Imagine having to tell a gaggle of motoring journalists how to pronounce the name of your new car. Understandable, perhaps, when the car in question is the Nissan Qashqai, Lamborghini Murciélago or Pagani Huayra, but a vehicle with a four-digit number as its name? Shurley there’s been shome mishtake? You have to imagine a terrible impression of a suited and booted Sean Connery for that to work.
As it turned out, a cease and desist letter from Bond’s cohorts was the least of Peugeot’s problems when it launched the 1007, but it set the tone for a catalogue of disasters. The owners of the James Bond trademark objected to Peugeot’s use of ‘one-double-oh-seven’, arguing that it was too close to the secret agent’s codename. Members of the motoring press were asked to refer to the 1007 as the ‘one-thousand-and-seven’ or ‘ten-oh-seven’ or risk a meeting with a Walther PPK and an exploding pen.
“Do you expect us to talk?”
“No, Mr Peugeot, we expect you to settle this without legal representation.”
It left Peugeot shaken and stirred, but the battle with Bond turned out to be little more than an inconvenience when viewed alongside the car’s cost of development. Bernstein Research estimated the car’s total loss at 1.9 billion euros, meaning Peugeot blew 15,000 euros on every 1007 it sold. Production stuttered to just 123,000 against a forecast 150,000 to 200,000 units a year before it died another day in 2009. A case of from Poissy with no love…
Max Warburton, head of automotive research at Bernstein, said: ‘The tooling cost for the bespoke exterior and interior of the 1007 was basically a write-off and the big hole in the utilisation of Poissy has been a drag on Peugeot since.’ Sticking your life savings on black at a casino in Montenegro would make more financial sense than gambling on the world’s first city car with sliding doors. Peugeot was obviously drunk on the positive feedback to the Sésame concept of 2002.
Its failure was far from an open and shut case. As van drivers or MPV fanatics will testify, a sliding door can be a real boon, providing a wide entry and exit point, as well as added convenience in tight spaces. There are a couple of things to point out, both of which must have evaded the boffins at Peugeot. Firstly, vans and MPVs tend to be large vehicles, so there’s ample space for sliding doors. Secondly, rather than being the primary means of access, the doors tend to be in the back. With the best will in the world, designing a small car around a pair of electric sliding doors isn’t going to result in an alluring shape. What looks great painted luminous yellow under the lights of the Paris motor show, doesn’t necessarily look good on an inner ring road under the leaden sky of a British winter. Far from appearing chic and desirable, the 1007 looked like the kind of car June Whitfield would have promoted during the ad break on Countdown. A vehicle to be advertised alongside Stannah stairlifts and easy chairs. You’ll find a packet of Werther’s Originals in the cabin, which could be dressed in one of 12 interchangeable interior packs. Fancier than a fondant fancy.
Beyond this admittedly short list, I’m struggling to find reasons to justify my love for the 1007.
All I know is that my head is always turned by Gwyneth Paltrow’s favourite city car, especially if it’s finished in Tacoma Yellow or Cayman Green. I also appreciate the fact that Peugeot tried something different, even if it might have lost less dosh building a rival to the Bugatti Veyron. As Bond may have said, the 1007 was probably a name to die for, but I hope the little Peugeot lives on. It’s certainly no time to die.
This article first appeared in issue 5 of Classic.Retro.Modern. magazine.
