I actually know a proctologist, and I’ve never heard anyone say to him: ‘We don’t want to talk about anuses.’ Which has led me to believe that today people are more interested in rectums than they are in the new Ferrari GTC4Lusso.
I can see why. For twenty years they have been brainwashed by the liberal elite – the people who are now getting their arses kicked in every single election – that cars are bad for the environment and if we keep on using them to go to work and the shops, Planet Earth III will have to be about wasps and cockroaches because everything else will be extinct.
The constant drip-feed of eco-mental nonsense affects politicians especially. They respond by worrying about the constituent parts of the upper atmosphere and think they can sort everything out if they reduce speed limits. And then reduce them again and then stick up average-speed cameras to ensure the limits are obeyed.
Then they dig up the roads for years so they can be made narrower, and they put in speed humps and cycle lanes, and another speed camera just for good measure. The effect has been profound.
When I was growing up, I dreamt of the open road, because we had such a thing back then. Cars were something you could barely afford, but, boy, they were worth it because they represented freedom and glamour and excitement. They were something you needed, for sure. But they were something you wanted as well.
Today kids look out of the back window of the Volvo on the school run, and they see the jams and the cycle lanes and the speed cameras and think: ‘Well, this isn’t very exciting, is it?’ So when they reach the age of seventeen and they are allowed a licence, they think: ‘What’s the point?’
As my son said: ‘Why do I need to drive? I can use a coach to get to London for a couple of quid, even when I’ve had a drink, and it has wi-fi.’
It’s a good point, and that’s before we get to Uber, which has realized that we don’t need a car. But that we do need one at 4.15 a.m. on Tuesday.
People have started to realize that for 90 per cent of the time their car just sits on the street doing nothing except costing money. So why not get rid of it and use a man in a Toyota Prius for the 10 per cent of the time when they need to go somewhere?
Now, I know I reviewed a Honda only last week, but I then drove the Civic Type R and realized it quite neatly sums up my point. A number of years ago Honda made this model, and it revved as if it were running on nitrous, handled as though its tyres were made from glue and roared and snarled as if it were very angry about something. To this day that car is revered in some quarters as a deity.
But then, one day, Honda pulled the plug and decided to make cars exclusively for pensioners and Americans, which are the same thing.
Now, though, the Type R is back, and it’s no shrinking violet. Nor does it follow the age-old hot-hatchback recipe of taking one ordinary cooking car and adding a bigger engine and bucket seats. It’s way more complicated than that.
It’s so complicated, in fact, that really it isn’t a Civic at all. The rear suspension is different, and at the front it has a system like that of no other car at all. It’s slightly similar to the RevoKnuckle arrangement on a Ford Focus RS, but better, apparently. Cleverer. More able to deal with sudden gobs of torque from the engine.
Which is necessary, because the engine in the old Civic Type R produced almost 200bhp. In the latest one you get a colossal 306bhp. That’s 306 brake horsepower from a 2-litre engine. And you get 150 more torques. Crikey.
But the most striking thing about this car is the way it looks. Honda says that all the wings and the splitters have an aerodynamic point. It says that without them the Type R would not have been able to hold the front-wheel-drive Nürburgring lap record. (Until Volkswagen took it away recently with a stripped-out Golf GTI.)
Ten years ago you could have driven this car down the street, and young boys would have jumped up and down and grabbed at their tinkles. Youths would have swooned. Dads would have become wistful. Not any more. Now, pretty much everyone stands with their hands on their hips and slowly shakes their heads. It’s the look you give a naughty dog.
So you need thick skin to drive a Type R. But is it worth it? Hmmm. Not sure. The engine, though undoubtedly powerful, lacks much in the way of aural excitement and is patchy in the way it delivers the grunt. Honda is a newcomer to turbocharging and it sort of shows. And the chassis is so good, it makes the car feel a little bit dull. A hot hatch should put a smile on your face. It should be like a puppy. This feels a bit serious.
