Round the Bend

by Jeremy Clarkson

  Not any more. The car is fitted with Stoptech racing brakes, Eibach Multi-Pro suspension, wheels made from magnesium and carbon fibre, and other beefed-up components from the tip of its slender nose to the back end of its Plasticine arse (which they also can’t say). So it’s actually designed to handle the 616bhp produced by that force-fed V8, although the standard car, which is also available as a convertible, has 580bhp.

  Yes, 616bhp is a lot. It’s the sort of power you get from a Ferrari 599. And yet the car you see in the pictures this morning costs just over $92,500. At today’s exchange rate, that’s about 35p.

  At first, I was too jet-lagged to drive, so I tossed the keys to a colleague who was part gibbering wreck and part Michael Schumacher. We’d kangaroo away from the lights, stall, lurch up to about 400mph and then zigzag through the traffic like Jack Bauer in pursuit of a Russian nuke.

  As a result, on our way back from Orange County to Beverly Hills, I snatched the keys … and had exactly the same problem. The clutch is like a switch and the gearbox like something that operates a lock on the Manchester Ship Canal. And if, by some miracle, you do get them to work in harmony, you are catapulted into a hypersonic, Hollywood blockbuster world of searing noise, bleeding ears and speeds so fantastic that you mark the instrument panel down as a born-again liar. I absolutely bloody loved it.

  Most European and Japanese cars these days hide their thrills behind a curtain of electronic interference and acoustically tuned, synthetic exhaust noises. Driving, say, an M5, is like having sex in a condom. Driving this Corvette is like taking it off.

  Oh sure, it has the same problems that beset all Vettes. A dash made from the same cellophane they use to wrap cigarette packets, a sense it’s been nailed together by apes, the finesse of a charging rhinoceros and the subtlety of a crashing helicopter. But the Callaway power injection masks all this in the same way that a dollop of hot sauce turns a slice of week-old goat cheek into a taste sensation.

  On the El Toro airfield, deserted since it was attacked by aliens in Independence Day, it would slide and growl like it was the love child of Red Rum and a wild lion. On the snarled-up 405 on the way back to LA, it made rude gestures to other road users, urging them to take it on, knowing full well that it could beat just about everything up to a Veyron (pronounced ‘goddam cheese-eating Kraut junk’).

  Then, when the traffic got too bad, we cut through downtown LA, where it pulled off the most fabulous trick of them all – absorbing the bumps and potholes that would disgrace even the Zimbabwean highways authority. Simply as a result of this, I have to say it’s an even better car than Chevrolet’s own hot Corvette, the Z06, which rides the bumps like a skateboard.

  Let us look, then, at the Callaway’s strengths. It is ridiculously cheap, immensely powerful, much more comfortable than you would expect, beautiful to behold and blessed with handling that belies the fact that it was designed in a country that has no word for ‘bend’. It also redefines the whole concept of excitement.

  If I lived over there, be in no doubt that I would have one like a shot. It suits the place very well. It is Bruce Willis in a vest. Over here, however, I’d rather go to work in a scuba suit. As a car, it would work fine, apart from the steering wheel being on the wrong side. It would be fun. It would be fast. And, unlike most American cars, it isn’t even that big.

  As a statement, however, I fear it would sit in the Cotswolds about as comfortably as Sylvester Stallone would belong in an EM Forster novel. It isn’t brash – at least not compared with a Lamborghini. But like all American cars, it does feel that way. And a bit stupid, too.

  Funny, isn’t it. American cars, more than all others, are built to travel and yet that’s the one thing they really don’t do at all well.

  20 April 2008

  … catch me if you can

  Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution X FQ-360 GSR

  Having my photograph taken has always been like having extensive root-canal work done on my soul. I hate it with an unbridled passion. A photograph of me serves as a permanent reminder of the simple fact that I am just a stomach and a very large chin with a small piece of wire wool growing out of the top.

  Unfortunately, these days everyone has a camera phone, so everyone has become an amateur paparazzo. And that means I have my photograph taken about four hundred million times a day.

