Jeremy Clarkson - What Could Possibly Go Wrong...

My plan, then, was very simple, and completely workable. Whenever a driver feels a bit tipsy, he or she must clip a flashing green light to the roof of their car before setting off. Once in place, they would be limited to 10 mph, a speed at which they could not possibly be a danger to themselves or anyone else.

Besides, pedestrians and drivers coming the other way would see the green light and think, Uh oh, this bloke’s had a few. I’d better give him a wide berth.

Of course, anyone found to be drink-driving without a light on the roof of their car, or exceeding the 10 mph limp-home limit would face the consequences. Which would be execution.

There are many upsides to this idea: no one would ever wake up in the morning and wonder where the bloody hell they’d left their car; you would never have to use the hateful last bus; and in pubs, the lonely squeak of a barman polishing his glasses would be replaced by the joyful buffoonery of people having a nice time.

Everyone wins, except, of course, for your local minicab firm, whose drivers would be forced to sell their horrible, sick-stained Toyotas and get a proper job that doesn’t involve quite so much leching.

Anyway, I’ve now come up with another plan that, frankly, is even better. It’s this. Occasionally in life, all of us face an emergency that means we have to break the speed limits, and at the moment there is no system in force that allows us to be let off. Wife in labour? Child’s head stuck in railings? Mother had a stroke? Doesn’t matter. You still get three points and this is simply not fair.

Policemanists and ambulance drivers are allowed to drive fast in an emergency, so why not us too? You might think they are trained for this sort of thing and we’re not but the fact is, many aren’t. Constable Plod, whizzing about in his diesel Astra – he’s no more qualified to do 90 than Princess Anne.

Of course, I recognize that there are many scoundrels out there who would claim that every journey they make is an emergency. To stop this, everyone would simply download a free app that, when deployed, tells a central police computer that they are about to set off on a journey where speed is imperative. And this can only be used, say, once a year. You therefore wouldn’t dare waste it on something trivial.

The only problem with this scheme is that today it’s virtually impossible to make super-speedy progress on the motorway because the outside lane is a permanent home for the sanctimonious, the belligerent and the stupid.

The sanctimonious won’t let you past because they can’t see why anyone should drive fast in these days of global warming; the belligerent won’t let you past because it would suggest you are better than them; and the stupid don’t know you’re there. Usually because they are in a van. And they knocked the door mirror off in the yard at a builder’s merchant last week.

I was in a big hurry on the M40 last week and could not believe how many people just sat in the outside lane. But then nor could I believe what happened when they finally pulled over and I tried to get past.

I was in a Volvo V60 T5, and those of us who remember those epic Touring Car races from the early Nineties know what that means. T5 means, Yes, I’m in a Volvo and, yes, there’s a Georgian tallboy in the back, but underneath my tweed suit I’m wearing a crotchless leather G-string and I have a death tattoo on my back, and I am bloody well coming past.

A Volvo T5 is a Cotswold tea shoppe where they serenade the customers with a medley of hits from Wayne County & the Electric Chairs. It’s a Sex Pistol in a twin set, anarchy in the Home Counties. And the model I was driving came with the optional R-Design package, which includes bigger wheels and stiffer suspension. So, when I put my foot down to overtake the van that had finally pulled over, I was expecting an explosion of power and a surge of acceleration that bordered on the insane. But it never came.

Unlike previous T5s, this does not have a five-cylinder engine. It’s a turbocharged four, which means that the offbeat strum has gone. But so too has the lunacy. When you caress the throttle pedal, you can feel what seems like a big muscle tensing and you think that all is well, but when you really go for it, especially if you are in sixth gear at the time, nothing happens.

Later, on the lovely road between Banbury and Rugby, it was the same story. The car would float deliciously round a corner – it handles and rides very well indeed – but when I accelerated onto the straight? The tumescence was gone. Frankly, you may as well save a few quid and buy the diesel.

Or something else entirely. There are many good things about the V60. It is extremely comfortable, for a kick-off. And like all Volvos, it was plainly designed by someone who has a family. That’s why you can have raised seat bolsters – effectively, child booster cushions – in the back. Touches like that are what makes the XC90 the school-run king.

Load it with the safety options and it will also be festooned with warning lights that illuminate whenever the car feels you may be in peril. You get a warning if a car is in your blind spot. You get another if you stray out of lane. And if you get too close to the car in front, the dash lights up like a Pink Floyd gig. Should it suspect you are about to hit a pedestrian, it will actually apply the brakes on your behalf.

This all sounds very noble and Volvoey, but there’s a very good reason why you need to be warned of impending doom. The V60 is a hard car to see out of. Because of the swooping and rather attractive bodywork, coupled with small windows, the all-round visibility is quite poor. And because of the sloping roofline, the boot isn’t as big as you might imagine.

I can’t quite work out how they got it so wrong. Maybe there’s a language problem between the Swedish engineers and the new Chinese owner. I can’t imagine there are many translators who can manage that combination.

But whatever, anyone after a performance car would be better off with the equivalent BMW 3-series, and anyone who just wants to lug around dogs and chests of drawers would be better off with… well, with what? It’s a good question.

Just recently, we have seen a raft of rather good-looking estate cars come onto the market. The Vauxhall Insignia and the Honda Accord stand out in particular. Boring choices, yes. But good, in these draconian times, for occasionally driving through the motoring rule book without being noticed.

I’d pretty much decided over the past year or so that I couldn’t abide Sebastian Vettel. All that finger-pointing when he won a race. And the hair. And the way he blamed his team-mate for the crash last year. Ghastly jumped-up little German prig.

But last weekend, there I was, enjoying a plate of scrambled egg in Monaco, when I looked up to see the man himself, running towards me like he’d just crossed a desert and I had the keys to a fridge full of cold beer. We chatted about his forthcoming appearance on Top Gear and he was utterly charming; delightful.

The day before, I’d bumped into Mark Webber and he was charming too. I reminded him that the first time we met, he’d been employed by Ford to chauffeur fat drunks in dinner jackets from a hotel to the Goodwood Festival of Speed. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Don’t mock. I got eighty quid a day for doing that.’

In my brief visit to the principality, I met lots of people involved in Formula One. And they were all much the same. Michael Schumacher. Nick Fry. Martin Brundle. Christian Horner. Rubens Barrichello. All of them made the Duke of Cambridge look like a lout.

And then we get to Bernie Ecclestone. It was late, and I was wandering about the harbour, wondering whose party I was going to gatecrash next, when down the ramp of what appeared to be a floating city bounded the octogenarian. Without wishing to sound like Piers Morgan, he was all smiles, and after dispensing a good deal of bonhomie, he invited me for a drink on Flavio Briatore’s boat. You won’t believe this, but he turned out to be charming too. Well, I think he was charming. Flav doesn’t bother much with consonants. He just sort of makes a noise when it’s his turn to speak, but he did a lot of smiling and gave me a lot of wine.