What Could Possibly Go Wrong. . .

by Jeremy Clarkson

  The result was disastrous. Sales plummeted and Fiat, which owns Lancia, decided to pull its problem child out of Britain. And that, we thought, was that. Only now, almost twenty years later, Lancia is back. The Ypsilon.

  Let’s look at the obvious problems first of all. Number 1: the man with the box on his head is plainly still in charge of styling because the list of things I’d rather look at includes every single thing in the world.

  Then there’s the name: Ypsilon. The company may argue that this is a Greek letter but it sounds like another Greek letter, epsilon, and as anyone who has read Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World will know, an epsilon is synonymous with idiot. It means lavatory attendant. It means loser. The manufacturer may as well have fitted a swastika badge, arguing that it’s an ancient Buddhist symbol. It is, but …

  I’m afraid things get much, much worse. This is a horrible car to drive. The 1.3-litre diesel engine feels as if it’s running on gravel. The driving position is suitable only for an animal that doesn’t exist. The dials are so far away from where you sit you can’t read them, the handbrake sounds like it’s been made from bits of a 1971 roof rack and, as a result of the materials used to line the interior, it feels like you are sitting in a wheelie bin. Still, at least it’s slow and devoid of any excitement whatsoever. And fitted with a gear lever that has been shaped specifically to make it extremely unpleasant to hold.

  There are two settings for the steering. Nasty. And Very Nasty. The latter makes the system so light that you daren’t open the window for fear the resultant breeze would cause you to do a U-turn. And Nasty means you drive along, suffering from a nagging doubt that the wheel has nothing at all to do with your direction of travel.

  Ride? That’s dreadful. Noise? Awful as well. And then we get to the brakes. You get what looks like a pedal but actually it’s a switch. So you are either not braking, or braking so violently that you are going through the windscreen.

  Other stuff? Well, it’s got back seats that fold down, a boot and a big button on the A pillar that, so far as I can tell, does nothing except distract you from the rest of the terribleness. It also has cruise control, for no reason that I can fathom. Still, you might be thinking, at least you can go to parties and tell everyone that you have a Lancia. Well, yes, I agree, that would be good. Except you can’t because this car is actually sold here as a Chrysler.

  This is because Fiat recently bought Chrysler and reckons that in Britain that badge is better than the Lancia one used on the other side of the Channel. That’s the sort of thinking that resulted in a car this bad being made in the first place.

  Still, at least there’s a solution. You simply buy a Fiat 500 or a Fiat Panda or a Ford Ka instead. They’re all exactly the same as the Ypsilon. But much better.

  11 November 2012

  Ask nicely and it’ll probably cook you dinner underwater

  BMW M135i

  When we buy a really fast car, the last thing we want is a really fast car. We may think we do. But we don’t. The top speed of a car matters when you’re a child. My dad’s car is faster than yours. And it matters when you are a teenager.

  I bought a Volkswagen Scirocco when I was twenty because What Car? magazine said it accelerated from 0 to 60 mph a little bit faster than my mate’s Vauxhall Chevette. But when you are an adult you realize that you will never accelerate from 0 to 60 mph as fast as possible because a) people will think you are an imbecile and b) you will need a new clutch afterwards.

  Nor can you ever indulge in the 1970s pastime of proving to other motorists that you have a faster car than they do, because these days all cars can do 120 mph. This means you have to do 140 mph to make your point, and when you’re at that speed, someone’s going to put you in a prison.

  Let’s get to the point. If all you want from a car is speed, you should buy a Nissan GT-R. If you use its launch control, it will leave the line as though a comet has crashed into the back of it. And it will keep on accelerating until stark, naked fear causes you to remove your foot from the pedal. And we haven’t got to its party piece yet: its all-wheel-drive ability to get round any corner at any speed of your choosing. With the exception of a few silly track-day specials, the Nissan GT-R is the fastest car money can buy.

  But you didn’t buy one, did you? Because it’s a bit ugly. And it’s a Nissan. And you thought your friends and neighbours might laugh at you.

  My colleague James May recently bought a really fast car. It’s a Ferrari 458 Italia and with a fair wind it will zoom along at 200 mph. But he will never drive it at anything like that speed. Ever. And even if he did take it to ten-tenths on a track – unlikely, I know – he’d still get overtaken by a GT-R.