Of course, if you are a serious helmsman, you will admire its ability to grip and go. And you’ll love the lap times it can produce at a track. But if you are a serious helmsman, why would you buy a car with front-wheel drive?
And whoever you are, you will certainly tire very quickly of getting out of the seat when you reach journey’s end. The bucket is so pronounced and the side bolsters so high, it’s nigh-on impossible. I also found the interior a bit clever-clever.
Overall, then, it’s not Honda’s best effort. But that’s OK, because the company has already announced that next year it will replace the car with a new Type R.
I’m glad that Honda is still trying. But I fear it is chasing a market that doesn’t really exist any more.
11 December 2016
Pay attention, 007, this one does work
Aston Martin DB11
People like Aston Martins. And what’s more, people like people who drive them. They’re seen as cool and intelligent and refined. They know not to drink red wine with fish and are familiar with the Latin name for every single fish in the sea.
Astons are driven by people who find Ferraris and Porsches a bit tall-poppy vulgar, a bit Manchester United. A bit disgusting. I get that, but there’s always been a problem. Aston Martins have never been much good.
The DB5, trumpeted by many as the best, most iconic Aston Martin of them all, feels pretty much like a Seddon Atkinson dustbin lorry to drive. There’s a scene in the Bond film GoldenEye where Pierce Brosnan races his silver bin lorry through the Alpes-Maritimes against a Ferrari 355. It was supposed to be very exciting but for me it was just annoying because I was being asked to believe that if someone entered a cow into the Grand National it would be in with a shout of winning.
Later Aston Martin made a car called the Vantage. It had a supercharged V8 and excellent headrests. But to drive, it felt almost identical to Ford’s Raptor pick-up. I loved the Vantage, make no mistake, but it handled and braked and gripped like it was quite drunk.
To make matters worse, Astons back then were made by hand, which is another way of saying that nothing fitted or worked properly. And they were never really tested before they went on sale. There was a sense at the Newport Pagnell factory that early customers could find out what was wrong. That would save a lot of time, bother and expense.
This sort of thing was still going on when the company came up with the DB7. I forget now exactly what was still wrong with it when it went on sale but I’m pretty sure a tendency to fall to pieces was at the top of a long list.
The DB9 was far more sorted when it came along. You sensed it had been properly developed and well thought out. But you also sensed that behind the achingly pretty face beat a fairly ordinary heart. It was as groundbreaking as a loaf of bread. And that’s been the story ever since, really. Beautiful and fairly well-made cars that under the skin were just that: cars.
Ferrari and Porsche, with big-money backing from wealthy parents, could afford to develop new technology and new ways of doing things. Aston Martin was stuck. It would change the styling and the names of the cars but underneath they were all broadly the same and they were using tech that was starting to look old-fashioned.
So I wasn’t really expecting all that much from the new DB11. I figured that it would be beautiful, which it is – achingly so – but that it would be no match dynamically for what the rest of the world could offer. I was wrong.
The old V12, which sounded magnificent – but which we always knew at the back of o
ur minds had been made by nailing two Ford Mondeo engines together – is now gone. And in its stead the DB11 is powered by an all-new 5.2-litre V12 that is fitted with two turbochargers.
When I heard that Aston Martin had developed this engine itself, I thought: ‘With what? Some loose change they found down the back of the sofa?’ I figured it would be a bit old-school with lag and a lot of ‘That’ll do, near enough’ Brummie tech. It isn’t. It comes with cylinder deactivation and one turbo and intercooler per bank and all the latest tech. Also, the engine’s made in Germany.
Better still, there’s been a tie-up with Mercedes-Benz so the DB11 has a Mercedes satnav (current Aston Martin owners will rejoice at that news). And Mercedes electronics. And the Mercedes Comand infotainment system.
As I said when I reviewed the car on the television recently, this is a very successful Anglo-German marriage. And soon it will produce a son; an Aston with Mercedes-AMG’s turbocharged V8. I’m dribbling at the thought of that.
