Jeremy - The Times

[RedMoon11]

Eh, Fingers, con the snobs with fake food — it’ll be the crime of the sensory

Jeremy Clarkson Published: 7 September 2014

Now that Great Scotland Yard is to be converted into a luxury hotel and the few remaining policemanists are either investigating Sir Richard’s trip to Sheffield almost 30 years ago or standing round the Israeli embassy dressed up like ninja skateboard enthusiasts, I’m surprised more school leavers aren’t considering a career in crime.

There are a few issues, of course. For example, there’s no point robbing a bank, because all the money held inside doesn’t exist in big piles of crisp tenners that can be carried outside to your waiting Ford Transit van. It’s all theoretical.

And if it were easy to steal by using a laptop from the privacy of your own bedsit, then people would be doing just that. And they aren’t. Instead it seems the world’s brightest and most brilliant computer hackers are only able to steal photographs of Jennifer Lawrence’s breasts, which net them the grand total of no money at all.

Perhaps this is why French thieves have been reduced to gassing British caravannists and, as they sleep in a fug of carbon monoxide, breaking in to steal their . . . what, exactly? Their Tupperware? Their Swingball set? Their stash of H&E Naturist magazines? Certainly it’s my bet that no caravan contains a safe full of exotic jewels and cash.

This is the problem. You don’t even find cash in most parking meters these days. Which may sound disheartening for anyone who’s decided they don’t want to be an estate agent or a florist. But happily there is a solution: food fraud.

As we know, the Chinese are extremely adept at making copies of well-known western brands. You can buy fake Chanel handbags, Hermès scarves and Rolex watches. On a recent trip to Burma I found a fake Sony Walkman that was perfect in every way, apart from the fact that Sony was spelt “Sonk”.

Closer to home, we are regularly asked to buy pirated films and television box sets. The art world is forever being duped by immaculate forgeries and there’s a man who comes to my door a lot with a van full of Bukhara rugs that I just know were knocked up in Ealing, west London. So if you can fake a rug, why can’t you fake food and wine?

Apparently this has been tried in China but it didn’t go well. The fraudsters decided to beef up baby milk with the industrial chemical melamine and six infants died as a result. There was a similar problem in the Czech Republic after a batch of fake vodka and rum, which had been laced with methanol, wound up on the streets. More than 40 people died after drinking it.

Don’t be disheartened, though, because I’m absolutely sure it is possible to sell fake food that doesn’t contain ricin or anthrax or anything that is even remotely fatal.

Take chicken. It requires effort to rear the birds these days. To keep the animal rights people at bay, they have to be housed in four-poster beds and given access to hot-and-cold running satellite television. When their time comes, they must be killed kindly using nothing but lullabies and summer breezes. And the resultant meat must be transported in ebola-style sterile tents to the supermarket, within hours.

But I’ll let you into a little secret. Pretty much everything tastes like chicken, so why not set up an operation selling chicken that is actually rat, or crocodile?

Many restaurants already employ this technique. It was discovered back in April that more than half the lamb curries tested in Birmingham contained other, cheaper meats such as beef or turkey. And could the customers tell? Not when the dish was smothered in 1,400 gallons of vindaloo, they couldn’t.

Of course you might imagine that if you went round selling chicken that was actually hamster you would be arrested very quickly. But in the whole of Buckinghamshire, where there are about 2,500 farms, and many more businesses associated with selling and retailing food, there are only 20 trading standards officers. In Worcestershire the figures suggest there are only six. The result is simple: you’re not going to get caught.

And even if you do, the court is not going to treat you like a drug dealer or a people trafficker.

Which brings me on to an even better idea. Faking household names. Simply make some cola cans, put a silly name on the side such as Greg or Dude, fill them with water and pass them off as Coke. By the time anyone finds out what you’ve done, you’re long gone.

Or better still, go upmarket and target the food snobs. I’m amazed that the world isn’t full of fake Fortnum & Mason hampers containing Spam dressed up as pâté, and rubbish wine being passed off as Château Mouton Rothschild. Because who would ever know?

Not me, for sure. During a press junket many years ago BMW played a practical joke on journalists. We were taken to a chateau in France and invited to try the wine . . . which had been laced with vinegar. Like many colleagues, I made lots of heartfelt “ooh” and “mmm” noises before buying a case. So could I tell the difference between a bottle of newsagent plonk and a 1945 Pétrus? Nope. And the chances are you couldn’t either.

It’s easy to tell a fake Rolex from the real thing. Just wait a couple of minutes and the second hand will fall off. Or take it in the rain and watch it dissolve. But with food and drink it isn’t easy at all. Could you, for instance, tell the difference, in a blind tasting, between expensive acorn-fed ham and ham from a pig that’s eaten nothing but used tea bags and cigarette butts?

Could you tell Norwegian jarlsberg from cheddar, or caviar from lumpfish roe? Could you tell the difference between a truffle and your next-door neighbour’s verruca?

The world of food snobbery is ripe for fraudulent exploitation and the government plainly has recognised this because, as we speak, ministers are studying proposals for a sort of national FBI-style food-crime unit.

I shouldn’t worry, though, because it won’t happen, and even if it does, the people it employs won’t be able to tell the difference between caviar and lumpfish roe either.

www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/comment/columns/jeremyclarkson/article1455426.ece

[RedMoon11]

Smooth as sandpaper, subtle as an oligarch’s superyacht

Jeremy Clarkson Published: 14 September 2014

Jaguar XJR, £92,395

EVERY YEAR I make many filming trips to Italy and always enjoy the experience enormously. Italy cheers me. It excites me. I like its tomatoes and its exuberant driving style. I like Rome. I love Siena. And I adore Lake Como. I’m always very happy in Italy, and yet for my summer holidays I always go to the south of France.

There’s a very good reason for this. When you have some spare time in Italy, you feel duty-bound to go into town and look at a fresco. When you have some spare time in the south of France you feel duty-bound to go into town and have a refreshing glass of rosé wine. And I much prefer rosé wine to frescos.

This year St Tropez was even better than normal because in response to European sanctions Vladimir Putin apparently made it plain to the oligarchs that they should take their roubles and their gigantic boats elsewhere this summer. This meant there were fewer Speedos on the beach. And fewer prostitutes in the watch shops.

There was another subtle change as well. Normally in August the town centre is stuffed with British-registered cars, but this year I hardly saw one. And that’s because they’d all been confiscated by the autoroute police on the way down.

I have proved on a number of occasions in recent years that it is faster to drive to the south of France than it is to fly or to take the train. Well, it isn’t any more, because the French have completely lost their sense of humour when it comes to speeding. They employ technology that the CIA would call futuristic and have dispensed with the niceties of a court system. You are stopped. And on the spot they take away all your money. And then they take away your driving licence. And then they take away your car.

All of which was great news for me, because with the town devoid of Russians and people called Nigel from Hampshire it was easy to find a seat in a cafe for a glass of wine. And a doddle to find a parking space even for my extremely large Jaguar XJR.

I couldn’t have chosen a more inappropriate car for St Tropez. It sat in those narrow, fishing-villagey streets like those giant superyachts sat in the harbour. It looked ridiculous and it blocked the view, and trying to get it out of the underground car park in the Place des Lices was a bit like trying to get Winnie-the-Pooh out of Rabbit’s hole after he’d eaten all his honey.

However, for getting to St Tropez — that’s a different story. To avoid the autoroute Nazis, I came into France through the back door, from Italy, having set off from Siena. Think of that. Siena to St Tropez on a beautiful sunny day in a supercharged Jag. Envious? And so you should be.

To get round the perennial problem of European radio stations sounding a bit like the sort of noise that’s played to Guantanamo Bay prisoners as they’re being waterboarded, I plumbed my iPod into the dashboard, popped it in the air-conditioned centre console, set the climate control to 21C and pointed that big, imposing nose in the direction of the Côte d’Azur.

You don’t see many of these large Jags on the streets of Europe, and the sales figures back this up. It has not been a soaraway sales success. And I think there are two reasons. First, while it’s not a bad-looking car, it doesn’t appear anything like what we think a Jag should look like. It’s not lithe or graceful. It’s not pretty either. And it’s the same story on the inside. We expect a gentlemen’s club full of pipe tobacco, and the company has given us a vodka bar. Not bad, but wrong.

There’s another issue too. Even the sportiest Jaguar saloons used to be able to glide over any pothole or ridge, but the XJR can’t. On one typically tight Italian slip road it hit an expansion joint and actually hopped alarmingly. This won’t really do. If Jaguar wants to sell a lot of cars, it must relearn the art of making suspension that suspends and absorbs at the same time.



If I’d been for a test drive in a car that hopped sideways on an expansion joint, I’d get straight out and buy a 7-series BMW instead. But I had many miles to cover and time was tight, so that wasn’t an option.

I needed to be at Nice airport to pick up various children in three hours. I had a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it was dark and I was wearing sunglasses. Then it was light. Then it was dark again. Ooh, there are lots of tunnels on the autostrada up Italy’s west coast.

And there are a lot of speed cameras too. But a friend had told me in Siena the night before I left, “Oh, don’t worry about those. They’re all broken.” That’s another reason for loving Italy. You can have as many laws as you like — just as long as they’re not enforced. You have only to count how many cars drive through pedestrian precincts to appreciate that.

And so I began to revel in that big supercharged V8, which pours its power onto the road like double cream. There are no histrionics, and, apart from a muted roar from the tailpipes, there’s no real sense you are picking up speed quite as quickly as you are.

Sometimes Italian motorists would try to engage the big Jag in a race away from the toll booths. They all lost. Mainly because most of them were in small Fiats. With diesel engines.

I shan’t say here how quickly I reached the French border. But I will say that afterwards I drove along sweating like a footballer in a spelling test. The speed limit varied from 90kph — or about 56mph — to 130kph to 110kph simply to catch out the unwary, but I wasn’t unwary. I was alert, which after a long drive speaks volumes for the Jag’s refinement. It is a bloody good cruiser.

At Nice it swallowed all the extra luggage, mainly because my son had brought only one T-shirt and two pairs of shorts for his two-week stay. And then we were off again, at 90kph and 110kph and 130kph, and then 90kph again.

And after a short hop round the bay of St Tropez, which took only six hours, we arrived at the villa. And went to a party on a boat that finished at 5.30 in the morning. As I said, that Jag emphatically does not wear you out.

The truth is, though, that no big car of this sort wears you out. Big Beemers and Audis and Mercedes-Benzes are all quiet and fast, and they all have know-all electronics that can keep you cool and find your destination and play Genesis tunes from your iPod.

But there’s no getting away from the fact that on poor surfaces the Jaguar simply doesn’t ride properly.

For that reason alone I’d buy something else.


The XRJ’s interior is not what one expects in a big Jag: it is more vodka bar than gentlemen’s club


Jaguar XJR

Engine
5000cc, V8, supercharged
Power
543bhp @ 6500rpm
Torque
501 lb ft @ 2500rpm
Transmission
8-speed automatic
Performance
0-62mph: 4.6sec
Top speed
174mph
Fuel
24.4mpg
CO2
270g/km
Road tax
Band M (£1,090 for first year; then £500)
Price
£92,395
Release date
On sale now
Verdict
Like a big German cruiser, without the suspension

CRITIC'S RATING***
Buy a used Jaguar at driving.co.uk

www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1457459.ece

[RedMoon11]

If they stay, we could vote to kick them out

Jeremy Clarkson Published: 14 September 2014



Jeremy Vine pointed out on his BBC Radio 2 lunchtime show last week that if the Scottish people vote for independence, they will no longer be eligible to appear on the afternoon quiz show Pointless.

“Oh well, that’s that then,” I thought. All of Scotland will now rise up as one and say, “Och aye the noo. I wanted to leave England and go it alone but if that means I’m unable to spend a pleasant day answering Alexander Armstrong’s questions about songbirds and pop music, I’m prepared to kiss Mr Cameron’s arse.”

To make matters worse, a few days later, a man called Sir Christopher Bland said that if Scotland is independent, it will no longer be able to televise shows such as Top Gear. “Jesus Christ, McTavish. Things are worse than we thought. We can’t appear on Pointless and now it turns out we won’t be able to see three old men falling over every week.”

There are other issues too, of course. We’ve been told that if the Scottish say “yes” they will lose their jobs, and they will die in the streets from rickets and diphtheria. We’ve been told their athletes will be unable to appear at the Rio 2016 Olympics and that Lulu will be excluded from the Eurovision song contest.



And that’s before we get to the thorny question of what currency Scotland will use. The rules say any state that applies to join the EU must commit to join the euro. But the Scots don’t want that and they don’t have the wherewithal to launch their own currency. Which leaves them with the pound.

Which they can’t have because the English have made it very plain that they will be taking that away. Along with Top Gear. So what will they use then when they want to buy a loaf? Chickens? Beads?

As the arguments have rumbled on like some kind of awful background road drill, I guess most of us south of the border have thought, “What’s the matter with these people? Have they taken leave of their senses?”

I know the Scottish nationalists have argued that small countries can do well on their own. They say Ireland is the fourth most-prosperous country in the world (it isn’t) and that Iceland comes in at No 6 (no, it doesn’t). And let’s not forget, shall we, that public spending per head is 33% higher in Scotland than it is in the southeast of England.

Let’s not forget also that the Scottish parliament building cost more than most aircraft carriers and the tram system cost twice as much as expected and took twice as long to build. And that the only reason such profligate waste is possible is because Scotland is subsidised by England. Has been for donkey’s years.

So why would you tell your parents you no longer wish to receive pocket money, or meals, or a free washing and laundry service? Why would you cut your links to the hand that feeds you and set off into the unknown with nothing but a bit of haggis, a drop of whisky and no underpants under your kilt?

I’ll tell you what I think. It’s because the independence vote isn’t really about the economy or the NHS or membership of Nato or what happens to the submarine base at Faslane. These things are way beyond the ken of most voters.

No. The issue is much simpler. It’s this. It’s: how do you feel?



My friend Adrian Gill lives in southwest London. He speaks like the heroine from an Agatha Christie novel with added Downton Abbey. He claims to have ancestors in America and Yorkshire and India and goes north of the border these days only to shoot deer. But he says that if he feels anything, he “feels” Edinburghish.

I understand this completely. I am a Yorkshire born-and-bred Englishman. But whenever I am in America I tell everyone that I’m European. Because that’s what I feel.

I sat this year at a cafe in Siena watching an enormous couple from Florida trying to understand a map. And I was able to exchange eye-rolling glances with the waiter because I felt we had a bond. And that’s what matters most of all in the Scottish debate.

If the voter feels Scottish, you can present him with as many rational arguments as you like but it will make no difference. He will want to be properly Scottish. With an identity. Independent of the English. Separated from the Welsh. Fire up the bagpipes, unfurl the saltire and let’s eightsome reel our way into a new, drizzle-kissed Highland dawn.

You can tell him that if Scotland becomes a new nation state, it will cause enormous problems for Spain and Belgium and all the other countries that have secession issues. And he’ll reply: “I’m from Dundee so I couldn’t give a flying pig’s arse about the Walloons and the Basques. I just want to be rid of the bloody English.”

Those who fight in the Better Together camp say that it is entirely possible to be Scottish and part of the UK. Hmm. I think that argument was addressed rather well by Ewan McGregor in the film Trainspotting.

“Some people hate the English,” he said. “I don’t. They’re just w******. We on the other hand are colonised by w******. Can’t even find a decent culture to be colonised by.”

This is the point. It’s all very well Westminster politicians saying that Scotland and England have worked well together for the past 300 years. But I’m fairly sure things look different from north of Hadrian’s Wall. We English think of the Scots as brothers. They think of us as idiots.

Will Scotland go bankrupt on its own? Will they be eating their pets and burning furniture to keep warm? Probably. But it’s better, as Mel Gibson demonstrated, to be hanged, drawn and quartered than to be governed by a bunch of Eton-educated toffs. Freedom!!!

That said, I really cannot believe that the Scottish will vote “yes” this week. I think it’ll be close, but reckon the promise of more autonomy and more money will swing the Scots against it.

So, I believe the UK will survive and I think that this will be a disaster. Because a great many English people will then put their hand up at the back and say, “Hang on a minute. We’ve been subsidising Scotland for years. Are you now saying we have to pay them even more?”

I believe that a “no” vote will cause all the bitterness and resentment to migrate south of the border and that there will be calls — strong calls — for an English referendum on what we think.

Which would be catastrophic because we’d be voting on whether we should expel a part of the UK. And you just can’t do that.



A “yes” vote would be easier to manage for one simple reason. The Scottish nationalists say that if they win power they will relieve the Royal Navy of two warships and maintain a defence force with about 800 frontline troops. Eight hundred! They had 6,000 at the Battle of Falkirk and they lost that fairly comprehensively.

So if we decide we would like Scotland back after they’ve voted for independence, we could do an Edward Longshanks and simply help ourselves.

I’m not being as stupid as you may think. This vote has already split Scotland in half and it hasn’t even happened yet. After it has, things will be even worse. Scotland will still be split and the resentment on this side of the border will be immense.

If Scotland goes, there will be years and years of fighting about who owns what. We’re not talking about a record collection here, and who gets the cat. We’re talking about the fabric of a nation; money, art, the health service. Nuclear weapons. This would be the most acrimonious divorce in human history.

And if the counselling and the promises of better behaviour in future causes them to stay? Well, then we’d be living in a patched-up marriage. And that fosters nothing but simmering hatred on both sides.

It is emphatically not for me to ask Scotland to stay or encourage it to go. I’m just an English journalist. But I will say that whatever happens there is bound to be strife and misery ahead. And that makes me sad because I like Scotland.

It’s Cornwall I’ve always wanted to be rid of. Bunch of pasty-munching ingrates.

www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/news/focus/article1458987.ece

[RedMoon11]

Bombing a spaniel is a step too far, Mr Putin — we’re sending in the SAS

Jeremy Clarkson  Published: 21 September 2014

When the ebola virus started to run riot in west Africa we were all very sympathetic but nobody rushed to the kitchen with a chemistry set and a handful of Petri dishes to see if they could develop some kind of antidote.

It’s much the same story with Ukraine. We keep being told that this is a war that’s being fought if not on our doorstep then certainly at the bottom of the garden. And we worry about it in the same way as we worry about our neighbours’ marital difficulties. Which is to say, we don’t really worry at all.

And then there’s this grubby business in the Middle East. It’s horrific what these Islamic extremists are doing, we all know that. But we’re then not completely sure what exactly it is they are doing. Or where they are. Or what they want. Or what on earth we can do to stop it happening. So we turn over and go back to sleep.

The world is full right now of many serious problems and I think it’s fair to say that almost none of us would cross the street to help solve any of them. No, don’t argue. You wouldn’t go to Sierra Leone to be a nurse. You wouldn’t sign up to help the Ukrainian army. And what exactly have you done to help the homeless in Syria? Exactly, and neither have I.

And yet when someone set light to a dogs’ home in Manchester, half the city leapt from their beds and ran into the raging inferno to rescue as many of the inmates as possible. Afterwards, when the flames had been extinguished, so many people rushed in their cars to see if they could adopt a damaged dog, the police had to issue a stay-at-home alert, saying that roads were being overwhelmed.

Twenty-four hours later the charity that runs the home announced that it had received donations totalling more than £1m. That’s a million quid to rehouse the 150 survivors. And that works out at at least £6,666 per dog. They will be eating peach and peacock for the rest of their ermine-lined lives, that’s for sure. And there’s nobody in the whole country, or what’s left of it — I’m writing this before the vote in Scotland — who would begrudge them a single penny.

Apart perhaps from a Coronation Street actor called Jack P Shepherd, who went on Twitter to say: “I have a million ‘hot dog’ jokes.” Straight away there were calls for him to be sacked. You can make jokes about almost anything these days and keep your job. But dead dogs? No. There is a line in the sand, and Rover, trust me on this, is on the other side of it.

It’s not just dogs either. It’s all God’s creatures. I posted a picture on Twitter recently from a shooting party in Gloucestershire and plenty of people stepped forward to say that killing birds is wrong and that, er, we should wait for the partridges to die of old age before we put them in the oven.

Then you have the animal rights extremists who want to kill all scientists. And we’re not talking about half a dozen teenage girls here. I’d be willing to bet there are more people in Britain who would lay down their lives for a tortoise than there are who would lay down their lives for Allah.

Which tells us something we have known for a very long time. Britain is a nation of animal fanatics. Here we have believed for centuries that you must feed your horse before you feed yourself. That you can slaughter Johnny Foreigner and win a medal. But that if you cause a dog to be sad, it’s time to put your affairs in order and start oiling your service revolver.

Which gives me an idea. An idea that would end the apathy and malaise we currently have about world affairs.

At present, reporters are keen to show us the human suffering in various conflicts. All through the turmoil in Gaza we saw ruined houses, broken businesses and shattered limbs. We heard about dead civilians, and the next morning we went to work as though nothing had happened. But what would happen if we were to be shown pictures of a dead dog?

“I say, Jean. The Israelis have mortared a dog. Well, that’s that. I shall organise a bring-and-buy stall in the village hall immediately.”

And Ukraine. At present no one has much of an appetite to poke President Vladimir Putin in the eye. We know he is a megalomaniac with one hand on the nuclear red button and another on the tap that feeds continental Europe with gas. He frightens us.

But one photograph of a dead hamster would change all that. If we thought that soldiers in his employ had hurt an animal, the SAS would be scaling the Kremlin walls by tomorrow lunchtime.

All of which leads me to the sick bastard known as “Jihadi John”. He stands there, in the desert, spouting sixth-form common-room politics and then cuts a hostage’s head off. When I read in the papers about his antics, it makes me seethe with rage and fury. But then, like you, I turn the page and spend a little while reading about some minor celeb’s braless trip to the Chiltern Firehouse restaurant in central London.

I cannot believe that I do this. A British man was beheaded on the bloody internet. Somewhere out there, in this green and pleasant land, he has a family who are suffering from a grief that would beggar belief. And what are we doing? Rushing to Manchester to adopt a dog.

We need an event that changes our priorities. Which is why I’m wondering what would happen if an actor dressed up in black robes and stood in a desert somewhere, mimicking Jihadi John. And then, on camera, shot a dog.

