T. S. Eliot once wrote a poem about the importance of naming your cats. In a stroke of inspired genius it was named, ‘The Naming of Cats’, which I feel is a bit of a fail on his part. I suspect he’d used up all his inspiration in the main body of the poem, was on deadline, and just thought; ‘Ah feck it all. Say what you see.’
Just like Roy Walker in Catchphrase.
I have been thinking about this over the last few days, but in relation to cars, which are nearly the same as cats, but without the ‘t’ and more ‘r’.
Last week when I was in Sainsburys’ car park, I passed a truly hideous car. It was a sort of cow pat/khaki green with a plethora of black plastic panelling on the doors and boot. The panels were contoured so they looked like very badly applied stucco.
The car was so awful I actually stopped and went back to have a proper look at it to make sure my eyes were not deceiving me. It really was as terrible as my glimpse of it had led me to believe.
Not only that but it was called the Citroen Cactus.
The Citroen CACTUS.
CALLED A CACTUS.
What in the name of all that is holy is going on here? Does nobody but me remember the dreadful time of the Ford Probe? Who in their right mind would call a car after a spiky, unattractive plant?
Cars should be called things like; zoom and swoosh, or endeavour or thrill. They should not be called the Citroen Lettuce or the Citroen Bougainvillea. Who wants to drive the Citroen Leilandii? Not me.
What is the world coming to?
Two days after this horrific discovery I was stuck in traffic behind a Peugeot Tepee.
Not quite the right spelling I know, but close enough to create vivid images of the Peugeot Bivouac, the Peugeot Surprisingly Roomy Four Man Tent, the Peugeot Wigwam.
The Peugeot What the Fuck?
I looked up the spelling of the Tepee just to be sure. It turns out that they are a partner car to the Bipper.
‘Yes. I do have a new car. I love it. What is it called? Ummm, well I actually drive a Bipper. What? No. Yes. You did hear me correctly. I am actually driving around in a car called a Bipper. What? No. I am not an idiot. Eh? How much did I pay for it? About £9000. Yes. I did. No I still don’t think I’m an idiot? What? You do? O.K. Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to agree to disagree. I see. You’re happy to disagree with someone who’d pay nine grand for a car called a Bipper…
I beg your pardon?
Did you just call me a Mother Bipper?’