But not as much as I’m dribbling at the memory of driving the DB11 round the Mugello racetrack in Tuscany. I’ve driven Astons on a track before and it’s always felt as if I’m trying to ballet dance in a pair of extremely good-looking Church’s brogues. You always got the sense that the car was saying: ‘Really?’
The DB11 is a completely different animal. The chassis was designed by a former Lotus chap who has tuned it for comfort, yes, but not – as I quickly discovered – at the expense of everything else. Ooh, that car gripped.
As you’re going along, air is funnelled into ducts behind the rear-side windows and it’s then shot out of a narrow vent on the boot lid. When I was told about this invisible air rear wing I thought, ‘Yeah, right’, and I still do to a certain extent. But something is keeping the rear end planted so maybe it does work. Maybe Aston really has thought of something new. That’d be a first.
The traction control system isn’t new. But it’s tuned beautifully so it’s gentle in its restraint and progressive when it feels you’re through the bend and the rear tyres are fully able to exploit the 600bhp and that mountain of torque. It’s even better than the system in the McLaren 675LT, and that’s saying something.
You imagine when you leave the track that something this grippy will not work on the road. But it really, really does. Put it in GT mode and it becomes quiet and smooth and very comfortable.
If you’re ever in Paris, at a party at 3 a.m., and suddenly remember you are playing in a tennis tournament in Monte Carlo the next afternoon, this is the car for the job. You’d arrive feeling like you’d just got out of the bath.
The upshot of all this is that you feel, for the first time in an Aston Martin, that there’s some real engineering between you and the road. That it’s not just a pretty face. This is an extremely good car. Phenomenally good.
But there is a price to pay, I’m afraid. It has a horrible interior. The door linings in my test car looked like those polished marble kitchen tops that have got too many chintzy bits in them and the steering wheel was square. Who thought that was a good idea? Or did the supplier misread the name of the customer and think it was for ‘Austin Martin’?
Whatever, the cockpit is not a place that you will enjoy or savour. And that’s a shame because everything else about this car is absolutely delightful. It’s the best Aston yet. And by a very long way.
18 December 2016
I figure it’s a must for algebra fans
Mercedes E 220d
If you are an old person you will remember that in the 1970s mid-sized Mercedes-Benz saloons and estates were wilfully sensible. They were designed to never excite you, for a very long time. And that’s it.
You bought one because you’d done the maths. You’d calculated the rate of depreciation, and how much one breakdown a year would cost, and you’d realized that the premium price of the Benz made sense. Driving, to people such as you, was something that must be done, like ironing. The idea that it could be fun was ridiculous.
The mid-range Mercedes underwent a glacially slow development process right through the Eighties and Nineties. Each new model was a shuffle. Each incorporated fresh features, but only those that made sense and worked. Gimmickry? That was for other people. And oversteer was dangerous.
But then in 2009 something weird happened. The new mid-range Mercedes, sold as the E-class but known internally as the W212 model, arrived on the market with a curved crease in the rear wings. It served no purpose. It was a bit of pointless styling flimflam. This was like Prince Philip turning up to open a garden centre, aged sixty, with a Wayne Rooney weave.
Elsewhere in the Mercedes range, pointless styling ran amok. The chintz-ometer was in the red zone. There were flashes of chrome and radiator grilles that looked like bachelor-pad cookers. There were models that no one needed, and it was as if someone at Mercedes had won the pools. You wanted Peter Jones when you bought a Mercedes (the shop, not the gangly Dragon) but what you were getting was the duty-free shopping arcade at Dubai airport.
This is probably because the people who bought cars after doing the maths had come to realize that if they wanted low running costs, and that’s it, they could buy a Hyundai.
Or it’s possibly because Chinese businessmen don’t want subtle and think restraint is something that belongs in either a police cell or a brothel. Whatever the cause, I was so horrified, I stopped buying Mercs and switched to Volkswagens.
