Picture this, if you will. London, 1529. The streets are awash with cabbage and stagnant urine. Stray dogs wander through the landscape, picking at scraps of food and old bones that lay in the gutter. Occasionally a wild pig snuffles through the cityscape, searching for that ever-elusive truffle. The Philosophers’ Truffle, as pigs have referred to it since pork immemorial, will give immortality to its eater and will bestow a wisdom truly befitting those little piggy eyes. In the meantime, the wild snuffling pig will make do with eating the scraps of rotting peel and filthy food it finds in the streets, to lend it simple sustenance.
The quirky houses of late medieval London are stacked high, each new floor projecting outwards so that, high above the street, the upper floors of houses on opposite sides are almost touching. With timber frames, it poses a frightful fire hazard; in practical terms, it means that sunlight is kept from the street. For the pedestrian, the city is a dark and gloomy place.
Though the city has a much smaller population in 1529 than will be the case some centuries later, it is still a thriving metropolis. People live on top of one another here and the streets are alive with bustle and activity. Richly cosmopolitan, different languages and strange fashions are brought together in a muddled, swirling soup. The cry of trade, of social frivolity and indignation, bring a soundtrack to the city that reminds one of the chaotic humanity at its core. In the rain, the streets are muddy and foul underfoot; in the sun, the baked dirt is dusty and one feels as if one is choking with every laboured breath. Regardless of the weather, the stench of the city is interminably foul. The unpleasant cocktail of ripe body odour, open sewage, rotting food and the cloying stink of a hundred abattoirs plays about the streets like children of the damned. Only these children wear jerkins and look a bit like The Artful Dodger from Oliver Twist.
This is a glimpse of London in 1529. Now, if you will, glance over to the left. That’s right. Over there. Where that straggly-haired woman with a pock-marked face is selling lavendar. Do you see her? No – not the woman talking to the fat man and rubbing his….wait a minute…oh I see. She is rubbing an apple against his trouser leg, to get a good shine on it. That’s a relief. Now just next to her, you’ll see the woman selling lavend…oh hang on. She’s buggered off. That’s the thing about Tudor London. Nothing ever stays still. No matter. It isn’t the woman I wanted to draw your attention to, anyway. It is the building behind her. This large timber-framed building is Griffin Place, the civil offices of Thomas More, newly appointed Lord Chancellor of England. In here, the administrative work of perhaps the most devout Chancellor ever to grace the office, is executed. No pun intended.
And here he comes. The crowds pay scant attention as the beige Ford Cortina Estate swings out of Threadneedle street and on to Bishopsgate. The Cortina has a dark brown roof – a two-tone car, denoting the subtle class of its driver. The registration plate is TM 1 and, for anyone with an interest in detail, a rosary hangs from the rear-view mirror. Inside, Thomas More has Ave Maria wafting gently from the stereo but no one can hear this, since he drives with the windows up. It helps to keep the city stench out.
Thomas More looks relaxed behind the wheel. He also looks confident; a man on top of his game. He drives slowly down the potted road and the suspension on the car can be heard to squeak gently as he negotiates the multitude of bumps in the road. A man faithful not only to God, but to The Highway Code, he indicates judiciously as he approaches Griffin Place and pulls his car up outside, parking it alongside the uneven kerb. He switches off his engine, climbs out of the car and retrieves his chain of office from the back seat. Locking the car and checking that all of the doors are secure, he strides in to Griffin Place, slipping the chain of office around his neck as he goes.
So what of the car? You may not even have noticed the anachronism, so natural does it seem for Thomas More to be driving a two-tone beige Ford Cortina Estate. There is little doubt that had Thomas More been alive in a world dominated by cars – as we are today – then this would have been his vehicle of choice. Consider the facts. The understated nature of the Cortina – its simple modesty – befits a man that took office with modesty, and continued to practise humilty throughout his career. This was, after all, the second most powerful man in the whole of England – and yet he wore a hair shirt beneath his robes, to remind him of the need for penitence. His modesty is reflected further in the dull colour of his car – a dun, unflattering beige. He has opted for a two-tone beige, as a way to indicate his status, while remaining aesthetically humble.
The gentle, rocking suspension that one associates with a Ford Cortina is perfect as a way to echo the humble, bowing motion of a penitent subject. But there are other reasons why a Ford Cortina Estate is such a perfect car for Sir Thomas More. In practical terms, it would suit him down to the ground. The economy of the Cortina is very good; he would be able to save money on petrol, which could be distributed as alms at his leisure. The fact he has the roominess of an estate car, too, would be a useful factor in transporting faggots for the burning of heretics. Indeed, the design of the Cortina Estate is such that a roof-rack can be easily attached. The transportation of a heretic’s stake would be an easy matter. In practise, More would be able to utilise his car as a self-contained heretic-burning unit. Though he wouldn’t need to do this – the systems were in place in Tudor England for heretics to be burned without the Chancellor actually needing to involve himself in the logistics – it would be useful as a fall-back. In practical terms, also, it must be borne in mind that More would find it easy to get parts for his Cortina Estate. Self-maintenance would be a straightforward affair, so More would be able to spend less time attending to his car and more time attending to matters of state.
It is interesting to consider the cars that would be driven by a variety of historical figures. In the same way that a dog can tell us much about its owner; so a car can tell us much about the person that drives it. Thus it is, by pairing historical figures with suitable cars, we are able to distill the very essence of the person in question and come to know them in a profound way.
