Your bank manager's car  Observations on Rover. By
<strong>Kieron Ohara</strong>  Yet again, Britain is tolling the
death knell of its own car industry. Rover is no more,
overwhelmed by smaller, smarter Japanese motors, much as the
journalists who write about it are overwhelmed by funereal
cliche. Though its instinct for self-preservation (the one asset
that Phoenix hasn't sold) made Rover go belly up in the middle
of an election campaign, few seem to want the government to
shovel much more money at it. More people got excited about the
demise of Heinz Salad Cream.  Because really, beyond sympathy
for the tens of thousands whose livelihoods depend on Rover, it
is very hard to care. For decades, Rover has been the car that
someone else drives: your neighbour, your uncle, your bank
manager, Terry out of Terry and June, people you don't wanna be.
It is the most uncool marque on the road. Or, very often, not on
the road, its natural habitat being the paved-over front gardens
of the suburbs.  Its badge, when you l