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-the Generalissimo

London – Day 6

2009 Mini Clubman S

Three point two. That’s how many inches they added to the standard Mini’s wheelbase to create the Clubman. Doesn’t sound like much.

But it’s huge.

For starters, a real live person can fit in the back seat now. With me up front and comfy, Zak the Intern sat in back without complaining about loss of feeling in his extremities. The trunk goes from able to hold a measly ½ body to now about ¾ of one. Put the seats down, and they actually make a flat section instead of a ramp like in the regular Cooper. Plenty of space for a dog, a tent, and enough supplies to spend a week in the woods.

We even saw a young family test drive one before us. The child seat fit in the Clubman; not so much in the standard Cooper.

Now let me give you two more numbers: six point two, and one eight seven. That is 6.2 inches extra hanging off beyond the rear wheels, and 187 extra pounds to lug around.

I’ve read a few articles where the tester said they couldn’t discern any difference in handling between the two models. They lied. Drive them back-to-back, and the Clubman feels less nimble in he twisty bits. More ponderous. Less likely to slot that gap up ahead.

Then there’s the S version we tested. On paper, the turbo adds 54 horses and 63 pound-feet of torque. That’s an increase of 45% and 55% respectively over the base model. That’s not an insignificant sum. Give your current car a 50% boost in power and try not to shout for joy.

And yet it felt slower off the line. I know, I know; the numbers say otherwise. But the seat of the pants is where my joy buzzer lives, and it didn’t get the same spanking I got in the non-turbo model.

Mini says the twin-scroll turbocharger they use eliminates the dreaded turbo lag. Sure. I grew up driving my mom’s 1985 Volvo 240 Turbo. My current ride is also a turbocharged Volvo. I know lag when I see it. The Mini Cooper Clubman S lags like a champ. Once it’s spooled up, it feels much more sprightly than the unboosted model, but off the line or below 3000 RPM—where most people drive—the non-S variant just feels quicker.

If you need back seats, the Clubman is a good car. It’s still more fun to drive than 99% of the cars out there, and can hold all your crap. But if you don’t schlep people or anything bigger than a few bags of groceries, then stick with the standard Mini.

S or non-S is a tougher call. The John Cooper Works model would be best, but we weren’t allowed to test that one. And with a decent amount of options it creeps up toward thirty-five large, it sits squarely in BMW 1-series and Subaru STI territory.

In the end, the numbers don’t lie. 3.2, 6.2, 187.

Nor do the letters:

A-

We walked from the hotel to the used Mini dealership. In England, their certified used program is called “Mini Cherished.” Or programme. Damn Brits and their funny spellings. We’d already done a road test of the Clubman back in the U.S., but I’d made a promise to the Generalissimo that we’d at least ask about trying one on this side of the pond.

“No. Never,” the salesman said.

“Well, we tried,” I said.

The Generalissimo ignored me. He got into the nearest shit-brown Clubman S. The chocolate leather with white piping (actually called Hot Chocolate on the British version) was nice if not excessive. Mini’s leather interiors are soft, but look loose, like they didn’t properly batten down the hatches over in the stitching department.

I leaned into the open window on the passenger side. Seemed a little odd, as I was where the driver’s seat would be back home. I’d been told the British started driving on the left back when they used horses, that way a rider would be able to draw his sword and counter an attack. Seemed like a stupid tradition to continue with, but there you go. Welcome to England.

“Sir,” I said. “They aren’t going to—”

“Does the radio work?!” the Generalissimo yelled without looking up from the wheel.

“Um, I believe so.” The salesman walked off to ask.

“Quickly, young Thurman! Get in!”

I got in. He bobbed his eyebrows, then dangled the key fob between his fingers.

“You didn’t,” I said.

“I did!” He jammed the fob into the slot and pressed the Start button.

“Ah, crap.”

The salesman came running out at the sound, but he was too late. With an excessive amount of wheel spin, the Clubman S launched through the plate glass window. We bounced off the sidewalk and onto the pavement.

“Wrong lane!” I yelped.

“Indeed!”

A double-decker bus swerved to miss us. The Generalissimo stayed where he was.

“Not the bus!” I screamed. “We’re in the wrong lane!”

He sapped his forehead. “My bad!”

He swerved. I looked back. Our “escort” from Scotland Yard was still there, only they’d picked up the pace and set their blues and twos to “disco inferno.”

“You stole a car,” I said.

“Indeed!”

“In front of the gentlemen from the local constabulary who think we’re terrorists.”

“Indubitably!”

“Why?”

“You said we could!”

“I did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

“Did!”

“Did not—red light!”

He ignored me and slotted us through an impossibly small gap in three lanes of traffic. I put my seatbelt on and made the sign of the cross. I’m not Catholic, so it’s entirely possible I did it wrong.

The Generalissimo took us on a rambling tour of London. By the time we reached Trafalgar Square, our cop escort had grown from one angry car to seven.

