Right now, then, as I wait for the Alfa because I’m daft in the head, you should buy the Jag. Because if it’s your head you’re using, it’s the obvious choice.
1 May 2016
The secret sex robot has testers in a fever
BMW M2
Two recently launched cars have sent the specialist motoring press into a squeaking frenzy of tinkle-clutching ecstasy. One is the Ford Focus RS, which, they say, is as good as a Nissan GT-R, for less than half the money. And the other is the BMW M2.
I’ll be honest. I’ve yawned through their eulogies, thinking: ‘I’m sure the Ford is very good … but only for people who can’t actually afford a Nissan GT-R. And the BMW M2 is only very good for people who can’t afford an M4.’
Seriously. Who in their right mind is going to wake up one morning and think: ‘Yes. I have the money to pay for an M4, but I shall buy something smaller, less good-looking and with less power and less equipment instead’? That’s like saying: ‘I can afford to take my holiday this year on a superyacht in the Caribbean. But I’ve decided to rent a cottage in Margate instead. Because that’ll be better.’
The problem is that not-very-well-paid road-testers are like Brummies, endlessly banging on about how Birmingham is so much better than London, when everyone else in the entire world knows it just isn’t. Unless you have only £7.50 to spend on a house.
I’ll be honest, then. As I climbed behind the wheel of the M2, my hackles were up. I wanted to scoff and scorn, and happily there was plenty to be disappointed about. The steering wheel was too big, the plastics were horrid, there’s some kind of eco-readout on the dash and the seat was so high I felt as if I was sitting on the car rather than in it.
And, yes, while it costs considerably less than the M4, it’s still a whopping £44,070, which is a lot for what is only a jumped-up, pumped-up version of the 1-series. Which is basically a BMW Golf.
But then, about an hour later, I was in a secret-squirrel car park near Stamford Bridge, on my way to that dismal Chelsea game against Manchester City. It was chock-full of Aston Martins and Range Rovers, as you’d imagine, and yet somehow the little BMW didn’t look out of place at all. It may be only a 1-series in a muscle-man suit, but thanks to its flared wheelarches and the way the tyres seem to be stretched to breaking point to fit over the huge rims, it looks kinda cool. I liked it.
And then three hours after that, I was on the A1, going round a long left-hander at 70mph, and I thought: ‘Hang on a minute. This steering is absolutely bleeding fantastic.’ I wasn’t taxing the car in any way at all; a Reliant Robin could have taken that bend at 70mph with ease. And yet I could feel that the steering was weighted perfectly and that it was talking to me in a gentle whisper.
And what makes that even more astonishing is that the power assistance is electric. Which means that the sensations were all artificial. If BMW ever makes a sex robot, you should buy one immediately, because it’ll be indistinguishable from going to bed with an actual person.
Later I was overtaken by a Porsche 911 GTS that was travelling at about a million. And then, before I’d had a chance to think, ‘Golly, that was quick’, my world was rocked by an Aston Martin DB9 that tore by at a million and one. It’s been a while since I’ve seen two cars really going for it on the public highway. It’s a hobby I thought had been killed off by speed cameras. But plainly, up there in the flatlands of eastern England, there’s nothing else to do once the turnips are planted, so the locals are still at it.
I didn’t join in. Well, not much. But, coming off one roundabout, I may have put my foot down a bit, into the overboost zone of the M2’s turbocharged torque lake, and there’s no getting round the fact that it was faster than both of the way more expensive GT cars.
At first I thought the M2 simply felt fast because from behind the wheel it’s as if you’re in a low-rent hatchback. So you’re not expecting much of a shove in the back. But, actually, it’s fast no matter what yardstick you use. Round the Hockenheim racetrack in Germany it’s faster, apparently, than its bigger brothers.
And that’s because it’s not just fast in a straight line. It’s also fast through the corners. And not just fast, but a complete delight.