  I understand why, of course. If you could get a snap of Cliff Richard mowing his lawn, then – ker-ching! – I bet it’d be worth a grand. If you could get a Formula One boss having his hair checked for lice by a girl dressed up as a Belsen inmate, you might even be able to afford a new car.

  Of course there are drawbacks. First of all, you have to have the morals of a woodlouse, and second, you might drive your prey to crash into a tunnel. But that doesn’t seem to be stopping anyone.

  Just recently I was snapped by a member of the public while driving along the M40. He claimed the snap showed I was using my mobile. My phone records prove that I wasn’t but, no matter, he sold the picture to the Mirror. It ran it on the front page and as a result the young man probably earned enough to buy himself and his girlfriend a slap-up meal at the local Harvester.

  On holiday this year someone took a picture of me going snorkelling. And because it showed a chin and a stomach in a face mask the Mirror bought this one too, paying the lensman enough for him to buy himself a jolly nice piña colada.

  Now it’s open season. Some kid took a picture of me while I was asleep, and when I told him to eff off his dad went immediately, you’ve guessed it, to the Mirror. It’s got to the point where my wife never actually bothers to ring and ask where I am. She just looks in the redtops.

  I’m thinking of cashing in myself; maybe I’ll sell them a picture of me checking my prostate.

  It’s at its worst, though, when I’m imprisoned by a flash and noticeable car. Recently, I drove my Lamborghini from Guildford to Chipping Norton. It’s about 90 miles and I had my picture taken 107 times. I counted. This meant I couldn’t use the phone or pick my nose or break the speed limit or sing along to the radio or even, on the straight bits, catch forty winks. It was so wearisome that when I got home I sold the car.

  And I can assure you that I most definitely will not replace it with a Mitsubishi Lancer Evo X FQ-360. Because, I swear to God, you couldn’t get more attention even if you were Jade Goody and you stood on a bridge over the M1 motorway and had full sex with a cow.

  Now if you’re looking at the picture above, wondering why such a vulgar little thing could possibly cause anyone to look twice, then you know nothing about cars and, frankly, you’d be better off reading about something else.

  If, on the other hand, you do know about cars, then you will also not be very interested to hear what the Evo is like. Because when it comes to four-wheel-drive turbo cars for the PlayStation generation, all eyes are currently on the Nissan GT-R – the most eagerly anticipated new arrival since God stuck a pin in a map and decided on Bethlehem.

  The fact is, though, that the Nissan is going to be upwards of £50,000, about 15 grand more than the little Itchypussy. And I’m sorry but I cannot see, with the current laws of physics in place, how it can possibly be that much better.

  The previous nine Evos were always exquisite to drive, nicer even than their great rivals from Subaru. But they were also woefully flimsy, stylistically challenged and hard to the point of hopelessness. For one lap of the Nürburgring, you’d use an Evo every time. For the journey home, you’d take the Scooby-Doo.

  Now, though, everything has changed. The new Subaru is about as much fun as a church service. And it doesn’t look good in photographs because, like me, it doesn’t look good at all. I’ve seen more attractive things in medical books.

  The Evo X, on the other hand, looks fab. Peel away the bulges and all that carbon fibre flotsam and jetsam – all of which gives other road users an impression that, for you, driving may be a hobby, like trainspotting – and the basic shape is very good. And then … Oh. My. God. There’
s the way it drives.

  I fear I may have to get a bit technical here. When you turned into a corner in an old Evo, initially there’d be a dribble of dreary understeer. In a normal car this is a speed-scrubbing health and safety warning that soon there will be ambulances and fire engines, but in the Mitsubishi it was simply a portal through which you had to pass to get at the car’s heart and soul.

  The heart and soul in question was its ability to remain composed and absolutely controllable in a lairy, tyre-smoking four-wheel drift. No other car I’d driven was able to do this, even slightly. It was exquisite.

  The new car is even better because when you turn into a corner it’s the back that steps out of line. This means that even the portal through which you must pass to get at the meat and veg is full of hair-tingling joy.