“I’m not gonna do well in prison,” I said.

“You’ll do fine! Just don’t drop the soap!”

“That’s you’re advice? Don’t drop the soap?! Are you insane?”

“Four out of five dentists say yes!”

We cut around the top of the square, up by the entrance to the National Gallery. The cops must have done this a time or two before, because they’d split up and were about to pin us in.

“Time for the suspension test!”

“Oh...God...” I tucked into the fetal position.

He spun the wheel and yanked up the parking brake. We slid sideways. The Vauxhaul Astras coming our way slammed on their brakes. We stopped; they stopped. The Generalissimo rolled down his window.

“We are playing follow the leader!” he yelled at them. “See if you can keep up!” He saluted, then spun the wheels and shot us down the steps toward Nelson’s Column.

“Good suspension!” he cried over the sound of us bounding down the stairs.

Glad he thought so. My teeth disagreed. I looked out the rear window. The cops chose not to follow us down, but were having a hard time getting turned around.

“I like this car!”

“Brakes!” I yelled.

“Yes! We have brakes!”

He ignored the tourists out sunning themselves on the steps who fled as we tried very hard to use them as bowling pins. Soon it was over. We hit Whitehall and blasted off to points unknown.

******

“We should dump the car, then—” I started to say about ten minutes later.

“Never! Not until we have completed our mission!”

“The test drive? Are you nuts? Don’t answer that.”

“No, my young friend. Our time spent at Scotland Yard was no accident. My dear friend Elizabeth contacted me with an urgent request, one I was only too glad to accept.”

I hated it when he stopped screaming. It meant I was about to get shot at. Again.

“What was the request?” Yeah, I’d pretty much resigned myself to an imminent demise.

“Her prized Corgi has been taken. We must retrieve it.”

“And do you know where it is?”

“Absolutely! I think!”

******

“A pet store? Really?”

“She won’t know the difference!”

“I’m thinking she will.”

“That’s why we got the spray paint!”

I didn’t bother getting back into the car. I made a left, hopped on a bus with my Oyster card, went back to the hotel and, with a little luck, incarceration at one of the finer British institutions.

London – Day 5

After a quick breakfast (at the pub—again) we set off. We got in line behind the other tourists and waited.

“Westminster Abbey!” the Generalissimo said. The people near us in line took an instinctive step back. “Only a precious few who have been offered eternal sanctuary here declined it! Winston Churchill! Florence Nightingale! And of course, the Generalissimo!”

“The Queen of England never offered to let you be buried here,” I said. “It’s only for British subjects.”

“That’s what I told her! Then she reminded me: I am a citizen of the world!”

I’d had four pints with breakfast, so I stopped caring long enough to get inside. They used two entrances on opposite sides of the Great North Door. One was for credit only, the other was cash only. The credit line—ours—was on the right. We picked the correct line for once.

I’d promised my long-suffering wife that I’d try to find one of her relatives who had a monument somewhere in the Abbey. Turned out to be just inside the door on our side. If we’d been in the cash line, I’d have missed it. The monument talked about her ancestor’s “assistance” to the local prostitutes, but made no mention of his proclivity toward umbrellas, which I’m told he is credited with popularizing in London. I took a quick snapshot. Five feet later we reached a sign that had been obscured by the people in line in front of us. No photography please. Ooops. Timing, as they say...

Not sure what I was expecting to find inside, which explains why it met those expectations. I looked around Poet’s Corner and found some writers whose work I admired. Went outside to the courtyard. Ate a cherry muffin while the Generalissimo had a staring contest with one of the statues. Said he was preparing for a rematch with someone we’d see tomorrow. I shrugged. I hit the gift shop on my way out. Pretty standard tour, really.

******

We walked across the Thames to the London Eye. Erected (yeah, I said erected) in 1999, it quickly became one of the many symbols dotting London’s skyline. As always, I bought the tickets. Free trip to England my butt.

“Come, my good friends!” el Capitán said. He charged the ramp leading to the loading platform. The others dutifully followed. I shook my head, apologized to the Lithuanian family they’d trampled, and went in pursuit. I got into the capsule just before the door closed.

“You made it!” el Capitán said, slapping me on the back hard enough to dislodge my spleen. “Come! Let us enjoy this stunning view!” We’d traveled al of three feet. All I could see from my perch was the Lithuanian family beating their fists against the capsule two feet from my nose. “We have thirty minutes of alone time with which to ponder its magnificence!”

Thirty minutes, locked in an air conditioned Plexiglas bubble. With them. The other ten passengers tried to blend into the transparent walls on the far side of the capsule. When the Generalissimos and the Capitáns split up and headed their way, the passengers scrambled over one another to hop the central bench. A little old lady cold cocked a twenty-something man to get him out of her way. Love to tell you this was the first time that had happened...

We made it to the top of the rotation without incident. The ride down was another story.

“Avast!” el Capitán cried.

We followed his pointed finger. Perched on one of the frame rails between us and the next capsule was a pigeon.