  You buy a Ferrari because you think it makes you look interesting, rich and attractive. You buy one because you like the feel of the thing, or the styling, or the cut of the salesman’s jib. You buy one so, at night, when it’s dark and you’re feeling worthless, you can say to yourself, ‘But I have a Ferrari.’ And you will feel better. I know. I’ve been there.

  Another friend recently bought a Mercedes C 63 AMG Black Series. And within days he was sending me texts saying it was a bit scary on full throttle. Wouldn’t know, mate. I’ve never used full throttle on my Black, the CLK, because there’s a big difference between admiring a slumbering crocodile and running up and poking it with a stick.

  I have a Black for all sorts of reasons. I like the pillarless doors. I like the flared wheelarches. I like the body-hugging seats. And I like the noise it makes. Unfortunately, in order to make its tremendous sound, the engine has to be very powerful, which, as a by-product, makes the car very fast. But it’s not fast not in the way that a GT-R is fast. You can use the speed in the Nissan. If you try to use the speed in a Mercedes Black it will put you in a tree.

  Every human being on the planet, with the possible exception of Ed Miliband, likes the feeling of being a little bit out of control. Push a child high on a swing and it will squeal with delight. But when the big kids start pushing the roundabout too fast, the sound it makes tends to change somewhat.

  Which brings me to the new BMW 1-series. The top-of-the-range M135i has been winning rave reviews because, unlike the hot hatches made by every other company, it has rear-wheel drive. This means you can ‘hang the tail out in a corner’.

  Indeed you can, but there is a price to pay for this. Because the car has rear-wheel drive, the big six-cylinder engine is mounted longitudinally. Also there is a prop shaft running under the cabin, and at the back, beneath the boot, are many components that aren’t necessary in a front-wheel-drive car. Net result: you have less space inside than you do in, say, a Ford Focus or a Vauxhall Astra. So you pay more and get less space, simply so that you have the ability to power-slide through roundabouts. Something you will never, ever, do.

  However, here’s the thing. I have a watch that will still work 3,000 feet underwater. I have plumbing that can deliver water so hot it can remove skin. And I often eat in restaurants that serve food so complex that it’s way beyond the limited range of my smoke-addled palate. Also, as we know, I have a car that can go 80 mph faster than I will ever drive.

  And that’s what gives the BMW M135i such massive appeal. You will never go round a corner trailing smoke from its out-of-shape rear … but it’s nice to know you could.

  There is a lot more to commend this car as well. It has a supremely comfortable driver’s seat, an excellent steering wheel, impossibly Germanic controls and a perfect driving position. Get in and, no matter what age has done to your frame, you will immediately feel at one with the machine.

  Then there’s the engine. To appease those of a tree-hugging disposition, it is fitted with a compound turbocharger, which means that, after a hint of lag, there is a never-ending stream of bassy, gutsy power. In the real world, where there are other motorists and lampposts and policemen, this car is as fast as you would ever want.

  And because it’s rear-wheel drive, the front wheels don’t have to multitask. They
have only to worry about steering, which means the car feels balanced. It’s fantastic – as good as the Mercedes A 250 AMG I tested recently was bad.

  There’s more, too. While it’s better-looking than its predecessor, which had the appearance of a bread van, it’s still no beauty. But, unlike all its rivals, it’s free of bling. Like all modern BMWs, it’s understated and tasteful. Yes, rivals have more space inside, but we’re talking about a few centimetres here and a bit of an inch there. And if you truly like cars and truly like driving, that is a price well worth paying.

  One thing, though. I do wish BMW would reserve that M badge for cars that have come from its motor sport division, rather than sticking it on anything that’s a bit faster than usual. The M135i may say M on the back. But if you look underneath, there’s no limited-slip diff, so it isn’t an M car really. Unless the M here stands for marketing.

  That, however, is my only gripe. And it isn’t enough to warrant a lost star. Because the M135i is so lovely to drive and because it’s available with a proper automatic gearbox and because it has pillarless doors and because it’s only £3,000 more than a similarly powerful Vauxhall, it gets full marks from me.

  18 November 2012

  The pretty panzer parks on Jurgen’s golf links

  Volvo V40 D4 SE Nav

  In essence there are three peninsulas that stick out into the Mediterranean: Greece, Spain and Italy. And choosing which is best for a summer holiday is a no-brainer. It doesn’t matter what you’re looking for – heat, landscape, wine, culture, food, history or architecture – Italy wins. By miles.

