For the next 48 hours I, Rowan Horncastle, am a “patron of luxury”. That’s how Rolls-Royce refers to its customers, those people who don’t support football clubs, but own them; that travel by Learjet, not Easy. But what’s it really like being a member of the automotive glitterati? Well, with the help of the all-new Phantom VIII, a £525,000 Extended Wheelbase, I’m going to find out.
The plan is to go on a luxo road trip. The destination? An exclusive nest of wealth, perched high in the French Alps: Courchevel 1850. Being 750 miles away from my current location (R-R’s suitably immaculate Goodwood facility) it’s a bit of a slog. But that doesn’t matter; I’ve donned my best kleptocratic nouveau-riche clothing, have a Phantom to indulge in, and, best of all, R-R has supplied a chauffeur – because no self-respecting ’garch would be seen behind the wheel.
And here he is. Hold on, I recognise that aerodynamic head. Is that?… no, it can’t be. Oh, for pity’s sake… it’s Ollie Marriage.
OM: Yes, it is. And I can’t believe I’ve got myself into this, but, if we’re going to do this properly, you’ve got to call me “Drive”. That’s how you refer to your chauffeur, apparently. What should I call you?
RH: Lord backseat overlord.
OM: I’ve got a better name: Roman Ahornavich. Doubly useful as it could be your porno name. Anyway, now I’ve got you safely into the back (oh, the ignominy of having to open and close doors for you), it’s time for me to get on with the driving. And what’s up with those gold skis? And that rack?! Hang on, has it been drilled through the boot?
RH: Never you mind for now, Drive.
OM: I don’t know if you’re aware of distance back there, but we’re now about 10 miles into our journey and I’ve nearly crashed about three times. Running into the back of people. At first I thought it was because the Phantom weighs as much as a moon and the brakes weren’t man enough for the job, but actually I think they’ve been purposefully engineered like that. It’s impossible to brake harshly. No matter how suddenly you thwack the pedal, brake pressure ramps up slowly. It’s the same with the accelerator. It’s literally impossible to drive the Phantom aggressively. I’m going to have a go, though. Every time you reach for the champagne flute.
RH: I’m not sure if it’s a compliment to your driving, the car, or the Moët, but it appears we’ve swallowed the south east of England whole. Never has the M20’s ghastly corduroy surfacing been ironed out so silently.
As we approach passport control at Eurotunnel, my isolation bubble is popped as Ollie cracks the window for border control. The ludicrousness of the situation I’ve manufactured really sinks in – Ollie is playing it straight.
“Passports, please,” the immigration officer says.
“Here’s mine. And this is my client’s,” Ollie says.
Crippling embarrassment sets in, but the guardian of our country is prim and proper and asks to see ‘Sir’. Ollie then turns to me and asks if that’s OK, before dropping the back window. We’re waved through. Then summoned straight into the drugs check zone. More squirming from me in the back. And then again when Eurotunnel offers us an escort to the train, only to close the barrier on the car behind. Ollie’s at it again.
“Excuse me, that car is with us.”
“How do you mean sir?” The guard replies. “That’s our security detail.”
It’s not. It’s our support car housing photographer Mark Riccioni and videographer James Gough. They need to work on their Spetsnaz stares.
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