Not that long ago, Ferrari named one of its cars after the town in which it was made.

So
we ended up with the Ferrari Maranello. And now the company has announced its new
entry-level model will be called the Italia.

These are good names. But then Ferrari is lucky because the founder of the company had
a cool name and he lived in a cool country where even football chants sound like poetry.
Say, “You’re going to get your effing head kicked in,” in Italian and it sounds as though
you are lamenting the untimely demise of your much-loved mother.

In Britain we have no such luxury. Let us imagine, for a moment, that the founder of
Lotus had adopted a similar model-naming policy to Ferrari. Would you drive a car
called the Chapman Norwich? No. Neither would I. Or a Lyons Coventry. Or a Henry
East Midlands. Or a Herbert Birmingham.Mind you, I wouldn’t want a Gottlieb Stuttgart
either. Or an Adolf Wolfsburg.

Occasionally, Ferrari names its cars after the people who’ve styled them. Recently we
had the Scaglietti, and that makes me go all weak at the knees, but again, it wouldn’t
work here. Or the newest Range Rover would be called the Gerry. And Aston’s DB9
would be the Ian.

Sometimes, though, Ferrari names its cars after other places in the world. We had the
Superamerica and the Daytona and now we’ve got the California. California is a brilliant
name. Elsewhere in the world, all the leaves are brown and the sky is grey. But in
California the sun always shines. You can check out any time you like, but you can never
leave. I like California. I got engaged there.

I can’t understand why more car firms don’t use evocative place names when dreaming
up handles for their cars. Ford did it with the Cortina, of course, but actually it wasn’t
named after the ski resort. It was named after a cafe on the King’s Road in London.

It’s not as if we’re short. I’d drive a Vancouver or a London. I’d drive a Calcutta or a
Buenos Aires. I was going to say I’d drive a Wellington but, much though I love the
place, I actually wouldn’t. Or a Nice.

Strangely, however, when a car is named after a famous place, it’s always bloody Monte
Carlo. We’ve had the Lancia Montecarlo, the Chevrolet Monte Carlo, the Ford Comète
Monte Carlo, the Dodge Monaco and the Renault 5 Monaco. Why? Seriously, why name
your car after a dreary, boring, rain-sodden tax haven full of prostitutes and arms dealers?
Get an atlas, all of you, and let’s have a Chevy Buttermere.

Or, better still, let’s get back to the California. We’re often told that a car looks better in
the flesh than it does in pictures and I’ve always scoffed at this. I look horrible in pictures
because I look horrible in the flesh. It’s not Nikon that gives me yellow teeth and a
beach-ball belly. However, I can report that when it comes to the California, the camera
really does lie. The images you’re looking at this morning in no way do the car justice.
Roof up or down, it is absolutely beautiful.
Now for the tricky bit. Ferrari says that this, its first ever front-engined V8, has been
aimed at women. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh. And then aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh some more.

How can you possibly target half the world’s population? Are the people at Ferrari saying
they’ve made it soft and cuddly? Because if they have, my wife will hate it. Or have they
given it pink seats and a tampon dispenser, in which case the other half of the population
will run a mile?

You can design a film for women. It’ll have Hugh Grant in it. And you can design
knickers for women. But a car? You might as well design a car for homosexuals. What
sort? A big bull dyke or Graham Norton?

So far as I can tell, the only big difference between the California and all the supposedly
male Ferraris is the traction control, which comes with three settings rather than five.
This is a good thing. It’s still not a perfect thing, though, or there’d be only two: on and
off.

No matter. The California feels like a Ferrari. It feels digital rather than analogue. It feel
dizzyingly light and agile. It feels like no other car made today. Comparing it to a Lambo
or an Audi R8 is like comparing lightning to soil.

The steering is incredibly light. American light. And yet there is a feel there, and a
fluency that you will find in no other road-going car.

The engine may be the same size as the unit found in the middle of an F430 but the bore
is wider and the stroke is shorter. It sounds like the recipe for a screamer, but it isn’t. It
feels lazy and torquey. The speed’s still there, though. It gets from 0 to 60 just as quickly
as the 430.

There is, however, a fly in the silicone. It comes with a flappy-paddle gearbox. Now this
may be a double-clutch affair such as you get in a VW Golf but it’s still not right. I’d
rather have a conventional automatic.

This aside, though, the California is an amazing car to drive. Quiet and comfortable when
you want it to be. Vicious and snarling when you don’t. But there are some warts.

First, as you drive along, you can’t help but notice the bonnet flaps about in the wind.
The last time I saw this from the driver’s seat of a car, I was in a Montego. Then, at the
back, you have a boot lid that weighs 9m tons. If this car really is aimed at women, I
dread to think who they had in mind. Fatima Whitbread, perhaps.

And then we have the electronics. It is possible to connect your telephone via Bluetooth
to the onboard computer, but every time you try to make a call, the voice-activated
system will ignore your instructions and ring Steve Curtis, the powerboat champion. I do
not know why.
Then there are the speedometers. For reasons that are unclear, there are two — one dial
and one digital — which give different readouts. This makes life particularly worrying
when you are going past a Gatso camera. But then this is the price you must pay if you
decide to buy a car from the bespoke tailors of the motoring world. Ferrari does not
employ an army whose job for four years is to calibrate the speedos. It probably doesn’t
employ anyone who realises they’ve fitted two by mistake.

Of course, a specialist car, such as the 599 or F430, will spend most of its life in a pair of
woolly pyjamas in your heated garage, so who cares if the phone will ring only Steve
Curtis. But the California is designed to be used. And I fear that if you come to it from a
Mercedes SL, its little Italian ways will drive you a bit mad.

There’s another problem, too. It’s a biggie. Would I really buy the Ferrari and not the
Aston Martin DBS convertible?

That’s as tough as decisions get. The Aston has a stupid Volvo sat nav, a price tag from
the Comedy Store, buttons that could be operated only by Edward Scissorhands and a fly-
off handbrake that won’t. But, amazingly, it is slightly better to drive than the Ferrari,
and, staggeringly, even better-looking.

I think that if I were in the market for a comfortable two-plus-two GT car, I would buy
the Aston. But I just know I’d spend my entire time with it wishing I’d gone for the
Ferrari. And, to make matters worse, if I bought the Ferrari, I’d wish I had the Aston.

And all the time, in either, as you endlessly got lost, got caught speeding and rang various
powerboat champions, you’d have this nagging doubt that looks, style and soaring
exhaust notes were not, in the real world, a match for the ruthless efficiency of a Gottlieb
Stuttgart Sporty Light.

FERRARI CALIFORNIA

Engine 4297cc, eight cylinders

Power 460bhp @ 7750rpm

Torque 357 lb ft @ 5000rpm

Transmission Seven-speed, paddle shift

Fuel 21.5mpg (combined)

C02 305g/km

Acceleration 0-62mph: 3.9sec

Top speed 193mph

Price £140,285

Road tax band M (£405 a year)

CLARKSON'S VERDICT

Mamma mia!

It is a common characteristic of sporting cars to have looks that make promises the rest of
the car cannot keep. The Audi TT, outgoing Mercedes SLK and Jaguar XKR are all
dramatically better to look at than drive. However, perhaps the most guilty of all was the
Aston Martin DB7. It wasn’t bad to drive — at least not in Vantage or GT form — but
with those lines it should have been a landmark. And it never even approached that
status.

It was ever thus. Aston Martin’s history is peppered with cars that have failed to live up
to their visual billing: the DB6, DBS, V8 and Virage (to name but some) all said one
thing and then did something different and rather less special.

The form guide for the new £103,000 DB9 suggested much the same. Cursed by having
to follow the DB7, the most beautiful car of the late 20th century, and billed by its
creators as more cruiser than bruiser — a tourer no less — it bore all the hallmarks of
another gorgeous, slightly disappointing Aston.

Walk past its derivative but still achingly beautiful exterior, though, and settle yourself
behind its thick-rimmed wheel and you sense at once that today is going to be different.
Unlike all Astons of late, with this model the designers have tried as hard on the interior
as they have on the exterior. The car I drove featured swathes of bamboo, living
harmoniously with great chunks and slabs of aluminium.

Under the bonnet you will find the same 6 litre V12 motor that powered the DB7 Vantage
and continues to serve in the Vanquish. In this guise it develops 450bhp, a figure that
Jeremy Main, its chief engineer, says could easily have been 600bhp, but they were not
prepared to sacrifice its flexibility when the DB9 is meant to be the soft tourer — it’s that
word again — of the Aston family.

Some tourer. Thumb the start button and the V12 snarls back as if you had prodded a
sleeping tiger. All the DB9s at the car’s launch in the hills above Nice last week were
automatic but with paddles behind the steering wheel as well, so you just tug the right-
hand paddle towards you, press the throttle and ease away.

A very few cars — but no Aston in my experience — feel right from the moment they
move and I knew within yards that I was in the presence of greatness. You often don’t
need to be flat out or on the limit to spot it, and in the DB9 the way the steering felt in my
hands, the control of the suspension and the liquid smoothness of the engine were enough
to start my heart racing. This Aston, at last, felt like it was going to deliver.
And so it did. By ultimate standards it’s not that quick, though few will quibble with its
sub-5sec 0-60mph dash or a top speed of 186mph. But the contemptuous ease with which
the DB9 tackled some of Europe’s most challenging roads, while both thrilling and
reassuring its driver, imparted a sense of occasion I rarely feel in any car, let alone one
whose dynamic prowess has been downplayed by its creators. ()

The engine may lack the punch of a Ferrari V12 but its sound is such you find yourself
looking for tunnels just so you can drive through them. The gearbox is the same six-speed
auto used by Audi, Jaguar, BMW, Bentley and others and was the world’s best self-
shifter before Aston somehow made it even better. Use the paddles and you could almost
forget there was no mechanical link between engine and gearbox, but slip it into “D” and
it will change gear by itself noiselessly and seamlessly.

But even these superlative features are mere supporting acts to the tour de force that is the
DB9’s chassis. Supple enough to provide ride comfort absolutely in keeping with the
grand touring aspirations of its creators, it also contrives to offer a level of body control
and response to make many outright sports cars look incompetent by comparison.

If the DB9 trips up at all, it is in the provision of those qualities needed to live up to its
grand touring billing: the rear seats are a joke and should be regarded as emergencies for
small children or, more likely, extra space to complement the distinctly small boot. Even
in the front, anyone more than 6ft tall is going to be decidedly snug.

Other quibbles include some rather inconvenient switchgear, dials that are difficult to
read and steering that weights up too much once you turn from the straight-ahead
position.

But quibbles are all they are. Taken as a whole, the DB9 is a masterpiece and an Aston
that finally fulfils the promise of its looks. Its creators may regard it as a tourer, but
happily for all those who have waited so long for a truly great Aston Martin, the DB9 has
other ideas about that. A Vanquish is quicker, but if you are looking for the very
embodiment of what a 21st-century Aston Martin should be, you have just found it.

I’d advise those with early orders who are tempted to sell their place in the queue to
realise a quick buck, not to even to sit in their car. If parting with one this good-looking is
likely to prove difficult, drive it up the road and you’ll not stand a chance.

VITAL STATISTICS

Model: Aston Martin DB9

Engine type: V12, 5935cc
Power/Torque: 450bhp @ 6000rpm / 420 lb ft @ 5000rpm
Transmission: Six speed semi-automatic, rear-wheel drive
Tyres: 235/40 ZR 19 (f), 275/35 ZR 19 (r)
Fuel/CO2: 17.1mpg (combined) / 394g/km
Performance: 0 to 60mph: 4.9sec / top speed: 186mph
Price: £103,000
Verdict: Expect queues outside Aston dealers for years to come
Rating:

THE OPPOSITION

Model: Bentley Continental GT (£110,000)

For: Great looks, every day usability, good value
Against: Two-year waiting list, horrendous fuel consumption

Model: Ferrari 612 Scaglietti (£170,500)

For: Huge performance, presence
Against: Expensive, neither the prettiest Ferrari nor the best to drive

What is it about gullwing doors? Doc Brown’s time-travelling DeLorean in the Back to
the Future films probably has a lot to answer for, but it was the Mercedes-Benz 300 SL
that first introduced the concept back in 1954.

The original Gullwing was a road-going spin-off of the company’s 1952 Le Mans-
winning racer, built at the behest of Max Hoffman, the car maker’s flamboyant US
importer, for sale to a showbiz crowd. Those distinctive doors were a function of the
car’s rigid, race-bred chassis rather than stylistic frippery.

Now, some 55 years later, Mercedes has dusted down one of its most fascinating designs
for a new supercar, the SLS. Invoking the memory of its famous relative is a risky move
but after a day spent hammering a prototype round the world’s most notorious circuit —
the Nürburgring’s fearsome 13-mile Nordschleife — it’s clear the SLS opens up a new
chapter in the company’s history books. This is one hell of a car.

It’s also the first to be developed from a clean sheet of paper by Mercedes’ high-
performance AMG “skunkworks”, the outfit that’s been tuning Mercs since the late
1960s. Apparently granted carte blanche by the board, AMG’s engineers have given the
SLS a host of memorable firsts. Its chassis is a lightweight aluminium spaceframe that
tips the scales at an impressively light 531lb.

The suspension setup is a double-wishbone made of aluminium, reducing the weight

further. And there’s a new seven-speed dual-clutch gearbox that offers no fewer than four
different modes: controlled efficiency (a typically Germanic way of saying “normal”),
sport, sport plus and manual, which cedes full gearchanging duties to the driver via
column-mounted paddles.

Every AMG engine is hand-built, and bears the signature of the person responsible. It’s a
nice touch and a reminder that, even in the age of mass production, a seriously high-
performance internal combustion engine remains a work of craftsmanship. This one is a
6.2-litre normally aspirated V8, similar to the one found in the latest Mercedes E 63
saloon. But given that the SLS version features 120 design changes, you can understand
AMG’s desire to talk it up as a bespoke unit.

Those changes have resulted in the power output being boosted from 518bhp in the E 63
to a thunderous 571bhp. The fact that the engine is mounted as low in the chassis as
possible also dramatically improves the car’s centre of gravity.

Outside, the SLS is another modern sports car for which presence apparently matters
more than prettiness. Neither retro nor ultra-modern, it fuses some old-school details with
more contemporary touches. So while the grille and side air intakes clearly reference the
original 300 SL, its defiantly wide track and aggressive stance are very 2009.

Getting inside, of course, means negotiating those theatrical doors. The best bet is to sit
on the car’s fat sills and reach up to pull the door shut on your way in. Trying to close
them once you’re cocooned in the car is a serious stretch, even for a six-footer.
Employing an electric motor to close them was rejected because the mechanism would
have added 110lb to the car’s 1.6-ton kerb weight.

Inside the SLS’s cabin the aluminium-ringed circular air vents and instruments could
easily have been jetted in from the 1950s, but are none the worse for that. Elsewhere,
there’s a state-of-the-art multimedia system and a handsome flat-bottomed steering
wheel. Even the prototype I’m driving is fabulously well made.

There’s an overriding sense of purpose, and like all properly designed performance cars,
it feels tailored to fit.Good job too. The Nordschleife is a scary enough place at the best
of times, never mind when you are behind the wheel of a precious prototype Mercedes.
Yet it takes only three corners to work out that this is a supremely well sorted car. Unlike
the heroically fast but deeply flawed Mercedes SLR McLaren, the SLS has the most
beautifully calibrated steering and precisely modulated brakes.

