CARS are fundamentally ugly things. Jeremy Clarkson may swoon over the latest sporty convertible, but this is a man who models himself on Status Quo: a style arbiter he ain't.

Moreover, cars have got uglier in recent years. We know the late Inspector Morse was a man of refinement and sophistication because a) he drank English real ale, and b) he drove that nice old Jaguar. Compared to today's mobile biscuit tins, Morse's motor had something approaching elegance.

These statements are obvious to most of us, but I fear they will bring down upon me the torpid wrath of the motoring bore. He knows how to talk the torque, if not how to walk the walk. He will drone on about how the new five-cylinder, turbo-charged, voice-controlled cigarette lighter in the Mercedes G-class has revolutionised the travelling experience. For such a man, usually called Clive or Nigel, heaven is a place called Dagenham.

Whatever else these blokes drive, they drive me to distraction. Dazzled by clustered headlamps and shiny bodywork, they are unable to see how their beloved cars have disfigured Britain.

Take any landscape, anywhere. All you need to spoil it forever is two lanes of Tarmac and a thousand noisy metallic boxes. York's only remaining barbican on Walmgate Bar can only be properly admired by standing in the middle of a busy road. Clifford's Tower is adrift on a sea of rancid aluminium. The peaceful charm of villages from Rillington to Bishop Burton is riven by the relentless roar of road-users.

Beauty, as the man said, is in the eye of the beholder. It is just about possible to understand how someone might admire the cut of a car's walnut dash as it poses in glorious isolation on the motor show stand. But in real life cars hunt and destroy in packs. And they make a shocking mess wherever they are allowed to go.

I drive a car. I'd rather not, and, as a family, we did get rid of our second car some time ago. These days I cycle to work. But, as the woman from the AA said on this page yesterday, modern life is built around the motorist. We cannot afford to become car-less.

However, I do admire any effort to make the motor vehicle less dominant. So if I were a resident of Harcourt Street in York, my sympathy would firmly lie in the 'ban the car' camp.

As we reported on Saturday, some in the Heworth street wish to close a stretch of it to all but residents' cars. Imagine how much quieter and safer that would make life for Harcourt Street householders. Too quiet for some, who are opposing the "home zone" idea. See how even the tiniest anti-car proposal gets some folk jittery with withdrawal symptoms?

York's greatest single planning success in recent years was the creation of the footstreets. A new footstreet will open later this month when pedestrians are given the freedom of High Petergate. This is another small but significant reclamation of our city from the grip of traffic.

Those who oppose this idea have short memories. Before nearby Deangate was closed to traffic in 1990, even the mighty splendour of York Minister was not granted sanctity from the menace of the motorist.

Today it would be unthinkable to let traffic back there. Now High Petergate is to be pacified too, and amen to that.

DOUGLAS Craig is a silly man who smells of wee. There. That is a far more infantile insult than any directed at the York City chairman by sparring partner Greg Stone. With a bit of luck, Mr Craig will respond by sending me some nappies too.

With a very regular 18-month-old son, our need is greater than Mr Stone's. Pampers size five, Mr Craig, if you please.