A Regrettable Purchase
Written by Hash Rifai
Generally — unless you’re bankrolled by petro-dollars — there are two purchases that require careful consideration: a home and a car. Two years ago, my wife and I decided we needed a new car. She was pregnant with our second, and our trusty Golf would no longer cut it.
When purchasing a car as a family of four, the following must be considered: Is there enough space in the boot for the luggage of a family who often pack as though fleeing a military coup? Do the back seats offer enough territory for two car seats? Are the running costs tolerable in an economic climate in which even the purchase of an almond croissant must be carefully mulled over?
My search began on YouTube, and over the course of a month I binged car-review videos. Carwow Matt quickly became a trusted guide, largely because he says in two words what other reviewers insist on saying in ten. Finally, after sharing my findings with my wife, a decision was made: the Audi Q4 E-Tron — German, spacious, well-priced, and the best-looking car in its category. I tracked one down that tickled my boyish fancy: all-black Edition 1, S-line body kit, 21-inch alloys, and diamond-stitched Alcantara seats. A thing of beauty. A few days later, contracts were signed, keys handed over, and then hindsight — that cold-hearted bitch — brought to light the error of my choice.
E-Tron is the name for Audi’s range of electric cars. I wasn’t necessarily in the market for an electric vehicle; what powered the four wheels of the family wagon was irrelevant to me. But I’d been led to believe, from the words spoken by our political figureheads, that the purchase of an electric car was the patriotic thing to do. The moral thing to do. Government policy further swayed my decision. Electric cars were exempt from the congestion charge, road tax, and parking came with a 50% discount. The exemption from the congestion charge was of particular interest to me. I drive into Central London regularly — not out of personal whim but professional necessity; my work demands equipment, and equipment is heavy. A lightbulb moment: being able to drive into Central London without paying the congestion charge worked out cheaper than an Uber ride from the distant colonies of South West London where I live.
But, as is customary in this country, no sensible policy survives long enough to become truly useful. In a display of characteristic ineptitude, the Labour Party decided to U-turn on their promise of free passage into the city for those who drive electric cars. And so, come December 2025, I will be forced to add £11 to the city’s coffers every time I enter the West End — a sum that goes a long way in this current era. Trump and Putin have seen to that.
Onto my second grievance, and the thorniest. According to the white coats at Ingolstadt — Audi HQ — the official range for the Q4 E-Tron is 201 miles. No greater lie has ever been told. Four months into owning our new car, my wife and I contracted the condition known as “range anxiety” — a mental affliction brought on by the constant worry of whether the car’s charge will last long enough for us to reach our destination. A cold snap reduces the range by a third, motorway miles reduce it by half, and turning on the air-con will make the range disappear faster than public money in a Tory government.
A scenario for you to picture: It’s the school holidays. It’s July. There’s a heatwave. It’s 30 degrees outside. The air-con is on. You’re driving 300 miles north-east to Norfolk where your mother-in-law lives. A service-station stop will have to be made. Naturally, you choose a BP — the only service-station chain with decent food choices. You arrive to find that all four charging points (yes, there are only four) are occupied. And no, the rows of gleaming Tesla superchargers are not an option. Five other motorists hover nearby with their hazards on, patiently awaiting their turn. An electric car takes, on average, 30 minutes to charge. You have now entered purgatory, and with two children under the ages of six in the back seat, hell looms. There you sit, forehead in hand, somewhere north of Cambridge, wishing your car emitted carbon monoxide.
In service of balance — a moral duty in the age of the algorithm — if your journeys rarely stretch beyond the local high street, and Central London is a place you rarely, if ever, visit, an electric car is a sensible choice. A London with cleaner air would be a delightful place. But if your life involves any of the aforementioned scenarios, buying one is not just a bad idea — it’s an exercise in self-torture.