“Someone’s cherished pet!” the Generalissimo said. “I shall rescue it!”

“Ah, crap,” I moaned.

The sticker on the dor said not to lean on it. Didn’t say anything about ramming it at full speed. It popped open. I thought for sure the Generalissimo was done for this time, as I felt confident a 443-foot fall would kill even him. But he surprised me once again, lashing out and grasping the doorjamb as he fell like he’d been planning it all along. He launched himself sideways to the nearest frame rail.

“Do not be afraid, little birdie! It is I! The Generalissimo! I will save you!”

We’d drawn a crowd, both in the capsules around us and the ground below. He didn’t notice. He jogged along the rail, chest puffed out, medals clanking, head held high.

The pigeon didn’t appear to like this turn of events, and flittered off.

“Drat! I have spooked it! Come, young Thurman! We must corner it!”

I stuck my head out the door into the wind. “Hell no! Now leave the rat with wings alone and get your monkey ass back in here!”

“That’s the spirit!”

He spent the next ten minutes using the London Eye as his own personal jungle gym as he chased that poor pigeon. The Capitáns clapped and cheered. The Generalissima did her nails. I tried to calculate the amount of bail we’d need this time. Eventually the bird got tired of the game and simply flew away into the distance. The Generalissimo returned, just in time to have his picture taken before the gendarmes arrived to haul us all away.

******

“Can I go now?” I asked for the fifth time.

“Not until you answer our questions.” Pretty sure the guy doing the talking was MI5. His partner in the corner pretended to pick his nails with a Fairbairn-Sykes knife. Pretty sure he was MI6.

“I already answered them,” I said. Again. “The Generalissimo saw a bird. He said he needed to rescue it. He went outside and chased it. When it inevitably flew away, he came back, then you arrested us.”

“We have no record of anyone named Generalissimo entering the country. Is that what you and the rest of your cell call your leader?”

“Cell?”

“He thinks you’re a terrorist!” the Generalissimo said.

“You’re damn right I do.” He did a double take. “Wait...how the bloody hell did you get in here?”

“I could tell you, but then young Thurman would have to kill you!” He grinned under that bushy mustache. “Come, my young friend! We have sights to see! Evil to fight! Women to ravage! Pastries to consume in the name of science! And love! Love I say!” He saluted. Then he left. When I didn’t follow, he came back. “It is not polite to make an old man wait!”

I held up my wrists, as far as I could under the circumstances. The chain holding my cuffs to the floor only let my hands get a few inches above the table.

“You are under arrest?!” he said. He scratched his brow, knocking his leather helmet askew.

“As are you!” MI5 guy yelled.

“Indeed! I threw myself on the mercy of her majesty! She is an old family friend! And a dear friend to pigeons everywhere! I salute her!” He saluted. “She secured our release!”

“Oh, God...” I said.

“Come! We must continue the adventure! Elsewhere!”

******

The blokes at Scotland Yard were less than pleased to see us go. On the way to our next destination, I caught two unmarked cars tailing us. Note to Scotland Yard: tailing pedestrians in a car in the middle of the day is not the subtlest thing in the world. Though that may have been their intent.

The Tipperary is noted as being the very first place to pull a pint of Guinness outside of Ireland, so of course I had to go. Had a pint. Then left. Not much of a pub, really.

Then we went across the street to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. Now that’s a pub. It’s down a dark pedestrian alley. It’s small. It feels dank. They serve lots of beers I’d never heard of. Perfect.

I had the bangers and mash. Lovely. I also had a pint of Samuel Smith Extra Stout. Also lovely. The others did the same. I even tried the spotted dick. Not bad. Then I ordered a round of bitters and had them delivered to the cops tailing us.

“Think they’ll drink it?” I asked.

“I would!” el Capitán said.

“To Scotland Yard!” the Generalissima said. “May their livers never falter in their sworn duty to the crown!”

“Long live the Queen!” la Capitán said.

“Cheers!” el Capitán said.

“Don’t eat yellow snow!” the Generalissimo added.

We drank. We were merry.

******

We hit the hotel. My room had been searched, I’m guessing by morons. Another note to Scotland Yard: if you want someone to go back into their routine so you can catch them doing something naughty, it’s best not to let them know you’re following them around, tossing their rooms, and bugging the house phone they have no intention of using. Just a thought.

Someone knocked on my door. I opened it, expecting a pair of Bobbies to come in and give me a body cavity search. Turned out it was just the Generalissimo.

“Dinner?” I said.

“Not yet! We have a mission of utmost important to accomplish!”

“And the others?”

“They’ve gone to see the London production of Wicked!”

I’d seen Les Misérables on my last trip to London. Got a nice seat behind a post that blocked half the stage. Best two hours of sleep I got on that trip.

“What’s the mission?” I said, knowing that I’d come to regret it.

He bobbed his eyebrows. I deflated. A promise is a promise. Damn.