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.Another had windows but was flown by a fully paid-up member of EXIT.He knew his engines were on their last legs but, even so, he flew right into the biggest thunderstorm I’ve ever seen.We went in at 2000 feet and came out through some bushes.However, while Cuba may be the FSO Polonez of airlines, it is not the worst.The Nissan Sunny award for hopelessness goes to… Qantas.They are incapable of getting a plane off the ground on time.The staff are ruder than French waiters and the food is inedible.Even the appropriately named CAAC – China’s airline – which shows 12 hour animated kung fu films through loudspeakers, has them licked.I’m sorry if you think you’ve been reading Top Landing Gear this month.However, fear not.Judging by my drive, which is now full of cars, and by my diary, which shows no trips abroad ever again, normal service will be resumed shortly.A fast car is the only life assuranceBetween 1982 and 1985 I used to play a great deal of blackjack, and it almost always made me miserable when I lost.Which I did.All the time.Nowadays, however, I have learnt to approach the table fully expecting an hour’s cards to cost me a hundred quid.Which it does.All the time.By abandoning hope, I’ve removed the despair.This is a very important philosophy when you’re confronted with someone who’s trying to sell you a pension.Do not listen.As soon as they open their briefcase, put your fingers in your ears and hum Bruce Springsteen ballads.A pension is by far and away the most stupid thing ever to hit the civilized world.You scrimp and you save for 30 miserable years, hoping that you’ll live to reap the rewards.And what, pray, are you going to do with those rewards at the age of 92? Buy a gold-plated Nebulizer? Luxuriate in some silk-lined incontinence pants?They say you’re investing for the life you don’t yet know, but that can work both ways.What if, after a life of deprivation, you are eaten by a tiger? Or what if, just a week before the big pay-out, you get an even bigger one from Camelot.Pensions are all about planning, and planning is all about hope.And hope, invariably, leads to despair.Tonight, I’m off to New Zealand to race a V8 jet boat up some rapids, and that’s an experience to beat any 4 per cent growth on capital, believe me.They say pensions are tax-efficient but, quite frankly, they’re so dull I’d rather give my money to the government.So long as they promise to spend it on F-15s and nuclear submarines.Things I can be proud of.The whole point of having money is to have fun.That’s it.There is no other reason, which is why you must also slam the door on anyone trying to tell you that a PEP or a TESSA is a good idea.It is not.You give your cash to someone who, in return, sends you statements once in a while saying that you now have more money than you had when you started.But you haven’t, because it’s locked away.Some would argue that the stock market provides a better alternative because the money is always available.But I’d be grateful if all talk of EC1 were kept out of the equation just at the moment.Even the most idiotic gambler can see the Footsie is at its highest level ever, and that Mr Blair is at the gates.The only way is down.I have thought about this quite carefully and it seems to me that all investments do nothing to enrich your soul.And I don’t care what the grinning salesman says, they’re all risky.Remember, pensions have a habit of falling off boats.You will spend your life hoping this doesn’t happen.You’ll wind up frightened and alone, shivering in the corner of a one-room bedsit, unable to afford a single-bar fire because some City institution is playing the silicone gee-gees with your cash.My advice is simple.Remove the risk.Invest your money… no wait, spend your money, on something you know will lose.A car.Now at this point, a few people will raise their hands and draw my attention to the Mercedes SLK, which, when it was launched at the beginning of the year, came with a two-year waiting list.Secondhand values went through the roof, up the chimney and in some cases right to the top of the television aerial.SLKs were being advertised at £45,000, which is £10,000 more than they’d cost a patient man.But pretty soon everyone was trying to sell their Merc, and in a matter of days prices settled down again.The SLK was a freak.And I see no new cars on the horizon which will perform a similar trick; certainly not the BMW Z3.Last weekend, I counted 26 in the secondhand columns, giving it the exclusivity of a packet of biscuits.Cars were an investment once, but too many people walked away from those late-1980s boom years nursing fingers that were burned through to the bone.However, and this is the key, they may have paid £100,000 for a Ferrari 308 GT4 which is now worth £20,000, but at least they still have a Ferrari.I know of two chaps who clubbed together in the height of the madness and bought an Alfa Romeo SZ thinking it was their passport to a life of rum punches in Barbados.However, as they took delivery the bubble burst, and they’ve been wearing margarine trousers on a slide into oblivion ever since.But who cares? If it had been a stock exchange deal that had gone wrong, they’d have a worthless piece of paper.But they’ve still got a Group A racing chassis, those wonderful looks and that magical 3.0 litre V6 engine.They did all right.I was flicking through the small ads in this paper last week and found that for, say, thirty grand you could have a Jaguar XJR or a low-mileage BMW M5 or, staggeringly, a Bentley Turbo R.Sure, when you’re 90, a pension would keep you in panty pads and a Bentley won’t, but at least you’ll have had a life.You’ll be seen as wicked and interesting, and as a result no one will care when you simply wet the chair.Rav4 lacks Kiwi polishLast night, I found myself at the Auckland Travelodge, tucking into a bed of wilted leaves and chicken served with ‘jus’.To be honest, there’s nothing much wrong with Travelodge – except they always put me in a room that’s two time zones away from reception – but I would like to know how on earth the word ‘jus’ wormed its way on to one of their menus.In the very recent past, ‘jus’ was only to be found at the very finest restaurants in France, but in just a few years it’s filtered down the food chain, through bistroland and onwards until it ended up in New Zealand, in a Travelodge, under my chicken.Where it tasted pretty ropy actually.I knew it would, because it just doesn’t belong.I go to a Travelodge when I want a pasta salad, and I go to Château du Domaine St-Martin when I want ‘jus’.In carspeak, this is even easier.I go to Land Rover if I want an off-roader, and I go to VW if I want a hatchback [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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