Tragically, that would cause the nation to choke on its cornflakes. It’d get us on the streets. It’d cause us to stop worrying about a celeb’s side boob.

And who knows? We might even start supporting any action that would bring the real murderer to justice.

www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/comment/columns/jeremyclarkson/article1461364.ece

 
My day
13 Sep 2014

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[RedMoon11]

Oh, it’s fast, but it lacks that Je ne sais quatt

Jeremy Clarkson  Published: 5 October 2014



Audi S1, £24,905

IN THE original Audi quattro the engine was mounted right at the front and sent half its power to the front axle. Owners complained that the understeer was catastrophic and while cornering they felt as though someone had strapped a log to the radiator grille.

There were other problems too. The engine in question was a 2.1-litre, which in the big scheme of things is fairly small. To make up for the lack of size, it was fitted with a gigantic turbocharger that must have taken about 10 days to respond to requests for more power.

Other stuff? Well, the steering wheel would have been described as “a bit big” by the helmsman of the Titanic, and although the car was a coupé, it wasn’t a hatchback. So it was jerky, nose-heavy, impractical and unwieldy. And yet this deeply flawed vehicle makes me go teary-eyed even today.

I absolutely loved it. We all did back then. We loved its blistered wheelarches and its offbeat five-cylinder soundtrack. We loved, too, the noise made by its chattering wastegate as it roared through the frozen forests of Finland, or the dunes of Africa, on its way to yet more rallying success.

Back in the early 1990s I was working for a magazine called Performance Car, which made the 20-valve quattro its car of the year. Even though, on the day when the staff were gathered to drive all the contenders, a colleague understeered into a cornfield on the first corner. It wasn’t his fault, so I shan’t reveal his name here. Only that it begins with K. And ends in Evin Blick.

I remember him emerging from the field and deciding that, despite his off, the quattro was excellent, and all the rest of us agreeing. It was. Even though we all sort of knew it wasn’t. But we did know that behind the problems there was a properly good idea trying to escape.

Today its spirit lives on in the Nissan GT-R. It’s a quattro with all the flaws ironed out. A four-wheel-drive, turbocharged monster of unparalleled savagery. Nothing — no car made today — leaves the line quite so violently. Nothing corners quite so hard. Nothing is as brutal. And you’d have to work hard to find something that is quite so well made. If you truly love driving, if you worship at the altar of speed and bleed four-star, then you should have a GT-R. Anyone who can afford one but chooses not to buy it is frankly a bit of a ladyboy.

And all of this raises the question: what is Audi playing at? It invented the recipe of four-wheel drive, good build quality and turbocharged power. And yet it is quite happy to sit back and let Nissan reap the rewards.

Oh, Audi may say that the RS 4 and the RS 6 are worthy successors to its original design. But they’re not. Not really. They lack the character. They lack what the Nissan GT-R has in spades. They lack the wow factor. An original quattro was hard to own, difficult to drive and awkward to handle. It was tricky. It was unusual. And it put Audi on the map.

Which brings me on to the car you see photographed this morning. It’s called the Audi S1 and in spirit at least this all-wheel-drive turbo nutter gets closer to the original quattro than anything the German giant has made for the past 20 years.

You may think that it’s nothing more than a normal A1 with a bit more power and four poo chutes to tell other motorists why they have just been overtaken by something a bit unusual. But it’s more than just a hot hatchback.

Audi hasn’t simply fitted a powerful engine, lowered the ride height and splashed a few red trim pieces round the cabin. It has actually given this little car four-wheel drive, and that meant completely re-engineering the rear end. Which meant new tooling at the factory. Which is probably why the S1 carries a price tag that sits just south of £25,000. That’s a lot for a small car. But it’s not a lot at all if this all-wheel-drive turbocharged rocketship relights the quattro candle.

My first problem is the 2-litre engine. It’s very good, very gutsy, and it makes a nice sort of bellowy noise at the top of the rev range. But Audi demonstrated with the S3 that this unit can be tuned to deliver 296 brake horsepower, so why in the S1 does it deliver only 228bhp? Yes, that’s a lot in a car this small, but it’s not as much as the four-wheel-drive system could handle.

Or is it? Well, this is my second problem, because, strangely, you get torque steer. I’ve never encountered this in any four-wheel-drive car before, but in the S1 it’s there in spades. Put your foot down hard, coming out of a tight corner, and you can feel the front wheels squirming as they struggle to cope with both the steering and putting the power down. It’s odd.

My next problem is the comfort. On even a moderately bad road surface the suspension is just too firm. It doesn’t crash, but it feels busy, which means that if you are a bit fat you tend to sit behind the wheel constantly wobbling. It’s like driving round on one of those Power Plates. Who knows — after a month or so you may even lose some weight.

So. Torque steer, a poor ride and a sense that the engine isn’t as powerful as it could be. And none of that is the end of the world. The original quattro was riddled with flaws and everyone still loved it because it was so charismatic.



Which is the S1’s biggest problem. It isn’t. It’s fast and it’s fun and it’s beautifully made. Audi has even resisted the temptation to make the interior look like a man’s washbag. But it doesn’t put its hands down your trousers and have a fiddle. It’s a bit too clinical and aseptic.

I have much the same problem with two of the Volkswagen Group’s other hot hatches: the Golf R and the Seat Leon Cupra 280. They’re both immense, but they don’t feel thrilling.

The Ford Fiesta ST, on the other hand, just does. It’s not as powerful as the Leon Cupra 280 or the Golf R, but it is ten times more fun. It’d be my choice without a moment’s hesitation.

But I realise, of course, that it wouldn’t be yours. You don’t care how brilliant it is: you are not going to buy a Ford Fiesta because your friends will imagine that your life has taken a turn for the worse. They may even sneer when you tell them what you’ve done.

Which means that if you want a hot hatch, you will have to buy the Golf GTI. Which is no great hardship at all, because it’s fabulous in every way. If, however, you want to drive round in the spiritual successor to the original quattro ... Well, then you have to have the Nissan GT-R.

Audi S1
Engine
1984cc, 4 cylinders, turbo
Power
228bhp @ 6000rpm
Torque
273 lb ft @ 1600rpm
Transmission
6-speed manual
Performance
0-62mph: 5.8sec
Top speed
155mph
Fuel
40.4mpg
CO2
162g/km
Road tax band
G (£180 a year)
Price
£24,905
Release date
On sale now
Verdict
The thrill has gone
CRITIC'S RATING***
Go to driving.co.uk to search for a used Audi A1


The all-wheel-drive S1 is fast, fun and beautifully made but does not have the charisma to relight the quattro candle


Audi S1









www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1465984.ece

www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-audi-s1-2014/

[RedMoon11]

Look out — that’s the Grim Reaper in your rear-view

Jeremy Clarkson Published: 12 October 2014


The Civic Tourer is one of the most comfortable cars you can buy, but the opposite of hip

Honda Civic Tourer Ex Plus, £27,460

NOT that long ago Honda’s television commercials were about the only good reason for watching commercial television. I remember one in particular. It was brilliant. Set to Andy Williams’s song The Impossible Dream, it showed a chap tearing about New Zealand, among other places, on a selection of fabulous machines from the company’s illustrious past.

And it really was illustrious. On the racetrack Honda was powering Ayrton Senna to Formula One glory. In the sand dunes of southern California surfer dudes were doing spectacular jumps on Honda quad bikes. Out at sea Honda’s marine engines were stomping on the opposition. And that’s before we got to the company’s motorcycles. About which I know nothing. But I bet those who do know about them can find several Honda racing bikes that make them go all dewy-eyed and nostalgic.

On the road it was much the same story. There was the, er . . . Fireblade, was it? That was seminal, I think. And there was a vast range of epic cars. There were VTEC engines that turned at 9000rpm, staggering little two-seaters, funky little coupés, a car that ran on hydrogen and even a supercar — the NSX — that had a spine-tingling induction roar to rival anything you might hear on the plains of the Serengeti. The message was clear. Honda was youthful. Honda was exuberant. Honda was fun.

And yet the average customer was none of those things. The average Honda customer was a symphony of arthritis and beige. His other car was a mobility scooter. He bought a Jazz or a Civic simply so he had something to wash on a Saturday morning.



Honda was desperately trying to woo a younger audience. It wanted twentysomethings. It wanted the in crowd. But its cars were bought exclusively by people who needed somewhere to sit while the Grim Reaper sharpened his scythe. Look in any lay-by on a sunny day: the old couple eating their sandwiches in silence. They’re in a Honda, aren’t they?

Or take the staff car park at your local B&Q. It looks like a Civic owners’ club meeting. My mum drove Audis and Volkswagens all her life but at the age of 70 was drawn by an unknown force to the Jazz. Honda was spending billions to attract the hip. And all it was getting was hip replacements.

So now it has given up. There is no funky coupé, there is no screaming two-seater and while there are plans for a new NSX, they never seem to come to fruition. The last I heard, a prototype was at the side of the Nürburgring, on fire.

Next year Honda will return to F1, but you sense it is only doing this because it is attracted by the hybrid-drive technology and the new-found quietness. Honda is now the most boring car maker in the world.

Which is why I greeted the arrival of the Civic diesel estate with a sneer and a light retch. I’m only 54. Bring it back in 30 years, I thought, resolving to leave it on the drive until someone came to take it away again.

Sadly, though, there’s a problem with my Mercedes. It hasn’t had an MoT test recently, which means it can’t be taxed, and I don’t want to be busted for that. Not after my recent adventures. So, with a weary heart I climbed into the Honda and . . . went to a lay-by for a picnic.

First things first. It looks stupid. You get the sense that the designer simply didn’t know when to stop styling it. So he kept on going, adding another swoop here and another detail there, until the result looked like a mad doodle in a schoolboy’s maths book. I’m surprised it doesn’t have guns. And lasers.



It’s much the same story on the inside. Honda has put all the important information in a pod above the steering wheel so you can see it through the bottom of your bifocals. But then someone obviously thought, “No. Hang on. We should have some conventional instrument pods as well.” So you get a whole dial just to tell you the engine’s temperature. Why? It’s made by Honda. It’ll be normal. Extra-normal. Always.


Honda Civic Tourer

It’s all very fussy in the cabin, and there’s an Econ button that seems to do nothing at all. And a sat nav system with voice guidance that cannot be turned off, no matter how big a hammer you use.

I pretty much hated it on a cellular level. But then I noticed something. It was extremely comfortable. Its ability to dismiss speed humps and potholes as irrelevances was incredible. Most cars these days have suspension that’s set up to tackle the Nürburgring, and I cannot tell you how joyous it was to find one that had been designed to tackle more everyday obstacles such as manhole covers and roads repaired by people on the minimum wage.

There was a Sport button on my car that made the vehicle less comfortable, but God alone knows why you would ever want to push it. Maybe you could ask next weekend, when it’s time for you to go and see Him.



Feeling slightly old, I then stopped to do some shopping and I discovered that the boot was a bit bigger than Lincolnshire. And underneath the floor was another boot that was about the same size as a grave. Fearful that I was turning into Frank Page, a recently departed former host of Top Gear who loved to talk about boot space, I decided to hate the engine.

Honda was the last main manufacturer to start fitting its cars with diesel power units. This means it has less experience with the technology — and it shows. The 1.6-litre turbo in my car was rough and wobbly on tickover. And coarse thereafter. But, that said, it was very economical. And I was easily able to keep up with the traffic, except for the maniacs in their German cars who should be doing national service instead of tearing about . . .

Price? Well, it’s not cheap to buy and, being a Honda, it won’t be cheap to service either. But as I said — or did I? — the fuel economy is good and the resale value will be excellent. This will make life easier for your children when they sell the car after you’ve died.

As you may have gathered, I didn’t like the Civic Tourer. And yet you really do have the devil’s own job faulting it. It is beautifully made. It is spectacularly spacious. And if comfort is high on your list of priorities, you can’t do better unless you buy a Rolls-Royce Phantom.

So it seems Honda has stopped pushing against a door that’s shut and is now making cars tailored for people who want to buy them. Old people. It has even, I see, added a new ending to its Andy Williams television commercial. Now the hero doesn’t end up in a hot-air balloon. He goes home by way of an eco-jet, a hybrid car, a hydrogen fuel-cell vehicle and some kind of petrol-sipping scooter.

Honda, then, has become a mature company. And the diesel Civic Tourer is a mature car. Not my cup of tea at all.


Honda Civic Tourer Ex Plus






Honda Civic Tourer Ex Plus
Engine
1597cc, 4 cylinders
Power
118bhp @ 4000rpm
Torque
221 lb ft @ 2000rpm
Transmission
6-speed manual
Performance
0-62mph: 10.5sec
Top speed
121mph
Fuel
72.4mpg
CO2
103g/km
Road tax band
B (free for first year; £20 thereafter)
Price
£27,460
Release date
On sale now
Verdict
The old person in front is driving a Honda
CRITIC'S RATING***

Go to driving.co.uk to search for used Honda Civics

www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1468714.ece

www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-honda-civic-tourer-ex-plus/

[RedMoon11]

Jeremy Clarkson gets three points on his licence for speeding


Jeremy Clarkson: said the points were his first endorsement for 30 years (Julien Behal)

David Rankin
Last updated at 12:16PM, October 19 2014

Jeremy Clarkson, the presenter of Top Gear, is to be given points on his driving licence after being caught speeding.

Writing in his weekly Sun column, Clarkson admitted that he was caught by a fixed camera while travelling between Whitby and London – and was going too fast to be offered the option of a speed awareness course.

He wrote: “Last month I wrote in a blind fury about how many speed cameras I’d encountered on a drive from Whitby to London. Well, it seems one of them got to me.

“Sadly, I was going too quickly for the speed awareness course to be an option. Which means I’m getting some points on my licence. My first in 30 years.”

It has been a turbulent month for Clarkson after he and fellow Top Gear presenters sparked fury in Argentina when they were accused of deliberately driving a Porsche with the registration number H982 FKL, which locals said referred to the Falklands conflict of 1982.

The presenters said that the car was bought in the UK because it was the best available vehicle of its type and the plate had not been considered.

One edition of Top Gear was found to be in breach of Ofcom rules for the use of a racially-offensive term during a two-part special in Burma.

Clarkson also apologised after footage, which was not broadcast, emerged of him apparently using another racially-offensive word in a nursery rhyme, although he denied ever saying it.

He was also criticised in 2008 after he claimed to have driven at 186mph on a public road, saying: “The speed limit’s annoying for people who have a job to do.”

www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/arts/tv-radio/article4240769.ece#

 More here stories on the topic jamesmayboard.proboards.com/thread/4162/jeremy-busted-speeding?page=1 

[RedMoon11]

Top 100 Cars 2014: of course it’s flawed but I still dribble with lust

Great cars all have something wrong with them, says Jeremy Clarkson. It’s part of what makes us love them. But does his favourite, the Lexus LFA, make our Top 100 Cars list?

Jeremy Clarkson Published: 26 October 2014


The Lexus LFA has a small fuel tank and no cupholders and costs a third of a million pounds, but that doesn’t stop it being hugely desirable



I HAVE just left a man in near-hysterics in the street. I was climbing into the new Volkswagen Polo as he approached and he simply could not believe his eyes. “You,” he stammered, “in that.” And then he started to laugh the sort of laugh that builds and builds until you start to worry that he may never stop breathing out. His knees went first and then bits of what appeared to be offal started to come out of his nose. Yup. The poor chap was laughing up his own lungs. He’s probably dead now.

We must mourn him of course because the very idea of me, Field Marshal Octane McTorque of the Heavy Horse Regiment, dribbling around town in a 59-horsepower vicar-mobile is as ludicrous as Cara Delevingne emerging from the Chiltern Firehouse in a Lady magazine twinset.

Or is it? Because what exactly is wrong with the Volkswagen Polo? The short answer is: nothing at all. Which leads us on to another question. Why don’t we all have one?

As you may know, I would gladly sell one of my legs if it meant I could have a Lexus LFA. It is a car that makes me dribble slightly. And yet it is far from perfect. It has a petrol tank the size of a Zippo lighter’s, it has no cupholders and if you ever poke its V10 engine with a stick, it makes such an almighty shrieking noise that passers-by tend to call the police to say that someone in the area is torturing a dog.

It’s much the same story with all of the world’s most desirable cars. I am hugely fond of the little Alfa Romeo 4C. I make strange whimpering noises when I think of it. I’m making them now. And yet it has no power steering or satellite navigation and it follows the camber of the road so vividly that often you feel that gravity is actually at the helm, not you.

The new Range Rover? Yup. Excellent. By far the best off-roader the world has seen. But have you tried to park one in a normal street? It’s not going to happen unless there’s been a bomb scare. Or you’re on Sark.

The Ferrari 458 Italia? The dashboard is unintelligible. The BMW M3? If you put the steering in Sport Plus mode you will crash. The BMW i8? Wonderful, but on a not-very-hard drive to North Yorkshire recently I achieved 28mpg. Some way short of the 135mpg that’s spoken about in the marketing blurb.

I could go on and on — so I will. AMG Mercs are tremendous, but that guttural exhaust noise causes people to think you are a gigantic idiot. The Jaguar F-type’s ride is silly and the car’s too expensive. The Porsche 911 GT3 is on fire. The Volkswagen Golf R is a bit boring. And so on and so on. All of the world’s great cars have something wrong with them.

There is, however, nothing wrong with a BMW 530 diesel estate. I challenge anyone to emerge from a drive in this car and say, “I’ll tell you what I didn’t like about it . . .”



If you had even the smallest bit of common sense, it’s what you would buy whether you wanted something that was fast, comfortable, good-looking, economical, reliable or safe. Because it’s all those things.

And yet if you want something that’s all those things, why would you not buy the much cheaper Volkswagen instead? No, really. It’s a serious question. Why?

The honest answer is: because your neighbours will laugh at you and imagine you have some financial difficulties. In Britain a car is still, even today, seen as a measure of a man’s standing in life and possibly even the size of his manhood, and that, I’m sorry, has to stop.

When you encounter someone who’s wearing a watch that’s about the same size as an early John Harrison longitude experiment, and about as elaborate, do you think, “My. This man must be very interested in timepieces”? No, of course not, because the chances are, he isn’t.

Or what about when you meet someone who’s wearing a shirt with the name of the man whose staff designed it emblazoned on the breast pocket? Does this mean he enjoys fine tailoring and good-quality cotton? Or has he just bought something because it says Dolce and whatever the other bloke’s called on it?

Not that long ago we were praying to gods that didn’t exist and dying aged 24 of rickets. Now look at us, paying £400 for a £4 jumper and then taking it home in a car that’s 6ft longer than necessary simply so people we don’t know realise that, for us, life is good. How tragic is that?

I spent most of the summer in Italy, where pretty much everyone has a small grey battered hatchback. The boss has a small grey battered hatchback. Her husband has a small grey battered hatchback. Her assistants have small grey battered hatchbacks and so do her children. You may imagine that the staff car park at Ferrari is a riot of colour set to a soundtrack of wailing V8s. But no. It’s full of yet more grey battered hatchbacks.

This is because no one wants to look rich in Italy in case it arouses the suspicions of the tax authorities. But it gave me an idea . . .

At present, people who like driving and enjoy the feel of a well-engineered car often feel disinclined to buy something that suits their taste because it may appear they are showing off. How can you tell the real petrolhead from the man who’s bought a Ferrari simply because his carpet warehouse is doing well and he wants his mates at the lodge and the golf club to know it?

Only recently pictures appeared on the internet of a Bugatti Veyron onto which someone had spray-painted — how can I put this? — a gentleman sausage and its accompanying vegetables.

The suggestion is that a class warrior of some sort assumed the owner was a terrible show-off with a big watch and decided to teach him a lesson. Which may or may not be fair enough, depending on your politics.

But what if the owner had remortgaged his house and sold his children for medical experiments so that he could enjoy the thrill of a car that accelerates as though the world has stopped and we’ve all just been catapulted into space? Why should he be punished for that?



It seems to me that we need some new rules. You may have a nice car only if you can prove to a new authority that you are genuinely interested in it. If you cannot, you must have a VW Polo.

I intend to roll this out to cover watches as well. If you know how they work, you may have something half an inch thick with many dials. If you don’t, you must have a Casio.


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/cars/article1474350.ece

www.driving.co.uk/news/top-100-cars-2014-introduction-by-jeremy-clarkson/

[RedMoon11]

Jeremy's BMW M5 review mentioned in "The Birthday Boys Go Bang"
jamesmayboard.proboards.com/thread/4167/top-gear-sunday-times?page=1&scrollTo=296848

BMW M5: Bong! I won’t let you go until you love me

This is a genuine four-seat limo, a car from which you would be pleased to emerge at a film premiere. But it is also so much more

Jeremy Clarkson Published: 29 January 2012


BMW M5 Photograph: BMW GROUP

Once, I drove on a highway near Atlanta, in Georgia, that runs through a wood for about 16,000 miles. It is very boring. But after a quick trip to Wales last week I’ve decided that the M4 is even worse.

Some say that the most boring motorway in the world is the M1, but actually it’s not dull at all. It has a history and even a hint of romance. People have written songs about it and you pass many exciting places such as Gulliver’s Kingdom and the Billing Aquadrome. You’re tempted at every junction to get off and have a snout around. Except, perhaps, junction 22. Coalville’s not that appealing.

Plus the M1 makes your blood boil, especially at the moment, because almost all of it is coned off and subjected to a rigorously enforced 50mph speed limit. Driving on this section is like reading The Guardian. It gets the adrenaline going. It makes your teeth itch with impotent rage.

The M4, on the other hand, is like a book with nothing written on any of the pages. You pass Bracknell and Reading and Swindon, and you would rather die, screaming, than go to any of these places. Eventually there’s a signpost to Theale, which doesn’t even exist. Have you ever met anyone from Theale? Been there? Read about it? I think it may have been hit 70 years ago by the friendly German bombs meant for Slough.

Then you have the “works” exit, which looks as though it might lead to the sort of place where they keep grit and snowploughs for the winter. It looks harmless, municipal. But try to find it on Google Earth. Go on. Try. Because it’s not there. It’s a slip road the authorities want us to believe goes nowhere. Spooky, eh?

