Malcolm Steward: audio journalist

Forgive me but after twenty-odd years of writing for hi-fi magazines, that is the type of hyperbolic headline that I have become  accustomed to seeing attached to my articles and reviews… until, that is, that editors became so “time-challenged” that writing headlines for one’s own work suddenly became the norm. And I am not a good headline writer by any stretch of the imagination…

I write this because I called out the AA last week and the very capable engineer who fixed both my cars – neither of which would start that damp wintry morning – made me feel like a complete geriatric with a single phrase…

My super-chipped Fiat Coupe 2.0L 20V Turbo refused to start because, being Italian, she objected to the bitterly cold, damp morning that surrounded my hill-top abode that particular day. Sadly, the 4.0L normally aspirated Jag that the Rosso-coloured vixen had ousted from my affections was also suffering a flat battery, having not been driven for a couple of weeks… after her electrics has refused me admission to the empty fuel tank after she had announced through her less-than-100% trustworthy electronics that she was hungry for petrol. Jaguars and Italian sports cars, for all their differences, at least, have electronic unreliability in common.

“So, is this your son’s car?” asked the AA man. “What makes you think that?” I enquired. “Well, it’s a bit of a boy racer’s ride, isn’t it?” said Mr AA. “Are you suggesting that I’m too old to be interested in a boy racer’s ride, then?” I suggested. Mr AA, who sensed that he might have been ever so slightly wrong, began backing down… “No, it’s just that…” “In truth,”I told him “Both cars are mine but I’m selling the Jag because it’s not as lively as the Coupe and it’s too relaxed a drive: it’s not as spirited nor as visceral as the Fiat. And the Coupe uses far less petrol.” (I figured that if he didn’t know what visceral meant he would surely understand fuel economy!)

At this point Mr AA started to beat a hasty retreat, having pumped some life back into two dead batteries: that in the old man’s Jag and the other in the the beardless youth’s Coupe. This, you will find, may become a recurring theme on this site: people’s assumptions that once one passes a certain age that one instantly  loses all enthusiasm for those things that caused delight when one was younger. This is a complete nonsense: because one is erm, approaching middle age it does not mean that one does not enjoy tyre-smoking oversteer as much as a lad of 19. (Watch the antics on Top Gear, none of whose presenters is especially youthful…) And 160mph – on a race track or autobahn, where such speed is legally permitted, of course -  is still 160mph and appreciably quick regardless of one’s age.

That Coupe is such a responsive, communicative drive, even if its unforgiving stiff suspension and chassis do rattle one’s teeth loose. Luxurious it might not be but animated it most certainly is. Passionate, even. And that, to me, is a most appealling ingredient in anything about which I care: cars, music, literature… my wife!