Once you’ve established that it’s going to go exactly where you want it to when you turn
the wheel, you can stop worrying so much about whether the next corner goes left or
right, and start enjoying the SLS’s fantastic turn of speed and balance. Suddenly, you can
feel its low centre of gravity and optimal weight distribution. The evidence is in SLS’s
combination of grip, roadholding, ride comfort and body control. It’s also ferociously
fast: it’ll hit 62mph in 3.8sec and on the Ring’s two-mile back straight I see an indicated
192mph.

Mercedes has big plans for the SLS. AMG is planning an all-electric version with
lithium-ion batteries. The prototype has a range of about 140 miles and takes eight hours
to recharge. Whether it will hit the market remains to be seen, but if it does, it should
blast the Tesla electric roadster into the weeds.

For now, though, the old-world, fossil-fuel version will be taking on all comers. At an
estimated £140,000, the SLS arrives next spring primed to take the fight to the new
Ferrari 458 Italia and, more poignantly, the impeccably engineered McLaren MP4-12C.
Age-old rivals and estranged partners head-to-head — it’s a daunting prospect

It’s been more than 10 years since the Land Rover Freelander came to dominate the
British market for mid-sized SUVs — 10 years for Audi to design, engineer and develop
an ideal soft-roader of its own. In theory, such a car should be nothing less than brilliant.

The trouble is, the German car manufacturer has become impossible to second-guess of
late. The R8 supercar should have been terrible because Audi had shown time and again
it did not understand how to make a truly involving driver’s car. It was brilliant. On the
other hand, the new A4 should have played to all Audi’s strengths and knocked the BMW
3-series for six. In the event, it turned out to be disappointing. And, most recently, the A3
Cabriolet, a compromised conversion of an already ancient design, was always going to
be awful until it turned out to be really rather good.

So what would I have guessed about this new Q5? I’d have known that the class in which
it competes is the single most underachieving category of all, and even the very best, the
Land Rover Freelander 2 and Ford Kuga, are no more than okay. I’d have known too that
the only SUV Audi has made to date, the hulking great Q7, is definitely a car I’d avoid.
Finally, I’d have known that the Q5 used the same platform as the mediocre A4 and,
being heavier, taller and inevitably more cumbersome, shouldn’t handle nearly as well.
Before writing a review, therefore, I’d have sharpened my pen in preparation for some
acerbic commentary with confidence. And yet, contrary to every expectation, the Q5 is
the car this wholly unremarkable class has been waiting for.

Prices start at £29,950 for the 2.0 litre turbo diesel model, which will not only outsell all
other models combined but also deserves to: there’s a 2 litre petrol, which makes you
work too hard and pay too much at the pumps for its extra performance, and a 3 litre
diesel, worth avoiding for its horrid steering alone.

By contrast, the basic diesel offers an outstanding blend of pace and economy,
coupled with driving dynamics that place it at the top of the class. Its 0-62mph time of
9.5sec isn’t going to win it any drag races, but when you consider that the equivalent
Freelander takes 11.7sec, it’s clear this is a useful level of performance for a car such as
this. More useful too is the promise of 42.1mpg and impressively low CO2 emissions
(175g/km), which is likely to make it the darling of those running SUVs as company cars.

Perhaps most surprising of all, particularly given its unprepossessing A4 underpinnings,

is that the Q5 is mildly engaging to drive on a decent road, words you rarely hear about
cars in this category. It steers precisely and doesn’t lurch over brows or want to fall over
if you aim it at a quick corner: it responds as you might expect a normal car to.

It’s pretty normal inside too, as you’d expect of any Audi. The quality of the interior is
impressive, its layout logical and its operation entirely straightforward. It’s not
sumptuously spacious, but there’s more than enough room in the back and boot to service
the needs of a typical family of four and the labrador.

There is, however, a level of damnation intended in all this faint praise. For the Q5’s
abilities are only impressive relative to those of the bores that populate the SUV scene.
The elephant in the room is the fact that you could still save yourself a packet in the
showroom and at the fuel pump by buying any one of a number of conventional small
estates that would do the job better. You could, for instance, buy a BMW 320d SE
Touring, which hits 62mph in 8.1sec rather than 9.5sec, does 57.6mpg compared with
42.1mpg, emits just 131g/km of CO2 instead of 175 and has a top speed of 142mph, not
126mph. And the BMW is so much better to drive that any further comparison is
meaningless.

While people continue to care more about status, however, and are prepared to pay
through the nose for the privilege of sitting above the riffraff, we must compare like with
like, and if we do that with the Q5, it enters its class at the very top. A BMW X3 is too
ugly and flawed (the ride is harsh, the interior poorly laid out and the build quality not up
to BMW’s usual standard), the more characterful Freelander too slow, and as for Ford’s
impressive new Kuga, it desperately needs a more powerful diesel. When it gets one later
this year, the Q5 may have a convincing opponent to deal with; for now, however, it’s out
on its own.

The only proviso is off-road performance. I didn’t have the opportunity to test the Q5
thoroughly in this environment, though I look forward to doing so. The chances are that
without the Freelander’s chassis and terrain response system, which allows you to adapt
power and suspension settings to suit tarmac, snow, mud or sand, the Q5 would struggle
to match its Land Rover rival. But in these straitened times, prospective owners will ask
themselves the question: exactly how far off road am I really likely to take this car? The
truth, as we know, is likely to be no further than a friendly farmer’s field at the next
wedding or village fete.

Audi Q5 2,0 TDI SE

ENGINE 1968cc, four cylinders

POWER 168bhp @ 4200rpm

TORQUE 258lb ft @ 1750rpm

TRANSMISSION Six-speed manual

FUEL /CO2 42.1mpg / 175g/km

PERFORMANCE 0-62mph: 9.5sec

TOP SPEED 126mph

PRICE £29,950

ROAD TAX BAND E (£170 a year)

RELEASE DATE September

VERDICT A new class champion

Worth considering

BMW X3 2.0d SE £29,715

For Excellent engine gives great performance, mpg and emissions

Against Looks awkward inside and out; poor ride quality

Land Rover Freelander 2 £28,995

For Good-looking; exceptional off road; big boot; great image

Against Performance, mpg and emissions now off the class pace

The car you see here may well be the future of high-performance motoring. It can exceed
186mph, shoots from 0-62mph in 4.2sec and will carry a price tag that’s a match for a
Ferrari or an Aston. The big difference between those cars and it, however, is that this is a
diesel. In an audacious move that would have seemed sheer fantasy just a few years ago,
Audi has created the world’s first diesel-powered roadgoing supercar – the R8 TDI. But
in view of the fact that diesel-powered Audi racers have driven to victory at Le Mans for
two consecutive years now, this isn’t so fantastical.

This concept car is based on the production Audi R8, and looks little different from it.
Seen from the front, though, it’s obvious that it has deeper air intakes at either side of the
radiator grille, and with its slotted air vents the TDI’s rear end is more dramatic. Squint at
the car side-on, and you’ll also notice the addition of decorative aluminium strips along
the door sills.

Then there’s the big duct mounted in the roof. This is needed because the twin-turbo
engine has two intercoolers, which the side vents, that normally feed air to the engine, are
redirected to supply. Audi’s engineers had to find another way of sending air to the
engine, and the roof duct is their solution to the problem.

The TDI’s headlights are also different, and of the LED type. Audi claims this is a world
first, and intends to make the lamps available as an option on the petrol R8 later this year.
The light from LED lamps is said to be much closer to daylight, and makes night-driving
less tiring.

It’s the engine, however, that really sets this supercar apart. Usually I associate
“diesel” with the smell that hangs over Dover docks or the asthmatic clatter of London’s
black cabs, but not with supercars. The decision to go for diesel power tends to be one
made with the head rather than the heart.

Of course, this diesel engine, a development of the Le Mans-winning V12, is no ordinary

one. From its six litres it develops 500bhp and 738 lb ft of torque. Although this might is
shunted through a six-speed manual gearbox, Audi reckons a production TDI would more
likely use a seven-speed sequential box. Naturally, the drivetrain is quattro 4x4.

The R8 TDI’s cabin is surprisingly spacious, and the fascia includes an instrument cluster
that is unique to the diesel. The glass roof makes for a light and airy environment,
although production models are unlikely to have it.

I stood behind the TDI as a colleague fired it up, and while the visual cues of brutal
exhausts and myriad vents made me expect Wagnerian noises sufficient to blow me off
my feet, the reality was more Enya than Wagner – a high-pitched giggle from the starter
followed by a soft-edged whirring. Big particulate filters in the exhausts muffle much of
the aural fury, and do their job well as there was no hint of diesel smoke visible either at
startup or at any other time.

I chuckled at the absence of drama when the big diesel murmured gently to itself once I’d
stabbed the red starter button. I was amazed at how refined this engine is, and how
responsive it is to the throttle. It didn’t feel in the least like a diesel, and the sound inside
the cabin was more a turbine-like hum than the roughness I’d expected. It was anything
but unpleasant and nothing announced the engine’s oil-burning roots, while the massive
torque (limited in this instance to 369 lb ft, but that’s still huge) allowed me to pull away
at as little as 500rpm with no judders or bunny-hops.

Audi’s insistence that we keep to a maximum speed of 50mph very much limited the road
test, yet my drive was enough to reveal that the TDI lacks one crucial supercar trait – the
ability to reach the heady rev-ceiling of a powerful petrol engine (the TDI calls time at
5000rpm). Rev a Ferrari F430 beyond 7000rpm for the first time, and I swear that sound
will remain with you for ever. By comparison, the TDI’s visceral impact is not nearly so
memorable, although Audi says it is working on improving the engine’s aural qualities.

So what is the purpose of this diesel? Audi says it will return a combined-cycle fuel
consumption of 28.5mpg and will therefore be a supercar that is CO2-friendly. Supercar
drivers will no doubt respond with a “So what?”, but Audi is confident that customers
will flock to the TDI, attracted by its huge torque and the fact that it will be considerably
quicker than its V8 sibling despite a 110kg weight penalty. And let’s face it, its
uniqueness in the supercar domain will make for fascinating conversation.
Audi will decide this summer whether to put the R8 TDI into production, but already
customers are queueing to put down a deposit.

Vital statistics

Model Audi R8 TDI Le Mans

Engine type 5934cc, 12 cylinders, twin turbodiesel

Power/Torque 500bhp @ 4500rpm / 738 lb ft @ 1750rpm

Transmission Six-speed manual

Fuel/CO2 28.5mpg / 250g/km

Performance 0-62mph: 4.2sec / Top speed: 186mph-plus

Road tax band G (£300 for 12 months)

Price tba

Verdict Another mad concept from the Veyron people

Rating

Date of release: 2010 (estimated)

The opposition

Model Lamborghini Gallardo £126,350

For Sensational 520bhp V10, fabulous dynamics

Against Getting long in the tooth, big blind spots to rear

Model Ferrari F430 £129,000

For Race-bred heritage, real sense of occasion

Against Draws a bit too much attention

Clarkson on: Norfolk

Not that long ago, I pulled in for petrol at a garage in Norfolk. The man behind the
counter, who looked a bit like a turnip, only with ears, took my credit card, popped it in
the till, shut the drawer and moved on to serve the next customer.
Strange. This was a service station, on a main road, in the 1990s. So how was it possible
for one of the employees to be unfamiliar with how a credit card worked? Plainly, he’d
never seen one before which made me suggest, out loud, that Norfolk is not the sort of
place where they point and say “Ooh look. A Mercedes AMG65SL Black”. Instead they
said “Ooh look. A car”.

Of course, this made me the Antichrist in Britain’s vegetable garden, which is a shame
because I like Norfolk. I like the way there are sex shops on every roundabout. I love the
drainage system. I love the big skies. I go there every year to shoot pheasants in the face,
and I like that too.

What I emphatically do not like, however, is the sheer impossibility of getting there. Over
the years, I’ve tried every single route, but it always ends the same way. Doing 35mph
behind a lorry carrying bits for a grain store or, more usually those Sainsbury’s internet
shopping trucks which don’t say on the side – but should – “You Shop. We Get In Your
Effing Way”.

In 2005, there were 824,000 people living in Norfolk, and that’s not counting the eight
million illegal workers from Estonia and China who can’t be counted properly because
no one from the Home Office can get beyond Cambridge before they die of old age.

Whatever. The upshot is I’m not talking here about a small village that’s cut off. I’m
talking about a million people who are physically barred by crap roads from entering
England. And I’ve decided that to help out, large chunks of Leicester need to be flattened.

Usually, when I go to Norfolk, I go through Northampton, but as this is the worst

signposted city in the world I’ve given up. Stroud is bad because you always end up in
the station car park. And Basingstoke is terrible because if you try to get out, you end up
in a multi-storey, and you have to pay to leave. But Northampton is biblically awful.

Either the signposts were written by someone who was being deliberately stupid, or it
was a school project for four-year olds. The signs on half the roundabouts talk only about
local roads and industrial estates, not other towns and cities. So you almost always end
up, whether you like it or not, in Kettering, which is famous for absolutely nothing at all.
Or Wellingborough, which is famous for being nowhere near where you’re going.

So, I decided when I was in King’s Lynn last weekend that I would not be going home
on the usual crummy route. And that I’d try to find an alternative.

Before plumping for the A47, I asked a local if it was a dual carriageway. This was a
mistake because in a place where people have no understanding of credit cards, there is
no way he’d be able to grapple with the concept of a four-lane road. “Yes”, he said.

Naturally, he was wrong, and so I spent the next 400 years in a £250k SL Black doing 35
behind an endless stream of internet delivery trucks, farmyard equipment and sex
maniacs cruising the array of adult shops. Until eventually, I entered England.
 "I’m talking about a million people who are physically barred by crap
roads from entering England"

How can this be possible? The city officials must know that their city sits like a big blob
on the map separating a million Norfolkians from friends and relations in the rest of the
country. So why, in the name of Jesus, have they not built a by-pass?

Even Northampton has done this. Oh, you can’t find it and if you do you end up in
Wellingborough digging tunnels to get out again. But it’s there.

In Leicester, I kid you not, all East-West traffic – and there’s a lot of it – has to go
through housing estates, and bits of suburbia where all you can buy is monosodium
glutamate from a Chinaman and a Chuck Norris DVD from the local video store.

Not that you’re looking at the scenery, of course, because you know the entire area will
be festooned with speed cameras, so you have to dawdle along with both eyes fixed
firmly on the speedo. I may have run over half a dozen children as I passed by and if I
did, you can blame the speed limits, the cameras and the idiots who thought “Yes. We
need a ring road. But we aren’t going to build one”.

I should imagine that if you live on the choked-up streets of Leicester, you will be
nodding furiously at my suggestion, especially if your child has been run over by
someone who was forced by speed cameras to drive along looking at nothing but his
dashboard. Well you can stop nodding, because I have a plan.

There is no point expecting any help from the Government, because the Minister of
Transport is Geoff Hoon, who said recently: “We know there are weapons of mass
destruction in Iraq.”

In the last great depression, the American government mobilised the working man and
built massive projects like the Hoover Dam and the interstate network. But can you
imagine our Government doing that today? With Swampy on the loose? And an ugly bird
with a custard pie lurking on every street corner? Not a chance.