  Of course, there are lots of buttons you can press to make the handling different, but those are for geeks and bores. All I can report is that the basics of this car – the core – are monumentally, toweringly, eye-wateringly brilliant.

  Then there’s the speed. Yes, a Ferrari 430 is full of brio and passion, but get an Evo X on your tail and I guarantee that, unless it’s being driven by a complete spanner, you will not be able to shake it off.

  And now comes the really good news. When you have finished at the track, the ride home is not bad either. Certainly, it is way softer than the Evos of old, much more comfortable. Also, the X doesn’t require a service every 300 yards. And it’s garnished with higher-quality plastics as well. Oh, and I nearly forgot. It has the single best touchscreen central command sat nav system I’ve found in any car. It’ll even give you the average speed, in a graph, of each of your past 20 journeys.

  And, of course, it’s got four doors, seating for five and a boot which, despite the fitting of a Grateful Dead bass speaker, was still large enough last night to accommodate my daughter’s back-to-school requirements.

  There are, however, some drawbacks that you might like to consider before signing your name on the dotted line in dribble.

  First of all, it has only a five-speed gearbox. This means that on the motorway the all-new super-light 2.0-litre turbo engine becomes awfully drony. It’s like listening to Alistair Darling make a speech. And, worse, because there’s no cruising gear the fuel consumption is dreadful.

  That’s bad in any car, but when the tank is only the size of a Zippo, you will struggle to do 200 miles between fill-ups.

  Almost certainly, then, you’d be better off with the less powerful but more economical FQ-300. I tried this, too, and missed the savage acceleration. But I liked the twin-clutch six-speed flappy-paddle gearbox, which is not available on the 360. Furthermore, it has the same top speed and it’s at least £6,000 cheaper. Of the two, this is the one I’d buy.

  Unfortunately, however, I can’t. I’d become fed up with the flotilla of camera-toting rats more quickly than I became fed up with the never-ending trips to the pumps.

  Happily, my wife has come to the rescue. She’s going to buy one and, being an organized soul, will keep it topped up with fuel. This means that when it’s dark and all the Mirror readers are in the pub fighting, I can take it out for a little drive. It’ll serve as a constant reminder of what cars can, and should, be like.

  27 April 2008

  Look, mums – a 4x4 planet saver

  Mitsubishi Outlander 2.2 DI-DC Diamond

  All black men are thieves. All Jews would sell their mothers for a pound. All Muslims are suicide bombers and everyone in Ireland is as thick as a slab of cheese. Yes. Right. And everyone with a Chelsea tractor is a stick-thin blonde whose head is so full of useless social engagements that she can’t actually be bothered to steer round other cars, street furniture or bus shelters.

  It ain’t necessarily so. All sorts of people buy 4x4s for all sorts of reasons. And contrary to what the global warmists would have us believe, only some are stick-thin blonde women who won’t actually stop until the underside of their car is so jammed up with run-over pedestrians the wheels won’t go round any more.

  The wave of hatred, then, that engulfs the off-roader is nothing more than ill-informed prejudice. And what makes my blood boil is that things are getting worse.

  I do not have much time for people who get dressed up in camouflage clothing and take to the countryside in their Land Rovers to see who can get most covered in mud. This is known as ‘green laning’ and it’s as ridiculous as pushing a kettle over a frozen lake. I wouldn’t want to stop them doing it, though, partly because they’d all be at home otherwise, downloading unusual images from the internet, but mostly because it’s fairly harmless.

  Oh no it isn’t, say the ramblists. They argue that green laning is noisy and causes polar bears to drown. One group, the Yorkshire Dales Green Lanes Alliance, says that taking a vehicle for the purposes of fun onto a green lane should be ‘an offence’.

  Now, even if we ignore the difficulties of policing such a law, or of making a case stick in the courts – ‘I wasn’t doing it for fun’ is hard to disprove – we are left astounded at the narrow-mindedness of these people. Not even the Communists or the Nazis attempted to make ‘fun’ an offence.

  And, unfortunately, it doesn’t end here because those of a four-wheel-drive disposition are being targeted, not only in the countryside, but in towns as well, with local councils saying now that anyone who drives a large car on the school run must pay £75 a year for the privilege.

