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Mon Ami: a day out in the Citroen Ami Buggy

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Mon Ami: a day out in the Citroen Ami Buggy | Top Gear

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Mon Ami: a day out in the Citroen Ami Buggy

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Mon Ami: a day out in the Citroen Ami Buggy

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I have always felt very strongly that if you have a convertible and it’s not raining, then the roof should be down. It would be part of the first package of measures I would introduce as prime minister (including the introduction of fashion police on the streets – £50 spot fines for middle aged men in shorts above the knee, etc).

It’s not just talk, I have lived it out – I used to have a Saab 900 convertible with heated seats and I had hair to keep my head warm and it was delightful. Who’s unable to spare 18 seconds at speeds of up to 30mph? Drivers with the roof up lack the imagination to enjoy life, they’re not embracing the convertible lifestyle. In fact I recently took part in a very scientific experiment by Fiat to prove that driving a convertible makes you happier. And it did – although not for me, my happiness stayed the same. I think I was already just pleased to be out of the office for the morning to be honest. Although I do have another hypothesis if anyone wants to rerun the experiment with Ferraris.

When I saw the Citroen Ami Buggy hit the market (technically the Buggy II, the first one was a run of 50 units just for France and it sold out in 17 minutes – this one has 40 allocated to the UK, also sold out), I wondered how stretchy that rule could be. It can’t be right to buy a lifestyle car and not use it in the manner for which it was intended, can it? Quite what lifestyle the Buggy is gunning for I’m not sure. Certainly not the usual improbable sporting activities that only sexy people in adverts do, like gliding or surfing or driving through glassy city centres devoid of traffic.

Photography: Jonny Fleetwood

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There are a number of changes over the standard Ami – no doors, a nifty roll-up sunroof and the drive selector attached to the right of the steering wheel. I couldn’t understand why they’d moved it from left of the driver’s seat until I drove in the rain and the blanked off buttons got soaked. The car’s still limited to 28mph and has a range of 47 miles, so whatever lifestyle you choose ought to be close by or characterised by mind-numbing stupidity.

The seaside was the obvious choice – the true British lifestyle is about strolling along the promenade, burning on the beach and running around screaming while seagulls try to steal your food. French Riviera in an electric car? Been there, done that. You have to scale down your ambition with the Ami Buggy – this is a grim tourer. Margate it is then. It’s not Nice, but it’s alright.

I won’t dwell on the journey, because it would be unfair to the car when some idiot decides to take it on a crackpot roadtrip it wasn’t designed for. I won’t mention the 12 hours to get the 85 miles from south London and that I rued the day I’d been born about 25 miles in. I won’t even mention the existential angst that stirs in your third hour of sitting in a leisure centre car park watching a car suck in electricity at less than the rate of the fan heater you’ve got stashed in the wardrobe for when Mrs Burnett won’t let you put the heating on. I’ve only got myself to blame, really. For the journey, not the central heating.

I love going to the seaside, though. Beach, chips, charity shops, 2p machines, ice cream

I love going to the seaside, though. Beach, chips, charity shops, 2p machines, ice cream. The anticipation builds as you leave the city behind, gun it along the motorway and steadily the tarmac shrinks until you’re on a narrow B-road twisting down to the sea. That first glimpse of water, when you’re not sure where the gloomy sky ends and the grey choppy waves begin. Some say it’s the countryside that sets Britain apart, but I’ll wager that no one else does the seaside like the Brits. Another grand Victorian legacy.

If Kent is the garden of England, then Margate must be its patio. I’m more than ready for a spot of golf, sandcastles on the beach and casual Fifties misogyny. Nothing like an actual half day of driving to whet the appetite. It’s an early start – the sun has hit snooze twice and is ready for winter – winding along the seafront to North Foreland golf course, past the usual blend of Victorian terraces, glittering amusement arcades and Brutalist flats. It’s turning into an unseasonably warm day, but the process of dismantling the place for the off-season has begun. I meet Alan at the clubhouse, the car park empty but about to hit capacity in the space of around three minutes as excited members arrive for ladies’ day. Time to knock back the coffee from Tracy in the clubhouse cafe and head out for a spot of tee. Alan has rustled up a little bag of sticks (I’ve never played golf before) from the back of the club shop and gives me a few tips so that I don’t look like a total idiot.

Alan’d been a member here for 30 years before recently taking on the day to day running of the sporting activities. I can barely keep up with his E-Z-Go buggy through the rough. There are electric carts for the members – eight miles of range is more than enough for 18 holes apparently. The white buggy has its advantages over the Citroen – it’s taller, £2k cheaper and has room for two passengers and their golf bags. That’ll swing a purchase round here. Both vehicles enjoy a lack of doors, something the Ami has immediately negated by bolting on a swinging bar to stop you falling out. My favourite part of the day is discovering this is lockable. My next favourite part is realising you can reach inside to the fabric pull on the other side of the A-pillar to bypass the lock.