Frankly, the only way Leicester is going to get a ring road is if the locals put down their
Chinese take-aways and their Chuck Norris films and build one themselves. There is a
precedent for this...

Kalgoorlie is a mining town about six week’s fast drive from Perth in Western Australia.
And back in the Eighties, the locals were convinced it was about to be blown off the map.

Here’s why. The trucks bringing explosives for the gold and uranium mines would pass
through the town and everyone was convinced that the law of averages would soon step
into the mix and cause one of these dynamite lorries to have a crash in the town centre.
They pleaded and pleaded with officialdom, but nothing was done. So one day, the local
government people were invited, quite forcefully, to spend a long weekend in Perth. And
when they were gone, Bruce and Sheila set to work.

Using bulldozing and heavy-lifting equipment from the mines and with the women folk
bringing a non-stop supply of lemonade and cakes, the men toiled through the heat in a
scene that must have looked like a scene from the Amish film, Witness. But in just one
weekend, they had their ring road.

This is not civil disobedience. This is civil ingenuity. And it won’t just be the people of
Leicester who get involved either. They are bound to be joined by 850,000 Norfiskers
who will see the project as a much needed life line to bring them from feudalism into the
modern age. With that many on the job, they are bound to have it finished before
Swampy turns up to say they have squashed a snail.

Sadly, however, the route I have in mind for the ring road would mean the suburbs of
Oadby and Wigston would have to be removed. That would end their ambitious plans for
the Crow Mills Picnic Area. But, as Mr Spock once said – and he was a logical man – the
needs of the many outweigh the picnicking needs of the few.

Clarkson on: drinking

At home, I have a pair of Sega Rally arcade machines on which two people can race a
Lancia Delta Integrale or a Toyota Celica GT4 on a choice of rally circuits. They were
very cutting-edge 10 years ago, and in various Northern airport terminals, I note they still
are.

Obviously, because I have them at home and because it costs nothing to have a go, I am
very brilliant. I guarantee I could beat you, even if you are eight, or if you actually
designed the coded software that allows the true expert to convert their cars from four- to
much faster rear-wheel drive. And in case you don't believe me, my top 10 times sit on
the memory chip like the grouping on a sharpshooter's target. The top eight are identical.
The next two are off by just a thousandth of a second.

Here's the funny thing, though. If I have a go after drinking just one small glass of wine, I
can't even get close to my best score. I'm way off, sometimes by as much as two tenths.

It's odd. Drinking one small glass of wine does not make me feel different in any way. I
can touch my nose, get all the way through ‘Peter Piper' and balance on one foot easily.
Even our fanatically bossy government agrees. But the Sega experiment shows that even
a pipette of booze affects, noticeably, the reactions of a fully grown, sixteen-stone man.

After two bottles of wine, and some sloe vodka, I'm all over the place. Once, I was so
drunk that I was nearly half a second off the pace. And on another occasion, on the forest
stage, I actually fell asleep. And so, you should be in no doubt - especially as this is a
BBC website, and the BBC gets criticised for everything these days - I am not for a
moment going to suggest that booze doesn't affect our ability to drive. It does. The end.

However, despite this, I have decided that people should be allowed to drive a car even if
they are so completely wasted they have lost control of their bowels.

Here's why. We are human beings, which means we are naturally gregarious. We like the
company of other people, and we are nervous of loners. We imagine, correctly, that
people who enjoy their own company have a large collection of knives and dream of one
day walking into a shop and shooting all the customers.

To quench our thirst for company, the world is awash with places where people might
gather to be convivial. Pubs, clubs, restaurants, and so on. And because alcohol loosens
our inhibitions and our shyness, it is usually served in these places to get us in the mood.
A night out with friends. A few drinks. A bit of a laugh. Life simply doesn't get any
better.

But then you've got to get home and, sadly, life doesn't get any worse.

Obviously, you cannot use the bus because if you are in a city, you will have absolutely
no idea where it's going, and even if you do manage to board something going vaguely in
the right direction, someone will be sick on your trousers and then stab you in the heart
for complaining.

If you are not in the city, you can wait as long as you like at the bus stop. But nothing
will come by till the morning, by which time you will have died from hypothermia. The
upshot, then, is that everyone who attempts to use a bus ends up covered in sick and dead,
or just dead.

A cab? Again, there's a split. In the city, there are any number of companies who will
take you home, provided you don't mind being raped on the way. In the countryside,
there are no cabs at all.

“Drinking one small glass of wine does not make me feel different in any
way. But the Sega experiment shows that even a pipette of booze affects
my reactions”

Where I live, near a small market town in the Cotswolds, I could ring for a taxi at 11pm
tonight and pretty much guarantee it won't arrive until October. By which time, even if
I've had a very heavy night on the sauce, I can pretty much guarantee I'll be sober enough
to drive.

So, if you don't want to be raped or murdered, the only way of getting home is in your
car. But if you do that, you will either hit a tree and be killed, or you will be stopped by
the constabulary. You will then lose your licence and your family, who will leave
because you have no job and therefore no money.
The upshot is that you can either stay at home and collect knives, or you can go out and
not drink. In which case, you will be boring, your friends will soon not want to see you
anymore and, pretty soon, you will be alone, in your attic, downloading pictures of
dismembered dogs and dreaming of the day when you can run amok with an AK47.

Many years ago, I developed a solution to the problem; in short, it goes like this. If you
have been out and you've had some drinks, you are allowed to drive home, but only if
you place a green flashing light on the roof of your car.

And here's the clever bit. If you are driving with the light flashing, then you are limited to
a top speed of 10mph.

Think about it. Normal sober people will see you weaving down the road toward them,
they will clock the light and they will know, whether they are on foot or in a car, that you
are drunk and that they should give you a wide berth.

Because you are going so slowly, they will have plenty of time to make the necessary
adjustments, and what's more, even if you do hit a bus shelter or a tree, you will cause
very little damage.

Thanks, then, to the green-light system, you would get home without being raped or
murdered; what's more, the next day, your car would be outside your house, and not 15
miles away outside a country pub.

There is, however, one further feature in my plan. If you are caught drink-driving with no
light on the roof, you will be shot, in the head and on the spot by a police executioner. If
the government is going to introduce a fair and sensible system for getting you home
safely, in your car, the least you can do is play ball. So it's instant death for people who
don't.

Likewise, anyone found travelling at more than 10mph with a green light on their roof
will have a brown paper bag put over their head and be bludgeoned to a lifeless pulp. If
you are sober enough to remember the light and get the key in the ignition, you are sober
enough to keep your speed down. There is no excuse.

I believe that if my system were employed, the number of pubs closing down - at the
moment, one is shutting for good somewhere in the country every four hours - would be
cut dramatically. I also believe more people would be inclined to go out at night, which
would make the country a happier, more civilised place. This, in turn, would reduce the
chances of there being another Hungerford.

Plainly, then, there are no drawbacks to my idea, but sadly it can never be implemented
for three reasons. Firstly, allowing people to do something they were not previously
allowed to do is not the government way. Nothing ever gets un-banned. Secondly, with
no drink-drive laws, there would be a reduction in fines received by the exchequer. And
thirdly, the more people who can be excluded from the roads, the better it is for the
government's much-publicised drive to remove the terrifying scourge of carbon dioxide
from the upper atmosphere.

Pity.

You might expect, given that this new Audi S8 is powered by a V10 engine normally
found in a Lamborghini, that this is going to be a tale of statistical superlatives, of
mindbending speed and awe-inspiring abilities. But it’s not, for that is not the Audi way.
The S8 may have 444bhp, but expect it to explode down the road like, say, a Mercedes S
55 AMG and you’re going to feel sorely let down. And expect it to handle like that other
V10 über-saloon, the BMW M5, and you won’t feel much better.

So forget right now any notion that this is a supercar that just happens to have four doors
and a big boot, for it is nothing of the sort. Yes, it will hit 62mph in 5.1sec and accelerate
hard to its 155mph speed limiter, but in the 21st century these are increasingly everyday
figures and a poor guide to the appeal of this new car.

The most important thing to know about the S8 is that all those things that make the
standard A8 such an attractive proposition have been retained or enhanced. For all its
extra speed I could detect no degradation in either ride or refinement: this is a car that
recognises that, Lambo motor or not, it remains an executive saloon. There’s the same
exquisite interior, albeit with sports seats and carbon fibre trim, the same MMI operating
system that still makes all others look flawed and fiddly, and the same spacious cabin.

What it adds, as well as the 5.2 litre motor, is specially stiffened suspension, optional
ceramic brakes, a purposeful grille and those beautiful, vast 20in wheels. Its quattro four-
wheel-drive system has also been re-engineered so that instead of the engine splitting its
power equally between the front and rear wheels, the split has a 60/40 rearward bias to
counter a stream of criticism from people like me who say that all Audis feel nose-heavy.

It still feels nose-heavy. In fact, now I think of it, it feels just plain heavy. When you add
the weighty four-wheel-drive system to that vast motor, you have the thick end of two
tons of car.

Like all big, heavy cars the S8 needs space and lots of it if its true talents are to shine
through and, on a dull winter’s day in the industrial north of Germany, space was a
wretchedly scarce commodity. But I did find an autobahn long, straight and deserted
enough to know that an unrestricted S8 would fly past 180mph and that the V10 engine
is, like the car itself, an understated masterpiece. In a Lamborghini Gallardo it howls and
roars like any true supercar should, but it has been slightly detuned for the S8, despite
being enlarged from 5 to 5.2 litres.

But while its bite is a little blunter and its bark rather more muted, so it is also much more
flexible and suited to a large saloon. And with a paddle-shift auto flicking through its
ratios faster than I could change gear by hand it feels quick enough to satisfy most tastes.

Of course I’d rather drive a BMW M5, particularly as its V10 has more power, more
gears and a price tag more than £6,000 below the £70,000 that Audi estimates the S8 will
cost when sales start in June. But the S8 is more closely aligned to the 7-series BMW,
and there’s not one of those I’d even look at before stepping smartly into the Audi.

As for Mercedes-Benz, we have yet to see any AMG versions of the new S-class, but I
recently spent a week in a previous-generation 500bhp S 55, and while its performance
appeared to be dramatically superior to the S8’s I don’t think it was enough to justify the
£20,000 price gap.

Besides, I’d be amazed if the Audi proves anything less than fabulous to own. It’s the
best looking executive car on the market and that’s something you’ll always feel good
about. It is calm and soothing, yet when you press the start button and hear the uneven
beat of the V10 as it comes to life, it is special, too. These may not be the attention-
grabbing talents you might expect from such a car but, take it from me, they are no less
compelling for that.

VITAL STATISTICS

Model Audi S8 quattro

Engine type 5204cc, V10
Power/Torque 444bhp @ 7000rpm / 398 lb ft @ 3500rpm
Transmission Six-speed automatic
Fuel/CO2 21.0mpg (combined cycle) / 322g/km
Performance 0-62mph: 5.1sec / Top speed: 155mph (electronically limited)
Price £70,000 approx
Verdict Compelling, in an understated Audi way
Rating 3/5

THE OPPOSITION

Model Jaguar XJR £61,995

For Lightweight aluminium construction, fine ride quality
Against Its design looks 20 years old

Model Mercedes S 55 AMG £89,745

For Massive performance
Against Massive fuel consumption

Clarkson on: the future

Subtlety works in a book. You can go back and re-read a passage to savour all the stuff
that isn't there, all the hidden meaning and innuendo. It doesn't work, however, on a crash
bang wallop show like Top Gear, which is why almost no one seems to have understood
the significance of finishing our last run of 2008 with a Honda Clarity.

You might have thought it a bit earnest - you should have seen the 45-minute techno
explanation James had planned - and you might have wondered why on earth we should
finish a show which featured caravan jumps, BTCC crashes, Richard in an ill-fitting hat
and Will Young with that straight, dry look at the Clarity.

Simple. We were trying to be subtle. We were trying to demonstrate that this is the most
important car since the car was invented. That, with one stone, Honda has bagged a left
and a right on the big problems facing modern society. It addresses the question of what
we will do when the oil runs out, and it shuts up those who would have us believe cars
are melting the ice caps. In short, and with all the subtlety removed, the Clarity means we
can sleep a lot more easily.

And what's more, since it produces only water from its exhaust, there is no earthly reason
why you should not plug it into your house at night and use its motor to power all your
electrical items. All of them. Even if you live in a palace. It really is, we think, the
solution to everything.

Unfortunately, it is very difficult to make hydrogen. There is currently no infrastructure

for either transporting it or selling it. And the Clarity, if we're honest, is only Genesis. We
will need to get through Exodus, Deuteronomy, Numbers and the entire Old Testament
before you can buy and run such a thing, practically and for a reasonable price in
Wakefield.

Ordinarily, all these problems could be solved with money. But the one thing the car
industry does not have right now is that. And nor will it have any for the foreseeable
future. Other industries? It's hard to think of one. The oil companies are muddling
through as I write, their liquid gold selling for just $50 a barrel. And if anyone else feels
inclined to invest, they are going to find the banks are not lending. In short, and with no
subtlety at all this time, money is the one thing the world does not have.

And so it seems likely the car firms will opt for the easier, cheaper option of making
stupid hybrids, like the Prius, which all right-thinking people can tell are nothing more
than a complicated way of making people ‘feel' like they are making an effort. We know,
as readers of a car website, that they are doing no such thing. Hybrids are power-hungry
when they are being made, and environmentally devastating when they are being
scrapped. And in-between times, they do, at best, 45mpg.

Making a hybrid to stave off disaster is like replacing a broken window pane with a sheet
of polythene. Yes, it makes the room feel all snuggy and warm again, but you're still
going to get burgled. You need a replacement for the empty space? You need hydrogen?
But that's expensive. And you don't have any money. And you won't have any until
people start buying your wares again. Which they can't because they don't have any
money either. And if they have, they are not going to spend it, because the Daily Mail
will say they are smug, and extravagant, and that they will give women breast cancer.

I fear therefore that, for the time being, there will be no great leap forward. There will be
no revolution. The hybrids will continue to be bought by misguided fools, the Clarity will
continue to dribble about in California, and the car as we know it will soldier on
unchanged.

However, I do believe that they will become more boring. In the last few years, we've had
a call almost every week from some bloke saying he's made a two-inch-high, £8 million
V48 car, and would Stig like to take it round our track.

"Away from the wide open spaces of the TG test track, a Fiat 500 is much
more fun to drive than a Zonda"

We've had Aston Martin pricing its cars with a ‘Think of a number, then double it'
technique. We've had Lambo and Porsche working on fantastically expensive four-door
supercars. We've had Mercedes making an SL which costs £250,000, and BMW
imagining that what the world needs most of all is the magnificently daft X6. The world
has had its snout in the trough, and the car firms have been only too happy to feed us with
caviar-infused peacocks. It's been fun, if I'm honest, but now, it's over.

This needn't necessarily be a bad thing. I was wandering around London the other day,
and strangely all the flash showrooms on Park Lane looked a bit old-fashioned, a bit fat, a
bit last-week. Whereas the red and white Fiat dealership on Berkeley Square seemed to
be completely right. I wanted almost everything in it. And when they get the 500 Abarth -
which I hear will be available with a 200bhp engine in the near future - I might be
tempted to actually go inside and do some buying.

This is going to be the trick the car makers must, and will, pull off. They are going to
have to take their bread-and-butter Pandas and, with a splash of paint here and a dash of
the designer's brush there, make them a lot more desirable.