After this non-event you are plunged into a nothingness that goes on for a light year until eventually you are asked to pay £6 to cross a bridge. Why is that? How can it cost £6 to use a fairly crummy bridge when for £10 you are given access to the whole of London?

I hate the M4, and what makes it even worse is that there’s no car made that makes it even remotely interesting. If you drive down it in something powerful, you will be caught by the speed cameras. If you opt for something comfortable, you will fall asleep and crash. If you go for something economical and sensible, you will become tired of the engine moaning out its one long song and deliberately run into the crash barrier to end it all.

There is, however, one car with just the right combination of features to keep you awake — to keep you interested in being alive — for just two hours more. The BMW M5.

I have always been a fan. The original, a 282bhp version of the boxy 1980s 5-­series, came out of nowhere and redefined what we thought might be possible from a saloon. And since then every single version has pulled off the same trick.

The latest is even more of a star. Unlike the equivalent AMG Mercedes, which looks like a street brawler, the BMW is a bit like a bouncer at a “nite” spot that wants to be seen as posh. It’s wearing a tux, and you have to look hard to notice the neck like a birthday cake, the chest like a butter churn, the thighs like tugboats. It’s a big bruiser, this car, but there are few clues. Just the blue brake callipers. And some Wallpaper magazine-style LEDs in the door handles.

Under the bonnet the old V10 is gone. In its place is a turbocharged V8, which is good if you are a polar bear but bad, in theory, if you are a petrolhead. However, in practice, you don’t notice the turbo lag. There must be a gap between you pressing the throttle and the warfare beginning but you never, ever, feel it. It’s not a great engine. But it’s very good.



My friends, who are not very interested in cars, said that the ride was “bumpy” and that I ought to let some air out of the tyres. They were wrong. The ride is actually quite good. Another friend, who writes about restaurants, said it sounded like a diesel. He was wrong, too. It sounds like a tool for scaring dogs.

Out of town and away from my metrosexual mates, the new M5 continues to amaze. It feels heavy and the front is maybe a bit over-tyred, but it’s just so fast and so composed and so balanced and so wonderful that you even find yourself grinning a deeply contented grin when you are on the M4 and it’s raining and the burglar in the toll booth is still a hundred miles away.

There are so many toys to play with, so many things to do. You can set the engine up in Sport mode and the gearbox in race mode and the suspension in comfort. And then, when you’ve found a setup you really like, you can store it in a single-button memory.

And then you can decide that actually, on some days, you prefer everything to be slightly different, so you can store this as well. Then you can choose precisely what information you would like on the head-up display. And then you can dive into all the submenus on the iDrive system and change everything up to the shape of the car itself.

So what we have here is a genuine four-seat limo. A car from which you would be pleased to emerge at a film premiere. But then this same car is also a tail-out, smoke-and-wail drift machine. And a finely balanced road racer, and a gadget. It’s everything. And it’s only £73,040. We’re talking five stars and then some.

However. There are a few problems. There are so many gadgets that some of the features are not very easy to use. Such as: last night I arrived at the Top Gear edit, put the gearbox in neutral and started to get out. “Bong,” said the warning buzzer and “flash” went the dash display. “You have not put the vehicle in Park. It may roll away. You may not lock the doors until you have put it in Park.” Bong.

Bong.

Bong.

Bong.

I got desperate. There was no Park position on the flappy-paddle gearbox. Bong. I applied the electronic handbrake so the car couldn’t roll away. Bong. “Yes it can,” insisted the machine. Bong.

Eventually I went into the edit suite and said, quite crossly, “Does anyone here know how to put an M5 in Park?” They were all very amused, but an hour later we were still none the wiser. We were so desperate that we even resorted to the handbook. But still there were no answers.

It turns out that you must turn the engine off when it is in gear. Then Park is applied automatically. If you turn off the motor when the box is in neutral, you are bonged at until the end of time. I would very much like to meet the man who designed this system. So that I can jab some cocktail sticks into his eyes.

I suppose that eventually you would become used to this. But there is something else that would always be a nag. The problem is twofold. In the olden days the M5’s price tag was justifiable because the car was much better than the standard 5-series. That simply isn’t true any more. The 530d M Sport is very possibly the best, most complete car in the world right now and it’s hard to see why the M5 costs £31,000 more.

It gets worse. Today the M5 is a cruiser. A bruiser. A heavyweight. A very different animal from the original. It’s a wonderful thing, be in no doubt about that, but if you hanker after the olden days, you can have an M3, which is still lithe and sharp and crisp. And it’s almost £20,000 less.

In short, then, the M5 is still a great car. But these days BMW makes other great cars that are considerably less expensive.

The M version of the 1-series is another example. Happily there is no M4.





BMW M5
Price
£73,040
Acceleration
0-60mph: 4.4sec
Top speed
155mph (limited)
Road tax band
L (£790 for first year)
Release date
On sale now
Verdict
A limo with the heart of a lion
CRITIC'S RATING *****
Engine 4395cc, V8
Power 560bhp @ 5750rpm
Torque 501 lb ft @1500rpm
Transmission 7-speed semi-auto
Fuel 28.5mpg (combined)
CO2 232g/km


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article862937.ece#prev
www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article862937.ece#next

[RedMoon11]

Peugeot 207

That's enough grief: now we can be kids again

Jeremy Clarkson
Published: 28 January 2007

Last week the nation was being treated to one of the most eagerly awaited television shows in modern history.

I'm talking, of course, about 24, the further adventures of Jack Bauer, CTU's shouting whisperer, whose mobile phone never runs out of battery and whose bowels never need emptying.

Meanwhile, on the other side, after intense tabloid scrutiny, and a billion text votes, Davina McCall revealed to the world who had become the best person at living in a house with some other people.

It was a big night for the box, then. But strangely, I'm willing to bet the battle for viewers will have been won by a poky motoring show on BBC2, as half a trillion tuned in to watch a small man have a car crash.

The story of Richard Hammond - or Princess Diana as we now like to call him - has become a national obsession. I am so fed up with people asking how he is that I now smile the smile of a bereavement vicar and say: "I'm afraid he's died."

We have seen him photographed in the Daily Mirror, drinking a mug of tea. We have seen him in The Sun, riding a bicycle. And we have seen him in OK! magazine, wearing a heart-warming pair of trousers available from Marks & Spencer for £49.99. I daren't even look in Gay Times in case it's bought some pap pictures of the wee chap playing with himself.

This is a huge problem for Top Gear. Before the crash we were a fairly anonymous triumvirate of middle-aged men who went to work every day so we could indulge our fantasy of being nine years old. No one really wrote about us. No one really complained. No one really cared.

We would buy some cars, turn them into boats, go to a reservoir in Derbyshire and sink. And then the next day we'd go on a caravan holiday, where there'd be a fire and everything would be ruined. This was our happy, simple, unassuming life.

But now one of us has become a national treasure, a man who stared death in the face and decided he'd rather go back to his family.

A hero. A god.

I have agonised for months over how the poor bloke should be reintroduced to the show. He thought we could just push him on in a wheelchair, where he'd loll throughout the show, dribbling. James May thought maybe he could come into the studio on a cruise missile to demonstrate his superhuman powers. I reckoned he could enter stage left in a selection of new clothes from Marks & Spencer, to recognise his deal with OK!.

But after much soul searching I think the solution - and it's a surprise for him as well as you - is elegant and rather nice. I hope you like it. I hope he likes it, too, because I had to spend a fortune on beer before I thought of it.

What I can tell you is that James and I will present him with a number of lucky charms which we insist he keeps with him at all times, to ensure such a terrible crash never happens again. I've got him a grandfather clock.

Then, after the opening few moments, we're faced with the problem of showing the crash itself. Some of the footage is sickening, so obviously that will be screened in slow motion. But what about the rest? The build-up? The foreplay? The previous runs where all went well? Frankly, I think we should skip it all, go straight to the bone-crunching impact and then invite all the rubber-neckers who've only tuned in to see the little fella get brain damaged to bugger off and watch something more intellectually suitable. Big Brother - The Final, for example.

Diana and May are in complete agreement with me on this. So are the producers. We want to get the damn crash out of the way and get back to the business of being nine.

But even here there are problems, because you just know that the hippies and the communists won't turn over or tune out. They'll be watching with their beards peeled, ready to fire off an angry e-mail should we even look like we're going to mention gays, speed, Muslims, gypsies, polar bears, global bloody warming, breasts, disabled people, immigrants, or how jolly nice it is to be middle class.

Happily, this has united May, Diana and me even more than usual. We feel circled, threatened, and can see no way round the problem except to screen the crash immediately and then spend the next 57 minutes talking about gays, speed, Muslims, gypsies, polar bears, global bloody warming, breasts, disabled people, immigrants, and how jolly nice it is to be middle class.

We all want to go back to how it was, because making that show is the most fun a man can have. Apart from being allowed to fire a heat-seeking missile into a helicopter over Hong Kong harbour, obviously.

People think it's all dreamt up by a team of producers and scriptwriters. People think it's all stage managed and that we're just hired hands, paid to fall in water and set fire to stuff. It really isn't. We're not that good at acting. James especially.

The ideas are mostly dreamt up by the one producer and me, usually in a top London restaurant such as E&O or an Angus Steak House. They are then developed with Diana and May in a crap pub where James can drink brown beer and play darts. And then we set off to film our little drama in the real world, among real people. When a policeman comes, he's not an actor out of The Bill. He's a policeman. That's why we usually run away.

Scripted? Well, yes, I write the studio stuff pretty tightly. But the films? Not a chance.

In this series, for instance, we attempt to grow our own petrol, which involves the three of us crashing a lot of tractors and breaking most of Bedfordshire. We build our own road to show how fast it can be done if the navvies are made to actually work for a living. We get chased out of Alabama by a stone-throwing mob who saw James's hair and thought we might be homosexuals. We drive the usual array of Porsches and Ferraris much too quickly, while shouting. We play golf, which meant wearing silly jumpers and crashing our golf carts extensively. We build stretched limos from entirely unsuitable base products and then, while using them to ferry celebs to glittering galas in London, hope they don't - for instance - snap in half.

James and Princess Diana even attempt to get a car into space.

One of the things you won't be seeing, however, is the new Peugeot 207 GT. Partly, because we can't be bothered. And partly because it's not very good. Oh, at £14,345 it's exceptionally good value for money compared with rivals from Ford, Vauxhall and Volkswagen. And yes, it has the same 1.6 litre turbo engine they put in the new Mini, so that's good too.

What's more, it has a brilliant sat nav system, and thanks to an unusual rear window with very curved glass it makes every other car look, in your rear-view mirror, like an elongated gargoyle. This makes you feel like you have the prettiest car on the road.

However, there are some faults. The driving position is only really suitable for those whose legs are exactly the same length as their arms - ie, no one. There are rattles, the brakes are so sharp you end up on the bonnet every time you so much as look at them and, most importantly, it's not as much fun as it should be.

In the 14th century, when I was growing up, Peugeot was master of all it surveyed in the world of the hot hatchback. Now, though, it's no longer doing what it does best.

This is a bit like Jack Bauer suddenly saying in a normal voice: "Ooh I need a poo." Or Richard Hammond coming back on Top Gear to the accompaniment of some kind words, a sensitive shoulder to cry on and a refreshing cup of tea.

By the way, last weekend a man quoted in this section of your Sunday Times claimed that Richard Hammond was to blame for his accident. Not the car. Furthermore, he suggested that a badly positioned onboard camera might have caused Richard's brain damage. Not the car.

Interestingly, these claims come from . . . the owner of the car. He also claimed that vital footage of the crash was "missing". You can judge for yourself tonight at 8pm on BBC2.

PEUGEOT 207 VITAL STATISTICS

Model Peugeot 207 1.6 THP 150 GT
Engine 1598cc, four cylinders
Power 150bhp @ 5800rpm
Torque 180 lb ft @ 1400rpm
Transmission Five-speed manual Fuel 40.3mpg (combined cycle) CO2 166g/km
Acceleration 0-62mph: 8.7sec Top speed 131mph Price £14,345
Rating 3/5
Verdict A lukewarm hatchback


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article57267.ece

[RedMoon11]

Focus: The Blame Game

Top Gear presenter Richard Hammond’s 300mph crash has sparked calls for the show to be axed. His friend and colleague Jeremy Clarkson begs to differ

Jeremy Clarkson   Published: 24 September 2006

Richard Hammond, the Top Gear host critically injured on Wednesday in what is possibly Britain’s fastest car crash, has eaten cornflakes, walked, talked and recognised his co-presenter James May as a “****face”. His brain had shut down after the crash but now it’s rebooting. It’s coming back to life.

It therefore seems likely that soon, in a matter of weeks maybe, the Hamster will be back on his feet and ready to start work. The question is: will he have a show to go back to?

As I write, swarms of bureaucratic bluebottles are nibbling away at the crash site on a York airfield, desperately trying to find some reason why Top Gear should be banished from the screens. Yes, they want to know why the accident happened and whether anything might be done to prevent such a thing from happening again.

But most of all, most of the people want to know who was to blame. On Thursday one of the team said rather menacingly: “With a crash of this magnitude someone’s head has to roll . . .”

Meanwhile, The Guardian and certain parts of the BBC are saying that there’s no way back for Top Gear now. They’ve dredged up all the alleged misdemeanours in the past, said the crash was the final straw and are now saying the programme will have to be scrapped or dramatically neutered.

So even though the crash failed to kill Hammond, the forces are massing to destroy the show that made his name.

I first heard of the accident as I was doing a rather pedestrian 175mph in an Aston Martin round the programme’s test track in Surrey. The producer, Andy Wilman, called from the central London edit suite to say that Hammond had had what he called “a big one”.

But there was no sense of urgency. Yes, on his previous run he’d reached a speed of 315mph and there was every chance he’d been doing a similar speed when the accident began. And yes, he’d rolled over several times before coming to rest upside down with his helmet full of soil and his head buried in the earth. What’s more, he had been unconscious when the paramedics arrived.

But he’d come round, insisted that he should do a “piece to camera” and had even had a fight with the air ambulance crew who thought that on balance it’d be better if he got on the stretcher to go to hospital in Leeds. Richard’s like that. He spends most of his spare time fighting.

I was therefore not even slightly worried. Nor was I embarrassed that just 40 minutes earlier I’d called his mobile phone and left a message saying: “As I haven’t heard from you, I can only presume you’re dead.”

He’d hear it in the helicopter and call me back to say he had just driven 100mph faster than I’d ever managed. We’re a bit competitive like that, Hammond and I.

I therefore toddled up to London, and met friends for dinner in the Wolseley. But as I sat down to a delicious plate of oysters, Richard Hammond’s brain was starting to swell.

He may not have broken a bone, or sustained even so much as a graze in the crash, but while rolling over it’s likely he’d been subjected to mountainous G forces. His brain would have weighed something in the order of 70 stone, and it was being tossed about inside his skull at 300 revs per minute. And all the while his head was being bashed endlessly into the bars of the car’s protective roll cage.

Imagine being in a washing machine on its final cycle, while being attacked by 30 burly men with pile drivers.

The problem when your brain starts to swell is that it can’t grow outwards because of the skull, so it has to go down; into the spinal column. If that had happened to Richard, at best, he’d have become a drooling vegetable.

As I left the restaurant I had another call from Wilman, who was caning his Golf GTI up the M1. “The doctors say he’s critical,” he said.

I couldn’t sleep. Hammond is an irritating little mutant, consumed by a need to be on every single television programme on every single channel on every single day — something he damn nearly achieved last year with the 5 O’Clock Show, Should I Worry About Sausages, his Search for the Holy Grail, Petrolheads, Top Gear, Cruft’s, Brainiac, and God knows what else.

However, I like him enormously. He has a phenomenally fast wit and a wonderful turn of phrase. He came with his wife Mindy and his two children Izzy and Willow to stay at our holiday cottage this summer and I saw another side to him. A happy side. A man who’d just learnt that actually the cure for being 5ft 6in is not to be on television all the time.

It turned out that he’s an accomplished musician, a fine horseman, that he’s pretty well read and that he can paint. I have one of his pictures and in a local pub it would fetch, ooh, at least £6.99.

SO what was this sane, funny family man doing in a 370mph jet car?

Well, contrary to reports that he was put there by ratings-hungry producers, it was his idea. He wanted to know what it would be like to go really fast. And I know exactly why.

If he’d been interested in flowers and vegetables since a young age, he might very well now be standing in a pair of wellingtons on Gardeners’ World, talking about compost. But he isn’t interested in compost — he’s interested in speed.

When I was his age, I made a television series called Extreme Machines. Mostly, this involved being upside down, at 750mph, while vomiting. But there were quieter times like when I did the standing quarter on a snowmobile on a frozen river in Sweden in seven seconds. Or when an airboat flipped at 100mph, hurling me into an alligator-infested swamp.

However, I would not have driven the jet car. Neither would James May, who gets giddy if he runs. That’s because he’s weird and I’m too old and too fat and I have too many children these days to put myself voluntarily in harm’s way.

Hammond, however, isn’t there yet. He’s only 36 so he still wants to be put in a car and drowned or electrocuted. It gets the limbic system in his brain twitching, dumping the dopamine and making him feel alive.

Some people are born with a physical need to take risks. Steve Irwin was one. Christopher Columbus was another. And Ellen MacArthur is a classic case in point too. Telling her to stop sailing round the world is as daft as telling a black person to be white, or a blind person to look where they’re going.

But of course, we have a whole industry nowadays designed to do just that. To ensure that nobody ever falls over, that nobody ever hurts themselves, that nobody ever dies. And that if someone does, then the system must have failed and a head must roll . . .

Couple this to the fact that every mountain has been scaled and every desert crossed, and it explains why there’s now such a booming demand for extreme ironing and whitewater parachuting. It also explains what Hammond was doing in that jet car. Because he needs that thrill as passionately as a heroin addict needs his next fix.

()How can this be a problem for anyone other than Mrs Hammond and their children? Because he crashed and tied up the emergency services? Oh come on. Are we to tell DIY enthusiasts who fall off a stepladder that no ambulance will be forthcoming because they should have called in a professional plumber? Perhaps you might argue that Hammond is setting a bad example and that kids might try to copy him. What? In their jet cars? On their airfields?

THE good news is that as last week wore on, and the messages of goodwill to Richard and his family have poured in, The Guardian has been a bit humbled. Until now, they’ve had it all their own way. Egged on by environmentalists and goaded by muddle-headed road safety experts, they’ve been able to dominate the agenda, keeping the pressure on us and the BBC to tone it down.

Now, though, I’m starting to feel the boot is on the other foot. For the first time, we all know that large numbers of people really love Richard and really love Top Gear.

And there’s a good reason for that. They see us clowning around, driving a convertible people carrier that we’d made through a safari park, trying to get some home-made amphibious cars across a reservoir in the depths of winter, or going on a caravanning holiday. None of these things has anything at all to do with speed.

But they do have something in common. Phenomenal attention to detail. The average shooting ratio for a modern television programme is about 20 to one. In other words, you shoot 20 minutes of tape for every one minute that makes it to the screen.

Top Gear works on a ratio of 250 to one. Top Gear, and I’m not bragging because this part has nothing to do with me, is probably the best-made programme in the world.

And you will find that sort of attention to detail in its attitude to what Stephen Fry recently said were the two most dangerous words in the English language: health and safety.

What you see is Hammond and me rolling a Toyota pick-up truck while crossing that reservoir. What you don’t see are the divers in a nearby chase boat, the van full of mats to absorb any fuels that might be spilt, the paramedics and the fire crews.

But despite all the care, and all the attention to detail, Hammond still crashed. It seems likely that the front right tyre blew out, and there is no way that this could have been foreseen. It was something that in our risk-averse society, we can’t understand any more. It was “an accident”.

Who was to blame? Nobody.

In the last series, while attempting to build an entire car from scratch in one day, the nearly completed project fell from its stands onto the floor.

“Who’s fault was that?” I barked.

“Oh for God’s sake, how’s that going to help?” said Hammond.

He’s right. How can blaming someone help? We just need to make sure the little guy keeps getting better and that when he does, he can get back in a car, get back into Top Gear, and go 316mph.


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/news/article172824.ece

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Toyota Land Cruiser (2014)

It’ll Carry Your Machinegun But You Won’t Get To the war on time

Jeremy Clarkson   Published: 2 November 2014



Toyota Land Cruiser, from £35,460

AS A well-equipped Range Rover now hovers round the £100,000 mark, it’s easy to see why enthusiasts of large and lofty off-road cars might pause for a moment when they note that a top-spec new Toyota Land Cruiser is not much more than half that.

This has happened before. When Toyota launched its workhorse in Australia, Land Rover had a 90% market share. A few years later it was down to 2%. The Australians had become used to welding up their British cars after just one 600-mile drive to the nearest shop, and now here, all of a sudden, was a car that never snapped in half at all. Not even when you loaded it up with 24,000 gallons of lager and threw a bulldozer at it to demonstrate your manliness.

Today Land Cruisers are the transport of choice for the UN and everyone else who’s genuinely, life-or-death serious about getting to where they’re going, no matter what the terrain. They have been used as gun platforms by militiamen in troublespots across the world. When James May and I needed a car to take us over the sea ice to the magnetic North Pole, we didn’t hesitate for a moment. You don’t, when you’re going to a place that is seven hours’ flying time from the nearest tap.

But you’re not doing that. You have no plans at all to visit Timbuktu in the near future. You need something for the school run and you’re thinking, “Hang on a minute — £52,960 for a large, leather-lined seven-seater? Where’s the catch?”

On paper there isn’t one. The diesel model I tested came with rain-sensing wipers and dusk-sensing headlights and electrically adjustable, ventilated seats and 14 speakers and Blu-ray rear-seat entertainment and satellite navigation and side steps and triple-zone climate control and so on and so forth. And none of it will go wrong, ever, even if you drown it and push it off a skyscraper and blow it up using dynamite.

But there are a few downsides that I ought to mention. First of all, it’s big. Too big. There’s a restaurant in Notting Hill that I have used for 10 years, and not once in all that time have I been able to park — legally, at least — outside.