  This is insane. Like many parents, my wife and I have a big, seven-seater Volvo, not because we used to lie awake at night dreaming of the day when we could own such a thing, and not because we always wanted, more than anything, a car that sounds like a canal boat. No. We have it because we are part of a school run car sharing scheme.

  And the fact is this: by filling our Volvo with six children every morning, we are keeping three other cars off the road. So why should we pay more than someone who takes just two kids to school in a Mini?

  In reality, a Mini takes up exactly the same amount of space on the road as a Volvo XC90, so therefore, it should be the Mini driver who’s made to pay a premium while those of us with large, high-occupancy vehicles, are allowed to proceed for free.

  I mean it. I would far rather own a Cooper S than a Volvo.

  It is better looking, nicer to drive, cheaper to run and cheaper to buy. But I don’t. I sacrifice my love of driving, my love of cars and the contents of my bank account for the public good. I should, therefore, be rewarded with gifts, free passage and some thank-you letters from the world’s polar bears.

  Yes, I know I’m supposed to make my children go to school on the bus, but I can’t – for three reasons. One, they’d get lost. Two, they’d catch a disease. And three, there isn’t one.

  So, if you are in the same boat as me, and you fancy the idea of a school-run-sharing seven-seater, there are many choices, and almost all of them are terrible in some way. The Audi Q7 is ugly. The Land Rover Discovery weighs more than the moon. The Vauxhall Zafira is a Vauxhall, and the Ford S-Max, while attractive and good to drive, is a mini people carrier … and I’m sorry but nothing says you’ve given up in life quite so spectacularly as a car designed entirely to be practical. It’s motoring’s equivalent of a tartan zip-up slipper.

  Small wonder, then, the XC90 is almost a part of the school uniform these days. It’s practical. It’s reliable. It has a reputation for safety. With a towbar on the back, it’ll pull a horsebox. I even have a friend who has fitted winter tyres and uses it for shooting. But there is one problem. When it first came out, it was good value at less than £30,000. But now the top models are nudging £50,000 or more. And that makes it even more expensive than a packet of pasta.

  Which is why my eye was drawn last week to the new Mitsubishi Outlander. Here we have a car that seems to do everything the Volvo does, in a smaller package, for less money. A lot less. The range starts at less than £20,000 and even the most expensive model is only £27,000.

  I do not know how such a low price is
possible when, so far as I can see, a cut of the profits will be going to every car firm in the world.

  The Outlander, amazingly, is based on the same platform as the Mitsubishi Evo X that I reviewed last week. But the car itself was designed in conjunction with Mercedes-Benz when it was in bed with Chrysler, so it shares a great many bits and pieces with the Dodge Nitro, a silly car for silly Americans.

  Then there’s the French connection. The Outlander, having been designed in America, Japan and Germany, is being built in conjunction with Peugeot and Citroën, who offer their own versions of the same car. And the 2-litre turbodiesel engine is made by Volkswagen.

  No matter: despite the United Nations nature of the background, the end result is quite good.

  We’ll deal with the drawbacks first, and that means we have to start in the boot, where there is an essay on how the rear seats should be raised and lowered from the floor. I think it’s designed to be difficult, because then you’ll never actually discover that when the seats are in place there’s no rear legroom, at all, and not much boot left either.

  It’s best, then, on a shared school run, to put the kids you don’t like very much back there.

  Next is the four-wheel-drive system. Most of the time you’re in two-wheel drive and that doesn’t really work when the car is fully loaded. Every time you put your foot down, the front end goes light, the driven wheels lose their grip and everything, for a little while, goes all wobbly. Best, I think, to hang the extra fuel consumption and leave it in 4WD all the time.

  And that’s it. Those are the drawbacks. All two of them. The rest of the car is well made, well equipped, well trimmed and, like the Evo, fitted with Mitsubishi’s brilliant sat nav system. I also think it is good-looking and, despite the fact you can only have it with a diesel engine, quite good to drive. It feels much lighter and more responsive than you might imagine.