I'll let you into a little secret. In the real world, away from the wide open spaces of the
Top Gear test track, a Fiat 500 is much more fun to drive than a Zonda. A Zonda will pull
more men, but on a bumpy B road, you'll be wearing a bigger smile in the Fiat, I promise.
Or a Mini. Or if they can zanify the Fiesta, a baby Ford.

In the not too distant future, cars like this will become the norm for enthusiastic drivers,
in the same way that in the early Eighties people were selling their Gordon-Keebles and
Bentleys to buy a Golf GTi. And instead of dreaming of the day when you can have a
Gallardo or a Scuderia, you will tone your aspirations down to something like the new
BMW Z4.

This, it seems to me, is about as right for today as the X6 is wrong. Twelve months ago,
which seems as far away as the 19th century, the Z4 was hopeless. People put its small
sales down to the curious styling, which is probably true, but I reckon the main reason it
didn't sell is because it was too cheap. Customers were walking into the showroom to buy
a four and coming out with a six. Because why not?

The new model is as well-proportioned as the old one, though now a lot of the
strangeness is gone. It's very handsome. It also has a metal folding roof. And, of course,
it's a BMW, which is OK these days, because the cocks are now buying Audi TTs
instead.

Strange, isn't it? The changes to the Z4 are welcome but fairly superficial in the big
scheme of things. You might even call them subtle. Really, it has stayed the same, and
the world has changed. We used to dream about shagging a supermodel, whereas now
we've sort of grown up and realised that, actually, we'd be better off dreaming of
shagging the girl next door.

Two years ago, we'd have dismissed the Z4 as a bit dull. Now though... I'm yearning.

Before I continue, I must declare an interest. I loved Bentleys from the moment I could
read. My friends had the Famous Five, but I read about the antics of the Bentley Boys. A
diamond millionaire, racehorse breeder, powerboat racer, Surrey wicketkeeper, three-
time winner at Le Mans . . . and that was just Woolf Barnato.

Another, Glen Kidston, survived a plane crash by punching his way through the burning
fuselage and broke the record for flying from London to Cape Town. A third, Sir Henry
“Tim” Birkin, raced in a polka-dot scarf and died from septicaemia, having burnt his arm
on his car’s exhaust during the Tripoli Grand Prix.

Bentleys were what this extraordinary assortment of playboys, part-time race drivers and
full-time heroes chose to drive, and what earned them their collective nickname.

Drive a Bentley from their era and you’ll know why. They are heavy, difficult, noisy and
uncomfortable but, on the right road, uniquely thrilling.

The latest £222,500 Bentley Azure, a largely hand-built four-seat open tourer, is the
closest thing we have to the leviathans raced by the Bentley Boys almost 80 years ago.
But difficult, noisy, uncomfortable and thrilling it most certainly is not, and its driver is
more likely to have won the lottery than Le Mans.

That’s not to say it’s a car without merit. To those who fear Bentley is turning into the
footballers’ department of Volkswagen, it is as refreshing and inspiring as a traditional
luxury convertible can be.

The interior is trimmed with slabs of walnut as standard, but if there’s a particular tree in
your garden you’d like to see on your dashboard instead, Bentley will send someone
round with an axe. Similarly, if you’d rather something other than a cow gave up its skin
for you to sit on, that’s no problem. They’ve already upholstered cars with hides from
buffalo to ostrich, and so long as you’re prepared to pay they will consider anything
that’s not endangered. Lizard, anyone? Once inside, you fire the engine and instead of the
VW-designed motor used in lesser Bentleys you spark into life a 6.75 litre V8 engine
which has so much torque at so few revs that its gearbox has just four ratios — the new
Lexus LS 460 has eight — and needs no more. It has so much power it will propel this
2.7-ton beast to 60mph in 5.9sec and all the way to 168mph.

And if you decide to drive it on its doorhandles as any true Bentley Boy would, you’ll
find the Azure surprisingly tolerant. For something so large it handles quite well and is so
well mannered that if you turn the traction control off and hurl it into a corner it’ll
register its objection not by throwing you off the road but by quietly setting fire to its rear
tyres.

But for all the speed, this is a million miles away from being a truly sporting Bentley. So
it’s best just to let the Azure glide, for this is a car that’s as elegant wafting gently along
as it is parked at some fashion hotspot. Its deportment is flawless and it rides well enough
for everyday bumps that might make a less well-engineered convertible shake appear not
to exist.

There’s little buffeting from the wind with the roof down and even less noise from it
when, 26sec after you’ve made the request, the roof latches into place. If you’re doing
less than 20mph, you don’t even have to stop.

Of course £222,500 is a ridiculous price to pay for such a car, not least when for the same
money you could have a Mercedes S-class limo, a Ferrari F430, a Caterham CSR and
some change. But Azure owners don’t think like this: Bentley’s research shows they
already each have between five and 12 cars. However, what they won’t have is a new
luxury convertible capable of carrying four adults in comfort because, until the Azure
came along, one didn’t exist.

It may be crazily expensive, disastrously thirsty and, by ultimate standards, neither that
fast nor fun to drive. But it is unique and, in this era of ever increasing automotive
conformity, that counts for a lot. Of that at least the Bentley Boys would have been
proud.

THE OPPOSITION

Model Aston Martin DB9 Volante £115,850

For World’s best looking convertible, sounds amazing
Against Fiddly dash, not as good to drive as the coupé

Model Mercedes-Benz SL 65 AMG £148,955

For Comically fast, folding hard top, practicality
Against Very expensive, lacks image of Aston or Bentley

Clarkson on: living the dream

You join me backstage during the Birmingham leg of the Top Gear Live world tour. It is
very noisy because a bus, built on a Nascar chassis and powerplant is practising its donuts
in the arena. It's visually displeasing too, because James is sitting in a massage chair,
wobbling like he's been boned and Hammond is completing the misery by playing
Westlife songs, endlessly, on the jukebox he insisted we have to while away the down
time.

I agreed to do this tour because I thought, aged 48, it would give me a taste of what life
might have been like if I'd practised the piano more earnestly and become a rock star. I
imagined we'd be zipping from continent to continent in a blizzard of cocaine, naked
women and smashed hotel rooms. Sadly, it's not working out quite how I imagined.

Yes, we have invented a new game. It's called Celebrity Escape From Richard
Hammond's Bathroom, and the rules are very simple. You go into his bathroom, tuck the
end of the loo roll into the back of your trousers and see how far you can get through the
hotel before it snaps.

We have also tried this on an aeroplane - and I'd like to apologise to the passengers we
woke up - but it works best in a hotel because then, while waiting for your turn, you can
go through all the rooms in Hammond's suite, buying pornography on every one of his
numerous televisions. This makes him very embarrassed when the time comes to check
out, especially if you've kicked the lavatory roll dispenser off the wall because that way
you can travel further - often into the lift and down several floors - before the paper
breaks.

We have also been very careful to ensure that all sorts of silly things are included in our
riders. As a result, all the girls that look after us are over six feet tall and we have many
big pots of M&Ms on every flat surface - with all the blue ones taken out. This idea was
stolen, apparently, from Bon Jovi. We also have a sit down PlayStation game loaded with
Gran Turismo 5, and all the cars. Not just a handful of useless Hyundais.

Then there's Hammond's jukebox, James's massage chair and my Winnebago, which is
very large and extremely ostentatious. I like to sit in it, as I am doing now, looking
through the tinted glass at the vast army of ‘roadies' who busy themselves between shows
repainting damaged cars, recharging the pyro systems, and generally ensuring the multi-
million pound extravaganza is ready to roll again in an hour.

In many ways then, this is rock-star living. We finish at night, get drunk, go to bed late,
wake up with hangovers and get up the next day ready to do it all over again. I have even
taken to calling the show's promoter from time to time to tell him that the loo seat in my
'bago's bathroom is the wrong colour and that the space invader game he's provided
doesn't have asteroids on it. Silly things. Spoilt child things. He wanted to know what it
might have been like to have been Harvey Goldsmith in the glory days. So it's sort of my
duty to fill him in.
Tonight, we've even arranged to go and get trashed with the lead singer from another
band. He's called Tiff Needell from ‘Fifth Gear', a million-selling outfit on the Five
record label, and he's in Birmingham to do some voiceover work on the new album
which is released every Tuesday night at eight. In a beehive.

"All the girls that look after us are over six feet tall and we have many big
pots of M&Ms on every flat surface"

And yet, despite all the trappings, our life on the road feels about as rock and roll as a
Pam Ayres poetry reading. Because the fact is that, at 48, it's very tiring. And I don't like
the noise of the Nascar bus. And I loathe my Winnebago, because it's full of furnishings
even a sink-estate benefit cheat would call "tacky". And now, instead of snorting drugs
from the back of a naked groupie, I'm writing this on a laptop, while wearing reading
glasses. The fact is then, I'm just too bloody old. And I'm experiencing much the same
sort of thing on the road these days.

When I look in the mirror, I'm always surprised to see the craggy, grey balding head
looking back at me. I feel 18. I think 18. But the body is 48, and no longer enjoys being
smashed to bits by suspension systems made from RSJs and bits of oak. I don't want an
exhaust system that never shuts up either.

I recently bought a Mercedes CLK. It's the black edition from the skunkworks inside the
AMG tuning house. I imagined, having tested it on the programme, that it would be a
Fender Stratocaster with windscreen wipers, that in it, I would stride the road network
like a rock god, legs apart, face contorted with a mixture of passion and concentration
into the sort of shape that would convince ordinary motorists coming the other way that I
was sucking on a lemon full of stinging nettles.

It does all this, of course. It feels like it's running on amyl nitrate, and every time you turn
it on, the four massive tailpipes shout "Hello, London". It is Bad Company.

Literally. If you try to accelerate, at all, on anything other than a completely dry surface,
the back end steps out of line in an instant, and you're doing the Spinal Tap. Oh, it may
have a limited-slip diff and a wide axle and a weapons- grade traction control system, but
there's no getting away from the fact that the team that designed this car are plainly
industrial-strength drifting enthusiasts with little or no reason to live. Jesus, it's a tricky
bastard.

So tricky that even if there's a hint of moisture in the air, and the traction control is on, it
will still kick its arse out. With it off, you will slide sideways, at extremely high speed,
and within a mile of your house, into a tree. Only when the road is bone-dry and arrow-
straight can you unleash all of the 507bhp. And only then do you get the full John
Bonham drum solo because this is a car, make no mistake, that goes all the way up to 11.
That hurts the fuel consumption, and because it is a normal CLK with a normal CLK
petrol tank, you will empty all of it, even if you are gentle with the volume knob, in less
than 150 miles.

Then there are the seats. They are deep buckets, which is great, but for some reason, the
seatbelt anchor point is in the seat itself, so it is the most enormous faff to do it up. Last
week, I had to give a lift to a fat woman whose arse was so wide she couldn't put her belt
on at all. So she had to sit there, with the seat belt delivery device waving the buckle in
her face and there was absolutely nothing she could do to make it go away. This made
conversation a bit tricky. "So you're enormous, then..."

Make no mistake. I love this car with every fibre of my being. And since it's already
worth 8p, that's a good thing, because I can't afford to sell it. I love it, in fact, as much as
I love being on tour with Top Gear Live. It's not what I want it to be, but that's only
because I'm not what I want to be, either.

Clarkson on: massage

The first person ever to give me a massage was a homosexual man in Hertfordshire. I
hated it very much, and after half an hour ended up more rigid than the table on which I
was lying.

Many years later, I gave it another try. This time, I was attended to by a German who
looked a bit like a woman, except she had claws. And what’s more, she had very
obviously learned everything she knew about massages from that nurse in Where Eagles
Dare. I emerged from the experience in great pain and vowed never to go near a massage
parlour again.

However, last month, I was in Vietnam and, as we all know, what you get there is a
nudge-nudge, wink-wink massage. There’s a lot of baby oil and pretty soon, the only
evidence that you’re in the room is one leg sticking out from a writhing tangle of slippery
twiglets. This, I figured, would be extremely enjoyable, and so I was very keen to give it
bash. I was, in fact, very keen to give it several bashes.

The first attempt didn’t go well. I was presented with a boot-faced woman who had
learned everything she knew about the human body by practising on downed American
airmen in 1968. She began by rubbing gravel into the soles of my feet, and, at one point, I
swear to God she actually tried to pull my toes off.

I was beginning to think things couldn’t get any worse. But they did. She was rubbing oil
into my legs – I think it was Castrol GTX – and with each deft upward stroke, she always
managed to stop just before she reached anything interesting. I was marvelling at this
ability when suddenly she started coming up my legs, doing that karate chop thing. And
this time, she got it slightly wrong. Instead of stopping, she went for one last slice and
slammed the side of her bony little hand into my left testicle.
The next day, I was offered a head massage, which sounded appealing. I thought it might
help uncross my eyes, but all I got for £16, was a woman sticking her fingers in my
nostrils. It was odd. I have seen Emmanuelle 2. And at no point did anyone pick Sylvia
Kristel’s nose.

Plainly, then, massage is something that everyone in the world likes, apart from me. A bit
like MASH and Little Britain. But then, I checked into a hotel called the Nam Hai, which
is just south of Da Nang. If you’re passing, it’s worth dropping in. Actually, even if
you’re not passing, it’s worth flying over there just so you are.

We are used, these days, to hotels catering for your every need. At the Sandy Lane in
Barbados, they provide a choice of lavatory paper: plain or embossed. At the Burj Al
Arab in Dubai, you get a gold-plated television. And at the Regent in Hong Kong, I came
out of the shower to find two butlers in the bathroom bearing towels and silly grins.
“We’re Randy and Randy” said one. “Good. Well you can go and be Randy and Randy
somewhere else.”

At the Nam Hai, however, they’ve gone way further than this. Each room has its own
slate grey horizon pool, in case you can’t be bothered to stagger to the central pools, both
of which are approximately the size of Holland. There is a beach, several miles long and
utterly deserted, save for a solitary lifeguard. Quite why he’s there, I don’t know, partly
because there’s no one to save and partly because you could walk two miles into the sea,
and you’d still only be up to your knees.

The rooms are decorated in a way that Roman Abramovich would describe as “plush”,
and you even get some Japanese sunbathers in gloves to laugh at. You could get so
relaxed here that your bones would melt, but that hasn’t stopped them building quite the
most astonishing spa in the whole world. Eight pagodas rise on stilts from a huge lake
which is home to a million lotus flowers. And as dusk falls, each one is illuminated by a
little tea-light.

"I was offered a head massage. All I got was a woman sticking her fingers
in my nostrils"

You are asked by possibly the prettiest girl in the entire world what sort of massage you’d
like, “Vietnamese?” she enquired with a knowing smile. “Yes,” I panted. And so I was
led to one of the pagodas where I was asked by another stupidly pretty girl if I’d like to
be naked. I declined, on the basis that she might hold out for five minutes, but anyone
asked to look at my unclothed body for a period of time will eventually vomit on it.

And so, in a pair of brown silk boxer shorts I was laid down on the table and the music
began. It sounded like Jean-Michel Jarre being played through speakers made from
honey, at half speed. With a flannel soaked in eucalyptus over my eyes, Miss Vietnam
began to rub lavender oil into my shoulders and there, on that incredible lake, at this
incredible place, I thought I might finally be discovering the joys of the proper...
Unfortunately, before I had a chance to fully descend into a lower state of consciousness,
I was gripped with a devastating need to break wind. I know that to let go is considered
polite in Belgium. James May even thinks it’s funny. But it is neither of those things in
Vietnam. And so, for nearly 50 minutes, I had to lie there, in insufferable agony.

