Cars were once decorated like Christmas trees. Not any more.
The American presidential election season really is upon us. In the studio where I present the news, there are now interviews with a steady stream of contributors from the from both sides of the aisle. Of course, it’s not like being there. And it’s a matter of professional regret that I’ve never followed a candidate as they criss-cross the nation in the run-up to polling day.
The closest I’ve come was a month in Washington when George W. Bush was inaugurated as president for a second term. One thing I took away from that time was the extent to which Americans wear their political hearts on their sleeves. Or at least, that they profess their politics in a way we – in the UK – just don’t. In particular – via the humble bumper sticker. Not just in Washington DC, but in other parts of America where I’ve covered stories, the car is seen as platform for proselytising in a way that could only be true in a nation which owes so much of its growth to the internal combustion engine.
It’s simple this year. Five capital letters; “BIDEN” or “TRUMP”. But what’s striking about the American bumper sticker is the constellation of political topics it embraces. The culture wars, from gun control to birth control, are quietly played out in the rear windows of countless suburban SUV’s.
It was a little bit like this in the UK, once. In the 1980s you could be pretty sure that a motorway journey of any distance would provide a glimpse of bumper stickers which advocated some fairly niche political philosophies. If you were a Thatcherite, your car might sport a blue sticker announcing that “Free Enterprise Works”. It was all quite polite. One popular yellow sticker showed a smiling atom and the slogan “Nuclear Power, Nein Danke!”
There was playful humour at work. One bizarrely ubiquitous green sticker, created by a friend of a friend, extolled the virtues of Exeter University. “Exeter, Probably the Best University in the World”. It aped the advertising campaign of a well-known Danish lager, even down to mimicking the typeface. In an age of closely-guarded intellectual property, I’m not sure you could get away with such a send-up now.
The car was a pulpit, in a small way. Until fairly recently, the sight of stylised fish was a fairly common form of automotive Christian evangelism. It even spawned an evolutionary response from atheists, who added feet to the fish and the word “Darwin”.
So what changed? Where did all the British bumper stickers go? Well, they’re not completely gone. Some motorists still feel it’s worth pointing out that there’s a “Baby On Board”. Or that they’re from Kernow (Cornwall), presumably to distinguish themselves from incoming “grockles” [local word to the English West Country, used to describe people who are not from that area]. But, with the odd exception – the infamous “Bollox to Brexit” sticker on a car driven by Speaker John Bercow being the obvious one – British bumpers are now catchphrase free.
Are people less keen to risk causing offence? I know of someone who had to remove a Countryside Alliance sticker from her car, lest the hunt saboteurs at her university dragged a key along her hatchback’s paintwork. That may be one reason. But surely a more obvious explanation is that the propagandising has moved online, where the idea of politely pointing out your antagonism to anything is unlikely to win many likes and is, therefore, unfashionable.
And fashion is also part of this story too. There was an unaffected “sweetness” to the way people used their car to innocently say something about themselves. The sun-visor which had His and Her names emblazoned across the width of the windscreen. The furry dice, dangling without irony. Even the colours we choose for our cars are now more characterless and insipid. All those greys and silvers, blacks and whites. In my mind’s eye, I remember the 1980s as a riot of colour on the highways. Oranges and greens and yellows. I’m not rose-tinting. According to the Society of Motor Manufacturers and Traders, almost a quarter of all cars sold in Britain last year were grey, an increase of five per cent on the previous year. Indeed, my car is one of them.
It’s peculiar, when you think about it. This is not an age or a culture in which self-effacement is championed or celebrated. But it is more attuned to what is perceived to be kitsch or naff. And, as such, this goes far beyond the car. I’m told that teens are now much more reluctant, for instance, to ascribe labels like “boyfriend” or “girlfriend” to someone who clearly is, because having one is, well, y’know, a bit de trop. When I think about how one of my daughters manages her online profile – her complexion rendered flawless by digital enhancement – I see how self-presentation has changed. Ingenuous public declarations of opinion are out. The online fish-pout is in.
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