It’s worth remembering at this point that while the M4 is extremely good, it is not perfect. It has a lot of electronic jiggery-pokery in the steering and suspension systems that in the M2 is gone. BMW’s engineers set it up to be as good as it can be, and you aren’t given buttons to change anything. That’s why the M2 is cheaper than the M4: because it’s less complicated. And because it’s less complicated, it is a better drive. Much better. It’s so good that in a few bends I was actually dribbling with joy.
Thanks to a clever electromechanical differential, it can corner with its tail out like a Looney Tunes muscle car, or right on the raggedy edge of adhesion like a proper racer. It’s brilliant at both disciplines. And you want to know the best bit? It’s not in the least bit uncomfortable. Sure, it’s stiff, so it’s a bit bumpy on poor road surfaces, but it never jars.
My only concern is that in the last small BMW M car – the 1M – I suffered the biggest and most sudden spin in my entire road-testing career. It hit a puddle while travelling in a straight line and swapped ends in an instant. Will the M2 do that? I don’t know. It wasn’t raining.
Away from the performance stuff, you get seats in the back that can be used by humans and a large boot. And now it’s time to get back to the performance stuff, with news that the M2 comes with a launch control system that permits what are called ‘smoky burnout’ starts. Utterly pointless. You’ll never use it. But it’s fun to know you could.
There have been many M cars over the years. The lineage stretches back to 1986 and the original toe-in-the-water, left-hand-drive-only M3, which many still regard as the best. I disagree. It was too racy. Too serious. And in the wrong hands – mine, at the time – a twitching nightmare.
I like the M3 before the present model – the one with the V8 – and I adore the current M6 Gran Coupé. And then there was the original, 286bhp M5: the ultimate Q-car. It looked like the sort of box that your chest freezer was delivered in but it went like a spaceship. That’s always been my favourite M car. Until now.
The road-testers were right. The M2 is a lot cheaper than the M4. And a lot better as well. It’s a fabulous little car, and now I’m looking forward to getting my hands on a Focus RS. Which, apparently, is even better.
8 May 2016
It’ll give Geoff all the fares he can carry
Škoda Superb estate
At school, after committing some trivial misdemeanour – hopping through the memorial garden or putting Polyfilla in all the classroom locks; I can’t remember which – I was made to write a thousand-word essay about the inside of a ping-pong ball.
It was tough, but the practice was useful later, on the Rotherham Advertiser, where I was regularly made to file a report on what had happened at the previous evening’s meeting of Brinsworth parish council. That meant coming up with six or seven paragraphs about absolutely nothing at all.
Today, though, I face my biggest challenge yet, because I must write a 1,200-word report on the Škoda Superb diesel estate, which has headlamps, a steering wheel and some seats – and that’s it. Except that isn’t it, because I still have a lot of space to fill.
This hasn’t happened before. Not once in more than twenty years of writing this column have I sat for quite such a long time, watching the cursor blinking impatiently as it waits for me to write something down. Four times the screen has gone to sleep. I’ve done much the same thing twice.
I was going to explain that a Škoda Superb is a cheap way of buying a Volkswagen Passat because that’s what it is, under the skin. But the truth is, you’re not going to be very interested in reading about a Volkswagen Passat either. It’s not a car that keeps anyone awake at night. And being told that there’s a cheap way of buying one is like being told there’s a cheap way of flying to Dortmund. Who cares?
/>
I became so desperate for inspiration that I even turned to Škoda’s brochure, where I discovered you can buy a Superb with a system that downloads the car’s data to your iPad so you can analyse your day’s driving style over supper with the family.
‘Hey, kids, I pulled 0.4g on the roundabout this afternoon and hit 3200rpm at one point.’ Who’d want to do that? No Škoda driver I’ve ever met, that’s for sure.
I’ve met a lot of Škoda drivers over the years. They are called Geoff, and life hasn’t been kind to any of them. They all had reasonable jobs, as timber salesmen or line managers, but the company they worked for was driven out of business by Chinese competition, so they ended up at home all day, eating biscuits and slowly coming to realize that they neither liked nor fancied their wife any more. To get out, they bought Škoda Octavias and set themselves up as provincial minicab drivers. Which means they now spend their evenings mopping up sick, which is better than watching Downton Abbey with fat women who hate them.