And now, two weeks later, my shoulders feel like they’re made from wood, and I can’t
look right at road junctions. I have therefore decided that in future, I shall stick to a more
guaranteed way of unwinding: it’s called ‘wine’.

And at this point, perilously close to the end of the column, you will be wondering how
on earth I’m going to get from the massage table of a Da Nang hotel to something that
has anything to do with cars.

Easy. Because everything these days is designed to hurt. We’re told we must jog, which
is agony, or go to a gym, which is like being sent to a torture chamber. They say we must
eat lettuce rather than shepherd’s pie and that we must sit up straight. I’ve just bought a
super-modern sofa which has so many ‘contemporary’ right angles, it’s like trying to
watch television while sitting on a slide rule.

It’s the same story with cars. Everything south of the Rolls-Royce Phantom is designed to
be a thrill, to go round the Karussell at the Nürburgring just a little bit faster than the
model it replaces. And curiously, the more you pay, the less comfortable it will be.

If you buy a bog-standard S-Class Mercedes, it will be fine. Not as comfortable as it

could be, but fine nevertheless. But if you spend more – much more – on the AMG
version, it will be like riding around on a chest of drawers.

I have no objection to this. There are plenty of people who like a bone-hard ride and
exhausts like artillery pieces. But, equally, there are plenty of people over 50 who want
their car to be as relaxing as lying in a bath listening to whale song. So why, in the name
of all that’s holy, doesn’t Mercedes, or anyone for that matter, do a version with
suspension made from a blend of honey and kapok, and a gearbox that takes several
minutes to slide from third to fourth?

In short, why does everything come with a sport button? Because what I want these days
is a button that says ‘bath’.

Miami is this car’s natural habitat. That’s according to BMW, which promised me that I
would “experience the abilities of the new BMW 760Li in a typical owner’s
environment”.

Ocean Drive in South Beach was home to the late Gianni Versace and boasts a rank of art
deco hotels. Over-preserved women accompany men with too-deep tans as Ferraris and
Mercs — almost invariably convertible — crawl self-consciously past the street’s al
fresco restaurants. Three-storey private yachts wallow uncomfortably in a choppy sea.

Point taken — look in any direction here and you’ll see the trappings of colossal wealth.
An appropriate setting, then, for this BMW, which costs £78,450, nearly £19,000 more
than you’d pay for the smaller engined 745Li. The short wheelbase 760i goes for
£76,350.

For the money you gain a 445bhp 6 litre V12 engine and a long list of extras such as self-
levelling suspension, new 18in wheels, Alcantara roof lining and sunblinds for the rear
windows. So you can discreetly watch people watching you, which appears to be the
whole point of Ocean Drive.

And they do watch — the 7-series is the most controversially styled BMW saloon ever
produced, from its slightly sinister nose with hooded headlights to its oddly tall bootlid,
which looks like an afterthought.

But the one thing that the 7-series has that its rivals at Audi and Mercedes-Benz lack is
huge presence on the road, especially in long-wheelbase guise. In profile it looks like a
particularly well fed shark, complete with a menacing little fin on the roof (for the
satellite navigation and telephone).

The V12 model gets its own special visual cues, too. That traditional BMW kidney grille
is wider and has chrome slats and there are long fillets of chrome running the entire
length of the roof. There are also discreet little V12 badges on the front wings. A
particularly kitsch detail is the illuminated V12 emblem on the door sills. Very American.

To be fair to BMW, this new V12 is an engine worth bragging about. For starters it’s the
first V12 to use direct petrol injection. Engineers have been able to extract more torque
and power without making it bigger or tacking on turbochargers. This technology also
delivers better fuel economy, although a 6 litre V12 is never going to be a petrol miser —
combined fuel consumption is a claimed 20.7mpg.

This is also one of the most refined engines money can buy. At idle you really will need
to look at the tachometer to confirm that it is running. There isn’t the slightest hint of
vibration or noise.

On the go the 760Li is equally smooth and unfussed, the six-speed gearbox delivering
upshifts that are barely perceptible. Floor the throttle, though, and that mild whisper
hardens into a sharp-edged hum. That funky engine note has been acoustically engineered
to remind people that BMW is supposed to be a sporting brand, despite the cupholders
and Alcantara roof trim.

While 0 to 62mph takes a sports-car-rivalling 5.6sec, top gear is relaxed enough to

deliver 100mph at just 2500rpm. So you can have funereal or frenetic pace, depending on
the angle of your right foot.
The one thing that the Miami area cannot supply, environment-wise, is a place to confirm
the sporting side of the 760Li formula. So BMW took me to the Miami Speedway, a race
track with a combination of tight, twisting corners and open, high-speed banking. In
short, a very good place to see what the big 7-series can do in more extreme conditions.

The notion of pitching a long-wheelbase limousine sideways into a corner with its tyres
howling is, of course, absurd. But with the DSC (Dynamic Stability Control) switched
off, that’s exactly what you can do. Right up to and beyond its handling limit, the car
remains remarkably stable and easy to drive, especially with the electronically adjustable
dampers set to sport. It’s fun, too, which is quite an achievement for 2.2 tons of limo.

But the truth is that the 760Li is going to spend the vast majority of its life with the
suspension set in comfort mode. In that setting, the ride is superbly quiet with small
ridges and road patches not even registering. It is, though, a little nervous over larger
bumps and dips, especially at low speed. Not enough to put a head on your flute of
champagne, mind, but it’s not up to Mercedes S-class standards.

Inside, the 760Li offers stupendous build quality and first-rate materials. The driving
position is spot on and the seats even offer built-in air-conditioning, which feels a bit like
having Vicks VapoRub applied to your backside.

Then there is BMW’s controversial iDrive, which provides control over audio,
navigation, climate control and suspension settings through the use of a joystick on the
centre console. And more function menus than a King’s Road eatery on a Friday night. In
the long wheelbase 760Li, the rear seat passengers get their own iDrive control for the
radio, television, video and DVD player.

It all makes one feel like somebody who just might actually belong on Ocean Drive,
South Beach, Miami. Without, of course, the tan or the women.

Vital statistics

Model BMW 760Li

Engine type V12, 5972cc
Power/torque 445bhp@6000rpm/442lb ft@3950rpm
Transmission Six-speed Steptronic automatic
Suspension (front) double-joint thrust-rod spring strut axle; (rear) integral multi-arm
axle, pneumatic suspension with self-levelling
Tyres 245/50 R18
Fuel/CO2 20.7mpg (combined)/330 g/km
Co car tax £10,500 for a higher-rate tax payer
Top speed 155mph
Acceleration 0 to 62mph: 5.6sec
Price £78,450
Verdict The smoothness and refinement of the new V12 are about as good as it gets.
Goes quite quickly, too
Clarkson on: finance
Due to the unique way the BBC is run, I’m writing this several weeks before you actually
read it, so I have no idea what state the world’s finances are in. But I bet they’re not
pretty. And I bet the problems are very, very far from over. In fact, you are probably
looking at your pet goldfish right now, wondering what it would taste like...

It is extraordinary to think that in the last few weeks, Lehman Brothers, AIG, the
Bradford & Bingley, Washington Mutual, Northern Rock and Fortis – as well as two
banks in Belgium, one in Germany and one in Iceland – have all either gone, or been
Communistised.

This, in case you are eight, and you have no idea what I’m talking about, is like waking
up one morning to find Toyota, Volkswagen, General Motors, Mercedes and Renault
have all been made bankrupt. Which, I’m fairly sure is what will happen next. Along with
every other company and person and government in the world.

The problem is simple. For the last few years, most banks have been lending more money
than they have. They’ve been living in a never-never land where they could borrow a
hundred quid at three per cent interest and lend it on at five. They must have known that
one day, the whole pack of cards would come tumbling down, and so it did when some
Mexican bloke woke up one morning and thought, “Shit. I can’t afford my mortgage any
more.”

The upshot is that today, the surviving banks are extremely reluctant to lend money to
anyone. So when a pottery company in Stoke gets into trouble, the management won’t be
able to borrow their way round the problem. They’ll go bust. This means their workforce
will be made redundant, which means they won’t be able to afford to keep paying their
mortgages. Which means their houses will be repossessed by the banks, who will have to
sell them off for 50p. Because no one’s buying. And that will make the banks even less
likely to lend, and so we find ourselves into an ever-deepening spiral of recession, doom,
crime, terror and disharmony. Only James May is likely to survive, with his fire-resistant
hair and his cast-iron wardrobe.

For the next few years, you’re going to think a pork chop is the last word in decadence.
What’s more, your children will get a lump of coal for Christmas, and they will love it.
They will give it a name and play with it, like they used to play with their private parts.
Before you had to sell them in exchange for some rice.

This means Sony won’t sell any PlayStations, which means they will have to lay off their
workforce, which means the problem will spread to Japan. And China. And India. So,
thanks to the bone-idle Mexican who borrowed half a mill to buy a stupid prefab house,
the whole world has had it. You’ve already lost your savings. Soon, you will lose your
job. Then your house will go, and the only way to survive will be to murder the postman
and eat him.
As a result, no one’s going to be buying a new sofa on credit any time soon, partly
because there won’t be any credit and partly because there will be no sofa companies.
And, of course, if you can’t get a loan to buy two bits of button-backed leather and some
fire-attracting foam rubber, you sure as hell won’t be in with much of a chance of getting
a loan to buy a new car. Which is why we shall be waving goodbye to Volkswagen,
General Motors, Toyota and Renault. Ferrari? I bet they’ve gone already.

"Banks have been lending more money than they have. They must have
known one day it would all come tumbling down"

Have you seen 28 Days Later? That film where a plague kills everyone and, strangely,
removes all cars from the planet as well. Well that’s what the streets will look like. There
will be utter desolation, apart from a few eco hippies running around rejoicing because, at
last, they’ve got what they’ve wanted for so long.

Naturally, you imagine that governments won’t allow things to get this bad. Really?
Because, as I write, the debt carried by Iceland’s banks is six times higher than the
country’s entire GDP. Then there’s Ireland, which has guaranteed every saver’s deposit
account, even though a catastrophic failure of the system would leave them with a bill
three times higher than the country’s entire annual earnings.

Of course, governments could get round the problem by increasing taxes, but what’s the
point when everyone is unemployed so no one’s paying tax anyway? Or they could print
money, which will lead to massive inflation. A loaf of bread will cost £8,000 trillion, so
the £8,000 savings you took out of the bank in its last few days of solvency and hid under
the stairs is not going to be enough to buy even a paper clip, leave alone a VW Polo. It’ll
be goodbye Nissan Z car, hello Zimbabwe.

This will cause lots of governments to borrow cash which they won’t be able to repay. So
they’ll go bust as well. Which means the army won’t get any money so when civil
disobedience begins – and it will, when everyone has eaten all the postmen – there will
be no one on hand to sort it out.

Of course, because no one will have any money, no one will be buying any oil which will
cause massive pressure in Iraq, which will turn into a blood-bath as all the Middle
Eastern states pile in, and the West is unable to stop them, because America’s gone tits up
and Sarah Palin’s back in Alaska burning polar bears to stay warm. And remember, this
is all because a Mexican man chose to fill his pickup with fuel, rather than pay his bloody
mortgage bills.

Meanwhile, all schools will have closed, and the only people to survive in Britain will be
those with pigs, sheep and vegetable gardens. And guns, because at night, those without
such things will come round and try to steal yours. You may very well have to die
defending your cabbages.
The only solution, so far as I can see is to bomb, immediately and extensively, the whole
of Mexico. Not only would this be a punishment for their slap-dash accounting, but also
it would be a deterrent for those in the future who think, “Nah. I can’t be bothered to pay
off my mortgage. I’d rather buy some sweets.” We may have to shoot a few bankers too,
to bolster morale.

Of course, it is possible, I’m sure, that by the time you read this, everything has sorted
itself out. Inflation is low, Mercedes are recruiting staff to cope with demand for S
Classes, the eco hippies are back in their box, writing silly press releases about climate
change Armageddon and your kids are getting a quilted Bentley laptop case for
Christmas. In which case, I can only apologise and explain that, thanks to the unique way
the BBC is run, I wasn’t to know.

N.B. I am indebted to a chap called P. Chislett from Dover, near France, because he has
sent me a copy of the Highway Code and a note, saying, “Re your ‘attitude on Top Gear’,
I think you should read the enclosed.”

Sadly though, Mr Chislett, I have read it, and it’s full of stupidity and factual
inaccuracies. The braking distances, for instance: what did they use as a test car? A Ford
Anglia?

The BMW X6 looks like the outcome of a collision between the German company’s 6-
series coupé and the X5 off-roader. And that’s because it is, at least in design terms.
BMW claims it’s an entirely new class of car and has even given it a name – the sports
activity coupé (SAC). You may laugh but from some some angles the odd appearance
works – the X6 can look dramatic, even handsome, especially from the rear. But from
other angles it suggests something SsangYong might have knocked up for Korean
customers hooked on repeats of Dynasty.

On paper it almost shares its dimensions with the X5, and although it looks compact from
a distance it really is one of the biggest cars on the road. Not so from the inside, though: a
tapering roofline demands sacrifices of the passengers. The X6 will accommodate only
four adults in comfort as it has no occasional middle seat, and rear headroom is
compromised for anybody much over 6ft; rear vision isn’t great and luggage space is
positively tight.

The dashboard is pretty much lifted intact from the X5, but that’s a good thing. The
layout, look and feel of the fascia and the snuggly, enveloping driving position are all
typically brilliant BMW, and the cabin itself exudes an aura of high quality and solidity.

The two rear passengers each get an individual chair complete with a centre console for
drinks, and a separate armrest. It’s cosy, but if you’re as tall as me you’ll find your hair
sticking to the roof and legroom to be sadly lacking. Without doubt the best seat in the
house is up front – the one opposite the steering wheel.
BMW promised that the X6 would provide the best drive of any off-roader it has yet
created. Thus the centre of gravity is lower than the X5’s, and it has a marginally wider
rear track, both of which make it feel secure and planted. The real showstopper lies
beneath the bonnet, though, as the flagship X6 is the first BMW to use the company’s
new 4.4 litre twin-turbo petrol V8. Because it has two turbos, each supplying four
cylinders, they can be smaller and more responsive, so eliminating turbo lag, and
ultimately more power is developed from fewer cubic inches. For the record the new
engine serves up 408bhp and 442 lb ft of torque and is good for a claimed 0-62mph time
of 5.4sec and a (limited) top speed of 155mph. Power is delivered via a six-speed
automatic transmission with shift paddles at the steering wheel.

The company’s existing xDrive technology manages power distribution between front
and rear axles, but BMW has added dynamic performance control to it, which monitors
yaw, speed, steering input and lateral forces and works out how best to dish out power
between the two rear wheels. So if the car is understeering through a left-hand corner,
more torque is delivered to the offside rear wheel, which tightens the cornering line and
reins in the understeer.

It works superbly: on a wet handling circuit through a slalom course the X6 displayed an
astonishing willingness to change direction without understeering, and on a dry circuit it
was rapid and beautifully balanced.