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We’ve driven over to hole five, by Neptune’s Tower, a folly that was built by controversial 18th century politician Lord Holland, owner of the imposing Kingsgate Castle on the other side of the bay. It’s a beautiful spot with immaculate pastures, sitting on top of a perilous white cliff. I always thought golf was a sport invented by men who wanted an excuse to be away from their wives for three hours, but from here I can see the virtue of a pleasant walk punctuated by moments of genteel violence. No hanging around though, there are ladies cresting the horizon. Turns out women appreciate the respite too. We wave bye to Alan and the clubs go back into lost property.

It’s a short drive to Dreamland amusement park, a sort of hipster celebration of vintage fairgrounds and seaside amusements. It’s very much closed, should have looked that up. I was hoping to do a back to back comparison with a rollercoaster carriage, because that’s really what the Ami Buggy feels like. I’ve told anyone brave enough to try the passenger seat to keep their hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. You sit right back in the car over the rear wheels, watching the front end zip disconnectedly in front of you. I fail to work out during my time with the car whether suspension has been fitted (a cost option perhaps?) – there’s a small bag of leftover bolts on the dashboard like a fraught Ikea project, that could explain it.

There’s one thing that’ll perk me back up right now and it’s bubbling round the back of the counter at Peter’s Fish Factory overlooking the harbour, sea-starved at low tide. Keaton serves me a little box of chips straight to the car (not ashamed to tell you I had a second portion later), and I meet 97-year-old Ron in the queue, who’s derisive of my odyssey. Reckons his mobility scooter would have beaten me there from London. I don’t disagree with you, Ron, but at least mine’s got a roof and zip up doors. Not that they keep the heat in or the wind out. Buffeted by nighttime gusts on the way into Margate I was transported back to perilous childhood camping trips, shivering under canvas.

Now I’ll admit, there were points on the journey here when I was fully prepared to dump the Ami, quit my job and start a new life, but I do actually like this awful little car. Everybody else certainly loves it, because they’ve all told me. It’s on the beach making sandcastles, soaking up the last of the year’s heat, that I think about the Ami Buggy lifestyle. I’ve enjoyed this little taster (surprisingly it’s very much like deep fried potatoes), while also imagining the places a proper car could have got me in 12 hours. Some people are about the journey, others the destination. It is hard to not feel sad at the thought of this car being shuffled off to someone’s garage like a novelty collector’s item, emerging a few times a year. I might not have the energy to maintain the Ami Buggy lifestyle, but someone ought to be up to the task. I feel very strongly about that too.

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I have always felt very strongly that if you have a convertible and it’s not raining, then the roof should be down. It would be part of the first package of measures I would introduce as prime minister (including the introduction of fashion police on the streets – £50 spot fines for middle aged men in shorts above the knee, etc).

It’s not just talk, I have lived it out – I used to have a Saab 900 convertible with heated seats and I had hair to keep my head warm and it was delightful. Who’s unable to spare 18 seconds at speeds of up to 30mph? Drivers with the roof up lack the imagination to enjoy life, they’re not embracing the convertible lifestyle. In fact I recently took part in a very scientific experiment by Fiat to prove that driving a convertible makes you happier. And it did – although not for me, my happiness stayed the same. I think I was already just pleased to be out of the office for the morning to be honest. Although I do have another hypothesis if anyone wants to rerun the experiment with Ferraris.

When I saw the Citroen Ami Buggy hit the market (technically the Buggy II, the first one was a run of 50 units just for France and it sold out in 17 minutes – this one has 40 allocated to the UK, also sold out), I wondered how stretchy that rule could be. It can’t be right to buy a lifestyle car and not use it in the manner for which it was intended, can it? Quite what lifestyle the Buggy is gunning for I’m not sure. Certainly not the usual improbable sporting activities that only sexy people in adverts do, like gliding or surfing or driving through glassy city centres devoid of traffic.

Photography: Jonny Fleetwood

There are a number of changes over the standard Ami – no doors, a nifty roll-up sunroof and the drive selector attached to the right of the steering wheel. I couldn’t understand why they’d moved it from left of the driver’s seat until I drove in the rain and the blanked off buttons got soaked. The car’s still limited to 28mph and has a range of 47 miles, so whatever lifestyle you choose ought to be close by or characterised by mind-numbing stupidity.

The seaside was the obvious choice – the true British lifestyle is about strolling along the promenade, burning on the beach and running around screaming while seagulls try to steal your food. French Riviera in an electric car? Been there, done that. You have to scale down your ambition with the Ami Buggy – this is a grim tourer. Margate it is then. It’s not Nice, but it’s alright.

I won’t dwell on the journey, because it would be unfair to the car when some idiot decides to take it on a crackpot roadtrip it wasn’t designed for. I won’t mention the 12 hours to get the 85 miles from south London and that I rued the day I’d been born about 25 miles in. I won’t even mention the existential angst that stirs in your third hour of sitting in a leisure centre car park watching a car suck in electricity at less than the rate of the fan heater you’ve got stashed in the wardrobe for when Mrs Burnett won’t let you put the heating on. I’ve only got myself to blame, really. For the journey, not the central heating.