But on my first day with the Toyota I couldn’t believe it. A meter was free. And it remained that way because the Land Cruiser simply would not fit. This made me angry — and that’s just the start.

The next problem is the styling, which was plainly done with all the lights turned off, because, my God, this has looks that would make even its mother vomit. Its grille looks like the sort of thing you’d find at the bottom of a Victorian’s fireplace and its headlights resemble Arnold Schwarzenegger’s eyes in that Total Recall moment when he falls down a mountain on Mars.

To make matters worse, it appears to have been given wheels only as an afterthought. They are more or less the right size for an Austin Metro, but on a car that has about the same bulk as a cruise liner they look ridiculous.



Inside, everything is worse. All the controls appear to have been fixed to the dash by the principle children use when playing pin the tail on the donkey. Nothing is where you expect it to be. Mainly because the whole of the centre console is taken up by one giant knob that does absolutely nothing at all.

Operating the sat nav is nigh-on impossible. To reach the dial that adjusts the scale you need a left arm four miles long, and to turn off the booming voice you need a degree in astrophysics. And if by some miracle you do manage to put in the correct address and turn the shouty lady off and get the scale right, you are told unceremoniously that you will arrive half an hour after you were expecting. Who fitted this feature? Eeyore?

One reason, I suspect, for the pessimism is that the software doesn’t know where anything is and has no clue how to get there. Twice it told me I had arrived when I was in the middle of a field, looking at where I wanted to be from the other side of the Thames.

There’s another reason, though. It knows that no matter how hard you push it, the engine is not capable of making up time. It makes a gravelly noise about a minute after you put your foot down, but that’s about it. Toyota says it will get from standstill to 62mph in 11 seconds. And that flat-out it’ll be doing 109mph. Which means it has the sort of performance that was considered lacklustre in 1982.

And that’s just the start of it. The steering wheel appears to be connected to the actual wheels by something made out of rubber bands and safety pins. And the brakes? At first you think nothing is happening at all, so you stand on the pedal with all your might, and then it feels as though so much energy is being used that the planet is shifting slightly in its orbit around the sun.


The Land Cruiser’s centre console is dominated by a gigantic knob that seems to do nothing at all

And now we must address the biggest problem of them all: the complete lack of comfort. A switch is provided — near the glovebox, obviously — that changes the suspension from Sport (that’s a laugh) to Auto and Normal, but in all three positions the result is the same. Deep discomfort and a sense the chassis is flexing every time you go over a pothole. You don’t drive this car. It lurches along and you sit there saying, “Ow.”



Then it goes dark, because you didn’t have enough power to get home before nightfall, and afterwards you have about as much idea of where you are as the sat nav because the headlights on dipped beam work like elderly glow-worms.

And you’re being blinded by a green light that comes on to say when you’re driving ecologically. Ecologically? In a car such as this? That’s taking the concept of relativeness to new and uncharted heights, that is.

This car is rubbish, and the one I borrowed bonged loudly for no reason at random intervals. That drove me nuts, until the ride had dislodged both my ears. And Isis fighters use these cars as gun platforms? How do they ever hit anything?

I suppose after such an onslaught of negativity I ought to find something about the car I liked. Um . . . er, well, I suppose that in basic, spartan, UN spec it would be a good workhorse. But like this? In a fancy suit? No. It’s a pit pony in a dressage competition.

Yes, a Range Rover is expensive, and the current model is fitted with a security system that seemingly allows it to be stolen by anyone with a lollipop stick and five minutes to kill.

So by all means buy the half-price Land Cruiser instead. Certainly it’s extremely likely still to be on your drive in the morning. Unfortunately.

Clarkson’s verdict ★☆☆☆☆

I wouldn’t wish it on Isis

Toyota Land Cruiser Invincible specifications

Price: £52,960
Release date: On sale now
Engine: 2982cc, 4 cylinders
Power/Torque: 188bhp @ 3400rpm / 310 lb ft @ 3000rpm
Transmission: 5-speed automatic
Performance: 0-62mph: 11sec
Top speed: 109mph
Fuel: 34.9mpg
CO2: 213g/km
Road Tax Band: K

Disagree with Clarkson? Go to driving.co.uk to search for a used Land Cruiser


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1477090.ece
www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-toyota-land-cruiser-2014/

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Volkswagen Golf SV (2014)
Oh look, it’s the pride and joy of the daft ideas department

Jeremy Clarkson  Published: 16 November 2014



The Golf SV gives the driver numerous choices, none of them a blind bit of use

Volkswagen Golf SV, from £19,075

NOTHING good has been achieved with a meeting. The term suggests a meeting of minds, a democratic process in which all the voices are heard. And then a decision is reached. But that only results in compromise. And who wants to visit a compromised hospital, or to buy a compromised car?

You may think that when political leaders meet they are actually discussing options. But they’re not. They’re smiling and pulling earnest faces for the cameras, and then signing a document that was drawn up much earlier after a bunch of backroom boys had spent months on the phone, arguing, before deciding to do whatever it was that America wanted.

That’s how a meeting should be run. People come and provide information for a central, all-powerful figure whose decision is final. He’s not bothered about keeping John from accounts happy. He’s not there to score points against Maureen from marketing. He just wants the right result. Ask Sir Sugar. He knows. If you want to achieve anything, what you actually need is a dictatorship.

The reason the UN is invariably powerless to act is that there’s no single leader. No desk-thumping Blofeld with a white cat. Everyone has the power of veto. There’s a similar problem at the EU. And I suspect it’s an issue at Volkswagen too, because why else would it have come up with the Golf Plus?

Let me refresh your memory. It was a normal Golf but it cost more because it came with a bit more headroom. And that must have been the result of a meeting, presumably in the marketing department.

Lots of car firms offer taller versions of standard hatchbacks. But they’re not just taller. They’re longer and wider and have more seats and more cubbyholes and therefore more practicality. But the Golf Plus was based on the Golf Mk 5, which, because of the way it was made, could not be elongated or stretched in any way.

The company could only make it taller, which meant that it would appeal only to people who a) wanted a Golf, b) had more money than sense and c) would drive their car while wearing a stovepipe hat. Amazingly, there are very few people who meet all these criteria, and as a result the Plus was a spectacular failure.

Why did nobody stand up at the meeting and say, “There are lots of things people might want from their new Golf: better fuel economy, lower prices, more speed, greater comfort and so on. But no one — ever — has said, ‘I want it to be exactly the same as it is now — only more expensive and taller’ ”?

Happily, the current Golf Mk 7 is built on a flexible platform that can be stretched and elongated, so the new taller Golf, the SV, is longer too, which means more legroom in the back, a higher driving position and a bigger boot, as well as enough headroom for a stovepipe hat or even a bearskin.



Hooray and trebles all round. But then there was plainly another meeting, at which someone said, “Why don’t we fit it with an adjustable boot floor — a floor that can be raised or lowered, depending on what’s being carried?”

If I’d been chairing the meeting, I’d have pulled out a Luger and shot him in the head as a warning to anyone else who might be thinking of voicing an opinion that had no merit.

I mean, seriously, why would anyone say, “Right. I have only a small amount of groceries this week so I shall raise the boot floor. Then, when I take the dogs out this weekend, I shall lower it again”? Nobody has the time in their lives to adjust the height of their boot floor. And even if they did — which, I must stress again, they don’t — they would put it at its lowest level on day one and leave it there. For ever.

There’s another thing too. The SV — it stands for sports van — rides further from the ground than a normal Golf. But the GT version of the SV is actually lowered by 15mm. So you pay a hefty four-figure premium for the taller ride height and then you pay even more for the ride to be lowered again.

And why? Who in God’s name thinks, “Yes. I want a sporty car. A GT car. Something with big wheels, low-profile tyres and a bit of oomph. So I shall buy a Golf van”? The answer is: someone who exists only in the mind of a marketing wallah. Memo to VW: stop having meetings.

Fortunately, I didn’t drive the GT for this test. I went for the 1.4-litre TSI, and it was extremely normal. But, that said, there were many choices. I could choose whether I wanted the engine to shut down at the lights or not to shut down at the lights. I could choose whether I wanted the sat nav map to be the right way up or to revolve like a dervish every time I went round a corner. I could even choose what sort of hat I’d like to wear, knowing that even the most comic Hiawatha headgear would not be crumpled in the least little bit.

I could also choose where I wanted to store my mobile phone: in a box on top of the dash, in the door bins, in the centre console or in a cubbyhole under the seat. I could choose where I wanted the back seat and how much of it I would like to be folded.


Volkswagen Golf SV

And all the time I kept thinking that, while there are many permutations, the Ford C-Max offers even more. It’s cheaper, it’s nicer to drive, it’s even more practical and it comes with more standard equipment.

It’s not a Golf, though, and that’s the thing. That’s the only thing. The Golf is a byword for everything you really need from a car. It’s the answer to every motoring question that’s been asked. You’re a young tearaway and you want something fun? Buy a Golf GTI. You’re a family man who needs a sensible second car? Buy a Golf diesel. You need to carry big loads? Buy a Golf estate. You’re a teacher and you want something cheap and reliable to get you to the classroom every morning? Buy a second-hand Golf. You really, really want to get cracking and you live in Zermatt? Buy a Golf R.

No matter who you are or where you live or what you want from your car, a Golf will measure up nicely. It will be reliable, safe, practical, economical and inoffensive.

It’s a car VW’s engineers have been making since it was introduced in 1974 as an alternative to the Beetle. They’re good at it, and each time there’s a new model they shave away whatever rough edges have emerged to make it better. The Golf self-perpetuates. It’s a car that soldiers on without the need for meetings.

But we live in strange times, and people can’t go to work and not have meetings. Which is why we have the SV. The only Golf that isn’t quite as good as its competitors.

Clarkson’s verdict ★★★☆☆

Whoever came up with this – you’re fired

Volkswagen Golf SV specifications

Price: £20,845
Release date: On sale now
Engine: 1395cc, 4 cylinders
Power/Torque: 123bhp @ 5000rpm / 148 lb ft @ 1400rpm
Transmission: 6-speed manual
Performance: 0-62mph: 9.9sec
Top speed: 124mph
Fuel: 52.3mpg
CO2: 125g/km
Road Tax Band: D

Go to driving.co.uk to search for used VW Golf SVs


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1482779.ece

www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-volkswagen-golf-sv-2014/

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Maserati Ghibli S (2014)

Thermals On — No One Wants A Chill In The Ghiblies

Jeremy Clarkson     Published: 23 November 2014



Maserati Ghibli S, £63,760

I ONLY watched the brilliant French film Untouchable because in the opening scene the central characters were seen — and, more important, heard — tearing through Paris in a Maserati Quattroporte.

Almost two hours later, when the film was over and the credits had rolled and I’d gathered my thoughts, I was sure of three things: that the human spirit is fundamentally wonderful, that kindness is the backbone of everything that really matters and that I really ought to have a big black four-door Maserati.

Actually I’ve always wanted a Maserati. There are so many reasons. Because Joe Walsh’s one did 185. Because of Juan Manuel Fangio four-wheel-drifting his 250F to yet another out-of-sight grand prix victory. Because of the 3500 GT that lived near the back of my well-thumbed Ladybird Book of Motor Cars. And because of the Citroën SM.

My dad never wanted a Maserati. But he would dream often and out loud about employing a Swedish au pair who had one. He talked about it such a lot, in fact, that, according to Clarkson family lore, I could say “Maserati” before I could say “Mummy”.

Deep down I want a Maserati more than I want a Lamborghini or a Ferrari. Those two modern upstarts are a bit nouveau, a bit studied, a bit like one of those everything-with-a-bloody-logo stores that you find at the supposedly upmarket end of an indoor shopping centre. They’re red cars for orange people. Maserati, though, has been around for a hundred years. And that makes it a bit more Jermyn Street.

The trouble is that since I’ve been old enough to drive, Maserati has not made a single good car. Oh sure, the Quattroporte that tore up Paris in Untouchable was a beauty, and its V8 wailed like a werewolf that had got a paw stuck in a bear trap. But no matter what gearbox you chose, you had time to go for a weekend mini break in the time it took to shift from second to third. And the depreciation was horrendous. And everything looked and felt baggy after a year or so. You wanted one a lot but you weren’t going to buy one. Not unless you were a drooling imbecile.

It was the same story with the 3200 GT and the Karif and the Shamal and the Kyalami and the original Quattroporte. It was even the same story with the Khamsin and the Merak and the Bora. And, as Maserati often liked to name its cars after winds, it should really have called the Biturbo the “Fart”.

In fact you have to go back to 1967 to find the last truly great, world-class Maserati: the Ghibli. Which is handy, because it brings us neatly to the car you see photographed this morning: the new Ghibli. I’d been looking forward to driving it for months, but when it turned up, it wasn’t as pretty as I’d hoped.

Before we can set off, we have to back the car out of the drive, which means selecting Reverse and, oops, that’s Drive, and no, Jeremy, you’ve pushed it too far forwards and put it back in Park. Easy does it. Nope. That’s Drive again. Gently, Neutral . . . dammit. It’s gone back into Park. Ooh, it’s tricky.

But soon we are moving backwards and the parking sensors are beeping like crazy. All four corners of the car are convinced they are about to be crashed, and with each passing inch they become more and more insistent. And it’s hard to turn them off. Indeed it’s hard to turn anything off, or on for that matter, because Maserati went for a simple, clean look, which meant putting most of the switches on the touchscreen central command system. Which means that to do anything at all, you have to go through 42 submenus.

Setting the sat nav, however, is easy. It responds immediately with a confident prediction about what time you will arrive, which will be wrong because it simply does not know about roads such as the A40 and the M25.

I’m not even out of my drive at this point and the Ghibli is being annoying. It is also being cold. And such is the feebleness of the heater, there’s damn-all you can do to change that. Set the temperature on high, put the fan on full and open all the vents and only then will you not actually die of hypothermia in it.

Still, wrapped up warm, with gloves, a hat and a scarf, plus an old-fashioned map, I am eventually on the open road, wondering why all the components are held together by a committee that needs to meet to decide whether the increase in speed you’ve demanded is something it’s prepared to deliver. The steering, the throttle, the gearbox — it all feels woolly.

If you get really determined, then there’s a fair bit of oomph on offer. I am testing the top-of-the-range S model, which comes with a twin-turbo V6 and a top speed of 177mph. Not that you’d ever want to go that fast in a car that is operated by mechanical trade unionism.

And that is jolly big. That’s why the parking sensors go off all the time. In a car this size they’re always too near something or other.

There are other things you would find annoying. There’s only one column stalk, which means that if you try to flick-wipe the windscreen, you will activate the indicator. The radio controls are on the back of the steering wheel where you can’t see them, and at night the central control screen is either too bright or off. Oh, and the brakes are a bit on-or-off.

But then I go over one of those really stupid, very sharp speed humps, and do you know what? I barely feel a thing. At low speeds this car rides like an old Jaguar XJ, which means that on potholed city streets it is a dream. Apart from the beeping, obviously. And apart from the beeping, it’s quiet. Really quiet.



There’s something else. One of the most amazing things about the old Ghibli was the size of its boot. A mate of mine used to be ferried to and from boarding school in his dad’s, and there was enough room in the boot for his trunk. Well, in the new Ghibli there’s enough space to move the school. It is vast.



So it’s comfortable and it’s practical and it’s quiet and, I have to say, it’s also a lovely place to sit. Apart from the beeping. And on top of all that, it’s a Maserati. Which means you can say to your husband, “Shall we take the Maserati tonight?”, which will make you feel extremely warm and fuzzy. And that’s a good job because you won’t be warm when you’re in it — that’s for sure.

And that was going to be my conclusion. A great badge, nailed once again to a lacklustre car. But then I saw the price. You can buy the diesel model for less than £50,000. My all-singing, all-dancing twin-turbo S is £63,760. And that’s like being offered a box of chocolates for the price of a penny chew.

Yes, it’s not perfect — the heater is not even on nodding terms with perfect — but £63,760 for a 177mph Maserati? Go on: you’re tempted, aren’t you?

Clarkson’s verdict ★★★☆☆
A bleeping bargain

Maserati Ghibli S specifications

• Price: £63,760
  
• Release date: On sale now
• Engine: 2979cc, V6, twin turbo
• Power/Torque: 404bhp @ 5500rpm / 405 lb ft @ 4500rpm

[/b]8-speed automatic[/font][li]Performance: 0-62mph: 5sec[/li][li]Top speed: 177mph[/li][li]Fuel: 27.2mpg[/li][li]CO2: 242g/km
[/li][li]Road Tax Band: L[/li][/ul]
Go to driving.co.uk to search for used Maseratis

Browse for used Maserati Ghiblis on sale at driving.co.uk here


The Ghibli’s gear selector is fiddly, the sat nav is ill-informed but worst is the underpowered heater


Maserati Ghibli S (James Lipman)



www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1485601.ece

www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-maserati-ghibli-s/

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Hennessey VelociRaptor 600 (2014)

Yabba-dabba-doo! This Dino’s Got Its Claws In My Ticklish Bits

Jeremy Clarkson      Published: 30 November 2014




It’s the opposite of sophisticated, but the F-150 is extremely comfortable and capable on a long cross-country drive (DREW PHILLIPS)

Hennessey VelociRaptor 600, $95,000

ALMOST everything is global these days. We all have the same telephones, computer software, search engines, sport, jeans, problems and beer. And yet Britain is not even slightly interested in adopting the colonials’ fondness for pick-up trucks.

The truck you see photographed this morning is a Ford F-150 and it’s the bestselling vehicle in America by miles. Ford sells more F-150s every year in America alone than the total number of cars made in Italy. Demand is so high that one rolls off the production line every 35 seconds. So many have been produced since it was introduced in the late 1940s that if you parked them all side to side the line would stretch right round the equator. Twice.

But don’t think the big Ford has the market all to itself, because General Motors sells a Chevrolet Silverado every minute. And that’s before we get to all the GMCs and the Rams. There are so many pick-up trucks sold in America that you begin to wonder if the sheer weight of the damn things, all in one place, in one corner of the globe, could start to affect the planet’s orbit.

The main reason pick-up trucks are so popular over there is that they’re cheap. The entry-level F-150 sells for the equivalent of just over £16,000. And for just a couple of thousand more you can have a version that comes with electric everything and a 385-horsepower V8. That’s a full-size vehicle for the price of a Vauxhall Astra diesel.

There is, of course, a reason for this. They’re — how can I put this? — a bit basic. To make one, you need a couple of railway sleepers, three tons of pig iron, an ingot of aluminium and the suspension from an ox cart. And then there’s the engine, which doesn’t have to meet the fuel consumption laws that apply to cars. And any politician who even suggests in his sleep that this ought to change will be visited in the night by several million men with single-syllable Christian names and oily baseball caps.



But cheapness isn’t the reason pick-up trucks are also popular in Australia and Canada. I think there’s some anthropology going on here. The vast majority of people who live in these countries are descended from people who arrived from somewhere else in the not-too-distant past and had to hack a living out of nothing. The need to be practical and wise in the ways of the land is therefore strong.

You see evidence of this in their shopping centres. In Europe, where we are descended from Leonardo da Vinci and Beethoven, our cities are full of coffee shops and boutiques selling potpourri and stylish trousers. In Australia all the prime retail sites are occupied by plant-hire specialists. Here we pop into town for some new shoes. There they go into town to buy some new earth-moving equipment.

It’s the same story in Canada. Every shop I saw on a trip to British Columbia’s hinterland last week was selling diggers, cement mixers, drill bits the size of houses, trolley jacks, cranes and furnaces. At the weekend we watch a football match and maybe do a jigsaw. They go into the garden and either dig for oil or smelt zinc.




That’s why everyone outside the city has a pick-up truck. Because it’s necessary. And everyone inside the city has one because they need to look as though they’re heading into the sticks to mine some lead.

We in western Europe don’t need to look as if we know how to mine lead, so there’s no need for us to drive what’s basically a covered wagon. Unless we are a gamekeeper, and most of us aren’t, we can have a nice Volkswagen Golf diesel instead and all’s well.

Except the pick-up I was driving was nowhere near as bad as its Victorian underpinnings would suggest. It was actually quite nice. In fact it was very nice. So nice that I fell head over heels in love with it.

It had started out in life as a top-of-the-range F-150 SVT Raptor, which comes with lots of meaty V8 torque, a get-out-of-my-way bellow, bonnet louvres and long-travel suspension so that you can drive at 100mph-plus over the desert and not spill your Coors.

And then it had been supercharged and intercooled by a company called Hennessey, maker of the Venom, one of the fastest road cars the world has yet seen. This meant it produced 600bhp, so this 2¾-ton signal box could get from 0 to 60mph in a hysterical 5.2 seconds.

Everything about it was hysterical. It was comically big, comically shouty and comically garish. It was even called VelociRaptor, which is a funny name. It was in every way the complete opposite of the Queen and everything we hold dear on this side of the pond. And yet . . .

On a long, dreary 16-hour drive across British Columbia to the town of Trail you need a laugh from time to time. And I therefore quite enjoyed being in a big yellow aircraft carrier, especially as it was extremely comfortable. Occasionally, at low speeds on a bumpy road in a town centre, you could tell that it had been built along pretty much the same lines as a colliery water pump, with a separate chassis and exactly the same sort of rear suspension as you find on a pram. But most of the time it cruised along as though I were on a thermal.


Hennessey Velociraptor 600

Then the going got a bit snowy and steep and it was time to engage four-wheel drive. In a Range Rover this is easy. You simply tell the car what sort of terrain you’re attempting to cross and it sorts out the gearing and the differentials for you. The VelociRaptor does not have that facility. You turn a knob to engage four-wheel drive and then turn it again to select low range, and then pull it to lock the rear diff. It was all very 1963, but I’ll let you into a secret: it works.

I don’t usually trust electricity. Sending an email is not as reassuring as putting a letter in the postbox. And a sausage that’s come out of a microwave is not going to be as trustworthy as a sausage that’s been in an actual fire.

It’s the same story in a Range Rover. You don’t really know what’s going on underneath, whereas in the £60,000 Ford you do. Because you can hear the big mechanical clonks when you move one of the signal-box levers in the cabin. And, ooh, could it cover rough ground. And rivers. And mountains. I’m not sure a Land Rover on identical tyres could get you further into the woods than the VelociRaptor — I’m really not.