Its engine is glorious. It makes an old-school V8 grunt that starts out guttural and, once
the rev counter has swung past 6000rpm, ends up sounding like the hammers of hell.
Regrettably the V8 won’t be available until November; from its May launch the X6 will
have the excellent 3 litre twin-turbo straight six, and two turbo diesels.

So BMW’s newest delivers on its driving promise without even needing a qualifying “for
a 4x4”. Its hybrid coupé/off-roader styling may look strained, but it is at least different.
Good though the X6 is, however, you can find a better driving experience with a number
of executive saloons (the Merc CLS leaps to mind) that also provide a stand-out
appearance.

So the X6 is a very good car, and with it BMW has cleverly carved itself a niche within a
niche. You should think long and hard about exactly why you might want one, though, as
many sacrifices must be made for that combination of nifty styling and commanding
driving position.

Vital statistics

Model BMW X6
Engine type 4395cc, V8
Power/Torque 408bhp @ 5500rpm / 442 lb ft @ 1750rpm
Transmission Six-speed automatic with paddle shift
Fuel/CO2 22.6mpg / 299g/km
Performance 0-62mph: 5.4sec / top speed: 155mph (limited)
Road tax G (£400 a year)
Price £51,000 approx
Verdict Good to drive, but a compromise between coupé and 4x4

Date of release November (other versions of the X6 available in May)

The opposition

Porsche Cayenne GTS, £54,350

For It shouldn’t be this good to drive but is
Against An ugly thing; Porsche purists will laugh at you

Range Rover Sport 4.2 S/C HSE, £58,500

For Extremely able off road; great interior
Against Thirsty, heavy, footballers’ favourite

Clarkson on: celebrity

Recently I bought some new shoes. You may have read about them in Heat magazine. I'm
told there were many pictures of me walking along the street in them, and much comment
too. Apparently, no one likes them very much.

So, it's come to this. We are now so celebrity-obsessed that when someone from the
electric fish tank buys a new pair of shoes, magazines and newspapers think it is
important. Heat magazine could have run a story about how Mr Brown may be
overthrown by the grey men in the summer recess. It could have run a report on the
guidance systems in Iran's new rockets. But it did neither of those things. It decided my
new footwear was more important.

This brings me on to Jamie Oliver. We're told that for every £1 Sainsbury's spends on
adverts featuring the chirpy young cook, it gets £30 back in increased revenue. I dare say
Walkers would have much the same thing to say about Gary Lineker and that Morrisons
will soon be reporting bumper sales thanks to Hammond.

We've reached a point, in fact, where you probably couldn't hope to sell anything unless
it's attached in some way to a celebrity. Seriously. You might develop a way of
converting soil into gold, but unless you get Jane Fonda to say it works, the kits will sit
on the shelves gathering dust.

I know my wife bought a Nespresso coffee machine because of George Clooney. And get
this. Even when it turned out to be rubbish, she went out and bought another. If His
Georgeness told her to fill her bottom with cement, she'd be on the phone to Travis
Perkins.

It's much the same story on television. Big Brother is reasonably popular with people
who are fat, stupid or 13 years old. But when Celebrity Big Brother comes along,
everyone wants to see Vanessa Feltz throwing a wobbly and George Galloway licking
Rula Lenska.

I was thinking about all of this while watching the recent German Grand Prix. It was all
the usual stuff: some cars whizzing about, and then the one prepared by the team with the
most money won. And I thought; hang on a minute. If we now have pro-celebrity golf
and pro-celebrity tennis, why can we not have pro-celebrity motor racing?

It should be based on the British Touring Car Championship of the early to mid Nineties,
when Volvo was fielding an estate car, the drivers were plainly out there to have fun and
you absolutely never could tell whether the race was going to be won by Renault, Ford or
BMW.

As was the case back then, each manufacturer would field two cars; only under my
system, one would be driven by a professional racing driver, and one by someone from
the performing arts. This way you could have Jason Plato partnered by Moira Stuart and
Tiff Needell, partnered by - er - Tiff Needell. Their points from each event would be
added together, so that the pro would be forced to help the am where possible.

The good thing about tin-topped touring cars is that the on-board cameras can see the
driver's face as he bumps and bashes his way through corners. You'd need that, if you had
Valerie Singleton at the helm. You'd want to see her cheeks puffed out in terror as she
took the old hairpin at Donington, side by side with Darren Turner.

"If George Clooney told my wife to fill her bottom with cement, she'd be
on the phone to Travis Perkins"

Of course, punters would be encouraged to turn up and watch the races, but they would
never be shown live on television. Ever. This was the joy of Touring car racing in its
heyday. We, the armchair fans, only ever saw the edited highlights, the crashes, the
overtaking, the stuff. The long dreary bits where they were just doing motor racing was
put where it belonged, in the cutting room bin.

And finally, because the series would be overseen by a Minister of Common Sense - and
that job would be mine - it'd be very cheap for the motor manufacturers. If any of them
turned up with an aero package, like Alfa Romeo did in the mid Nineties, they could
argue all they like that it was within the letter of the law, but I'd simply tell them to go
back to their pit and take it off. And dock them five points for being twats.

So, the car makers would love it because it'd be inexpensive. Die-hard racing enthusiasts
would love it because half the field would be pros. The tracks would love it because
thousands would turn up to watch Kate Silverton going wheel to wheel with Matt Neal.
The sponsors would love it because their brand would be endorsed by David Ginola, and
the television companies would love it because, for the first time in 14 years, they'd have
a motor racing programme people would like to watch. And which didn't cost them £200
million.
I am so pleased with this idea in fact, that you can consider this column a statement of
intent. And if anyone rips me off, I shall send my lawyers round to make a brooch out of
their liver.

Of course, at this point you might be jumping up and down, imagining that you're the
only one to have spotted the big flaw in my plan.

You have doubtless read the tabloids and the supermarket glossies, and you doubtless
have it in your head that all celebrities go round to one another's mansions each evening
to quaff champagne, gorge on swan and snort cocaine until the early hours.

You probably think that even now, as you read this, Huw Edwards, the newsreader, is in
bed with Kate Moss while Sadie Frost looks on. And that they're all going to the Ivy for
lunch because they fancy eating a peregrine falcon. So, you might be thinking, "Why
would they risk this life of sex and myrrh and gold for the chance to get lightly killed in a
Seat Ibiza on a soggy track in Lincolnshire?"

Well, there's the thing. You're wrong. First of all, celebrities do not earn anything like the
money the papers claim. Mostly, they lead ordinary lives. Some even buy shoes from
time to time. And nearly all of them do not have chauffeurs. Most drive themselves, and
if you look at the list of stars who've appeared in TG's reasonably priced Chevy, you'll
note that some of them are good. Very good.

Let's take Jay Kay as an example of the breed. You may imagine that he likes to start the
evening with his head in a bowl of marching powder and end it, after punching a few
photographers, with his whole head in a supermodel. In fact, he has a cottage in Scotland
where he spends most of his time, camping and walking.

What's more, he's a very, very good driver. He has a feel for the car, a sense of what the
front wheels are doing and how much grip they have left. And it's the same story with
Peter Jones, from Dragon's Den. If he weren't 17ft tall, he'd have been up there at the top.
So would Lawrence Dallaglio. The Stig reckons he's the best we've ever had. He was also
amazed by Ellen MacArthur and Jennifer Saunders, both of whom were super fast and
super smooth. Then there's Simon Cowell and Les Ferdinand. Both brilliant. And who
can forget Jodie Kidd. Not me, that's for sure.

Would any of these people want to have a crack at pro-celebrity motor racing? Well,
apart from Simon Cowell, the answer is, you can bet your life on it. And, come to think
of it. I wouldn't be all that surprised if Simon said yes as well.

So there we are. I have seen the future. And in it, Jennifer Saunders is charging through
the gooseneck, in a lime green Vauxhall.

Come to Switzerland, they said, and try out the new Can-Am Spyder. But I had cast a
discerning eye over photographs of this new fun-lovers' power-sport item and had noticed
something almost straight away: no doors. If I have a personal rule of thumb when it
comes to driving things, it's to be wary of vehicles without doors. They tend to be
motorbikes.

“Love to,” I said, “but I don't have a bike licence.” “Ah, but you don't need one,” they
said. We were talking, apparently, of a “paradigm shift” in motoring preconceptions, a
three-wheeled roadster being neither car nor bike but a howlingly new combination of the
two. What the three-wheel arrangement brings is stability. The Spyder has a leading
health and safety advantage over a motorbike, and certainly over a quad bike. Not even
Ozzy Osbourne could end up underneath his own Can-Am Spyder.

Funky-looking machine, too. Bombardier Recreational Products, which also makes high-
end jet skis, describes it as a cross between a motorbike and an open-top sports car,
though it could equally be a cross between a snowmobile and another snowmobile. It is
crying out for a leading role in a movie car chase and, indeed, a BRP executive hinted
that it may soon have one. A Bond film would be the obvious place, although that kind of
product placement costs a heap of money and is likely to end in flames at the bottom of a
crevasse, which may not be the image for your product that you wish to project.

Anyway, in Switzerland we were required to pass a perfunctory Can-Am Spyder driving

test on a track. A troubled look entered Cristiano the instructor's eye when I told him I
had never ridden a motorbike and that the last time I had been on a moped was shortly
after the moped was invented. Cristiano watched me straddle this 998cc machine and
make my tentative way around the cones, and promptly declared me unfit for the
afternoon's proposed two-hour excursion through the Alps.

Well, fair enough. The proposed route was going to involve motorways and those twisty,
sheer-drop mountain roads that invariably have a coach coming up the other way. You're
probably better off familiarising yourself with the vehicle for more than two minutes
before attempting this, unless you're hell-bent on becoming a bunch of flowers by a Swiss
kerb.

So I rode pillion behind Cristiano, bolting along at more than 60mph with a Swiss driving
instructor clasped between my thighs - a first-time experience for me. The great news for
passengers is that you have no responsibility - no tiresome leaning. You're free to look
around you and soak it all up.

And oh, that Alpine setting. We rode from Cossonay to Gstaad, deep in Roger Moore
country. It was so staggering at times that I almost forgot the still-pulsing shame and the
cramp in my legs. The music-box houses, the perfect trains, the cows from Central
Casting - the place never stops posing for photographs. The hills, one instinctively felt,
were alive with the sound of music, plus, of course, the sound of the engine's mildly
aggressive top-note and the noise of insects bouncing off one's crash helmet. Why don't
we all live there? (Answer: it would spoil it.)

The next morning, back at the track, I retook the test, passed, and was finally allowed
sole custody of a Spyder in a public- road situation. The steering, I can thus report, is a
bit of a heave, but you get used to it. The automatic gearbox changes down on its own,
but not up (you have to push a button), which seems strange. Nevertheless, set free and
not especially missing Cristiano's warm embrace, I piloted myself rather exultantly along
country roads and through a town centre, and failed to kill anyone, including myself.
Bikers heading the other way on proper motorbikes would even lift a gloved hand in
greeting.

Who's going to buy the Spyder? Someone with lots of toys already, I would hazard.
Bikers manqué, perhaps, who were never quite brave enough. It might be handy, though
not compulsory, to be in the advanced stages of a particularly withering midlife crisis.
And you're going to need a big garage - best of all on the side of an even bigger house in
Switzerland. Is this you? Lucky you.

Engine: BRP Rotax 990 V-Twin

Max Output: 106hp

Fuel capacity: 27 litres

Length: 2m 67cm

Width: 1m 50cm

One careful owner: Roman Abramovich

In the glove box: no glove box

On the hi-fi: no hi-fi

Bound for: Malibu

Buy it if: your jet ski broke

Marks out of 10: 9

Price: from £12,929

Clarkson on: idiots

As we know, Royal Ascot is a place where the great minds of Britain dust down their top
hats and gather in the presence of Her Majesty the Queen to watch some of the world's
finest equine breeding stock compete for glory on a course steeped in pomp,
circumstance and history.

Oh no, hang on a minute. I seem to be stuck in the wrong century. Because now, the
whole event has been hijacked by a bunch of overpaid Audi- driving chavs with rented
fancy dress costumes and flammable wives who think we'll mistake them for great-
minded philanthropists simply because they are there, smoking Parvenu cigars, drinking
the wrong champagne and being terrified that they are all holding the picnic cutlery
incorrectly. As if a great mind could give two shits.

This month, I sat at a party next to someone who had tickets for this hateful glimpse into
everything that's wrong with Heat-obsessed Britain, and she had about her person a letter
instructing her on the dress code.

Now let me make one thing absolutely plain. Dress codes are for the terminally stupid.
Telling your guests what to wear implies that a) you are a megalomaniac or that b) you've
invited such a bunch of witless fools, they'd all turn up in bearskin hats if left to their own
devices. I simply will not go to any establishment that requires me to wear a suit, or a tie.
And even if my bestest friend were to celebrate his 40th birthday with a fancy dress
party, he'd be doing so without me.

Anyway, the dress code required for Ascot was even more barmy than I could have
imagined because it said tans must not be streaky and that knickers must be worn. What
kind of halfwit cares about how the chavs paint themselves orange? And surely, if the
whole place is going to be full of spivs, the only upside is that we get to see some arse
every time there's a gust of wind.

"I simply will not go to any establishment that requires me to wear a suit,
or a tie"

What puzzled me most though is who getsthe job of checking? "Can I see your ticket,
miss?And now if you'd like to stand on that mirror..." Actually, I'm thinking of
introducing a similar policy for the Top Gear studio audience. Speaking of which... I
understand that it's very difficult to get tickets for our studio days. People stop me in the
streets all the time saying they have been trying for years and then, just last month, a
story appeared in the papers saying the waiting list, even as it stands now, will take 18
years to clear.

You would imagine then that those who do get tickets are mustard-keen fans, eager to be
a part of the moment when we stitch all the films together. We certainly hope so, because
without audience laughter and a bit of banter, it's a flat day for us, and we end up with a
useless, dull-sounding show.

Mostly, the audiences are great. But recently - I won't say when, for fear of upsetting any
good guys who were there - we found ourselves faced with 700 zoo animals. You could
have cracked the funniest joke in the world and all you'd have got in return was a face full
of tumbleweed. It was horrid, and it made me very cross to think there were thousands of
people sitting at work that day, who hadn't got tickets because they'd all been sent instead
to the cages of the Cotswold Wildlife Park.
This has made me think. You know how foreigners coming to Britain are soon to be
faced with a 'citizenship' test before they are allowed to live here? They'll have to say
they know what a wee wee is and that it is considered bad manners to rape your hostess at
a dinner party.

Well surely, such a test could be implemented at Ascot. "Do you have an Audi RS4?" If
yes, you are a cock, and you can't come in. And we could adopt it at our studio too.
"What is a Mercedes?' If you think it is a type of grain, or the top of a carrot, you are
barred, just as surely as if you turn up wearing knickers.

It’s not easy to describe just how fast this new Caterham Seven CSR260 is. I could lob
you a performance statistic — 0-60mph in 3.1sec for instance — and tell you that, by this
measure at least, it is the quickest accelerating production car in the world. Ever.

But, having driven it, that doesn’t quite seem enough. So I started to think about how it
compares with some of the other motors I’ve driven in the past month. These are my
findings.

If you drive this £34,000 British sports car and, as I did two days later, climb aboard
BMW’s £80,000 M6 supercar, you’ll wonder who left the handbrake on.