I love going to the seaside, though. Beach, chips, charity shops, 2p machines, ice cream

I love going to the seaside, though. Beach, chips, charity shops, 2p machines, ice cream. The anticipation builds as you leave the city behind, gun it along the motorway and steadily the tarmac shrinks until you’re on a narrow B-road twisting down to the sea. That first glimpse of water, when you’re not sure where the gloomy sky ends and the grey choppy waves begin. Some say it’s the countryside that sets Britain apart, but I’ll wager that no one else does the seaside like the Brits. Another grand Victorian legacy.

If Kent is the garden of England, then Margate must be its patio. I’m more than ready for a spot of golf, sandcastles on the beach and casual Fifties misogyny. Nothing like an actual half day of driving to whet the appetite. It’s an early start – the sun has hit snooze twice and is ready for winter – winding along the seafront to North Foreland golf course, past the usual blend of Victorian terraces, glittering amusement arcades and Brutalist flats. It’s turning into an unseasonably warm day, but the process of dismantling the place for the off-season has begun. I meet Alan at the clubhouse, the car park empty but about to hit capacity in the space of around three minutes as excited members arrive for ladies’ day. Time to knock back the coffee from Tracy in the clubhouse cafe and head out for a spot of tee. Alan has rustled up a little bag of sticks (I’ve never played golf before) from the back of the club shop and gives me a few tips so that I don’t look like a total idiot.

Alan’d been a member here for 30 years before recently taking on the day to day running of the sporting activities. I can barely keep up with his E-Z-Go buggy through the rough. There are electric carts for the members – eight miles of range is more than enough for 18 holes apparently. The white buggy has its advantages over the Citroen – it’s taller, £2k cheaper and has room for two passengers and their golf bags. That’ll swing a purchase round here. Both vehicles enjoy a lack of doors, something the Ami has immediately negated by bolting on a swinging bar to stop you falling out. My favourite part of the day is discovering this is lockable. My next favourite part is realising you can reach inside to the fabric pull on the other side of the A-pillar to bypass the lock.

We’ve driven over to hole five, by Neptune’s Tower, a folly that was built by controversial 18th century politician Lord Holland, owner of the imposing Kingsgate Castle on the other side of the bay. It’s a beautiful spot with immaculate pastures, sitting on top of a perilous white cliff. I always thought golf was a sport invented by men who wanted an excuse to be away from their wives for three hours, but from here I can see the virtue of a pleasant walk punctuated by moments of genteel violence. No hanging around though, there are ladies cresting the horizon. Turns out women appreciate the respite too. We wave bye to Alan and the clubs go back into lost property.

It’s a short drive to Dreamland amusement park, a sort of hipster celebration of vintage fairgrounds and seaside amusements. It’s very much closed, should have looked that up. I was hoping to do a back to back comparison with a rollercoaster carriage, because that’s really what the Ami Buggy feels like. I’ve told anyone brave enough to try the passenger seat to keep their hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. You sit right back in the car over the rear wheels, watching the front end zip disconnectedly in front of you. I fail to work out during my time with the car whether suspension has been fitted (a cost option perhaps?) – there’s a small bag of leftover bolts on the dashboard like a fraught Ikea project, that could explain it.

There’s one thing that’ll perk me back up right now and it’s bubbling round the back of the counter at Peter’s Fish Factory overlooking the harbour, sea-starved at low tide. Keaton serves me a little box of chips straight to the car (not ashamed to tell you I had a second portion later), and I meet 97-year-old Ron in the queue, who’s derisive of my odyssey. Reckons his mobility scooter would have beaten me there from London. I don’t disagree with you, Ron, but at least mine’s got a roof and zip up doors. Not that they keep the heat in or the wind out. Buffeted by nighttime gusts on the way into Margate I was transported back to perilous childhood camping trips, shivering under canvas.

Now I’ll admit, there were points on the journey here when I was fully prepared to dump the Ami, quit my job and start a new life, but I do actually like this awful little car. Everybody else certainly loves it, because they’ve all told me. It’s on the beach making sandcastles, soaking up the last of the year’s heat, that I think about the Ami Buggy lifestyle. I’ve enjoyed this little taster (surprisingly it’s very much like deep fried potatoes), while also imagining the places a proper car could have got me in 12 hours. Some people are about the journey, others the destination. It is hard to not feel sad at the thought of this car being shuffled off to someone’s garage like a novelty collector’s item, emerging a few times a year. I might not have the energy to maintain the Ami Buggy lifestyle, but someone ought to be up to the task. I feel very strongly about that too.

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Lifestyle oriented cars come in all shapes and sizes, but what’s it like to really embrace it for a day?