And I’m certain it couldn’t get you out as easily, because after night falls you push a switch marked “Aux1”, and what is basically a collapsed sun on the roof bursts into life, turning about 200 miles of darkness into brilliant ice-white light.

That was childish. The whole thing was childish. And silly and too enormous and fitted with so much power that a really good four-wheel-drive drag-strip start might actually cause the world to slow down a bit. But who doesn’t want all of that in their life?

Especially when it doesn’t really come with a downside. Apart from the fact that I could never think of a single thing to put in the load bed. And that if I had, it would all have been stolen the first time I pulled up at a set of red lights. And it would be impossible to park in, say, Malvern or Harrogate, or even that Ordnance Survey grid square in Lincolnshire with nothing in it.

So I don’t want a Hennessey VelociRaptor pick-up. But I’m extremely glad it’s out there for people who do.

Clarkson’s verdict ★★★☆☆

Comically big, comically shouty, comically fast

Hennessey VelociRaptor 600 specifications

Price: $95,000 (£60,000)
Release date: On sale now in North America
Engine: 6210cc, V8, supercharged
Power/Torque: 623bhp @ 5700rpm / 627 lb ft @ 3800rpm
Transmission: 6-speed automatic
Performance: 0-62mph: 5.2sec
Top speed: 110mph
Fuel: 14.3mpg
CO2: 428g/km






www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1488547.ece
www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-hennessey-velociraptor-600-2014/

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Jensen Interceptor R supercharged (2014)

Grrrrrr: it’s the only thing fiercer than the tiger in Life of Pi

Jeremy Clarkson       Published: 7 December 2014


Jensen Interceptor R supercharged, £180,000

WHILE rewatching the really rather remarkable Life of Pi last weekend I had a thought. What does cinema do next? Because how can you make a digitally rendered tiger that is already completely realistic in every single way more realistic? It’s impossible, unless it somehow can enter the auditorium and eat everyone in the front row.

And then I had another thought. When did it all happen? It seems as though only five minutes have passed since I was watching The Way to the Stars, in which a fuzzy black-and-white Lancaster bomber took off to do something perilous and then we cut straight to the Nissen hut where a group of men with extraordinary side partings stood about explaining at some length what the perilous thing was. Then we had a fuzzy monochrome shot of the Lancaster bomber coming in to land, having survived the perilous thing.

It is much the same story with the accents the actors used. Today only the Queen and Adrian Gill speak like that, while everyone else uses a potpourri of Thames estuary and California, with a bit of West Indian thrown in for good measure.

We advance in the way we age, slowly but inexorably, and we don’t really notice how far we’ve come until an enormous 3D whale leaps out of a phosphorescent ocean and tips the contents of the poor boy’s raft into the oggin.

It’s the same story with cars. We may imagine the Ford Cortina in which we were ferried to school in the 1960s is not that far removed from the Ford Mondeo in which we take our kids to school today. But they are as far apart as the Bakelite party line you had to use back then and the iPhone 6 today. A point that would become briefly obvious if you were to drive a 1960s Cortina into a tree.

It’s not just in safety that everything has come on in galactic leaps and bounds. For me the most impressive improvement is refinement. The only reason you couldn’t hear the rattles in a 1960s car is that they were drowned out by the monumental wind noise. Whereas today even a slab-fronted Range Rover cleaves the air as silently as an owl.



The steering is better too, and so is the economy. You’d be horrified to see just how much fuel a 1960s car used and just what awfulness and misery was coming out of the tailpipe. Noxious doesn’t even begin to cover the unholy cocktail of carbon monoxide and lead, with added gristly lumps of poverty, brain damage, typhoid and dead bears. And there was no point trying to stop because the brakes didn’t work.

Finally, there was the equipment you got in a 1960s car, which amounted to nothing. Even a heater on the Austin 1100 was an optional extra, whereas gradually, bit by bit, we’ve come to expect even the cheapest cars to be fitted as standard with air-conditioning, satellite navigation, electric windows and power steering. Importantly, however, car design has gone backwards in one area. Styling. Put simply, cars don’t look as nice today as they did when I were a lad.

The prettiest Ferraris were made in the Sixties. The best-looking Lamborghini was the Countach from the Seventies. Maserati has lost the sparkle that gave us the Merak. And further down the food chain, it’s the same story: Ford doesn’t make a car today that looks as good as the Escort Mexico, the Volkswagen Golf Mk 1 is still the prettiest version, Mercedes has gone all bling and Citroën has lost the plot completely.

Kia’s cars are better-looking now than they used to be, but that’s only because the cars it made in years gone by were more sort of bicycle-y.

So the upshot is simple. If you want a really good-looking car, you must buy something that won’t start or steer or stop. Unless, of course, you take the body of a car from the past and fit it with new mechanical bits and bobs.

The trouble is that if you do this, men from the Ministry of Being a Bloody Nuisance will come round, claim it is an all-new car and insist you drive it into a concrete block to prove it is safe. And then you’ll have to build another one.

The trick, then, is to take an old car and give it just enough new parts a) to make a difference and b) to keep the bureaucrats happy. And that’s what you see in the pictures this morning.


Jensen Interceptor R supercharged

I have written about a reworked Jensen Interceptor before. It had the engine and gearbox from a modern-day Chevrolet Corvette, modern brakes and a reworked rear end, and I loved it. But it did come with 1960s steering and windscreen wipers that were sitting very far to the wrong side of the Trade Descriptions Act.

So now I’ve tried the latest version. Priced at a fairly enormous £180,000, it’s made by an Oxfordshire company called Jensen International Automotive (which I am duty-bound to say is backed financially by a friend of mine). This one comes with the gearbox and supercharged engine from a Cadillac CTS-V, independent rear suspension, brakes by AP Racing, adjustable shock absorbers, steering that feels as though it were designed yesterday, by BMW, and — after my criticism of the company’s last car — a single windscreen wiper that wiped the windscreen right up to the moment when it broke.

This was a nuisance because it was one of those November days when no motoring, in any car, on any road, is going to be much fun. Trying to form a balanced opinion of a vehicle on such a day is like trying to review a play while you’re being boiled.

The drizzle was so fine you couldn’t actually see it but if you stood outside for five minutes while you, say, reassembled a car’s windscreen wiper motor, you were soaked and up to your knees in mud that had been turned into an endless lake of soup.

And yet despite all this the Interceptor made me almost priapic with joy. The power is immense and immediate but you never feel overwhelmed or out of control. Despite the awful weather, I could easily hang on to the tail of Richard Hammond’s Porsche 911 GT3 as we plunged around the lanes of Derbyshire, late and lost.

Drawbacks? Well, there is still wind noise, but that’s caused by guttering that stops rain dripping into the car when you lower the window. So that’s a small price to pay. And the medium-wave radio served as another reminder that things have come on a lot since the days of sitting under the bedclothes at night listening to Emerson, Lake & Palmer on Radio Caroline.

And anyway you don’t need a radio because at every single set of lights someone will knock on the window to tell you what a lovely car you are driving. They’re right. It is lovely. It’s lovely to look at. It’s lovely to sit in. And it would be very lovely to lie in bed at night and think, “I own an Interceptor.”

Back in the summer a digitally remastered version of the epic movie Zulu was released. And that’s what this Jensen is like. A masterpiece reworked and updated for the modern age. It may be the future: making what we made in the past, only better.

Clarkson’s verdict ★★★★☆
A classic reborn

Jensen Interceptor R supercharged specifications

• Price: £180,000
• Release date: On sale now
  
• Engine: 6162cc, V8
• Power/Torque: 556bhp @ 6100rpm / 551 lb ft @ 3800rpm
• Transmission: 6-speed automatic
• Performance: 0-62mph: 3.8sec
• Top speed: 174mph
• Fuel: 19mpg
• CO2: Not available
• Road Tax Band: Pre-2001 vehicle

Jensen Interceptor R supercharged

www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1491327.ece

www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-jenson-interceptor-r-supercharged-2014/



Jeremy Clarkson @jeremyclarkson · 26 Nov 2014
Literally the coolest car ever made.

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: 2015 Aston Martin Vanquish

Someone Buy Them A Research Lab. I’ve Got Déjà Vanquish

Jeremy Clarkson       Published: 14 December 2014


 
Aston Martin Vanquish, £192,995

I HAVE a friend called Brian who mistakenly believes that his entire wardrobe must be an ocean of high quality, excellent design and refined good taste simply because he bought everything from Dolce & Gabbana, DKNY, Gucci, Prada and Calvin Klein.

You could present him with a fine coat from an exquisite back-street tailor and he would reject it immediately as rubbish because it didn’t have the correct label.

Naturally you could give Brian a Nissan GT-R and he’d pull the face of a man who’s just trapped his finger in a revolving door. You could tell him that it goes like an artillery shell, stops as if it’s crashed into a wall and corners so violently it can tear your head off.

And you could go on, explaining how the tyres are filled with nitrogen because air is too unpredictable and how the wheels have knurled rims to stop the rubber being torn off in the bends. You could also tell him its engine is built in a hermetically sealed factory to ensure all the components are in the same state of thermal expansion when they fit together. And he’d say, “Yes. But it’s a Nissan.” And give the car back.

It’s much the same story with the BMW M6 Gran Coupé. This is fabulous in many ways, but for people such as Brian a BMW is a middle-management car for people whose graphic design business is doing well. It’s a bit Waitrose. And why would you shop there when for just a bit more you could go to Harrods?

At present there are six Harrods car brands: Ferrari, Maserati, Lamborghini, Aston Martin, Bentley and Rolls-Royce. These are manufacturers that could sell Brian a dog turd and he wouldn’t care because it had the “right” badge on the boot lid.

Porsche isn’t in this list, and I’m not counting the niche manufacturers McLaren, Pagani and Koenigsegg, which you can read about on pages 6-7. Neither is Mercedes-Benz, which explains why the Maybach limousine was a sales flop. It was quiet and comfortable and had aircraft-style seats in the back, but behind the scenes it was a Mercedes. And that’s a car, really, for Zurich airport taxi drivers.

If I were running Mercedes, I’d be a bit worried about that. Because today, more than ever, the upper echelon of the car market is dominated by Brians. Some are Chinese Brians. Many are from India. And none would buy a Mercedes even if it were made of gold, studded with diamonds and cost 42p. The badge is good. But it’s not one of the six.

Toyota tried to get round this problem by launching the Lexus brand. But it hasn’t really worked. I know the LFA is one of the best damn cars to see the light of day, but to Brian? Oh, dear, no.

Nissan has a similar problem with its upmarket Infiniti offshoot. Infini-what? Quite. You can’t just whip a name out of thin air and hope it will become the new Fabergé. You need to come up with some history in your adverts, some sepia shots of men in store coats and horn-rimmed glasses cutting up leather and looking as if they cared. See the watchmakers for further details on this front. “Genève since 1898.” That will work. “Tokyo since 2004.” That won’t.

So, back to Mercedes. It can’t use its own name to break into the luxury world of Brian. And it can’t come up with a new name using Scrabble tiles. The only solution is to buy one of the six brands that are already there.

BMW did this when it acquired Rolls-Royce. Volkswagen pulled off the same trick with Lamborghini and Bentley, and Fiat is enjoying la dolce vita these days because it has Ferrari and Maserati. Which leaves just one: Aston Martin . . .

Aston Martin is on its own, and this is beginning to show. Without the deep pockets of a big parent, it’s treading water, endlessly reinventing the DB9. There are no fresh ideas. Bentley and Ferrari are pulling ahead.

The car you see in the pictures this morning is the new Vanquish. But it’s not really new at all. It’s the old Vanquish with a new gearbox.

And it’s not even a new gearbox. It’s the German parts maker ZF’s eight-speed automatic, which has been around in other cars for a while. But it’s the first time, says Aston proudly, that this gearbox has been mounted at the back. Wow, I can hear you thinking. Yes! An eight-speed automatic transaxle.

Aston says that, thanks to the new gearbox, the Vanquish is even faster and that it’ll now crack 200mph. Yes, but the main reason everyone’s going for eight-speeds these days is to stay on the right side of the EU rules on fuel consumption and emissions.

I’m not sure its fitting has been a complete success, because to make it work, the company has had to fiddle with the car’s electronic brain. And it’s become a bit of a dimwit.

When you see a gap in the traffic at a roundabout, you put your foot down and you expect the mighty V12 to respond immediately. But it doesn’t. It has a little think, and by the time it has agreed to your demands, the gap has gone.

It’s the same story when you’re overtaking. If you’re not fully committed with the throttle, it seems to be saying, “Are you sure?”

The way round all this is to keep the car in Sport mode. Which negates all the eco-mental advances gained by fitting the eight-speed gearbox in the first place. But since I don’t care about eco-mental advances, that’s what I did.



Then it’s a lovely car. Flowing and smooth when you want it to be, raucous and mad when you don’t and utterly, bewitchingly beautiful always.



The interior is also delightful, though AA Gill, my colleague from the food department of The Sunday Times, disagreed. “It’s like being in one of those executive-desk drawer dividers,” he said from the passenger seat. “I feel like I’m a roll of Sellotape . . .” I know, and he earns a living from expressing opinions.

Anyway, yes. There are a few details that could do with a fresh start. The knobs on the steering wheel look as though they belong in Churchill’s war rooms, and the sat nav is unreadable half the time. The car needs to lose some weight as well, which would make it nimbler. And someone’s got to go back into that engine control unit and pep things up a bit at a roundabout.

But there’s the problem. The total cost of doing these things is, I dunno, a billion? A trillion? Whatever, it’s money that Aston plainly doesn’t have. Which is why, apart from the gearbox, the only thing it can think to say about the “new” Vanquish is that it’s available in some new colours.

There’s only one solution. Hello, Daimler. Are you listening? You already own 5% of Aston Martin and have some kind of “shared technology agreement”. Why not go the whole hog?

Then Aston will have the resources it needs in order to make the sort of car you want to make but can’t because your badge isn’t good enough.

Go to driving.co.uk to search for used Aston Martin Vanquishes

Clarkson’s verdict ★★★★☆
Togs by Gucci, cogs by Primark

Aston Martin Vanquish specifications
Price: £192,995
Release date: On sale now
Engine: 5935cc, V12
Power/Torque: 569bhp @ 6650rpm / 465 lb ft @ 5500rpm
Transmission: 8-speed automatic
Performance: 0-62mph: 3.8sec
Top speed: 201mph
Fuel: 22.1mpg
CO2: 298
Road Tax Band: m


The new features in Aston Martin’s ‘new’ Vanquish seem to amount to a gearbox and some colour schemes, but it’s still a bewitchingly beautiful car




2015 Aston Martin Vanquish


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1494283.ece
www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-2015-aston-martin-vanquish/

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Nissan GT-R (2014)

Eureka! It’s The Fastest Way To Go Unnoticed

Jeremy Clarkson     Published: 21 December 2014



Nissan GT-R, £78,020

LAST WEEK, while reviewing the new Aston Martin Vanquish, I touched briefly on the Nissan GT-R and I’m afraid it caused a bit of an itch that needed to be scratched. I became consumed with a need to try it again.

The Nissan GT-R is a bit like a curry. If someone suggests going out for an Indian, you start to drool about the idea and then nothing else will do. So if someone later suggests getting a pizza instead, you want to do them actual physical harm.

In the next series of Top Gear, the three of us were asked to choose a car for a blast across Australia’s Northern Territory. I went for the BMW M6 Gran Coupé and it was brilliant: fast, beautiful to behold, tough and, as you will see if you tune in, good at rounding up cattle.

But James May chose a Nissan GT-R, and I don’t mind confessing here that I was jealous, because I had an inkling that it might be even better. It always was better than everything else. But is that still the case? Can a car that’s been around now, virtually unchanged, for seven years still be top of the tree? Well, that’s what I needed to find out.

For those who are unaware of this remarkable car, let me recap. It will go harder, turn more violently and stop more viciously than anything else with windscreen wipers. You may drool all you like over the latest Lamborghini or the hottest Aston, but the Nissan was always capable of tying them in knots.

You may think when you buy a mid-engined supercar that you are buying the last word in speed and power. But you’re not — not really. What you’re buying is a car that says, “Look at me.” The Nissan does not say this. There’s no point because by the time you’ve finished saying it, it’s out of sight.

Its ability to leave the line is incredible. The throttle is like a Hollywood sci-fi special effect. One moment the spaceship is there, and then it’s not.

But that was then and now the world has moved on. We have the hybrid McLaren P1 and the Porsche 918 Spyder and the Ferrari the Ferrari. And surely, you’re thinking, there’s no way in hell that a car with just one motor could possibly keep up with that lot. Hmm. I reckon it could. That’s what people don’t realise about the GT-R. They don’t realise just how good it is.

It’s built by a small team in a hermetically sealed factory. Each engine is assembled by a single man and then put through a bench test that includes it performing at maximum revs for 10 minutes. At standstill the motor is out of alignment with the transmission on purpose because when you accelerate and the torque causes it to tilt backwards on its mountings — all engines do that — the alignment becomes perfect.

The tyres are filled with nitrogen because air is too unpredictable. The gearbox is at the back for better weight distribution, there is four-wheel drive on hand for when you really are pushing hard and yet the GT-R costs just £78,020 — a tenth of what you are expected to pay for anything else that is as fast in the dry and which would be left far behind if it happened to be raining at the time. Plus it has four seats and a big boot.

There’s one thing you don’t get, though: any style at all. The body may have been cleaved in a wind tunnel, and as a result every crease and angle is honed for aerodynamic efficiency, but the sum of the parts is hopeless, really. And that’s a good thing too . . .

I have a friend called Annabel who finds any form of pomposity revolting. Over the years, I have visited her house in many different cars and as far as she’s concerned they’re all “disgusting”. Even the restrained Audi RS 4 made her vomitous. And if I arrive in a Ferrari I’m asked to park it round the back so she doesn’t have to look at it.

Well, last week I had to give her a lift and wondered what she would make of the GT-R. The answer is: nothing at all. She climbed in without comment and on the two-hour journey she never made a single observation. This is the highest praise I can lavish on any car: Annabel didn’t notice it.

I noticed lots of things. But what I noticed most of all was the vast reservoir of torque. When you are doing 60mph and you push just a tiny bit harder on the accelerator it feels like you’re out swimming and you’ve been caught in an immense but unseen current.

At sea this makes you feel a bit, er, at sea. But you don’t in the Nissan. This is its greatest trick. This is why it’s still better than the competition.


Nissan GT-R

I have driven a McLaren P1 in the rain at the Spa-Francorchamps racetrack in Belgium and it was extremely frightening. This is a car that would crash immediately if you did one thing even slightly wrong. In the Nissan you could nod off, make a call, or listen to Russell Brand on the radio until you were frothing at the mouth, and it would just keep on going.

This makes you feel relaxed, and that gives you the confidence to push harder and harder and harder. And that’s what makes it so fast: it’s so confidence-inspiring you never feel like you’re anywhere near its limits. Usually because you never are.

In a nutshell then: the latest raft of really fast cars are so fast that you feel like you’re on a knife edge and that actually makes you go more slowly round a corner than you would in a less well- sorted car that feels benign. Fear is a mental brake, and in a Nissan, you never feel frightened.

I’m aware that I’m nearing the end now and I still haven’t got to the steering feel, which is sublime, as good as you’ll find in any car; or the ride comfort, which is almost uncanny, or the clonkiness, which I love.



Many cars try to mask the fact they are cars. Rubber and soundproofing are used to paper over the fact that there are hundreds of components whizzing about to keep you on the road and moving along. There’s none of that in the Nissan. It does clonk and whirr and jerk. It’s not loud or annoying — it just reminds you all the time that it’s a machine.

So there we are. Even now, seven years after its launch, the GT-R is still on top of the pile, offering more of everything than anything else. My only complaint is that the car I drove was sent round with squeaky brakes. Perhaps that’s because Nissan is Lidl and therefore unused to dealing with Fabergé eggs.

But despite this I have to say that if you buy a BMW M series, or a fast Mercedes, you may think you’re buying the last word in motoring pleasure but you’re not. The Nissan is still the king, and the great thing about it is that no one outside the petrolhead inner circle will even notice you slide by. It’s a not a five-star car, this. It’s the five-star car.

Clarkson’s verdict ★★★★★
The driver’s drive

2014 Nissan GT-R specifications

Engine: 3799cc, V6 twin turbo
Power: 542bhp @ 6400rpm
Torque: 466 lb ft @ 3200rpm
Transmission: 6-speed dual-clutch
Performance: 0-62mph: 2.7sec
Top speed: 196mph
Fuel: 23.9mpg (combined)
CO2: 275g/km
Road tax band: M (£1,090 for first year; £500 thereafter)
Price: £78,020
Release date: On sale now


The GT-R lacks style but, unlike many hypercars, is so well engineered you can push it ever harder without feeling frightened









Go to driving.co.uk to search for used Nissan GT-Rs


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1497228.ece

www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-nissan-gt-r-2014/

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Lexus NX 300h Premier (2015)

Who Cares If It’s Slow? It’s Got More Toys Than Hamleys

Jeremy Clarkson      Published: 4 January 2015


A game Clarkson enjoyed playing in the NX was pushing buttons and seeing what happened
 
Lexus NX 300h Premier, £42,995

WHEN A new Mercedes comes along, you know before you’ve even opened the door what it will be like. All Mercs feel broadly similar until the company changes direction, which happens about once every 4,000 years, and then, ever so slowly, they all start to feel slightly different.

It’s the same story with BMW. Its cars were all fast and light for a long time, and then they all became heavy and a bit terrible, and now they’re all as good as cars can be (except the X3, obviously).

With Lexus you never know what you’re going to get. It’s not swings and roundabouts; it’s rollercoasters and big buckets full of steaming excrement. Some Lexuses are so brilliant that you have to bite the back of your hand to stop yourself crying out. Others are so bad that you consider driving at full speed into a tree to end the misery. And then you have those that are beautifully made but a bit forgettable. I can’t recall their names at the moment.

