In a tragic development that ranks somewhere between a flat tyre on the M25 and finding a wasp in your Pimm's, the British luxury car industry has issued a dire warning: our beloved convertibles are being forced into an early, undignified retirement by the grim reapers of regulation. The Society of Motor Manufacturers and Traders, a bunch of chaps who clearly haven't had a proper laugh since the Austin Allegro, have cried foul over new European safety rules that threaten to make drop-tops as extinct as the dodo with a convertible roof.
Let me paint you a picture. Imagine Sir Reginald Upward-Smythe, a man whose forehead is permanently tanned from years of open-air motoring, posing by his Aston Martin Vantage Roadster. His cravat flutters in the breeze, his monocle glints with smugness. Now imagine that a bureaucrat in Brussels, a man whose idea of a thrill ride is a gently accelerating mobility scooter, takes a red pen to that very image. He scribbles 'roll-over protection' and 'pedestrian crashworthiness' in the margins, and poof, the dream dies.
The regulations in question, monstrous creations of labyrinthine complexity, demand that any convertible must withstand a full roll-over without crushing its occupants, a feat of engineering about as elegant as fitting a crash helmet to a ballerina. Furthermore, the bonnet must be designed to cradle the skull of a jaywalking pedestrian, a requirement best met by turning the front end into a giant, fluffy marshmallow. The result? A car that weighs as much as a small moon, costs the GDP of a microstate, and looks like a melted Lego brick.
"But Biff," you cry, "why can't they just beef up the roll cage?" Because, my sweet summer child, a roll cage that can hold up a double-decker bus would turn a sleek two-seater into a wrought-iron gazebo on wheels. The very soul of the convertible, that glorious, wind-in-the-hair, bird-poop-on-the-upholstery freedom, would be crushed under a kilogram of regulation.
Already, the minions of common sense have forced the venerable Mazda MX-5, the little British-built roadster that could, to fit a roll-over protection system that juts up like a periscope. The next step, I fear, is mandatory airbags that deploy from the boot. Or perhaps a government-mandated windbreak that doubles as a billboard for road safety messages.
It's a regulatory power grab, pure and simple. The same gremlins who banned the throwing of buns at morris dancers (true story, look it up) are now coming for our open-top heritage. According to the SMMT, the luxury car sector contributes a staggering £32 billion to the UK economy. That's a lot of gin and tonic, chums. And they're going to drown the golden goose in a vat of health and safety paperwork.
But there is hope. The British bulldog spirit is not yet dead. We will fight this with the only weapons we have: savage letters to the Telegraph, angry Facebook posts, and the stubborn refusal to take our roofs down on the one day of British summer when it doesn't rain. We'll drive our convertibles into the sunset, even if that sunset is a grey drizzle over Slough. Because you can take our roofs, but you'll never take our freedom to have our hair mussed by the slipstream of a passing lorry.
So gentlemen, start your engines. Let's give the regulatory killjoys a blast of that sweet, exhaust-scented air. And if they want to take away our convertibles, they'll have to pry the ignition key from my cold, slightly sweaty, gin-soaked hand.
