified for ease of use. I found it no problem, although when I was messing around with it at the petrol station I couldn't actually get the radio turned on, but maybe that's just me. Everything was electric, even the head restraint, and the driving position was beautiful.
We got back to Washington Services about four hours after we left, but not before accidentally reaching an outrageous speed on the A1, and I reluctantly handed the keys back. I was disappointed to be leaving the car, which was awesome and I want one, but frankly it made me realise how quickly a car can cease to be a novelty. The purchase and running costs of that particular car would be thousands of pounds a month, and I wondered whether it was really worth it?
Then I slapped myself and thought 'yes, yes it would be,' and I lusted all the way home. I also screamed at my car a couple of times for being so slow. It was a fantastic experience and I hope to one day be able to spend plenty more time inside similar feats of engineering, though it would be crude, inappropriate and just plain wrong to pray to God for a spare few grand every month to spend on a car.
But can I have one please? I'll be dead good and everything, and I reckon I suit it too.
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