Only recently I tried the new RC F, which is a four-seat, two-door sports coupé priced and powered to compete with the BMW M4. And despite what my colleague said last week, it misses the target by about 217 miles, partly because it weighs more than the Atlantic Ocean and partly because you drive around everywhere in a wail of dreary understeer.

So what of the car you see on these pages this morning — the new NX? Hmm. There are lots of letters that work well in a car’s name. T, for example, or S or R — R’s very popular right now. R says a lot about a man. It says nearly as much as Z. But N? No. N doesn’t work. It’s like U.

To make matters worse, it’s one of those crossover SUV thingies, which are popular because they are perceived to be more robust and safer than ordinary hatchbacks. They’re not. But they are more expensive, more wasteful and needlessly enormous.

What’s more, if you peel away the premium-brand badging, the NX is essentially a Toyota RAV4. So you can think of it as a sweatshop jumper with a Ralph Lauren horse on the front.

Oh, and here’s the clincher. It’s a hybrid. It says so on the side, so that cyclists will not be tempted to bang on your roof as they pedal by. Yes, you’re driving a large car, but it’s kind to the environment so that’s OK. No, it isn’t. It’s unkind and daft. A hybrid may produce fewer carbon dioxides from its tailpipe than a normal car, but the cost to the planet of making the damn things with all those motors and batteries is immense. Anyone who buys a hybrid for ecological reasons is telling the world that they are an idiot.

So, a crossover hybrid with an N in its name and low-rent underpinnings from a company that’s capable of turning out a howler from time to time. This is not looking good. But here’s the thing: it does. At first you think it’s all too complicated and fussy, but it’s actually very well proportioned and full of genuinely lovely touches. It’s one of those cars that compel you to turn round for another look after you’ve locked them up for the night.

And it’s even better on the inside. The driving position is good, the dials look as if they were designed by the International Watch Company, the quality of the materials is way better than you have a right to expect for this price and there are many toys to play with. And just when you think you’ve played with them all, you find another bank of switches and off you go again. I especially liked the touchpad that steers the arrow around the sat nav screen.

And I amused myself for hours with the head-up display system, moving it up the windscreen to its highest point and then wondering what shape a driver would have to be to want it there. Another game was pushing buttons and guessing what you’d done. Half the time nothing seemed to happen.

This is because, behind the scenes, the Lexus is phenomenally complicated. There’s a normal four-cylinder 2.5-litre petrol engine that produces 153bhp, but then there are other motors too, doing all sorts of trickery. There’s even one in the back to power the rear wheels when you are in a field.

And they are all linked together by sorcery. It feels, when you put your foot down, as if it’s fitted with one of those awful cones-and-belt continuously variable gearboxes — technology that fills me with such rage that my hair starts to move about and my teeth begin to itch. But further investigation reveals that although the transmission system is called eCVT, it’s different from traditional versions: all the units send their power into what in essence is a differential, and this sends the motive force to the wheels.



So you start the engine and nothing happens. You set off in electric silence, and then when you want to go faster you push the accelerator and the petrol engine zooms up to a certain point in the rev band and stays there until you decide you’ve had enough. I don’t like it at all and I cannot believe it’s the most economical solution. But the NX 300h is not aimed at me. It’s aimed at, um, people who don’t really care what the rev counter’s doing.

This is not a fast car. It’s not even on nodding terms with the concept of speed. Time and again I found myself driving along with a huge queue of cars in my wake, wondering why everyone was being so aggressive and sporty all of a sudden. But they weren’t. It was me. I’ve never driven so slowly in all my life. I actually had to speed up for the cameras.

Which is fine because in this day and age lots of people just want to get home at night. And it’s good at that. Very good. It is extremely comfortable and remarkably quiet. There’s even an EV mode button that puts it in a pure electric motor setting, which would make it quieter still, but every time I pushed it I was told the system was temporarily unavailable. I therefore went back to playing with the head-up display.

It’s strange. The Lexus is sold as a hybrid, and it has two different power sources, so technically it is. But it can’t really run on batteries alone. So if you are looking for a car to save the polar bear you’d be better off with a McLaren P1 or a Porsche 918 Spyder.

However, if you are normal, the Lexus is pretty good. It worked in a field, the boot is huge, the back is spacious and the air of good quality is all-pervading. The handling also is good for a car this tall and heavy — it’s really heavy — but despite its bulk you can do hundreds of miles on a single tank of fuel. I enjoyed my time with it and would recommend it to anyone who for some reason doesn’t want a Range Rover Evoque.

I can’t for the life of me work out what that reason might be, but if you have one, then the NX, despite all the evidence to the contrary, is your answer.

Jeremy’s verdict ★★★☆☆
Crossover, hybrid…but it’s OK, honest

Lexus NX 300h Premier specifications

Engine 2494cc, 4 cylinders, plus electric motors
Power 194bhp (total)
Torque 152 lb ft @ 4400rpm (petrol engine only)
Transmission Electronic continuously variable
Performance 0-62mph: 9.2sec
Top speed 112mph
Fuel 54.3mpg (combined)
CO2 121g/km
Road tax band D (free for first year; £110 thereafter)
Price £42,995
Release date On sale now








Go to driving.co.uk to search for used Lexuses


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1501793.ece
www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-lexus-nx-300h-premier-2015/

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Volkswagen Scirocco 2.0 TDI

Dear Deidre, I had a fling with my first love. She’s lost it

Jeremy Clarkson      Published: 11 January 2015


Volkswagen Scirocco, from £20,735

THIRTY-FIVE years ago, having achieved 110 words a minute in my shorthand exam — by cheating — I became a qualified journalist and immediately went to work for my parents as a travelling sales rep flogging Paddington Bears. This is because they were offering me a company car.

I agonised for many months over what that car should be, because this was 1980, a period of great change. Most of my friends had Triumph Dolomite Sprints and Ford Escort RS2000s, and those certainly had a great deal of appeal. But the hot hatchback had just been born and, I dunno, that seemed to be even better somehow.

And then there was the Vauxhall Chevette HS, which, despite its rear-wheel-drive, rally-bred layout, wasn’t an old-school car, but then it wasn’t a hot hatchback either. And, as I recall, it could do 0 to 60mph in 7.9 seconds, which was 0.2 of a second faster than the Volkswagen Golf GTI. Which in turn was 0.1 of a second faster than a Ford Escort XR3. This sort of thing mattered then, more than almost anything else.

Eventually Volkswagen came to the rescue by announcing that it would be fitting the engine from the Golf GTI into its Scirocco to create a hot coupé. I went for a fetching gold paint job that I teamed with brown velour seats and a brown dashboard.

Then, having bought the car, I immediately ruined it by fitting gigantic 205/60 white-walled tyres that filled the arches very well and looked extremely snazzy. But they made the steering wheel feel as though it had been set in concrete. Reversing into a tight space took about an hour and burnt 4,000 calories.

This is why there were no gyms back then. In the days before power steering we didn’t need them. We’d get a full upper-body workout every time we wanted to go round a corner.

However, despite the enormous effort required to drive my Scirocco, I loved it more than life itself, and in one year we did 54,000 miles together. I would drive to the pub and not drink for five hours so that I could have the pleasure of driving it home again. I’d go all the way to Wales to see a shopkeeper I didn’t like, who wouldn’t buy any bears, because it meant I could spend a whole day in my Volkswagen.

And when I wasn’t driving it I was talking about it, sometimes to girls, who would listen for a while to see if I might start talking about something else and then wander off when they realised I wouldn’t. But mostly to other men, who thought that because my car had front-wheel drive I might be a bit hairdresserish. I’d then pass them on the way home standing by their upside-down rear-wheel-drive cars and laugh.

I was born with a love of cars, a love that was ignited by the Maserati in my Ladybird Book of Motor Cars and nurtured by my first serious relationship, with a Ford Cortina 1600E. But it was cemented in place by that Scirocco.

Which is why I was delighted several years ago when VW said it would use exactly the same recipe to make a new Scirocco. It would simply take a Golf and give it a new, sleeker and more attractive body.

The trouble was that the body it selected wasn’t sleek or attractive. It looked sort of broken and fat at the back. And why would you pay a premium to buy a car that looked even worse than the hatchback on which it was based?

VW came up with another reason for not buying one when it brought out the diesel version. Because there we had a car that didn’t look as good as the hatchback, was based on the previous generation anyway and had an engine entirely unsuited to coupé motoring.

When it came along, James May and I tried to make some television commercials about it on Top Gear, and I seem to recall we managed to spark fury in the process. Mostly I guess on the part of Volkswagen, which was probably not best pleased to have its car and its excellent advertising ridiculed in a series of casually offensive jokes about Germans.

Truth be told, I didn’t really want to drive this car for all the reasons that you read about on the Dear Deidre page in The Sun. You know how it goes. You enjoy a year-long relationship 35 years ago. You hook up again, thanks to Facebook. And she has turned into a moose. Nobody wants that in their lives. Better to keep love from the past as a memory.

But then in the run-up to Christmas I went to retrieve my Mercedes from the garage and it had been in there for such a long time that it wouldn’t start. It was right on the edge. The starter motor clicked and there were many whirring noises, but despite a great deal of pleading from me, and a lot of counting to 10 before trying again, there simply wasn’t enough juice in the battery to prod the V8 into life.

I needed four wheels and a seat. And a boot for all the presents. And all that I could get my hands on in the time available was the Scirocco diesel.

It still doesn’t look right and it still makes all the wrong noises when you start the engine, and there’s no getting round the fact that you are driving a car based on the Golf Mk 6, not the current and much better Mk 7. Oh, and you can’t see anything out of the rear-view mirror. And what’s this? Yes. It’s stalled.

It stalls a lot. Doubtless for reasons that have a lot to do with the polar bear, this diesel engine needs a bootful of revs before you can even think about setting off. And then, when you do, you think something is broken because there simply isn’t enough oomph.




On top of the dashboard are three dials in a raised binnacle. They tell you nothing you need to know but they look good. They look sporty. They tell you that you are a man in a hurry, but here’s hoping you aren’t, because this is not a fast car.

And the gearing’s weird. Time and again when cruising along the motorway I’d try to change up from sixth. And third is so high that in town it’s never really an option. Probably the polar bears again.

Yes, it’s priced well, and, yes, the Scirocco badge still carries a bit of kudos, thanks entirely to the Mk 1 that I fell in love with. It’s also beautifully made and blessed with some lovely touches — pillarless doors being the standout feature on this front.

But as an overall package it did nothing all week except remind me how much I wanted a Golf GTI. A modern version of the Scirocco, but with a better-looking body and the sort of engine you expect in a car such as this.

Volkswagen, then, has got it the wrong way round. It has built a coupé that forces you to buy the hatchback instead. I hope it addresses this when the time comes for a replacement.

Clarkson’s verdict ★★☆☆☆
My angel has become a moose

Volkswagen Scirocco 2.0 TDI specifications
Engine: 1968cc, 4 cylinders
Power: 148bhp @ 3500rpm
Torque: 251 lb ft @ 1750rpm
Transmission: 6-speed manual
Performance: 0-62mph: 8.6sec
Top speed: 134mph
Fuel: 67.3mpg (combined)
CO2: 109g/km
Price: £23,455 (€29,925)
Release date: On sale now

Go to driving.co.uk to search for used VW Sciroccos


The Scirocco has three dials in a raised binnacle that make you look a man in a hurry. Better hope you’re not






Volkswagen Scirocco


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1504286.ece
www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-volkswagen-scirocco-2-0-tdi/

[RedMoon11]

Sorry, Sir, You Can’t Take That Machinegun In Hand Luggage

Jeremy Clarkson       Published: 25 January 2015


Audi TT, from £29,770

I WAS extremely drunk at the launch of the original Audi TT and can’t recall much about anything that happened. It was staged in Italy, or maybe France, and I seem to recall that one of the guests, whom I met there for the first time, was a spectacular pedant called James May.

In the interminable press conference, which went on for about two days, the German engineers droned on and on about every single nut and every single bolt, and all of that is a grey fog, but I distinctly remember one of them saying the styling was very Bauhaus.

This sounded important, so when I reviewed the car on the early incarnation of Top Gear I thought it would be a good plan to mention it. So I pulled a serious face and said: “The styling is very Bauhaus.”

Other motoring correspondents, including the pedant who went on to become James May, did much the same thing. Everyone did. And soon everyone in the land of petrol and noise was talking about this wondrous new Audi: “I love the Bauhaus styling,” they all said, even though no one had the first clue what Bauhaus was.

Plainly it means “looks that appeal to air hostesses”, because they very quickly became the TT’s core market. Seriously, have a look next time you’re out and about. Every single TT you see is being driven down the M23 by a woman with a raffish scarf and orange skin.

It’s slightly weird. Audi had made a sports car. It was turbocharged and four-wheel-drive and sleek and dynamic and Bauhaus, and it could zoom along at more than 150mph, and yet it was bought by people who drove it to the staff car park at Gatwick and left it there while they flew to Miami for a spot of light sex with the co-pilot.

With the power of hindsight I can see why. It was curvy. And curvy cars such as the Nissan Micra and Lexus SC 430 don’t appeal to men. They come across as friendly and Noddyish. Curves are not aggressive and as a result have no place in a man’s straight-line world of guns and fighter planes and 19th-century former public-school boys drawing up African borders. The main reason men don’t eat lettuce is that it’s too curvy. We prefer chips, and KitKats, which aren’t.

Plainly Audi has now arrived at the same conclusion, and as a result the new TT has lost the rounded edges. There are sharp creases and acute angles all over it, and I think it looks absolutely terrific. Inside, it’s even better. With the exception of the Lexus LFA’s, this is probably the best car interior I’ve encountered. The seats in my test vehicle were made from quilted leather such as you get in a Bentley— a £1,390 option — and I liked that a lot.

But what I liked even more was the instrument binnacle, because you can set it up to be whatever you want it to be. Speedo and rev counter. Or a sat nav map, or a radio tuner. It makes an iPad look like a Victorian’s typewriter.

And because all the information is presented right where you are looking, space on the rest of the dash is freed up for big knobs, clear readouts and yet more dinky styling touches.

That’s before we get to the indicator stalks. Normally an indicator stalk is a sort of cylinder, but in Audi’s attempts to get rid of all the curves it’s now sharp-edged, so when you want to turn left or right it’s as if you’re signalling your intentions with a beautifully crafted hunting knife.

Now I would love at this point to tell you that the TT is not much fun to drive and that it rides like every other Audi: not very well. But I’m afraid I can’t, because it’s sublime.

I want to start with the brakes, which completely redefine the concept of how good such components can be. They won’t stop you any more quickly than the ones in any other car, but the feel through the pedal is extraordinary. It’s as though every equation about deceleration and trajectory and distance is fed directly to your mind each time you want to slow down. Frankly, the TT’s brakes make those in every other car feel like anchors made from trifle and iron filings.

And there’s a similar leap forward with the button that changes how the car feels. Many cars have a facility such as this these days, and, if I’m honest, in most it’s pointless. In some the button makes absolutely no difference at all. In others it simply makes the vehicle extremely uncomfortable. But in the TT it’s a tool you’ll want to use a lot.

On a motorway you put it in Comfort mode, and the car becomes just that. In a town you put it in the Efficiency setting and it consumes fuel like an Edwardian sipping tea at a beetle drive, and on an A-road you put it in Dynamic and the exhaust starts to make farty noises during gearchanges. And you go faster, and the faster you go, the faster you’ll want to go, because everything feels just right.

The steering, the turn-in, the ride, the acceleration and the brakes — oh, those brakes — give you the encouragement to be Daniel Ricciardo, and the TT is so good, you will feel you’ve succeeded. It’s fabulous.



And yet here is a car that has two back seats into which any normal person could fit, provided they had no legs or head, and a boot that is genuinely useful. It’s practical and economical and safe, and quiet and unruffled, and it’s an Audi, which means it’s a Volkswagen, and that means everything is screwed together properly.

This, then, is Audi’s best car in decades, and yet I couldn’t actually buy one because . . . well, let me put it this way. Imagine Agent Provocateur putting a Y-shaped front onto its latest line of thongs and marketing them at men. You still wouldn’t, would you?

Such an undergarment might be practical and finished in a fabric that appealed to your inner testosterone but you couldn’t go round telling people that you were wearing Agent Provocateur underwear.

And there’s another issue. By fitting the new model with sharp edges and the sort of tech you normally find on one of Tom Clancy’s stealth destroyers, Audi runs the risk of making the nation’s air hostesses think the car’s become a bit unnecessary. A bit stormtrooperish.

And that’s a problem. It’s a machinegun in a dress. A car with a badge that appeals to BA’s cabin crew and dynamics that will go down well on the nation’s automotive web forums. Which means Audi has ended up with a brilliant car . . . that no one is going to buy.

Go to driving.co.uk to search for used Audi TTs

Audi TT 2.0 TFSI quattro S line
Engine 1984cc, 4 cylinders
Power 227bhp @ 4500rpm
Torque 273 lb ft @ 1600rpm
Transmission 6-speed S tronic
Performance 0-62mph: 5.3sec
Top speed 155mph
Fuel 44.1mpg
CO2 149g/km
Road tax band F (£145 a year)
Price £34,545
Release date On sale now

Verdict
Audi’s best car in decades. But I’ll never buy one
CRITIC'S RATING ★★★★

Unlike its rounded, Noddyish forebears, the new TT is all sharp edges and stormtrooper tech



www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1509700.ece

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Ferrari California T (2014)
It's drizzling, I'm doing 2mph... and all's well with the world

Jeremy Clarkson      Published: 1 February 2015

Ferrari California T, £154,490

A RECENT report suggested that people who use Apple iPhones are more intelligent, more successful and, of course, better-looking than those who use telephones made by other companies. But I’m not sure this is accurate.

I have an Apple iPhone and I’m well aware that it is riddled with faults. The map feature doesn’t work, the battery life is woeful, its camera is up there in quality with a Zenit SLR from 1973 and the screen smashes whenever there’s a light breeze. And I can’t update to the latest model because experts tell me it’s all bendy.

There’s more. I recently bought a new laptop and loading it with all my data was a nightmare simply and only because of Apple, which wanted my password seven times before announcing that I’d entered it all wrong and that I’d have to come up with a new one that must feature a capital letter, a number, a cave drawing, a fully working model of the Tirpitz and three letters from my mother’s middle name.

Then, when I’d come up with something it liked, I was told not to write it down anywhere. Which I didn’t. Which meant I’m now in a bit of a pickle because all my other devices won’t work unless I remember what it was. By Thursday I was wishing Steve Jobs had never been born.

But I will not switch to another brand because I simply cannot be bothered to learn how it all works.

We see this with everything. I have a PlayStation and won’t entertain the idea of an Xbox because it all seems to be the wrong way round. I have a Gaggia coffee machine that is utterly and completely useless but I can’t change to one of George Clooney’s Nespressos because I don’t have enough hours in the day to work out what its buttons do.

Car firms plainly understand this, which is why they all use completely different command-and-control software. After you’ve spent a year learning how to turn the bossy sat nav voice off, you are not very inclined to switch to another brand and learn all over again.

And it’s not just the sat nav. Turning the heated seats on, shutting down the traction control, tightening the suspension, adjusting the dashboard brightness, choosing a radio station: in every single car every single thing you do is different.

All of which brings me on to the new Ferrari California T. This is the cheapest, or should I say least expensive, Ferrari and is the company’s first foray into the mainstream market. It’s a cruising car, a convertible 2+2 (yeah, right) in the mould of the Mercedes SL.

This means it will be used every day by people who play golf and live in suburbia. So it needs to be a Ferrari, or else what’s the point? And yet at the same time it needs to be benign and easy. And if it’s going to appeal to the Bobby Ewings of this world, it needs all the toys you get in a Mercedes, all the hi-techery.

As a result, the California comes with the Apple CarPlay system, which pairs the vehicle with every single thing on your iPhone. This means you can, for example, speak a text and the car sends it.

And here’s the most amazing thing. It works. Not once did it mistakenly send the head of the army a message saying ,“Send three and fourpence — we’re going to a dance.”

However, the rest of the electronic systems were an unfathomable tangle of swearwords and frustration. I couldn’t make the sat nav work at all. I can get my head round the system in a Subaru, which takes a while, and even the one in a Jeep, which was set up by a madman, but this flummoxed me and I don’t know why. I can’t work out whether it’s Ferrari just being obtuse or whether it was suffering from some kind of electronic hiccup. This seems unlikely, though, in a car from the country that invented electricity . . . he said, with just a hint of a smile.

There’s another issue too. The California comes with the same sort of steering wheel as the 458 Italia. That is definitely Ferrari being obtuse, because it must know by now that putting the buttons for the indicators, headlamps and windscreen wipers on the wheel — which moves about — is galactically idiotic. And yet Ferrari continues to insist it isn’t. I would not buy a Ferrari these days simply because of this.

And because of the beeping. It beeps when you are reversing. It beeps when it thinks you are too close to another car. it beeps when you haven’t done up your seatbelts. It beeps constantly.

And we haven’t even got on to the sheer size of the thing. It’s a problem that affects all Ferraris these days — the F12 is about the same size as a Canadian combine — and in London it’s a menace. After a couple of days I gave up using the narrow rat runs, because I’d spent most of the time reversing.



Which meant I’d had to suffer the beeping. I know I’m going backwards, for God’s sake. I am a sentient being. And as a result I know I wouldn’t have to go backwards if this bloody car weren’t so bloody wide.

So there is much to annoy you in a California T. And only some of it is down to the fact that I’m trying to judge its systems while on the inevitable learning curve. And yet . . .

Every week I have to drive to the Top Gear test track in Surrey. It’s always rush hour. It’s always drizzling. The traffic’s always awful. There are roadworks every few yards, so it takes 50 minutes to cover the two miles from Holland Park to Hammersmith Bridge, and frankly this is motoring at its worst.

In a normal Ferrari life in these circumstances is intolerable, and I usually end up looking longingly at people on buses. But in the California I was quite content just to sit there listening to the radio. It wasn’t uncomfortable or noisy or show-offy in any way.


The California is let down by having buttons for the headlights, wipers and indicators — on the steering wheel

Later it sat on the A3 at a steady 50mph, and it didn’t feel as if I was having to hold back some kind of deranged stallion.