Take Queen Victoria. There is no doubt in my mind that she would drive a new-shape Volkswagon Beetle. Despite the dour public facade by which she is popularly known, Victoria was a woman of homely passions and she would have had a doting love for a car so cheeky and full of character. Indeed, she would have called it her “Love Bug” and would have glanced mischievously at Albert every time she referred to it as such. No one party to this small wink of significance would have been left in any doubt that the dumpy Queen and her gallant Prince Regent had known the joys of rumpy pumpy on the back seat.
It is a fact that a VW Beetle would have amused Victoria, greatly. It would be her inclination to paint the car decoratively – with huge pink flowers and the like – but in the interests of her public image, she would probably compromise on this, and plump (again, no pun intended) for black. In the flower holder on the dashboard, she would have a small lilac posey. She would drive around her Balmoral estate, care-free and full of excited joy, while she listened to Justin Timberlake at full volume on her stereo, temporarily forgetting the trappings and the pressures of monarchy. Like Queen Victoria, the VW Beetle is, on the surface, a dumpy object, black and understated. But, like Queen Victoria, behind its thin facade it is frivolous, gay and full of fun.
Not all monarchs would opt for fun, when choosing a car. George III was a deeply conservative monarch, with a great deal of respect for tradition and protocol. As king, George III fully embraced his responsibilities as the head of state, while accepting the constitutional limitations upon his power. He nonetheless felt that, as king, he must be afforded the fullest respect. It was imperative that royal protocol must be strictly adhered to, in those having dealings with him. King George is unfairly remembered for his madness which, while having a bearing on the car he would drive, is a small factor to be considered. It is his patriotism, his sense of duty, his conservatism and his frugality that must be focused on when one thinks of him driving his car. In conclusion, it seems a fairly safe bet to assume that George III would have been seen driving through the towns of England – he was very much a king for the people – in a Sterling Blue Rover 75. As well as boasting a practicality and a dignity befitting so conscientious a monarch, the Rover 75 has an excellent record for safety. If George III did, then, have a sudden moment of insanity while in the driving seat, his car would help to ensure his preservation in the face of an accident fuelled by kingly mentalism.
This brings us on to none other than the bard. Shakespeare, of course, would have been well-suited to his Austin Maxi. One can almost hear his words, spoken by the most resonant of Thespians: Pon wings of Albion’s homely Leyland / I waft me o’er the potted streets / A whiff o’ pungent vinyl dost assail myne nose / And a steering wheel so angularly bent; / She handles like a camel ‘pon Winter’s icy lake / And hast the power o’ but one quart an oss.
Shakespeare’s sensibilities were finely tuned to life’s natural humour. The whimsey of Fate is much recorded in the works of the bard. He would, then, have been fully resigned to a car that performed badly, in both power and handling. He would have found the clumsy shape and the badly-finished interior of the Maxi a fitting reminder of the imperfection of man, and the imperfection of the world at large. He would have delighted in this and would have enjoyed the flippancy of driving a car so far beneath him, in class and comfort. For Shakespeare, a car would signify a means of transport – and nothing else. One cannot see him driving a Ferrari or a Porsche – both of which would suit a successful man of the arts. He would have mocked himself for the ownership of such status symbols, seeing a vain social aspiration entrenched therein. It would have been a Maxi for Shakespeare, through and through. And I am pretty certain he would go for one in orange.
Not all historical personages would have been so self effacing. One of the most charismatic figures ever to grace the history books has to be Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick. A huge player on the stage of The Wars of The Roses, Neville became known as Kingmaker, for the significant part he played in raising and deposing monarchs. One of the most powerful magnates in the whole of England – not to say Europe – Neville was a great landowner, as well as a famous warrior, strategician and politician. He commanded men through the sheer force of his personality and was able to shape history according to his will. What comes across most keenly when one researches the life of this great magnate, is the arrogance he must have had, to propel him forward through the jungle of his own ambition. It is this arrogance, primarily, which leads me to speculate that Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick would have driven a Range Rover. He would have polluted the environment wantonly, would regularly have pulled out of side streets without looking, would have tailgated steady drivers, would have used the slow lane of the motorway to overtake and would have caused traffic chaos by blocking the road selfishly, when picking his daughters, Isabel and Anne, up from school.
Practical considerations would also have made the Range Rover an excellent work horse for the adventuring Earl. It would have been crucial for him to have a car sufficient to transport the full compliment of his medieval armour. By lowering the back seats, Warwick would have no trouble in getting his armour in to the car, along with the bulk of his weaponry. Sundry weapons – such as a battle axe – would be able to go on the roof, or in the boot-mounted luggage compartment, should they prove too unwieldy to fit inside the car. The all-terrain nature of the Range Rover, too, would have been invaluable to Warwick who would have needed to get to battlefields across the UK – not all of which would have been easily accessible by road. When besieging castles, the Range Rover would make an excellent multi-purpose vehicle. Whether using the car to transport siege engines around the field; or using it to push cumbersome obstacles out of the way of the siege offensive; or simply using it to keep out of the rain while having a nice cup of tea; the car would have proved invaluable as a tool of war. It is difficult to say for sure whether Warwick would have had his Range Rover in silver or black. What is certain is that his personalised registration plate would have read: FL4SH.
Attila The Hun would have favoured a Renault Clio, in midnight blue, with all the rude boy trappings that go with it. But that goes without saying.
I’m going to make myself a nice brew. All that talk of Richard Neville sitting in his Range Rover to enjoy a cup of tea has perked my desire.
