The convertible, that glorious folly of wind-tousled hair and rain-drenched tweed, is being driven to the knacker's yard of history by the electric vehicle revolution. Britain's motoring heritage, once a symphony of roaring pistons and petrol fumes, now sounds like a giant hairdryer on wheels. The Society of Motor Manufacturers and Traders has confirmed that convertible sales have plummeted by 23% this year, while EV registrations have surged into the stratosphere. It is a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions: Lear's kingdom sold for a plug socket.
Let us paint the scene. A man in his fifties, wearing driving gloves and a cravat that looks like it was woven from regret, sits in his MG TF. He lowers the roof, hoping to feel the wind in what remains of his hair, but instead he hears the hum of a Tesla Model 3, silent and smug as a cat with a cream licence. His car splutters. The Tesla glides past, emitting nothing more offensive than a faint whiff of moral superiority. The man sighs. He knows his days are numbered.
Car manufacturers are now falling over themselves to produce electric convertibles. Porsche has its Taycan Cabrio. Ford has revived the Mustang Mach-E as a drop-top, though it looks like someone put a convertible roof on a loaf of sourdough. But the purists are not amused. They argue that an electric convertible is an oxymoron, like a silent scream or a gourmet Pot Noodle. The very act of dropping the roof is a statement of defiance against the elements, a declaration that you are alive and willing to pay for a new haircut. An electric convertible is just a sofa with a sunroof.
Yet the numbers do not lie. Convertible sales have been in decline since the 1990s, and the EV revolution has merely accelerated the process. The British love affair with the convertible has always been a bit of a wet affair, quite literally. We are not a nation blessed with endless sunshine. We are a nation of soft English rain and bracing sea breezes. The convertible was always more about aspiration than practicality, a way of saying 'I can afford to be uncomfortable.' But now, even the aspiration has become electric.
The government's ban on the sale of new petrol and diesel cars by 2030 is the final nail in the coffin. Or rather, the final bolt in the battery pack. Yes, some manufacturers are hedging their bets with hybrid convertibles, but that is like being a little bit pregnant. The future is electric, and the future does not include a roof that folds away. Or perhaps it does, but it will be a roof that folds away silently, with a single button, while you watch Netflix on the dashboard. Is that progress? I ask you.
I spoke to one die-hard enthusiast in a pub in Cheltenham, a man of about seventy, who was nursing a gin and tonic with the reverence of a priest holding a chalice. 'An electric convertible,' he said, his voice trembling with mild disgust, 'is like a stripper with no bones. The whole point is the performance.' He took a long sip of his G&T. 'I'd rather drive a Morris Marina with a rusty can for a silencer.' He was not joking. Or perhaps he was. At his age, it's hard to tell.
But let us not weep for the convertible. It will survive in some form, as a niche product for the wealthy, like a bespoke bicycle or a solid gold toilet seat. The rest of us will be trundling around in electric hatchbacks, our hair untouched by the wind, our skin unblemished by the elements. We will be comfortable. We will be efficient. But we will not be free. The convertible was the last bastion of motoring freedom, a two-fingered salute to the tyranny of the roof. Now it is being replaced by a silent, smug, battery-powered coffin. And the worst part? It probably has better fuel economy.
