Maranello, Italy – The prancing horse has tripped over its own charging cable. Ferrari’s foray into the electric vehicle market has been met with the sort of reception usually reserved for a nun at a disco. The Chinese, bless their silk-lined souls, have reacted with a collective frown that could curdle milk from here to Beijing. They say the new EV lacks soul. They say it sounds like a hairdryer. They say, with that inscrutable politeness, that they’d rather peddle a rickshaw than be seen in this zippy coffin.
But let us not weep for Ferrari. Let us instead raise a glass of room-temperature Chianti to the real victors here: the British luxury car manufacturers. Because while the Italians are busy apologising for their silent sledges, the Brits are quietly building automobiles that make the Queen’s corgis look like common mutts.
Consider Bentley, whose cars weigh more than a small moon and consume petrol with the enthusiasm of a binge-drinking lord. Their new hybrid? A masterpiece. It’s a car that says, “I care about the environment, but not enough to give up my walnut veneer.” Rolls-Royce, meanwhile, continues to produce vehicles that are less cars and more private yachts on wheels. Their electric prototype, the Spectre, still manages to look like a mausoleum on the move, which is precisely the point.
The Chinese backlash against Ferrari’s EV is not just about sound or soul. It is about identity. Luxury cars are not transportation; they are statements. And a silent Ferrari is like a mime at a funeral. It misses the point. The British understand this. They always have. A Jaguar doesn’t just get you from A to B. It gets you there with a stiff upper lip and a whiff of tweed.
So let Ferrari grovel. Let them retrofit V12 roars into their battery boxes. The British luxury car industry, with its stubborn adherence to heritage and its suspicion of anything that doesn’t smell of leather and smugness, remains the global benchmark. Because when you spend a quarter of a million pounds on a car, you want it to announce your arrival, not whisper it like a secret.
This is Biff Thistlethwaite, signing off. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a gin and tonic and a copy of the FT. The only electric thing I trust is the hair of the dog.