Bentley’s Flying Spur has more than twice the power of the Caterham but also four times
the weight. By the time the Bentley had gathered some speed the Seven would be so far
out of sight the only trace would be its howling exhaust note hanging in the air.

Ferrari’s brand new F430 is one of its greatest road cars but — at least up to speeds
double the legal limit — I seriously doubt it would see which way the Caterham went.

So what then of the £515,000, 630bhp Maserati MC12? Its top speed is 205mph
compared with the Caterham’s mere 155mph, so if you gave it enough space it would
overtake the Seven and, at more than 15 times the price, so it should. But in the real
world or even on a tight and twisting racetrack, I’d be staggered if Maserati’s most
macho could drive away from Surrey’s swiftest.

It’s so fast it can reduce experienced drivers to giggling loons almost as quickly as it can
reduce inexperienced passengers to gibbering wrecks. There is a serious point here: ultra-
fast Caterhams of the past have needed both hard work and concentration before their
potential could be extracted; by contrast driving the CSR fast is about as difficult as
flossing your teeth.

Where an old Caterham would kick and buck over broken surfaces, this one glides like a
limo; and while you needed 6000rpm on the clock of its predecessor, the fearsome R500,
just to get its attention, this one is ready to shred tarmac at half those revs.
Twice during my day with the CSR260 I had to force myself to slow down, not because I
was anywhere near the limits of either myself or the car but simply to avoid startling
other road users.

Indeed it’s only when you’re on a racetrack and free from the restraints of law and
common decency that you can begin to discover exactly what this extraordinary little car
can do.

Road cars almost always go to pieces on racetracks just as road-legal race cars usually
feel horrid on the road. But not the CSR: on the track you discover it will corner hard
enough to set your survival instincts shouting while the brakes lose speed faster than
anything this side of driving into an oak.

Whether you’ll find the accompanying and enduring limitations of Caterham design
charming or infuriating is very much up to the individual.

On the plus side the ride quality is much improved while even tall drivers will have no
problem getting comfortable. Less impressive are the tiny boot and fuel tank and the
undignified struggle required to climb into it when the roof is up.

Also, you might reasonably expect any £34,000 car to arrive both painted and assembled,
but not the Caterham. If you want paint (and you will), it’s another £750 and if you’d like
to take delivery of a car rather than a large number of boxes that’ll put another £2,500 on
the bill.

Add some comfortable seats and one or two other little goodies and you’ll soon be staring
down the barrel of a £40,000 bill or, put bluntly, more than Porsche asks for a Boxster S.

But there is something else about a Caterham that to my mind enhances its appeal: its
lack of pretension. Nobody ever bought a Caterham because they thought it made them
look good, while that is the primary motive behind many purchases of Porsches and
Ferraris.

To many, Caterham is a signpost on the M25 and that’s just fine. It’s still a car for the
true enthusiast, one who is prepared to put up with all manner of shortcomings for
perhaps the purest driving experience any money can buy.

If there’s a worry it’s that some might conclude it’s too much of a good thing, simply too
fast for the public road.

But you can still buy slower, old-style Caterhams and spend as little as £15,000 on one;
or you can gently drive the CSR to a racetrack, slap on a helmet and remind yourself
what it’s like to be alive. I did and it’s an experience I’ll be reliving for a while yet.

VITAL STATISTICS
Model Caterham CSR260
Engine type Four cylinders in line, 2261cc
Power/Torque 260bhp @ 7000rpm / 200 lb ft @ 6200rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual
Fuel/CO2 n/a
Performance 0-60mph: 3.1sec / Top speed 155mph
Price £34,000 (£36,500 fully built)
Verdict Expensive but, cross-country, quite possibly the fastest car in the world
Rating 4/5

THE OPPOSITION

Model Noble M12 £49,950

For Hugely capable, good looking British supercar
Against Interior quality rather scrappy for the money

Model TVR Tamora £36,500

For Massive performance for the money, surprisingly practical
Against Questionable looks, handling not among best

Retro car design can be a dangerous thing. It can leave a manufacturer wishing it had
moved on rather than looking back. Witness the contrasting fortunes of BMW’s
relaunched Mini, which has proved as popular as the original, and Chrysler’s American
Graffiti-style PT Cruiser, which was frankly a bit rubbish.

Last year Fiat joined the retro revolution with an updated version of its 1950s classic, the
500. The Italians of course have a flair for style, especially retro style, but even by their
standards the 500 was a knockout: a pint-sized supermini that looked cute but not silly
and was a blast to drive, whether you were spinning around a square in Rome or a
roundabout in Maidstone.

And now there’s a faster, meaner-looking sports version. Called the Fiat 500 Abarth, it
goes on sale in Britain early next year and is the most eagerly awaited tiny tearaway since
the souped-up Mini Cooper.

The name comes from the world famous tuning firm that in the 1950s and 1960s took
ordinary Fiats and turned them into racing cars with a formidable reputation. It is Fiat’s
equivalent to the AMG division of Mercedes and it has certainly done its job on the 500.

Abarth has added a turbocharger to boost the power output of the 1.4 litre engine from
100bhp on the standard car to 135bhp, chopping the 0-62mph acceleration time from
10.5sec to 7.9sec and raising the top speed to 127mph – enough to comfortably outrun
the Mini Cooper. There is even a sport button that adds weight to the steering and
increases the torque of the engine for spirited driving, and a light that illuminates to
prompt gearshift points for optimum performance.
Changes to the 500’s looks are as dramatic. Sitting half an inch lower than the standard
car on fatter tyres, the 500 Abarth has also acquired two intercooler vents in its longer
snout, twin exhaust tailpipes, a tailgate spoiler and a rear aerodynamic diffuser. Add the
optional 17in wheels into the mix and the metamorphosis from cute corgi into stafford-
shire bull terrier is complete.

The real fun of the standard 500, though, was in the driving. Rather than distance the
driver from the road and swamp him or her with technology, the 500 offered a viscerally
real experience. Speed was real, not a figure on the dashboard. Better still, 40mph felt
like 60mph and it was all the more fun for it.

Climb inside the 500 Abarth and fire it up and the omens are good. The engine starts with
a growl. Bury the throttle and it pulls hard all the way through the rev range, really
getting into its stride at about 3000rpm. There’s no sign of the dreaded turbo lag – the
delay between application of the throttle and delivery of the power - so the response is
pretty well instantaneous.

However, the 500 Abarth needs to do more than win a straight sprint for the finishing line
to entice petrolheads with an eye for style and value. It needs to set the pulse racing at the
first sight of a corner. And in that respect it delivers the genuine Abarth experience.

Driving a road car on a test track usually reveals limitations with the handling and brakes
pretty quickly. Not so with the 500 Abarth, which pounded around Fiat’s 3.5mile circuit
like a car possessed. If the thing were made of flesh and blood you might think it was
loving it. This driver certainly was.

Lap after lap, the tyres continued to bite the road surface determinedly and the brakes
took a severe beating from speeds of 120mph with only the slightest hint of fade. The
electrically assisted power steering has a proper weighty feel to it in sport mode – the
right stuff for hard cornering. And with its well tuned front suspension there was no hint
of the power overwhelming traction.

Pootling about town is also a doddle. Turn the sports mode off and engine noise recedes,
which is important in a car of this size, and while the performance is noticeably less
sudden it is still fun to drive between traffic lights. Inside, the black leather seats (an £850
option) adda sense of machismo that is entirely in keeping with the car’s performance,
and space in the back is adequate for a couple of regular-sized adults.

Only 5,000 of the 500 Abarth will roll off the production line in the first year and 1,500
of those are coming to the UK. Fiat says inquiries are already piling up, and on this
evidence the customers won’t be disappointed.

There’s further excitement to come too: the engine is capable of more power. It is the
same unit as used in the Grande Punto where it delivers 155bhp. “We think 135bhp is
really enough for a car of this size,” said Paulo Ollino, the technical director at Abarth.
For now, that is. Meanwhile, an “Esseesse” (pronounced “SS”) kit will become available
some time after the car is launched. Supplied and fitted by a Fiat Abarth dealer, it will
raise power to 160bhp. The kit will include other modifications, as yet unspecified. I
suggest ceramic brakes, for a start.

Fiat 500 Abarth

ENGINE 1368cc, four cylinders
POWER 135bhp @ 5500rpm
TORQUE 152lb ft @ 3000rpm
TRANSMISSION Five-speed manual
FUEL/CO2 52.3mpg / 155g/km
ACCELERATION 0-60mph: 7.9sec
TOP SPEED 127mph
PRICE From £13,800 approx
TAX BAND D (£145 for 12 months)
VERDICT A brilliant new hot hatch
RELEASE DATE Early 2009

AND THE RIVALS...

Mini Cooper £13,325
ForThe Iconic Mini has style, and has it in spades
Against It lacks the edge in terms of absolute performance
Renault Clio Dynamique 138 S £13,280
For The Clio pedigree, a stable and refined drive
Against Not really as much fun to drive as it should be

In idle moments I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be a proper journalist,

using my investigative skills to expose high-level political skulduggery, or dodging
bullets in the world’s hellholes to bring back the stories that really matter. But I know
also that these are Mitty-esque fantasies that will never be realised: such skills as I have
lie in other places.

I wish certain car companies would display the same level of self-knowledge.
Manufacturers that stray far from the values on which their reputations have been
established do so at their peril.

In the 1970s, for instance, Lotus decided to stop building the lightweight, affordable
sports cars that had earned it global acclaim, and enter the glamorous, treacherous world
of supercar manufacturing.

The result nearly killed the company. Then it built another lightweight, affordable sports
car and its customers duly queued around the block for it.

And why, while we’re on the subject, do the likes of Peugeot and Renault insist on
building luxury saloons such as the 607 and Vel Satis? In the 17 years I’ve been doing
this job I have yet to drive a single luxury car from either company that came remotely up
to snuff.

But the group that staggers me most with its ability to carry on building cars outside its
talent area is Fiat. I don’t think anyone does small cars better than Fiat and — the original
Mini aside — I don’t think anyone ever has. From the pre-war Topolino to the current
Panda, when Fiat has made a small car — with only one exception, the 126 — it has
made a great car.

So why does it insist on building cars like this? The first Fiat Croma was launched 20
years ago and spent the next seven years dying a slow and painful death. It was not
replaced and I presumed that Fiat had learnt finally that it’s no more a large-car
constructor than I am Jon Swain. Apparently not. Thirteen years on, the return of the
Croma is upon us and I’m already struggling to see how it’s going to make a decent name
for itself.

To be fair, there’s not a great deal wrong with this all-new Croma, but nor is there
anything, save its spacious interior and low price, to get remotely excited about.

Fiat says its unique selling point is to combine the best features of a saloon, estate and
MPV under one roof. But as I see it it’s not as attractive as most comparable saloons, as
capacious as most similar estates or as versatile as the average MPV. The result is a jack
of all trades and master of none, though in its defence it is well equipped.

It goes on sale with one petrol and two diesel engines at prices ranging from £15,745 for
the base-specification 147bhp 2.2 litre petrol version to £19,345 for the ambitiously titled
Prestigio model complete with a 150bhp, 1.9 litre turbo-diesel engine. A 200bhp five-
cylinder diesel will join the line-up later in the year.

In diesel form it offers pleasant performance and a six-speed gearbox to combat the
engine’s inherently narrow power band. The engine is a little gruff while accelerating but
once you’re in a cruise it’s quiet enough never to be intrusive.

Perhaps more surprising is that both handling and brakes are a little better than you’d
expect from this kind of car. It turns crisply into corners, grips well and stops with
reassuring authority. What is not so good, however, is the ride quality, which degenerates
to such an extent on those very B-roads you might seek out to sample its engaging
handling that you end up wishing you hadn’t bothered.

But this is not the Croma’s main failing — after all, anyone in the market for such a car is
unlikely to be swung one way or the other by such dynamic issues. It is, in fact, in those
areas in which Fiat has proclaimed its intentions to excel that the Croma is least
convincing.

It has a raised driving position but its claims to be an MPV of any sort are undermined by
an inability to seat more than five. It’s flawed as an estate, too: the rear seat doesn’t even
fold completely flat and both the Vectra and Mondeo will ultimately carry bigger loads.
Meanwhile, its rear hatch and upright appearance rule it out as a saloon.

So it should, instead, be seen as an unusually spacious hatchback and looked upon as

such. It can make a case for itself on the basis of its generous rear legroom, impressive
handling and refinement, decent level of standard equipment and low price.

But is that enough to gain a recommendation here? It’s not a bad car, like some other big
Fiats of time gone by, but if the Croma offers the Mondeo and Vectra more than token
resistance in the market place, I’ll be astonished.

VITAL STATISTICS

Model Fiat Croma 1.9 16v Multijet Eleganza

Engine type Four cylinders in line, 1910cc
Power/Torque 150bhp at 4000rpm / 236 lb ft at 2000rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual
Fuel/CO2 46.3mpg (combined), 160g/km
Performance 0-62mph: 9.6sec / Top speed: 130mph
Price £17,995
Verdict Fiat proves it should stick to building small cars
Rating 3/5

THE OPPOSITION

Model Ford Mondeo 2.2 TDCi Estate (£21,475)

For Strong performance from new engine, handling
Against Getting old now, interior quality not the best

Model Vauxhall Vectra 1.9 CDT-i 16v Estate (£20,970)

For Massive load capacity, ride and refinement
Against Not much fun to drive, zero image even for estate

Ever since the first sporting cars were produced more than a century ago, there has
existed a perception that fun is directly proportional to power and price. But then, just
occasionally, a car like this Fiat Panda 100HP comes along and turns that on its head.

It costs less than £10,000 and, as its name suggests, has just 100bhp, yet I spent a few
days bowling about southeast Wales in one and can name any number of allegedly
sporting cars with more than twice the power and price that would have been less than
half as much fun.

This car represents Fiat at its brilliant best. Indeed, it seems to me that, for this embattled
marque at least, the relationship between power, price and fun is inversely proportional.
Even a basic Panda is clearly conceived and smartly executed, but by the time you work
your way up through the model ranges and reach the heady heights of the Croma, you
start to wonder if you wouldn’t really be better off on the bus.
None of this should surprise you. Despite its insistence on building large and undesirable
cars, Fiat is actually in its element when building cars like this. Its genius for small car
construction can be traced back before the war to the original Topolino. The Nuova 500
that replaced it was a cleverer, cuter piece of design than the original Mini and even the
more modern Pandas and Cinquecentos have been charming and effective.

The Panda 100HP is all this and more. Fiat has figured out that even a 100bhp engine will
still provide decent performance if installed in a car weighing less than a ton. True, few
people are likely to get overexcited by a 0-62mph time of 9.5sec and a top speed of
115mph, but if that were all there is to this tale, you’d never be reading about it here.

Its real magic lies elsewhere. For a start it looks terrific with its pugnacious stance on its
fat alloy wheels, pushed-out wheelarches and chunky front and rear bumpers. The cabin
looks funky and if you look down at the gearlever, you’ll find it has six forward speeds
— in a car costing £9,995. What you won’t be able to see is that the suspension has been
reworked to make the car feel like no Panda before and that the brakes have been uprated
to cope.

