Emissions/Kilian Doyle: They're fierce clever, them Germans. Mercedes-Benz is working on a "thinking" car that anticipates crashes and activates safety systems like airbags and extending bumpers in preparation. Now those nice folks at Bosch have come up with a "sensitive" car that will use tiny cameras to warn drivers of impending doom.
They're even hinting at cars with artificial intelligence. Soon you won't have to drive at all - just type in your destination and let the car take over, steering itself whilst gently chiding you for being too much of a cretin to do it yourself.
All this may sound wonderful to you lot, but it's wreaking havoc with me. Why? Two words: Knight Rider.
The programme seemed promising enough when the credits rolled for the first time in the early 1980s and the souped-up black Pontiac TransAm appeared, its red striplighting pulsing away as it emerged from the dust like some Dark Rider of the Apocalypse.
But then the narration began. (And no, I didn't recall it verbatim from the deepest recesses of my brain. I'm not that sad. I looked it up on the internet. Actually, come to think of it, that's desperately sad in itself. I may need professional help.)
"Knight Rider! A shadowy flight into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist: Michael Knight - a young loner on a crusade to champion the cause of the innocent, the hopeless and the powerless in a world of criminals who operate above the law."
Knight, unfortunately, was someone who did exist, albeit in his own little world above the laws of style and moralistic hairdressing.
Played by that loathsome spanner David Hasselhoff - he of the 1970s porn star bouffant hairdo, painted-on denims and teeth that would put a Texan cheerleader to shame - Michael Knight was one of the most obnoxious "heroes" ever foisted on us poor innocents.
Admittedly, the car did look deadly-black, bulletproof, tooled-up with flamethrowers and rocket launchers and capable of over 300 mph. What more could a kid want? "Someday, I'll have one of those," I thought, transfixed as I watched this wondrous new TV gem for the first time.
But then I heard the voice . . . "Miichaelll," it would say in its syrupy, supercilious faux-Anglo aristocrat accent, "I think you'll find I'm the brains of this operation." Granted, it was right, but the sheer smugness of it made me, normally a shy and retiring child, want to sugar its petrol tank and scrape a very large bunch of keys down its sleek haunches. I hated that car.
Ever since then, the idea of a car with anything resembling a mind of its own is enough to send me into cold sweats. And you wonder why I'm so fond of my bicycle?
If KITT was so bloody clever, I reasoned, why didn't it realise the sole reason for it getting attacked with sub-machineguns and bazookas every second week was sitting behind the steering wheel? Surely, if it had half a brain at all, it would have activated its ejector seat and disposed of him as they were crossing a very deep ravine along a very narrow bridge?
Not that I felt sorry for Hasselhoff. He deserved every humiliation. Remember, this is the man who, in later life, was responsible for unleashing the vile, pneumatically-chested Pamela Anderson on us after all.
So what if he brought many hours of pleasure to boys of all ages, alone on the couch on a Saturday evening "enjoying" Baywatch, not to mention the millions of eastern European rock fans who lapped up his painful sub-Meatloaf "music"? That's hardly worthy of a Nobel Prize for Outstanding Contribution to Culture, is it?
In my book, it's closer to warranting a globally
televised wedgie. So, before continuing your march into the future, my egghead German chums, please consider the consequences. Have I not suffered enough?