What they really want, of course, is to give up the late-night runs full of drunken provincial agri-yobs and get some of the airport work, because then, instead of watching Downton with a fat woman or clearing up sick, they can stand around in Arrivals at terminal 3 in an actual suit while waiting to pick up a businessman. And run the lucky bastard home.
And that, I guess, is where the Superb estate comes in, because it’s not only cheaper than a Passat but also bigger. Much bigger. Geoff could get three adults in the back easily and every single one of their belongings in the boot. Even if they were all compulsive hoarders. It is the biggest car you can buy for £20,000.
And never mind what it says on the steering wheel about it being a Škoda. It isn’t. It has a Volkswagen engine, a Volkswagen gearbox and Volkswagen electronics, and it was built by Volkswagen robots. It even has Volkswagen economy: the manufacturer claims it will average 67.3mpg. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
The only trouble is that while the Superb estate is a great minicab, Geoff is unwilling to take the plunge, because he knows that as soon as he does, Uber will open in his town and he’ll be back at home with his enormous wife, his place on the cab rank taken by a small man in an anorak and a Toyota Prius.
All of which means that no one is interested in the car I’m reviewing this morning. No one. Not even the minicabbers who bought its predecessor. And I still have 500 words to go.
But bear with me because I’ve been having a think recently about the star rating system that’s used in these reviews. The Škoda Superb estate is a five-star car. It’s nigh-on impossible to fault. It is beautifully made. It is equipped with everything you could reasonably expect. The 148 brake horsepower diesel engine is quiet and powerful. It is extremely good value for money. It’s really rather good-looking. It is spacious and – try not to laugh – it does nearly 70mpg. Oh, go on then. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
And yet it just isn’t a five-star car, is it, because it has the same amount of soul as a fridge freezer. It’s the sort of car that you’d buy by the foot.
‘Hello. I’d like five-and-a-bit yards of car, please.’
‘Certainly, Geoff. Let me show you the Superb.’
At no point when you are driving a Superb do you think, ‘Eugh.’ But you never think, ‘Wow,’ either. And that’s not good enough. If you spend thousands of pounds on a holiday, you want the view and the service to take your breath away. And it should be the same thing when you buy a car. It should dazzle you.
There should be a handful of small touches here and there that are absolutely brilliant, and I’m not talking about being able to download your drive home on to a tablet. I’m talking about styling touches and finishes and noises.
I drove for 200 miles up the M1 the other morning, and it was an endless procession of cars such as the Superb. Some were Hyundais. Some were Kias. Many were Vauxhalls and Fords. And they all suffered from the same problem. They were all average. And so, in the past, they’d have got three stars in a review such as this. Because 2½ is hard to illustrate.
Well, that’s going to stop. From now on, if a car is dull, no matter how competent it may be, it is not going to get more than two stars. Because unless the car companies start to let their creative juices flow, people will simply stop buying cars and go for something more convenient instead. Such as an Uber app or the number of their nearest minicab driver.
Which I guess is good news for Geoff. Cars such as the Superb are going to cause people to wonder why they bother with the hassle or the expense of car ownership when the car itself offers nothing in return. Which means there will be lots of business to go round.
So go ahead, Geoff. Buy the Superb. Because as a tool, which is what you want, after all, it’s impossible to better. And, thanks to the design philosophy that created it, there’s a lot of work coming your way very soon.
15 May 2016
The attack bunny has hearts thumping
Mazda MX-5
I’ve said it before and I’m going to say it here again, now. Nothing brilliant has ever resulted from a meeting. A meeting, by its very nature, is bound to produce a consensus. And a consensus is never going to have any peaks or troughs. Margarine came from a meeting. Butter didn’t.