On the face of it, then, what we have here is a car that’s like a Mercedes SL, only a bit harder to live with because of its size and the complexity of its controls. And a bit more expensive.

Yes, but underneath it all it’s still a Ferrari. Oh, sure, the engine is turbocharged now to meet emissions regulations, but you don’t notice that. What you do notice is the feel through the steering and the immediacy of the gearchanges. No Mercedes feels quite so — what’s the word? — sharp. And no Mercedes comes with an adjustable speed limiter.

If you’ve always hankered after a Ferrari and you really can’t afford to buy a second car for driving round town in the rain, the California T is a godsend. Yes, its command-and-control stuff is bonkers and the steering wheel is so stupid. I’m not tempted. But I quite understand if you are.

Clarkson’s verdict ★★★★☆
Finally, a Ferrari made for traffic jams

Ferrari California T specifications

Price: £154,490
Engine: 3855cc, V8, turbocharged
Power: 552bhp @ 7500rpm
Torque: 556 lb ft @ 4750rpm
Transmission: 7-speed dual clutch
Performance: 0-62mph in 3.6sec
Top speed: 196mph
Fuel: 27mpg (combined)
CO2: 250g/km
Road tax band: L (£860 first year; £485 thereafter)
Release date: On sale now

Go to driving.co.uk to search for used Ferrari Californias


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1512496.ece
www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-ferrari-california-t-2014/

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Porsche 911 Carrera 4 GTS

With This Many 911s, They Were Bound To Make A Good One

Jeremy Clarkson        Published: 8 February 2015


Porsche 911 Carrera 4 GTS, £98,679

A COLLEAGUE of mine noted recently that there are 154 options you can have on a Porsche 911, and as a result there are a staggering 9.6 trillion possible combinations. That, said my meticulous friend, works out at 1,371 versions of the car for every man, woman and child on earth.

But he’s wrong. It’s way more than that. And it gets worse, because the options list is only the beginning. Before that you have to choose what sort of 911 you want. There are many. You can have a 993 series or a 997 or a 991. You can have two-wheel drive, or a two-wheel-drive with more power, and you can have either of those with a hard roof, with a Targa roof or as a cabriolet. Then you can have the exact same set of choices with the four-wheel-drive option. Or you can have a GT3. Or a GT3 RS. Or a Turbo with four-wheel drive or two-wheel drive and a choice of roof arrangements.

It’s all completely mad because all of them look pretty much exactly the same and all of them have broadly the same engine and all of them are driven by people whose p*nises are about to break.

As I may have mentioned about 200 times over the years, I’ve never been a fan of the 911, whichever one of the 270m models you happen to be talking about. My prejudice was born back in the early 1990s, when I wasn’t much of a helmsman.



Back then the 911 was a pig. It would understeer when you turned into a corner, and as I didn’t really know what I was doing, I’d take my foot off the accelerator as quickly as possible, which would then cause the car to start oversteering. Which meant I had to undo my seatbelt and cower in the back until it hit something and stopped.

And what really used to annoy me was that on the next lap you’d do pretty much the exact same thing at pretty much the exact same speed and it would respond in a completely different way.

More experienced colleagues would tell me that this was because the 911 was engineered and designed for people who knew what they were doing, and that minute adjustments to the steering and the throttle would cause it to behave in a completely different way: just what the serious opposite-locksmith wants, they would argue. Since then, of course, I’ve had a lot of practice at driving round corners too quickly and now the 911 doesn’t frighten me at all. I can handle it and its silly little foible with ease.

“Yes,” say the experts, in their annoying adenoidal way, “but that’s because it doesn’t have any foibles any more. It’s been softened.” The engine, which used to sit right at the back, where it would act as a pendulum in extreme circumstances, has been moved forwards, and it is now cooled with water rather than air. And the steering is now done with electricity rather than hydraulics. And because of all this the 911 is a big pussycat. This is seen in adenoid-land as the end of days.

Not to you and me it isn’t. Because the 911 stands out as a very real way of experiencing a little bit of genuine sports motoring for a fraction of the cost of buying a Ferrari and with far fewer histrionics. And, these days, less of a tendency to end up in a hedge.

But which model should you choose? Well, to make life even more difficult, Porsche has now introduced a new version called the GTS. It sits in the range between the Carrera S and the GT3. Yes, I know. I didn’t realise there was a gap there either, but apparently there was and the GTS has filled it.

The idea is simple. You get more horsepower than you do from the Carrera S, and a wider body, but it’s less raw than the GT3 and cheaper. It’s good value because, unusually for a Porsche, it comes with quite a bit of kit as standard.

If I were in the market for a 911 — and if I hadn’t been quite so vocal about its awfulness over the past few years I might be — I’d go for a two-wheel-drive GTS. It seems to offer the best of all worlds. Sadly, though, the car I drove last week was the four-wheel-drive alternative.


I know that a four-wheel-drive 911 is less pure than a model that is driven only from the rear, but as I set off on a long rush-hour journey from London to Rugby I didn’t really care about that. And I was positively grateful when just past Northampton it started to snow.

There was something else to be grateful for too. Every car has a cruising speed, a speed at which it settles when you are on a quiet motorway and you’re thinking about other stuff. This has something to do with resonance and noise and gearing. In a Mini it’s a worrying 110mph, which means that with the new speed cameras you could lose your licence — twice — in one lap of the M25.



In the GTS it’s 59mph. I have no idea why, but I think the throttle pedal is to blame. It has quite a strong spring, so to go any faster you have to make a conscious effort with your foot. This is a small point, but it’s important because if you’re daydreaming you at least know you won’t get nicked.

I’m not going to beat about the bush. This is an excellent car. It is fast without being stupid, even if you’re running it in Sport Plus mode, which makes it uncomfortable, noisy and uneconomical. Best to leave that facility alone.

It’s not as though you’re short of other things to play with. The sat nav system is as good as anything you’ll find in any car, and there’s a computer that tells you all sorts of things, such as how much G-force you are generating and when you will arrive at your destination. It’s German. It knows this stuff.

And then there’s the driving position. Ooh, it’s good. Nearly as good in fact as the flappy-paddle gearbox. The only trouble is that while I liked the GTS a lot, and marvelled at its ability to be fast, sensible, comfy and quiet all at the same time, I couldn’t really love it. At no point did I think, “I have got to get me one of these.”

There’s a magazine called Autocar that provides us Top Gear boys with a massive laugh every Wednesday because its road testers always look so serious when they’re driving a car. When we are power-sliding a Lamborghini round a hairpin bend in the Alps we bounce around and squeak like schoolboys — well, two of us do — but at Autocar they always look as if they’re in a meeting.

And that’s the face you find yourself pulling in a Porsche. You never think, “Wow.” It’s all very — what’s the word? Clinical. But if you’re going to buy a 911, the GTS is definitely the version to go for.

Clarkson’s verdict ★★★☆☆

If only I didn’t dislike 911s, I’d love it

Porsche 911 Carrera 4 GTS specifications

Price: £98,679
Engine: 3800cc, 6 cylinders
Power: 424bhp @ 7500rpm
Torque: 324 lb ft @ 5750rpm
Transmission: 7-speed PDK sequential/automatic
Performance: 0-62mph in 4.0sec
Top speed: 188mph
Fuel: 31.0mpg (combined)
CO2: 212g/km
Road tax band: K (£635 for first year; £265 thereafter)
Release date: On sale now

Go to driving.co.uk to search for used Porsche 911s


Unlike most Porsches, the 911 Carrera GTS comes with plenty of kit as standard


Porsche 911 Carrera 4 GTS



Porsche 911 Carrera 4 GTS

www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1515048.ece
www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-porsche-911-carrera-4-gts/

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Bentley Continental GT V8 S

There’s A Riot Downstairs, But Upstairs the Butler Keeps His Cool

Jeremy Clarkson      Published: 15 February 2015


Bentley Continental GT V8 S, from £146,000

MANY of you think I have the best job in the world, and it’s hard to argue with that. But I’ll be honest: when Top Gear is on air, Wednesdays are a bit tiring. It’s a 5am start, followed by a dreary drive to the studio, followed by a read-through, followed by a rehearsal, followed by a break during which James May talks at some length about how he spent the entire weekend cleaning the points on one of his dreadful old motorcycles.

Then we have to do the actual show in front of 500 people, who need to be entertained with anecdotes and general nonsense while the cameras are moved and a minion is dispatched to the gallery to clear up the orange juice that the director has just spilt into the mixing desk.

And then there’s the guest to interview, and I never know whether he or she is going to be there because his PR machine has forced it upon him, in which case he won’t really speak, or if he’s spent his lunch break in the lavatory, in which case he won’t shut up.

This is not a moan. Good or bad, I enjoy my Wednesdays enormously, but as I said at the beginning, they are extremely draining. Now you probably think that when the recording is over, a chauffeur-driven Mercedes is waiting to take me home. That’s what happens on every other show in the world. But not Top Gear. We have no wardrobe department — I know, you could never tell — and we are expected to drive ourselves home in whatever car we can find in the car park.

Usually it’s something that farts and shouts and crashes from pothole to pothole in an orgy of steamed-up windows, terrifying acceleration and bloodcurdling noise. I like filming cars such as this very much. But when you’re worn out and you just want to get home? No. I’d rather kill myself.

Which is why I was overcome with a sense of deep joy last week when I came out of the studio to find I’d be going back from Guildford to London in a Bentley Continental GT V8 S convertible.

You get in and close the door and it’s as though you’ve stepped into a world of whale song and tea lights on water lilies. You fire up the engine and far away there’s a muted hum; you put the waftmatic gearbox into Drive and you cruise along, wondering in a dreamy way how the council has turned the awful road into a billiard table since you drove down it that morning.

This Bentley costs £160,500 or, depending on what extras you select, probably closer to £200,000, and at that price there are many alternatives. But all are hard and noisy and über-sporty. The Bentley stands as the only comfortable expensive sports car on the market.

And yet. As you may have seen on Top Gear’s recent trip to Australia, a hard-top GT V8 S trounced a Nissan GT-R in a drag race. And, thanks to its four-wheel-drive system, it hurtled up the side of a quarry almost as quickly as a 577bhp Maloo GTS pick-up, made by the performance arm of the Aussie firm Holden. And then later, with its suspension raised up — something that is done with the press of a button — it herded cattle like a Range Rover that had been fitted with nitrous.

So it may come across as a genteel and soothing leather-lined transcontinental express, but when the situation arises it can become full of rage. Have you seen Colin Firth in Kingsman: The Secret Service? It’s that. I like this a lot. Put your foot down hard and it genuinely terrifies your passengers. There’s a bellow from the engine and a snarl from the exhausts and it’s as though the stately home in which they’d been relaxing moments earlier has suddenly been hit by a 7.8-magnitude earthquake.

Keep your foot down and soon they’ll be whooping with joy because somehow the undersides and the computer programs that control them can easily handle the mass and the inertia and the energy you’ve unleashed.

This car is a bit like the perfect butler. When he enters the room to serve pre-dinner drinks, he knows full well that downstairs all hell is breaking loose. The chef has dropped the duck, a maid has smashed the gravy boat and there’s been a small fire, but he gives nothing away.



You know when you brake or corner hard that you are attempting to control 2½ tons and more than 500 rampaging German horses. But the GT V8 S gives no sense that it’s difficult at all.

I understand that 60% of Bentley customers choose the W12-engined model instead of this rather less pricy V8, which brings me on to the Continental’s big problem: the people who drive it.

In some models the W12 unit is no faster from 0 to 62mph than the twin-turbo V8 and uses a great deal more fuel, but in Cheshire, where the Continental has a big fanbase, this doesn’t matter. The people there need to remind their neighbours that all is well in their world and they’re not going to do that if they’ve bought the second-most-expensive car in the range. There’s a word for people like this: idiots.

And that brings me to the next problem. The convertible I’ve been driving. No. OK? Just no. If you buy a car such as this, you are almost certainly going to be in your fifties and to have — let’s be kind — a prosperous waistline and a bald patch the size of a jellyfish. And at some point you will feel compelled to drive along with the top down. This will make you look ridiculous, especially if you are going to the golf club and you have another man in the passenger seat.


When you shut yourself into the Continental, it’s as though you’ve entered a world of whale song and water lilies

There’s more. Because the roof has to be stowed somewhere when it’s down, you end up with back seats that are useless and a much smaller boot than you would imagine.To make matters worse, the car I drove was a vivid blue. Why paint the press demonstrator in a colour that’s completely unsuitable?

There was a similar problem with the yellow car we had in Oz. Driving around in a yellow Bentley is like going to work in a yellow suit. It’s wrong. And it’s unnecessary, because unlike most car makers Bentley offers an enormous range of colours. You buy a Porsche and you get a choice of grey, grey or grey. You buy a BMW and it’s placenta red or James May brown. But Bentley’s colour chart makes Farrow & Ball’s look skimpy and mean.

There are, then, many mines on which you can tread when on your way to buy a Continental. So here’s a handy cut-out’n’keep guide to help you get it right. Do not buy the convertible unless you live in Cheshire, in which case it’s probably acceptable. Do not feel tempted by the brighter colours. And if the salesman suggests you go for the W12 option, put your fingers in your ears and say, “La-la-la-la-la,” as loudly as you can till his mouth stops moving.

If you follow these simple steps, you’ll end up with what right now is one of the world’s best cars. If you don’t, you’ll end up looking a berk.

Go to driving.co.uk to search for a used Bentley Continental GT

Clarkson’s verdict ★★★★☆
Follow my 3 buying rules and it’s a belter

Bentley Continental GT V8 S convertible specifications

Price: £160,500
Engine: 3993cc, V8
Power: 520bhp @ 6000rpm
Torque: 501 lb ft @ 1700rpm
Transmission: 8-speed automatic
Performance: 0-62mph in 4.7sec
Top speed: 191mph
Fuel: 25.9mpg (combined)
CO2: 258g/km
Road tax band: M (£1,090 for first year; £500 thereafter)
Release date: On sale now


Bentley Continental GT V8 S  (James Lipman)





Bentley Continental GT V8 S


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1517774.ece
www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-bentley-continental-gt-v8-s/

[RedMoon11]

Phrasebook, Tick. Local Currency, Tick. Tracksuit, Tick. I’m Off To The North

Read it here: jamesmayboard.proboards.com/post/297532/thread

www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/comment/columns/jeremyclarkson/article1521826.ece

Jeremy Clarkson insults Liverpool in new account of his weekend in the city
www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/news/liverpool-news/jeremy-clarkson-insults-liverpool-new-8695210

Jeremy Clarkson insults Liverpool on same day BBC execs arrive for city showcase
www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/news/liverpool-news/jeremy-clarkson-liverpool-insults-overshadows-8696268

Jeremy Clarkson claims Liverpool article was misrepresented in foul-mouthed Twitter rant
www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/news/liverpool-news/jeremy-clarkson-claims-misrepresented-foul-8696812

Jeremy Clarkson slates Liverpool: Mayor to quiz BBC top brass over Top Gear motormouth's latest rant
www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/news/liverpool-news/jeremy-clarkson-slates-liverpool-mayor-8697559

---

Tabasco, kippers and a city’s feud with Clarkson


Liverpool has become the latest in a long list of Jeremy Clarkson's targets   Christopher Furlong/Getty Images

Kaya Burgess
Last updated at 12:01AM, February 24 2015

Asians, black people, homosexuals, Scots, prostitutes, lorry drivers, India, Korea, the Welsh, public sector workers and, now, Liverpool. The city has joined a long list of those to have taken offence at Jeremy Clarkson, as the Top Gear presenter engaged in a war of words with the mayor and a local newspaper.

In his newspaper column at the weekend, Clarkson described a recent visit to Liverpool with Top Gear as “very agreeable”, but said that other trips to Merseyside had been spoiled by “constant burglar alarms”, a “blood-soaked chap” in a restaurant and a woman who had “apparently died” in his hotel corridor.

His column in The Sunday Times, sister paper of The Times, mocked one local waitress for not knowing what a kipper is, another for not having heard of Tabasco sauce and added: “Ordering Whispering Angel [rosé wine] in Liverpool is like a Liverpudlian strolling into the Savoy at teatime, in a shellsuit, and demanding seven pints of vodka. He’s going to be shown the door. And I should have been shown the door too.”

Although the thrust of his piece was about the “north-south divide” in England and how southerners should not patronise northerners, Clarkson, himself born in Doncaster, added that being in the north was like “being abroad” and said that: “People up [north] earn less, die more quickly, have fewer jobs and live in houses that are worth the square root of sod all.”

Joe Anderson, the mayor of Liverpool, described Clarkson as a “buffoon” for his comments, which came as BBC executives arrived in the city for the BBC Worldwide Showcase.

Mr Anderson said: “It is amazing that the BBC chose, after a warm reception last year, to come back this year. Yet in contrast to that, this buffoon — Mr Clarkson — has made these comments and the BBC continue to have him on their payroll.” The Liverpool Echo reported the remarks under the headline “Jeremy Clarkson insults Liverpool”, but did not mention that he found his recent visit “very agreeable”.

The presenter had to apologise last year after appearing to use the offensive term n**ger during a recording of Top Gear, while the BBC apologised when Clarkson used the word “slope”, which can be used as a derogatory term for an Asian person. In 2011, he asked “what’s the point of Welsh” as a language and invited a complaint from the Indian High Commission in 2012 over jokes about Indian culture.

After apologising for his gaffe over the “n-word” last year, he said: “I’ve been told by BBC chiefs that I’m drinking in the last chance saloon. From now on I shall arrive at work on a bicycle with the Guardian under my arm.”

Neither Clarkson nor the Liverpool Echo were available for comment.

Don’t mess with Mersey pride

Boris Johnson was ordered to go to Liverpool and apologise in 2004 by the Tory leader Michael Howard after an editorial in The Spectator claimed that Liverpudlians “wallow” in their “victim status” after the death of the hostage Ken Bigley in Iraq. He also caused offence by suggesting that it was London, not Liverpool, that was responsible for the success of the Beatles.

Kelvin MacKenzie, as editor of The Sun, owned by The Times’s parent company, was behind the 1989 front page that claimed the “truth” about the Hillsborough disaster was that Liverpool supporters had picked the pockets of the dead and urinated on police — claims that were later shown to be without foundation by the Taylor inquiry. He offered “profuse apologies” in 2012 but a widespread boycott of the newspaper in Liverpool endures to this day.

Ed Miliband was accused of making an “offensive gesture” by Liverpool’s mayor after he posed with a copy of The Sun last year, which led to an apology from the Labour leader.

Ringo Starr, himself a Liverpudlian, apologised for saying he missed nothing about his home city when it became the European capital of culture in 2008. He added: “No real Scouser took offence, only, I believe, people from outside.”

Gordon Taylor, chief executive of the Professional Footballers’ Association, apologised last year for comparing the campaign for justice over Hillsborough to attempts by the rapist footballer Ched Evans to clear his name.

Alan Davies, the comedian, has also incurred Liverpudlian wrath by criticising Liverpool FC for not playing on the anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster.


www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/news/medianews/article4363560.ece

[RedMoon11]

The Clarkson review: Land Rover Discovery Sport (2015)

Perfect For Jimi's Hairdo, But No Good For Crosstown Traffic

Jeremy Clarkson        Published: 22 February 2015


Land Rover Discovery Sport, from £32,395

UPON returning from my holidays earlier this year, I decided that I should become less fat. So I made some inquiries and discovered there were two ways of doing this. And since one was “doing exercise”, there was in fact only one way of doing this: not drinking any more.

The effects have been remarkable. In just a month I’ve lost six chins and can get into my suit again. But there has been a downside: instead of using taxis when I go out in the evening I now use the car.

In some ways it’s a joy. You feel when you’re driving in London at night that you can jump red lights, break the speed limit and knock down anyone who gets in your way, because if you are stopped by the police, you can put your hand on your heart and say, “Nope. I haven’t even had a sniff.” And they’ll be forced to let you go with a cheery wave.

But it doesn’t work out quite like that, because what you actually do when you take the car is sit in a traffic jam, and then, when you arrive, an hour late, spend an hour looking for somewhere to park. I realise that sobriety will add many years to my life, but I’m wasting so much time in traffic these days I wonder if the maths adds up.

Last week, for instance, I had to go from Holland Park to something called Bloomsbury, and London was in a bad mood. Every single road was a tangle of frayed tempers, red lights and the sirens of stuck ambulances. So I wiggled about the back streets and was doing quite well until a diversion put me on a collision course with the Crossrail works at the bottom of Tottenham Court Road.

These have been snarling up the capital since 1951 and there seems to be no sign of progress. Hoardings around the site tell us that one day the scheme will bring an extra 1.5m people within 45 minutes of central London, but as you sit in the endless jam, with all the Humbers and Hillmans that have been queuing there since the road was closed, you can’t help wondering if more people is quite what London wants.



The traffic lights go from red to green endlessly and nothing moves because everyone at the head of the queue died in 1973. And still the workmen dig, creating an underground superhighway that will link west London, where people live and work, to the east, where there are a few fishmongers and that’s about it. They may as well build a tunnel from Hull to Dogger Bank.

Then you have the roadworks on the New King’s Road that turn SW6 into an island every time Chelsea play at home. The Fulham Road is closed as well. I’d like to meet the man who thought this was an acceptable plan. Perhaps someone could send me the address of the home where he’s living and the name of his nurse.

What’s made all this congestion worse is that I’ve been trying to get about in Land Rover’s new Discovery Sport, which feels a great deal bigger than it actually is. This is because it has a vast amount of headroom. Jimi Hendrix would be able to drive this car — if he were still alive, obviously — without flattening his hairdo at all. It’s like sitting in a cathedral. And when you are in St Paul’s you don’t even attempt to drive through gaps that actually are easily wide enough.

 
The vast amount of headroom makes the Discovery Sport feel much bigger than it actually is

It’s a strange car, this: billed as a replacement for the solid, no-nonsense Freelander, it is badged as a Discovery and sits on the same running gear as a Range Rover Evoque. Confused? Mmm. I was too. So let me put it to you this way. It’s a seven-seat alternative to the rather too mumsy Volvo XC90. And a better-looking alternative to the standard Discovery, which, as we know, is mostly driven by murderers.

