Who will grab us by the arm and drag us back out of the rabbit hole with the sign above it that says: “ELECTRIC CARS DOWN HERE! THIS WAY, FOLKS!”
Electric cars don’t work, never have, and never will. Not properly.
Can you imagine the fate of a new breed of miracle horse in Victorian times; a creature that never broke wind or dumped its manure in the streets, but could only pull a cart or carriage for a couple of miles before needing a very long, very slow drink of water?
But there aren’t nearly enough horse troughs, and half of them are invariably cracked and bone dry. Thirsty nags must join long queues wherever water is available. Zero-droppings Dobbin would have been shown the stable door before you could say: “Neigh thanks.”
So why today do we persist in chasing the electric car dream? It’s a chimera. (Dictionary definition of chimera? “A thing which is hoped for but is illusory or impossible to achieve.” The Greek definition is pretty apposite too: “A fire-breathing monster.”)
Electric cars breathe fire all right: they have an alarming propensity to burst into flames, just like electric bikes do. It’s the batteries. As Jeremy Clarkson pointed out recently, there have now been 10 major fires aboard container ships carrying electric cars.
The Felicity Ace, which was in the Atlantic Ocean carrying vehicles fitted with lithium-ion, went up in smoke and down like a stone. Jeremy warns: “It’s only a matter of time before an electric car bursts into flames on a cross-Channel ferry, or in the Chunnel.” He’s right. The laws of probability make it a mathematical certainty.
Meanwhile, for many who’ve actually taken delivery of their dream electric car, reality turns it into more of a nightmare. Most of them run flat and conk out after a couple of hundred miles (or less: don’t believe the manufacturer’s glowingly optimistic range claims.)
And that’s in dry, warm daylight. Try driving one of the things on a freezing wet winter’s morning with the headlights on, the heating at full blast and the windscreen wipers swish-swashing away. You’ll be lucky to reach the nearest charging station. And it’ll be a coin toss if that’s actually working if you get there.
Ah, I hear some of you say, but they’re good for the environment.
Really? The demand for lithium for batteries is exploding worldwide and lithium extraction is potentially hugely damaging to the planet. It requires massive amounts of water which risks polluting reservoirs and water tables. It produces huge amounts of toxic waste. It may even increase carbon dioxide emissions.
Hunger for social justice is alive and well
I’m more optimistic about the survival of the traditional British sense of fair play and justice than I can remember in a long while. Two factors had conspired to dent it. Firstly, the fallout from Covid lockdown.
Our collective supine abandonment of some of our most fundamental human rights – let alone common sense – in the face of a cynical scare campaign by the state was deeply depressing (and I include myself in that critique. What was I thinking of?).
Secondly, the increasingly shrill polarisation of political debate. No civilised, polite agreement to differ: just a fingers-in-the-ears, yah-boo-sucks approach to people and parties we happen not to agree with.
But perhaps we haven’t tumbled too far down the slippery slope after all. The Nigel Farage banking scandal is one straw in the wind. Even Farage’s most dyed-in-the-wool opponents stuck up for him after his outrageous cancelling by Coutts.
Next came the outpouring of white-hot public fury at the news that the man wrongly jailed for a rape he didn’t commit may have to pay the prison service for bed and board during his 17 years of incarceration.
The outpouring of righteous anger shows our hunger for social justice is alive and well and as keen as ever. That’s a relief, isn’t it?
A model’s stark warning
Multi-millionaire and model Amanda Cronin, reputed to have the longest legs in Belgravia, and recently split from former Wham! star Andrew Ridgeley, has issued a warning to any future men in her life. “I’m intelligent and I’m demanding.” Hmmm. Aren’t we all, Amanda?
Fencer still razor sharp at 90
My jaw is still on the carpet after reading about the exploits of 90-year-old Joy Fleetham. Joy by name and fleet by nature, I would say – because the 1933-born Yorkshirewoman is a fencing champion, and not just back in the day. Now. And not even against opponents of her own vintage, either – she regularly bests expert teenage swordsmen and swordswomen.
Recently Joy, right, out-fenced a 17-year-old Japanese boy. “He was astounded, and so was I,” she laughs. “But my reflexes are still very quick.”
So are her moves – precise and ultra-controlled, apparently. Truly a pin-sharp pensioner.