I once worked with a television director who let everyone argue about what we’d do next. And then he put up his hand and said, quietly but firmly: ‘Right. We are going to have a meeting where only I speak and then something happens.’ So that’s what we did, and everything worked out well.
Gravity didn’t come from a meeting. Neither did the Spitfire. But most cars today do come from meetings, and as a result they’re almost all yawn-mobiles. The engineers compromise their position to accommodate the whims of the stylists, who have to compromise their views to keep the rule makers happy, who in turn must satisfy the wishes of the accountants, who are ratty because they had the engineers on the phone last night arguing about the need for multilink suspension.
And now, to make everything more complicated, you have the electronics nerds, who baffle everyone with their weird science and seem always to get their way. Probably because no one knows what they’re on about. They sit talking to people who can’t tell an iPhone from a fax machine about how they can use ones and noughts to change characteristics of the car as it goes along. And that sounds brilliant to a layman.
‘Wow. You can make the suspension soft or medium or hard? You can change the feel of the steering, and even how much power the engine is producing?’
You can see why the board of directors and the marketing departments would go for something like that. But actually it means the way the car feels is down to the customer, who, as the IT manager for a building supply company, doesn’t know one end of a shock absorber from the other.
Let me put it this way. When you buy a really good amp that’s been built by a brilliant acoustic engineer, it has two buttons: one to turn it off and on, and one to adjust the volume. When you buy a really bad amp, it comes with a graphic equalizer.
And so we get to the new Mazda MX-5. The old model has been the world’s bestselling sports car for about twenty-five years, thanks to a combination of low price, ease of use and a smile-a-minute factor that’s up there alongside a game of naked Twister with Scarlett Johansson and Cameron Diaz.
When they were deciding what the new version should be like, the electronics people must have been there, jumping up and down and saying they had the technology to change the shape of the boot lid and make the headlights see round corners. And it must have been very tempting. But I’m glad to my core that they were told to shut up and get out.
This is a car that has been set up by engineers just the way they like it. You can’t change it as you drive along. And after about a hundredth of a second you think: ‘Why would I want to? Because it’s completely perfect.’
Actually, that’s not exactly what I thought. What I thought was: ‘God, I’m getting fat.’ I didn’t really struggle to fit into the old model, but in this new one I felt as though I was the c
orned beef and it was the tin. Passers-by could see my jowls and maybe an ear pressed against the side window, and the windscreen was just a mass of strained shirt and eyes.
To reach the main controls, located behind the gear lever, I had to dislocate my shoulder. You need to be a T Rex to turn the stereo up a notch, and getting something from the storage compartment, which is located behind your left shoulder? Forget it. I had to stop the car, get out and come in head first to retrieve my phone. And even then I put my back out.
I resolved, as I was pushed back into the driver’s seat by friends, that I must go on a diet. But then I read when I got home that in fact the new MX-5 is a little shorter than its predecessor. So that’s great. It’s not my fault that I didn’t fit. Break out the biscuits.
If you aren’t an actual giant, you will be snug, but you’ll fit just fine. And it’s the same story in the boot, which is exactly the right size for two overnight bags.
Not that you’ll want to stay the night anywhere because, ooh, this is a lovely little car to drive. Because it’s so organic and raw and simple, it feels how a sports car should. It sings and fizzes and jumps about. It always feels eager and sprightly, and that makes you feel eager and sprightly too. It’s a cure for depression, this car, it really is. You just can’t be in a bad mood when you’re driving it.
And I like the way the new model looks just a bit more serious than its predecessor. That was always a bit chumpish, really, and soft. This one looks as if it means business. It’s an attack rabbit.
It’s a cure for depression, this car. You just can’t be in a bad mood when you’re driving it.
Maybe, if you really, really concentrate when going round a long bend at about 60mph, you can feel a small dead spot in the steering. But why concentrate on that when there is 93 million miles of headroom and the sun’s out and Steve Harley’s on the radio and you’ve dropped it down to third on the sweetest little gearbox and now the engine is singing as well?
Really? Page 19
