Life in the Fast Lane: The Johnson Guide to Cars. Boris Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ thing stayed in second and there we were, wallowing on that roundabout, with as much élan as a piked porpoise. And as the tears started from my eyes, suburban Beemers flashed and honked, and her rump wiggled away for the last time…

      Perhaps I might have caught up with her eventually, except that just then, without warning, my five-year-old child vomited all over the back seat, including the magnesium structure and submarining beam. Next time, give me a gear stick.

       Vital statistics

      Engine 2-litre, 16V Top Speed 134mph Acceleration 0–60mph in 8.6 secs Mpg 33.2 Price (1999) £21,993

       INHUMAN TRAFFIC

      The war is over. Now all you have to

       do is get out of Kosovo in a Fiat Uno,

       without attracting the attention of the

       retreating Serb forces.

      ‘OK Vuk,’ I said to the cream-faced Serb as we nosed out of Pristina into bandit country, leaving the last Irish Guards Scimitar in the rear-view mirror of our Uno. ‘Let’s get the Vuk out of here.’

      And let me tell you, that gibbering Serb needed no encouragement from me. Vuk was 29, with a head that tapered like an anvil from his rippling thorax. If I understood him correctly, he’d narrowly missed selection for the all-Serbia basketball team.

      He could run a hundred metres in slightly over ten seconds. He didn’t smoke. He drank nothing except Coca-Cola, to which he attributed properties of a barely credible order. Vuk was the kind of clean-living, God-fearing Serb that Arkan, the war criminal, used to recruit to his Tiger militia. In fact, it seemed Arkan had tried it on just the other day, at some rural wedding. When someone called Vuk a ‘Serb maniac’, he was delighted, flexing his muscles for days and saying, ‘I am Serb maniac.’

      Except that at this particular moment he was Vuk Funkovic, banjaxed with the terror of a man who knows that his people have done something very nasty, for a long time, to some other people…

      …But those other people had now got the upper hand, they’d got their AK-47s, and they were swarming all over the northern suburbs of Pristina, setting up illegal checkpoints on this dusty winding road, and winkling the fugitive Serbs from their Yugos and popping them like cringing molluscs; and there were 40 kilometres between us and the relative sanctuary of Serbia.

      Which is why he was pedalling that throttle fortissimo and why, as I looked at the windows of his maroon Fiat Uno Testadicazzo 1.4 with bodywork about as bullet-resistant as a can of Diet Fanta, I said a little prayer.

      Call me a sissy. Call me a wimp. But I felt the faintest frisson of apprehension to be driving through the retreating Serb army, past soldiers drunk on Slivovitz and hatred of Nato, when they had just shot three journalists on the suspicion (well-grounded, it turned out) that they were German.

      As for Vuk: Vuk was normally brave. On the morning Nato came in from Skopje, and the other Serb drivers were cowering in the lobby of the glorified ashtray that is Pristina’s Grand Hotel, saying ‘I not go’, it was Vuk who took me and Ivana, my gorgeous clean-living interpreter, down south to see the joyeuse entrée of the Gurkhas at the Kacanik pass.

      Vuk had the guts to get out of the Uno and stand with me by the first mass grave the Paras found in Kosovo. He gulped but stood his ground when the black-bereted Albanian guerrilla appeared and started explaining how beneath the 89 numbered stakes where the flies buzzed, were the families that had been put in a tunnel, grenaded, and shot—shot by Serbs like Vuk.

      He didn’t mind when we flagged down a lurching Merc-ful of KLA, wizened gaffers in brown and yellow fatigues who flashed their gums and waved their Kalashnikovs like rattles. Neither Vuk nor Ivana showed the slightest fear of the American Rangers, backed up for miles in silence. They crouched behind their Humvees, guns trained, as motionless as the Iwo Jima memorial—apart from their rolling eyes and their trembling trigger fingers.

      ‘What’s up?’ I asked one, tapping him on the shoulder. He pointed to the field, where the inky crows were flapping over the stooks and the poppies. It seemed someone had heard a shot. About half a mile away. You could tell the Americans had only just arrived.

      Vuk even went to the headquarters of the KLA in Pristina, and he stuck it for a full 15 minutes while the youths in red armbands sidled up to him and asked him questions—first in Albanian, then more pointedly in Serbo-Croat. And now this self-styled Serb maniac was a pusillanimous pussy, and his hands were clenched on the clammy wheel in a kind of rigor mortis, and I found myself moaning, ‘Not so fast.’

      You soon understand the risks of driving in a war zone. Bombs? Phooey. I’d been bombed in late May, a couple of hours after arriving in Serbia, while driving down the deserted highway through Vojvodin. Wump wump wump wump went the precision munitions 300 yards away on our left, and the clouds wagged to heaven.

      As I looked at the windows of his maroon Fiat Uno Testadicazzo 1.4 with bodywork about as bullet-resistant as a can of Diet Fanta, I said a little prayer.

      Guns? OK, there had been one Pinter-esque pause when some Serb soldiers found out I represented the Daily Telegraph; and it was certainly my habit, going through the bosky bits, to balance my A4 Niceday pad on my head and cower behind the dashboard.

      But the real risk was, of course, a car crash. ‘I very good driver. You see,’ said Vuk that morning we left Belgrade for Kosovo, in our Wacky Races-convoy of hacks. ‘This very good car,’ he said, showing off the Uno’s finer features: its ability to carry five jerrycans of petrol; the way it could accelerate in fifth.

      Just to prove the Uno’s durability, he then reversed without looking and wham, our necks whipped as he crunched the bonnet behind us, a Golf belonging to Reuters. Luckily we sustained nothing more serious than a slightly squeaking door, which Vuk cured by anointing it with Coca-Cola, the drink he swore by and which expressed his rejection of Milosevic.

      That is why I wasn’t so fussed by the sight of the burning houses, or the sad-eyed Serb soldiers, or the KLA sharpshooters. We smiled and waved at everyone indiscriminately, and, alarmingly, they waved and smiled back—the Serbs assuming that Vuk was a Serb heading home, and the Albanians spotting a western journalist.

      ‘This very good car,’ he said, showing off the Uno’s finer features: its ability to carry five jerrycans of petrol; the way it could accelerate in fifth.

      No, what freaked me out were the signs of previous crashes—one car flattened like a can; that’s what happens when you hit a T-55—and trying to remember my blood group. With each fresh horror Vuk put his foot down harder, and cee-ripes, my fingers bit into the attractive leatherette Uno upholstery.

      ‘Jesus H Christos,’ I was murmuring when, with a rubber wail, the Uno stopped. ‘Srbija!’ shouted the Serb, and poured himself a joyous libation of Coke. So we went on, bathed with relief, until a couple of miles on he spotted one of those purple-pyjama’d military policemen—the real bastards of the Kosovo purges—lounging unshaven by the road.

      He waved us down. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I whispered to Vuk. ‘Don’t stop!’ Too late. The Serb maniac grinned as that unshaven, flat-eyed gunman got in the Uno’s spacious rear seat, and stuck his Kalashnikov СКАЧАТЬ