But then, earlier this year, along came the new E-class mid-sized saloon (codenamed internally, and logically, W213) and, wait a minute: what’s this? The rear-wing crease is gone. The artistry of the fridge door is back. It’s just a car-shaped car.
Yes, the one I borrowed was fitted with AMG Line skirts and low-profile tyres, but peel away the jewellery and there’s no getting round the fact. Prince Philip is bald again. Peter Jones is back.
And it gets better, because the estate version I tried has a truly enormous boot. What am I saying? The sort of people who will buy this car do not understand what’s meant by ‘truly enormous’. They like numbers. So let me give you some. With the rear seats folded flat, you get 1,820 litres of space in which to put your things.
The Audi A6 gives you 1,680. The BMW 5-series 1,670 and the Volvo V90 a mere 1,526. So if you are an antiques dealer, or you often take luggage-laden families to the airport, the new E-class is a clear winner.
And there’s more. Next year Mercedes will offer the option of two foldaway child seats fitted into the boot. So it’ll work for those who practise Catholic birth control methods as well.
My car, weirdly, was fitted with a new 2-litre turbodiesel engine, which sounds as though it might be a bit too small and weedy for a vehicle this big and this heavy. But the performance figures are respectable. And the fuel economy outstanding. Thanks in part to a new nine-speed automatic gearbox, it’s entirely possible you’ll average 50mpg.
The downside of course is that the environmental lobby has recently decided that diesel – which it used to like – is now terrible and should be banned from city centres. I shouldn’t worry, though, because by the time it’s worked out how such a move would affect its beloved buses, it’ll have decided diesel’s a good thing again.
Is the new E-class fun to drive? No. Not really. And that’s OK, because it’s a tool, remember. Your iron isn’t fun to drive either. Or your lawnmower. If you want fun to drive, buy a beach buggy or a Beemer.
What it is, is quiet. Incredibly quiet. This is an engine that uses compression to force the fuel to explode (oh, OK, burn), and that normally results in a canal boat clatter. But the engine in my car just hummed. Softly, like Winnie-the-Pooh when he was thinking about something.
It’s also very comfortable. Yes, the AMG wheels with the painted-on tyres did their best to ruin everything, but you could tell that without them it’d be hovercraft smooth and beanbag pliant. Which brings me on to the speed hump …
The road safety lobby, which is run by an offshoot of the polar bear preservation unit, used to say
that these were vital tools in the fight against capitalism and McDonald’s. But, as is the way with the loony left, it has changed its mind on that too and now says they must all be removed.
I’m not sure I understand its thinking, but it has something to do with the way we all slow down and speed up again when we encounter them, which is bad for the ice caps. Or is it ambulances? I’m not sure.
Anyway, councils can’t afford to remove them, because they will be told that’d cost £20m per hump, and they’re all idiots so they’ll swallow it. Which means speed humps are here to stay.
Mostly they are located on so-called rat-run roads, which tend to be used by professional drivers in executive taxis who know their way round the jams. So here’s a tip. If you’re thinking of using such a service in future, make sure they send an E-class, because you’ll have a much more comfortable journey.
So far, then, the new E-class has not put a foot wrong. But now we get to the interior, which is light and spacious but fronted up with a dashboard that appears, when you first clap eyes on it, to have been lifted from one of those fluorescent-lit hi-fi shops on the outskirts of any town in the Middle East.
You get two television screens, one of which tells you what you need to know about the car, and how much fuel is in the tank and how fast you are going, and the other where you’re going and which of the sixty-four interior lighting settings you’re on. You think when you first climb aboard that it’s all too complicated for words and that you should get right back out again. But it isn’t. It works beautifully.
I was similarly worried about the dash itself. It appears to be made from some kind of weird grained wood that’s as black as ebony but matt rather than shiny. So you lean forwards for a feel and, whoa, it’s plastic disguised to look like wood – and that’s horrible.
Or is it? The upholstery in Mercs of old was made from plastic disguised to look like leather, and no one minded that.
Really? Page 26