It’s also very comfortable. Around town it isolates you from roads that have been mended by people who think “good enough” is pedantry, and on a motorway it glides along like a hovercraft. Only with better steering. And it’s not just the suspension that warrants praise. The seats are comfortable too, and if you push the back bench backwards there is acres of space for kids. I haven’t seen so much legroom in the back of a car since Citroën stopped making the CX Prestige.

Yes, the seats that rise up out of the boot floor are not ideal for the aged, the infirm, the fat or even the fully formed, but for a short school run it’s better to have them than not. Even if it does mean you have to do without a full-sized spare wheel.

All of this — the nice ride, the school-run stuff and indeed the extremely sharp and precise steering — would lead us to think Land Rover had given up with its core values and that the Disco Sport would be flummoxed by any sort of weather or rough terrain. But no. It still comes with all the fancy off-road programs. You tell it what sort of ground you want to cover — mud, sand, a bog or whatever — and it sorts out its differentials and its four-wheel-drive system for you.



So far, then, everything is good. And it gets better, because at long last Land Rover has updated its satellite navigation and central command system. It’s still touchscreen, which is the wrong way of doing things, especially when the display in question is a hell of a stretch even for me, but it’s much better than it was.



However, things go a bit wrong with the engine. Only one is on offer and — how can I put this? — it’s a bit old now, and a bit tractory. The power it produces is fine — it’ll get the car from 0 to 62mph in 8.9 seconds, which is brisk — but I couldn’t really live with the roughness.

I hear Land Rover is currently working on a new powerplant that will be ready and available in the Discovery Sport later this year, so if the car appeals, best to wait until then.

And start saving, because it’s not cheap. The basic price of the version I tested is £42,995 and, yes, this is quite good compared with the price of a Volvo XC90. It’s quite good also for a luxurious, attractive and spacious seven-seater. And yet . . .

I dunno. It’s hard to get your head round a price such as this for a car that is billed as a replacement for the much cheaper Freelander.

And then there’s the biggest problem of them all. It’s going to get nicked. Land Rovers and Range Rovers are popular with gangs that ship them out to Africa before you’ve even noticed they’ve gone. And I’m told that, to make matters worse, the keyless entry system, which is on higher-spec versions of the Discovery Sport, is not that hard to crack. In certain parts of London now, new Range Rovers are routinely stopped by the police because there’s a good chance the driver won’t be the actual owner.

That’s not such a problem for me, of course, because I’m not drinking. You, on the other hand . . .

Clarkson’s verdict ★★★☆☆
One Disco I won’t be attending

Land Rover Discovery Sport SD4 HSE Luxury specifications

Price: £42,995
Engine: 2179cc, 4 cylinders
Power: 187bhp @ 3500rpm
Torque: 310 lb ft @ 1750rpm
Transmission: 9-speed automatic
Performance: 0-62mph in 8.9sec
Top speed: 117mph
Fuel: 44.8mpg (combined)
CO2: 166g/km
Road tax band: H (£290 for first year; £205 thereafter)
Release date: On sale now

Go to driving.co.uk to search for a used Land Rover Discovery


Land Rover Discovery Sport


Land Rover Discovery Sport


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1520622.ece

www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-land-rover-discovery-sport-2015/

[RedMoon11]

THE CLARKSON REVIEW: FORD FIESTA ZETEC S RED EDITION (2015)

No Need For Supercar When Clutch Kent’s Here

Jeremy Clarkson      Published: 1 March 2015


Ford Fiesta Zetec S Red Edition, £16,145

I WONDER if in the First World we have all become mad. Because when we are buying something we always choose the most expensive option. Rather than the best. We have somehow got it into our heads that a £200 set of kitchen knives will last longer and do more cutting than a £100 set of kitchen knives. We think that a £4m house will suit us better than a house for £250,000. We assume the food in a restaurant with big numbers on the menu is bound to be better and tastier and nicer than a Big Mac meal. But is any of this true?

Well, it’s probably not true with the McMeal and it’s definitely not true when it comes to cars. I know this because I have spent yet another week with the Volkswagen Golf GTI and it’s completely perfect. You can spend 10 times more on a car and it will be worse. This is a fact. There is no room for debate.

You may think that Volkswagen puts its brightest and its best engineers into the boutique, high-profile companies that it owns: Bugatti, Lamborghini and Bentley. But it doesn’t. It uses its absolute geniuses on the Golf, because that’s the bread and butter of its operations. The Golf has to be right.

And it is right. I drive a lot of cars and every single one of them does at least one little thing that is annoying. The Golf doesn’t. The way the seats slide about, the feel of the buttons, the weight of the steering, everything: it’s all absolutely spot-on. As long as you ignore the dashboard “eco driving” tips.

And then, sitting on top of this nest of perfection, we have the GTI version, which comes with more power than you were expecting — a lot more — and an amusing gearknob in the shape of a golf ball. Das ist fun, ja?

I drove a Porsche 911 GTS the other day and I thought it was pretty damn good. I was also very taken with the Bentley Continental GT V8 S. But the Yorkshireman in me says, “What’s the point?” Because neither of those cars is better in any way than the GTI.

Sure, they have more power, but, come on, be realistic. When does that do anything apart from use more fuel? Most versions of the GTI will average more than 40mpg and you’d have to be extremely committed in your Porsche or your Bentley to get away from it on anything other than a road through Monument Valley.

On a Welsh mountain road, in the rain, the VW would be faster. Much faster. So the conclusion is this. No matter what you can afford, buy a Golf GTI instead. It’s that simple.

Or is it? Because for about £9,000 less than a Golf GTI you could have a Ford Fiesta ST, which, if anything, is even more fun to drive. It’s more fun to drive, in fact, than almost anything that’s been fitted with four wheels. It’s a little gem, that car.

Of course it’s a little smaller than a Golf, but how often does that matter? Do you really go everywhere with a couple of prop forwards in the back, and a st bernard in the boot? No. For most of the time a small, unpretentious car such as this is handier than a bigger, flashier one.

If you have a Bentley, the day will come when you say, “If only this damn thing were a bit smaller, I’d be able to fit into that parking space, but now I’ve got to waste a further hour of my life looking for another.”

It’s the same story with the Porsche 911. There will come a day when you come out of a meeting to find some worthless layabout has keyed the flanks and carved rude words into the roof. Then you will think, “If only I’d bought something a bit less showy.”

I cannot think of a single thing, however, that would cause the owner of a Ford Fiesta ST to say “if only”. Unless, of course, he or she happens to try out the Fiesta Zetec S Red Edition that I took for a spin last week. Then he or she is going to say, “If only I had one of these.”

On the face of it, it’s a ridiculous car. It’s called Red because it’s red. There’s a black one called the Black Edition. I know. Mad. And it gets sillier because it costs only £1,250 less than the super-fast ST but comes with a three-cylinder 1-litre engine that’s so small it could easily be mistaken for a pencil sharpener. The block — and this is a true fact — would sit comfortably on a piece of A4 paper.

Do not imagine, however, that because it’s physically small, it is weedy. Because as any flyweight boxer will tell you, that’s a mistake. In fact this little engine produces 138bhp. That’s not a misprint. Ford has managed to extract 138 brake horsepower from an engine that has the same capacity as two cans of beer.

I remember the song and dance Daihatsu made when it developed a 1-litre engine for the Charade GTti that developed 100bhp. “We have made a hundred horsepower from just one litre,” the company said at the launch, moments before I stuffed its test car into a ditch and knocked the front off.


Ford Fiesta Zetec S Red Edition

And now Ford has upped that to 138bhp. You might imagine that it’s a mass of turbo lag and torque holes and strange noises. But no. It makes a sort of “brrrrr” noise and is like having a west highland terrier under the bonnet. I completely loved it. I loved the speed as well. It gets from 0 to 60mph in nine seconds and will eventually reach 125mph. And yet because it’s a 1-litre car the insurance is cheap and it is said you’ll get more than 60mpg.



I haven’t even got to the best bit yet: it’s a Fiesta, which means it has an absolutely stupendous chassis. Maybe the chassis in a Porsche 918 Spyder is a bit better. And there’s no doubt the Ferrari 458 Italia has a peach too. But the little Ford is in the same league — it really is.

It absorbs bumps as though they’re not there, it has a tenaciously grippy front and a waggly tail, and above all it makes you feel — even at half-speed — very happy. It is a car filled with joy, and that’s a rare thing these days.

Maybe the controls are fiddly, and if you specify some of the electronic extras, you will find them extremely complicated to use, but you can solve that by not bothering. Who needs DAB radio anyway? Only those who enjoy long and sustained periods of silence.

The only real problem with this car is where you live, which is in Britain. Because if you sell your Audi or your Bentley or your Ferrari to buy one — which, if you had any sense, you would — all your friends and neighbours would assume that things were going badly in your life and not talk to you any more.

That’s because we live in the First World. And we’re all mad.

Go to driving.co.uk to search for used Ford Fiestas

CLARKSON'S VERDICT ★★★★★
Buy a Bentley for show but drive this beauty

Ford Fiesta Zetec S Red Edition specifications
Price: £16,145
Engine: 999cc, 3 cylinders, turbo
Power: 138bhp @ 6000rpm
Torque: 155lb ft @ 1400rpm
Transmission: 5-speed manual
Performance: 0-62mph in 9.0sec
Top speed: 125mph
Fuel: 62.8mpg (combined)
CO2: 104g/km
Road tax band: B (free for first year; £20 thereafter)
Release date: On sale now


Ford Fiesta Zetec S Red Edition


Ford Fiesta Zetec S Red Edition

www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article1523741.ece
www.driving.co.uk/car-reviews/the-clarkson-review-ford-fiesta-zetec-s-red-edition-2015/

[RedMoon11]

An old article from 2011

Cap’n Clarkson’s Crazy Pursuit

InGear joins forces with Citroën to race against motoring celebrities in a treasure hunt through the streets of London

The Sunday Times      Published: 27 February 2011


Clarkson and Tiff Needell look slightly lost on the charity treasure hunt (Dwayne Senior)

The Sunday Times joined forces with Citroën to emerge victorious in a celebrity treasure hunt. The event, which took place in London earlier this month, was dreamt up by Jeremy Clarkson as a way to raise money for charity. Other competitors included Anthony Davidson, the former Formula One driver and Le Mans racer; Nick Mason, the Pink Floyd drummer and car nut; and Tiff Needell, the racing driver and TV presenter; as well as journalists from The Sun newspaper and staff from the BBC.

The challenge saw Clarkson set devious tasks that teams had to complete by racing through the capital in black cabs and solving clues. Teams also had to collect specified objects, such as a Christmas decoration, and take various snaps, including of a celebrity who wasn’t taking part, and a smiling traffic warden.

Despite the quality of the opposition, The Sunday Times had a secret weapon: Joe the cab driver. A veteran of London’s streets for more than a decade, he helped identify a string of obscure London destinations, and whizzed down side streets as if his life depended on it.

The prize — a bottle of champagne — was presented to The Sunday Times by James May, Clarkson’s co-host on Top Gear. The event raised more than £100,000 for Helen & Douglas House hospice for children and young adults, in Oxford.


Dominic Tobin, Nick Rufford, sailing champion Iain Percy and Marc Raven (Dwayne Senior)


www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/cars/Driving/article561300.ece

[RedMoon11]

Another article from 2011

We’ll Leave You Panting, Darling

There is one car that Jeremy Clarkson has always wanted to drive. But now his wife has got there first. And in a rally, too

Francie Clarkson   Published: 9 October 2011


Francie Clarkson with co-driver, Netty Mason and Ferrari 250 GTO on the rally in Tuscany (Pietro Bianchi)

My husband was stunned: “I don’t believe you,” he said. To be fair, I shared his incredulity. I had just told him I had been offered the chance to take part in a rally around Tuscany driving a 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO.

This in itself is enough to leave most men a little envious, but for Jeremy there was an added sense of injustice: the GTO is one of the few cars he has never driven. More pertinently, it is virtually the only car that he has never driven that he really, really wants to drive.

The closest he got to it was an episode of Top Gear when insurance problems meant that he was forced to wander around the car and do a piece to camera without being allowed to drive it. The fact that I was now going to take a GTO for a spin was very nearly too much for him to bear.

However, GTO or not, this event was not for Jeremy. It was called It’s All About the Girls and was aimed, as the name suggests, at women. The other participants were made up of wealthy vintage-car enthusiasts and the wives of men who collect these rare and beautiful machines.

I was there as the co-driver for Netty Mason, the wife of Nick Mason, the Pink Floyd drummer and a huge car fan. The GTO was his and was worth, at a conservative estimate, more than £12m.

Although the organisers called it a rally, I am not convinced it qualified. I have driven several endurance rallies in my no-frills Caterham and I know it is hard work. Up at 8am, a swig of coffee, then behind the wheel all day with no lunch, battling hazardous road conditions against tight deadlines. By the time you arrive at your evening destination it is 11pm and all you want is to have a beer and go to bed, before doing it all over again the following day.

This event was different. For a start the competitors were not the grizzled men with beards that I was used to racing against — I am always part of the only all-female team whenever I compete — but glamorous women: the model Yasmin Le Bon in a 1928 Bugatti; Alma Hill, the widow of Phil Hill, the American former Formula One champion; and Brenda Sullivan, wife of the former Nascar racer Danny Sullivan.

And rather than driving all day, the three-day event went something like this — breakfast, a leisurely drive through the beautiful Tuscan countryside towards an ancient town, where we would wander around and visit a museum, followed by lunch at a private villa and a little local wine tasting. Then it was back to the hotel for a spa and some pampering.

There wasn’t even any map reading to be done: the route was marked with arrows placed on the road by the organisers.

They had even supplied a Bugatti Veyron Grand Sport for the ladies to try. This is the most expensive new road car available today and, incidentally, pretty much the only other car that Jeremy would love to drive but hasn’t been able to. In fact, when I told him via text message how well it handled on the Tuscan roads, it proved the to be the final straw. His reply was: “I don’t want to talk to you.”

The GTO was a totally different machine from the Veyron. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Not flashy, but just modest, standing there looking like the greatest thing ever made — and that was among a collection of some of the best cars you can imagine, from Ferrari Daytonas to Jaguar E-types and Mercedes SL 300 roadsters.

Inside it was spartan. There was a selection of large dials, a big wooden steering wheel and a pervading smell of old leather. Then you fire it up and the noise is wonderful, so wonderful that you forget how privileged you are to be sitting in it.

I found the seat a touch far away from the pedals and the gears slightly tricky to change but the car was a joy to drive. Perfectly weighted and perfectly in tune with what you wanted it to do.

I realise that Jeremy would have given a much better technical description of driving the Ferrari than I can. But, as I told him afterwards, it’s hard to put into words: you just have to drive it yourself.

www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/cars/Driving/article792175.ece


Jeremy and a 1963 Ferrari 250 GTO Series 16 Episode 2 (2011)


Jeremy drives the Ferrari 599 GTO (Series 16, Episode 2)
Part 1 - www.topgear.com/uk/videos/946615964001
Part 2 - www.topgear.com/uk/videos/946636094001


Netty's husband, Nick Mason, and his 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO

[RedMoon11]

Koenigsegg CC

Fasten your safety harness, now we're really gonna fly

Jeremy Clarkson   Published: 6 July 2003

Jeremy Paxman. Very much the embodiment of 21st century man. Civilised, urbane, well read and quick-witted. Yet underneath the polished veneer of sophistication pulsates the brain of a tree shrew. Yup. Underneath that £50 haircut Paxman is no different from the bass guitarist with AC/DC or your dog or even the brontosaurus.

Last week he rolled up at the Top Gear Karting Challenge wearing the sort of disdainful sneer that makes him such a terrifying adversary on Newsnight. "I've never even seen a go-kart before," he drawled before the race.

By rights he should have hated every moment of it. Here, after all, was one of the most respectable and respected men on television all dolled up in a stupid racing suit and squeezed into a noisy, pointless bee of a thing.

But no, he loved it. Karting is cold, uncomfortable and a little bit dangerous. Uncultured, uncouth and yobbish, it is the diametric opposite of University Challenge. But it is guaranteed to send a shiver up the spine of even the most donnish romantic because, sitting down there, close to the ground, it feels fast.

Speed, we're forever being told, kills. Slow down, say the advertisements on television and the digital boards on motorways. Flash flash go the speed cameras. The message is clear and constant, but I'm afraid you might as well try to teach a lamppost how to tie shoelaces.

We need speed like we need air and food and water.

And I'm not talking about the usefulness of going quickly either. Obviously, the faster you travel the sooner you get to where you're going. So you can see more and do more and learn more. Speed, as I've said many times before, makes you cleverer.

Nor am I being flippant. Though, yes, speed does mean you can now go to see your mother- in-law - but you don't have to stay the night.

What I'm being is scientific. Thousands of years ago what caused man to come out of his cave and think: "I wonder what's in the next valley"? The risks of going to find out were immense but obviously he went ahead or we'd all still be living in Ethiopia.

More recently, what caused Christopher Columbus to sail across the Atlantic, or Neil Armstrong to fly to the moon? Why do people bungee jump? Well, it's simple: we like risk.

Deep at the root of any brain in the animal kingdom is the limbic system, a sort of slug-like sticky thing that controls our instincts.

When we do something dangerous, it dumps a load of dopamine into our heads that makes us euphoric. You see the effects of this on the face of a footballer after he's scored a goal. He's taken a chance, got away with it and for a moment or two he is completely out of control, lost in a sea of pure ecstasy.

When you take cocaine, the drug causes dopamine to be released. It's why people become so addicted, why it's so moreish. But you don't need to clog up your nose and become a crashing bore to get exactly the same effect. All you need to do is get out there and put your foot down.

Next weekend is the Festival of Speed, an event where some of the best cars in the world drive past huge crowds of spectators in the grounds of Goodwood House.

If you're able to pop along, I urge you to go to the start line where you will see all sorts of respectable middle-aged men from the world of rock music and big business. They always say, before they set off, that it's not a race and that they won't be trying hard.

But the instant the visor snaps shut on their helmets, the brain screams: "Give me some dopamine," the red mist comes down and they shoot off in a whirl of smoke and noise.

So what do the spectators get out of it? Well the same deal really. When the car comes roaring toward you, bellowing that V8 bellow, your body is thinking: "Hello".

And when the unseeing limbic system senses danger it goes berserk. When you hear a noise in the house in the middle of the night you remain stock still, just like a springbok when it thinks it senses a predator. Blood is fed to the muscles, which is why your face goes white.

Next time you see Paxman, then, having a ding-dong on Newsnight, consider this: his outer human brain is thinking of an intelligent response, but his inner tree-shrew brain is thinking, "Where's the nearest tree?" His blood is a mass of endorphins and adrenaline that make him strong and awake, and so is yours as the Ferrari GTO barrels toward you at 120.

And so was mine the other day when I decided to see how fast I could make the new Koenigsegg go on our test track in Surrey.

Mr Koenigsegg is a completely bald inventor from Sweden who decided one day to make a supercar. Ferrari and Lamborghini should be afraid. Very afraid.

Sweden's odd like that. Only 172 people live there but when they turn their attention to something, the world tends to notice. Sweden produced one of the greatest Wimbledon champions of all time and one of the biggest-selling pop acts. Sweden is where you go for your self-assembly furniture.

Anything anyone can do, the Swedes can do better. Only a few years after someone failed to assassinate Ronald Reagan someone shot the Swedish prime minister, Olaf Palme. And, unbelievably, they still haven't caught him.

So, what's the new car like? Well, it's almost the same weight as a McLaren F1, it is a little bit more aerodynamically efficient, and with 655bhp in the boot it's a little bit more powerful. The result is, quite simply, the fastest road car in the world.

They're talking about a top speed of 240mph and that's about 30mph faster than Michael Schumacher drives when he's at work.

My limbic system was impressed. And it was even more impressed when I came back from my first speed run to say the front was feeling a little light. "No problem," said Mr Koenigsegg. "We will jack up the back of the car a bit. And do you mind if we put some gaffer tape round the windscreen?" Wow. It's risky enough to drive any car at more than 170mph but to do it in a car that's been jacked up a bit and has a windscreen held in place with duct tape . . . There were so many chemicals coursing around my arterial route map that if you'd cut me I'd have bled pure acid.

Eventually, I got it up to 174mph, 4mph faster than I'd managed in any other car on the test track. And then the dopamine came. Speed kills? Maybe, but it doesn't half thrill as well.

So does the Koenigsegg. It's an absolute beast, as hot as the centre of the Earth and as noisy as a foundry. It's like working out on the footplate of a steam train but the rewards are huge.

Pile up to a corner, change down on the ridiculously narrow-gated gearbox, brake hard. Already your clutch leg is aching from the effort. Now turn the wheel. There's power assistance, but not much. Your arms are straining to hold the front in line, so you apply some power to unstick the back end. Grrrrr, goes the 4.7 litre V8. Weeeeeeeeee goes the supercharger. And eeeeeeeee go the tyres are they lose traction.

Whack on some opposite lock to catch the slide. Whoa, it's still going. More lock needed. More effort. Your arms are really hurting now and you're desperately trying to balance the throttle, to find the sweet spot that will hold the back end in check.

There. There it is. Smoke is pouring off the tyres now, but the car is powering sideways and under perfect control through the bend. Inside you have sweat in your eyes, you feel like you've been arm wrestling a mountain all morning but with the dopamine coming you don't notice a thing.

Welcome then to the world of the super-fast supercar. They are utterly stupid, of course. Just like the people who drive them. Us.

VITAL STATISTICS
Model Koenigsegg CC
Engine type V8, supercharged, 4723cc
Power 655bhp @ 6500rpm
Torque 553 lb ft @ 5000rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual
Suspension (front and rear) double wishbones, coil springs, anti-roll bar
Dimensions 4,190mm length; 1,990mm width; 1,070mm height
Tyres (front) 245/40 ZR18, (rear) 315/40 ZR18
Top speed 240mph
Acceleration 0 to 62mph: under 3.5sec
Price £354,000
Verdict An absolute beast

www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/ingear/clarkson/article218363.ece