The result is a car that may not be quick on paper but, out on the road where it matters, is
startlingly rapid point to point. On a certain sort of narrow B-road, its diminutive
dimensions mean you can travel at speeds you’d not hope to match in a Bugatti Veyron.
Because it is light it not only has absurd levels of grip, it is also extremely agile, changing
direction like an escaping POW dodging machinegun fire.

Best of all, because it is small, noisy and endlessly enthusiastic, it also conspires to feel
much faster than it is, making it a car that can be enjoyed to the full without putting your
licence on the line. I absolutely loved it.

Whether I could live with it is another matter. The driving position for a tall driver like
me is pretty dreadful — you feel perched on the car with the steering wheel
uncomfortably far away — there’s precious little room in the back or boot and long
journeys are inevitably compromised by high noise levels in the cabin and the rollerskate
ride.

But these cars will be bought by the young, and the young don’t even know what ride and
refinement are and won’t be in the least bit bothered by their absence.

Yet this is not the Fiat I’m most excited about. True to the Fiat form book, the one I’m
really looking forward to is even smaller, cheaper and less powerful than this. Later this
year Fiat will launch its new 500, a direct descendant of the Topolino. In concept form it
looks beautiful — true to, but not tied to, its roots — and easy even now to visualise in
the crowded piazzas of Milan and Turin.

If it’s as good to drive as it is to look at, it could be a landmark in small car design. We’ll
know for sure in September.
VITAL STATISTICS

Model Fiat Panda 100HP

Engine type 1368cc, four cylinders
Power/torque100bhp @ 6000rpm / 97 lb ft @ 4250rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual
Fuel/CO2 43.5mpg (combined cycle) / 154g/km
Performance 0-62mph: 9.5sec / Top speed: 115mph
Price £9,995
Verdict Small, fast and fun, exactly what all Fiats should be
Rating 4/5
Date of release Out now

THE OPPOSITION

Model Citroën C2 1.6i VTR £11,445

For Good looking, quite good to drive
Against Getting old, build quality not the best

Model Ford SportKa SE £9,995

For Terrific fun to drive, good performance
Against Cheap-looking cabin, interior noise levels

THE recent wintry blast turned our Suffolk cul-de-sac into an early-morning
shriek-fest as cars revved impotently trying to get a grip on the ice. Suddenly, motorists
across the country were thinking that a 4 x 4 would be a good idea. But who needs a
monster 4 x 4 when, for 50 weeks of the year, two-wheel drive is adequate? Step forward
the Panda 4 x 4, the cute, five-door hatch that is also an off-roader. Perfect for mild off-
roading, easy to park and easy on the eye, it could be all the 4 x 4 you will ever need. The
Panda is already a winner, having been voted European Car of the Year last year. The 4 x
4 incarnation adds an ingenious drive system, an extra 50mm of ride height, a beefed-up
suspension, an engine sump guard and shields to protect the bodywork.

On tarmac, the Panda 4 x 4 runs as a front-wheel-drive car, compact but comfortable,

even for taller drivers. It is a quiet, perfectly acceptable small car, even if it is almost
painfully slow. But how would it fare traversing the mud, wet chalk, sodden grass and
churned ruts of Salisbury Plain’s military testing grounds? It coped very well. As the
front wheels start to lose grip, the torque distribution system automatically begins to
transfer up to 50 per cent of engine torque to drive the rear wheels. You just keep the
power on, the front wheels spinning, until the rear wheels kick in and off you go.
Slushing through rivers of mud was fun, as was climbing over muddy hillocks and along
paths more suited for a day’s hacking.

The Bosch anti-lock braking means that, even on the slickest, steepest hills, the car can be
brought to a safe, slip-free stop. During testing, Fiat cajoled a brace of Panda 4 x 4s to
Everest Base Camp, 5,200 metres up the Himalayas. A Suffolk cul-de-sac in March
should be a breeze, then.

FIAT PANDA 4 x 4

ENGINE: 1.2-litre eight-valve petrol engine producing 60bhp at 5,000rpm and 75lb/ft of
torque at 2,500rpm.
TRANSMISSION: Five-speed manual with automatic switching to all-wheel drive via a
variable torque transmission system
PERFORMANCE: Top speed 90mph, 0-62mph in 20sec.
ECONOMY: 35.8mpg in town, 48.7mpg motorway, 42.8mpg combined; CO2 emissions
156g/km.
PRICE: £9,195.

There appears to come a moment in the life of many families when the parent in charge
of the transport division decides that a car no longer does the business. And, at this point,
a decision is often taken at boardroom level that what's really needed is a van.

Company records indicate that this moment may be brought about by a number of key
factors. It may be the result of the arrival of a third child, for example, or it may come
much earlier than that and be the result of the arrival of a first child's tricycle. Either way,
concern grows that the business has expanded beyond initial forecasts and grown
unforeseeably cumbersome and that a saloon car or hatchback is no longer viable in terms
of driving the family forward.

At this point, you start shopping for what is, effectively, a commercial vehicle for the
family. Perhaps most famous among these is the Citroën Berlingo, which is, literally, a
plumber's van with extra glazing put in, and with child-friendly seats inserted where the
plumber would generally sling his plumbing stuff. But, of course, families - in common
with pretty much everything else - are in the middle of an economic downturn, and
downsizing is all the rage.

Here, then, in direct response to the crisis, is the Fiat Qubo - a family van, but
compressed for urban and ecological convenience. Look out, also, for the small and
cuboid Kia Soul. It's hip to be square, apparently. Later in the year, Nissan will strip
away the linguistic coyness and offer us, plainly, the Nissan Cube. Might as well call a
cube a cube, I guess.

What all of these cars have in common - apart from the view that children are best loaded
sideways, through a sliding rear door - is a striking resemblance to toys. It's as if all the
available research is indicating that parents, as a direct result of parenting, go slightly soft
in the head and start responding most warmly to child-like shapes. They'll want a car that
looks like a giant Duplo brick - a car, even, that seems to have been built to encourage
you to point at it and say, experimentally, “Gar! Gar!” Which is not a great look on an
adult. (The equivalent would be those brightly coloured bags adopted by new mothers.
“Bag! Bag!”) The least you can say about owning a car such as this is that you are storing
up an excruciating moment of awakening. For there must eventually come a morning
when your children have put aside babyish things, and when you go out to your drive and
realise that your car looks like a funfair frog.

The Qubo certainly has that toy-cupboard feel. You wouldn't be surprised to find it on a
plinth outside a supermarket alongside Budgie the Helicopter - 50p for a minute of tame
joggling. That said, it doesn't go quite as far in this direction as the legendary Fiat
Multipla - a brilliantly practical and innovative six-seater package, but, to look at,
patently an evacuee from a theme park merry-go-round.

Nevertheless, the Qubo's extraordinary, protruding front-lip, thrusting forward way in

advance of the headlamps and lending the car something of the appearance of an
industrial vacuum cleaner, definitely scores high for all-round oddness. And once you
have got into your head that the radiator represents a gummy smile, the headlamps a pair
of wetly blinking eyes, and the Fiat badge a cheeky red nose, it's hard to escape the
feeling that this is a vehicle that has been run together after watching one too many Pixar
animations.

It's also, needless to say, available in searingly bright green and a kind of nuclear orange.
Like a new mum's bag.

The important thing is, though, that it works. It doesn't drive like a van, it drives like a
Punto - with ease and absence of stress. It's uncomplicated to operate and comfortable to
sit in. Even the windows seem to have windows and it's conservatory-bright. And it
doesn't just offer space, it offers cuboid space, which is famously the easiest to pack.

And if you opt for the whiplash-style, front-tapering roof rails, you may even be able to
persuade yourself that you are driving something that has gone so far round the eccentric
loop that it's coming back on the other side as cool. Maybe.

But then cool possibly doesn't feature in your family's business plan. Maybe your
transport strategy is results-driven. In which case, get a Qubo. It delivers.

top speed: 96mph

range: 0-62 in 16.5 seconds

average consumption: 62.8mpg

c02 emissions: 119g/km

eco rating: 9/10

at the wheel: Bob the Builder

on the hi-fi: The Chipmunks

in the glovebox: Handi-wipes

bound for: Center Parcs

buy it because: Business is booming

rating: 7 out of 10

Price: from £11,499

Do you know someone whose natural talents are being held back by an outside force
beyond their control? A bright, vivacious person full of good ideas, destined never to be
properly appreciated because of something intangible that restrains them? If that person
were a car manufacturer, it would be Jaguar.

Having spent their recent past selling under-engineered cars on the strength that they
were beautiful, they’ve now managed to turn the tables. Today’s Jaguars are impressively
engineered, more reliable than Mercedes cars, and usually pretty good to drive. Yet all,
save the aged XK coupé, are to some extent held back by their appearance.

It’s not that they’re ugly, merely that they’re inappropriate to Jaguar’s 21st-century
aspirations and likely to lose potential sales in exactly the same way that GQ magazine
would if sold with Country Life’s front cover. The X-type and S-type saloons look odd
and old respectively, while the technologically groundbreaking and otherwise convincing
XJ looks designed to appeal to those with ambitions no greater than mounting a bloodless
coup for the chair of the local golf club.

It may look old, but in fact the car in the picture is the brand new V6 diesel model. By S-
type standards it’s sure to sell by the barrowload, but you can say as much about any
diesel executive relative to its petrol siblings, so significant are the extra travelling range,
fuel economy and reduced tax burden these cars afford. But is that enough to place the
newest S-type on the shopping list of those who have hitherto thought of BMW,
Mercedes and Audi as the only serious players of the executive game?

This is the best engine yet to find its way into an S-type; indeed, if fitness for purpose is
your guide, I will argue that it’s the best engine to be used by any Jaguar since the V12 of
the E-type in 1971 (and possibly the classic twin-cam six first seen under the bonnet of
the XK120 in 1948).

This twin-turbo diesel V6 develops 206bhp and a thumping 320 lb ft of torque at under
2000rpm, and offers highly competitive economy and emissions. In these regards it
compares well with the best engines offered by its rivals, but where it exceeds even their
lofty standards is in its refinement. Even the best diesel engines become distinctly vocal
in the upper reaches of their rev ranges . . . but not this one. Although I haven’t tried them
side by side, I doubt that even Audi ’s 4 litre V8 diesel in the A8 could beat the Jag
motor’s eerily smooth and silent running. This engine will see the S-type past 60mph in
8.2sec and on to the far side of 140mph, its six-speed automatic gearbox proving the
perfect partner. And it will do 36mpg in normal running.

It is hard to find any fault with this S-type, as long as you confine your observations to
the manner in which it dispatches all roads, from urban to rural. Its ride is pleasant, firm
enough to imply sportiness yet sufficiently smooth for Jaguar comfort, while its handling
is engaging enough to make up for the ultimate technical superiority of BMW’s 5-series.

Living with it is a different matter though. A minor restyle — can you spot it? — has
done little to alter the perception that, visually at least, the S-type shape remains the
automotive equivalent of the Blues Brothers 2000 movie — an ill-conceived attempt to
plunder an original classic that should have been left well alone. That swooping body
shape is not exactly space efficient, as anyone who has travelled in the back of one
knows.

Given these limitations and the fact that they can only be properly addressed by an all-
new car (still a couple of years away), it is to the S-type’s considerable credit that it
remains so likeable. Indeed it is little short of astonishing when you consider how easy it
was to dislike when new in 1998; unlike wines, cars rarely improve with age, though the
S-type undoubtedly has.

As a company, Jaguar has an interesting future ahead of it. All its current product was
styled under a regime that ended five years ago; now a man called Ian Callum is in
charge and his credits include the Aston Martin DB7, Vanquish and (some say) no small
part of the DB9. The first all-Callum car will be next year’s XK8, followed in 2006 by
the new S-type.

If Callum can make Jaguars as good to look at as they now are to drive, the company
clearly faces a very distinguished future.

VITAL STATISTICS

Model: Jaguar S-type 2.7D

Engine type: V6, 2720cc
Power/Torque: 207bhp @ 4000rpm / 320 lb ft @ 1900rpm
Transmission: Six-speed automatic
Fuel/CO2: 36.0mpg (combined) / 208g/km
Performance 0-60mph: 8.2sec / top speed 141mph
Price: £31,670
Verdict: The best S-type, even if looks are dated

THE OPPOSITION

Model: BMW 530d, £31,900

For: Formidably better, in almost every way, than petrol version
Against: Looks likely to split opinion, avoid silly variable-speed steering option
Model: Mercedes E270 CDI Elegance, £30,925
For: Refined, frugal, comfortable and spacious
Against: Lacks punch of some rivals, hit-and-miss dealer service

There is no pleasing some car buyers. They whinge because the new model does not look
like the successful, popular, elegant, sporty but practical old one — or they whinge
because it does. Jaguar has a real problem with this. When it launched the S-Type, which
looked little like its elegant XJ sibling, that dichotomy of opinion was rife and it was then
sub-divided because many people thought the S-Type’s nose, with its distinctive, classic
radiator grille, looked terrific, but that the rest of the car did not.

The compact X-type does carry elements of the XJ likeness but some critics feel that it
doesn’t quite work on a smaller scale. That is Jaguar’s “damned if you do, damned if you
don’t” situation.

So when it came to updating the XJ it was a tough call for the Jaguar designers, who,
mindful of the importance of the car to the company’s financial future (and possibly to
their own) needed to get it right. They have.

The new XJ may look at first glance much like the old one, but placed side by side it is a
design of today that suddenly makes the previous model look decidedly passé. Its
waistline is higher and so is its roof; it is a little longer, a little wider; the previous
model’s enormous rear overhang is reduced; and the effect is to create a car that has
stronger, more balanced proportions.

On sale next spring (we have not driven it yet) but on display at next week’s Paris Motor
Show, the new XJ looks set to demonstrate that design evolution can span more than
three decades and still look convincingly fresh and not just a retro rehash. But the
attraction of the new XJ is not just its exterior styling.

It has evolved as a technological tour de force with, like its competent rival, the new Audi
A8, a weight-saving aluminium body (the XJ is about 200kg, or 440lb, lighter and much
stiffer than the old one) and systems which include voice-controlled navigation; screens
in the rear of the front seat head restraints; four-zone climate control, adjustable pedals
and safety technology which senses the presence, position and size of a front seat
passenger to determine the correct airbag energy level.

There is a choice of engines, from the superb 4.2-litre supercharged V8 of the R version,
to a 3.0-litre V6. But there is no diesel, a surprising omission in a car of this class. All
XJs get a smooth ZF six-speed automatic gearbox. Air suspension lowers ride height at
speed, and computer active technology helps provide the sort of ride and handling
package that singles out big Jaguars in a discerning market sector.

The interior of the new XJ is what is expected — lots of leather, plenty of wood and the
traditional “ski-slope” centre console. A new trim is piano black, “a highly polished
finish inspired by the deep lustrous sheen of a concert grand piano”, as Jaguar’s poets’
corner puts it. An electronic parking brake similar to that fitted to the S-Type, is standard.
There is more room for everyone but, significantly, rear-seat leg-room has been
improved.

Jaguar stresses that it was not trying to make the new XJ the roomiest in its class — good
news, because a Jaguar’s strength has long been its cossetting interior that makes driver
and passengers feel they are almost strapping the car on, not merely getting into it.

Will the new XJ date in a few years and suddenly appear to be a 1968 concept struggling
in the 21st century? I very much doubt it — particularly if it performs as impressively as
it looks.