Forget all those people who - as soon as there’s even a hint of frost in the air - tell you that the ONLY car that will help you survive a traditional British winter (the type and severity of which is annually defined by a dusting of snow briefly accumulating on the roof of the Milton Keynes branch of ATS), needs to be powered by all four-wheels. Coupled with having tyres masked in snow chains and almost certainly brandishing a Land-Rover badge glued somewhere about its sizeable circumference. As this sort of self-harm-resulting advice is what me mam casually refers to as, “absolute bollocks”.
All anyone currently wetting themselves at the prospect of the season changing into something a little less climatically hospitable has to do is simply take a leaf out of the late, great Sir Roger Moore’s* book of dealing with winter driving. Which essentially amounts to owning/driving a Lotus Esprit Turbo with the indoor heating turned up, the antifreeze levels topped up and a pair of skis precariously mounted somewhere between the rear window louvres and the outside ceiling bit. And possibly an exterior paint job, so as to differentiate it from the more summery look and feel of when you were last observed out and about in it. Think Submarinal White....
Additionally, and it's also prudent to stash a tux in the boot on the off chance you need to impress a laydee, either en route to your destination, or if you get snowed in somewhere and have to spend a night in an alpine log cabin in front of a roaring fire. Although in reality, said alpine log cabin will manifest as a Travel Lodge located just outside Slough, obviously; because it's you we're talking about here. It also might be wise to stick your safari suit in the boot too. Just in case it suddenly gets unseasonably warm out, and you wish to remain debonair come what may. And that, as they say, is pretty much job done in terms of winter-proofing your car, from the outside, in.
Which is all a far cry from pandering to society’s whims and adopting the Chelsea Tractor default winter setting and/or the ranked masses (or a similar sounding phrase) of green laning** devotees' equally as nauseating approach. The latter of which tends to always begin and end with a fucking car snorkel for reasons known only to them. And the ubiquitous front-mounted winch. Because of course, they dedicate their spare time throughout a typical UK winter wonderland, voluntarily mounting daring rescue missions for drivers of non-Land-Rover devices. Those who have recently parted company from slightly icy road surfaces and ended up in ravines and verges in their mid-ranging family saloons of either Japanese or German build quality. Purely for the underlying reason they’re not a fucking Land-Rover-based tool.
You see, British motorists have a habit of panicking whenever they’re faced with something they don’t like/confuses them. Or when they need to hastily make choices, which they also find impossible to make. Brexit, winter tyres, the correct pronunciation of blink-182 and what type of fucking fancy coffee they wish to order when stood at the front of a huge queue in Starbucks. These sort of life-changing decisions. The fuckers.
But not Sir Roge.
Snowfall? Pah, he had a car for that. Give or take an interchangeable exterior colour, the self-same one he drove out of the sea with Barbara Bach*** in that time. The lucky so-and-so. I’d have loved to have gone down with late 1970s Bach, but I guess that’s another story. For another Tribe. And perhaps even, another moment in time.
*The coolest man to ever have lived/repeatedly arched an eyebrow
**Men (mostly) who readily believe that their Land-Rover is hewn from Kryptonite
....and that all laydeez instantly imagine owner/drivers of such atrocities as tree surgeons or super vets or any profession which they think makes them look vaguely heroic.