  When I see people on holiday in Greece, I always think, Why have you come to a country where they grow vines, eat the leaves and throw the grapes away, choosing instead to make their wine out of creosote? Of course, Spain is more civilized than that, but it doesn’t have a proper word for ‘beer’ and the food seems mostly to have come from the nearest bin.

  It’s the same story with supermarkets. If you have a choice of outlets within easy reach of where you live or work – and most people do – why would you not go to Waitrose?

  There’s more. When you are in need of a refreshing soft drink, why would you not have a glass of Robinsons lemon barley water? Why do people buy BlackBerrys when they could have iPhones? And, conversely, why have a Mac, which has no right-click, when you could have a PC that does?

  In almost every sphere of life – baked beans, cola, television channels – there is a bewildering choice on offer but actually no choice at all. Because one product is almost always head and shoulders above the rest. I’m trying my hardest at this point not to mention Fifth Gear.

  It certainly applies in the world of cars. If you want a big off-roader, you can waste your time test-driving the Toyota Land Cruiser if you like, but it simply isn’t as good as the Range Rover. And that’s the end of it.

  Supercars? Yup. By all means buy a McLaren MP4-12C or a Lamborghini Gallardo, but you must know that because you didn’t buy a Ferrari 458 Italia your life will not be quite as good as it could have been.

  You may imagine that the theory gets a little blurred in the risk-averse world of the humble hatchback. These are the bread-and-butter cars and any attempt to do something risky or interesting might put buyers off. Car makers know this, so they stick to four wheels and a fold-down back seat. And yet …

  What is it you want? Economy? Value? Speed? Comfort? Reliability? Handling? Space? A blend of all those? It doesn’t really matter because the Volkswagen Golf does more things more betterer than all of its rivals. It is the Italy of hatchbacks. The Heinz baked bean. The iPhone. The Waitrose. The best.

  I recently drove a Vauxhall Astra VXR and it was deeply impressive, fast like you would not believe yet blessed with a level of comfort that you could not reasonably expect. But too flashy, really. So you’re better off with a Golf. Which isn’t flashy at all.

  The Ford Focus ST? Great fun. But not as good as a Golf. Mercedes A-class? Well, the model I tested was the 250 AMG Sport and it was flawed in many ways. But it does at least have that Germanic quality. Much like the Golf, which isn’t flawed in many ways.

  The BMW M135i? This is a fabulous car. I loved it. It’s better to drive than any Golf I’ve ever experienced, but the payback is a slightly cramped interior. A Golf doesn’t have that problem.

  However, in recent months I’ve been seeing a new boy on the block. It’s so pretty that I’ve found myself hoping its undersides can cash the cheques its body is writing. Because if this is as good to drive as it is to look at, Johnny Golf may have finally met his match. I’m talking about the Volvo V40.

  The interior is just as good as the exterior. Great seats, a good driving position and a ‘floating’ centre console that’s festooned with cool Scandinavian buttonry. With prices starting at a whisker under £20,000, I thought I might be on to something …

  The washer nozzles are particularly impressive. You get six. This means that when you pull the stalk, it’s like driving through a car wash. Sure, you’re temporarily blinded, but when the spray has gone, it’s as if the glass has been burnished clean. I think, however, that I could make do with fewer. So I’d angle five to clean the windscreen and aim the sixth so I could wash the faces of passing cyclists. I think they’d like that.

  So far, then, all is good. But I’m afraid there are a few problems. First of all, Volvo diesel engines are not the most refined you can buy, and the five-cylinder in my test car was no exception. On start-up, it sounded as though the cylinders were full of pebbles.

  Plus, when you compare it with the similarly sized engine BMW offers in a 120d, it’s not as powerful and, despite being hardly any more economical, takes nearly 1½ seconds longer to propel the car to 62 mph. I don’t understand this. Why build an engine that you know straight away is not quite good enough?

  I fear there’s more, because while the floating dash may look nice, it is almost impossible to use. I couldn’t turn the radio up or down, couldn’t operate the satnav, couldn’t turn the seat heater off, couldn’t find the button that switched the car from Performance to Eco setting and couldn’t work out how to engage the system that parks the car for you. It’s bewildering and hopeless.

  It’s not a spacious car, either. Realistically, you’re only ever going to get two adults in the back, headroom is at a premium and while the boot does all sorts of funky things, it’s not very commodious. It looks, then, like a car that’s been designed and engineered by a company that didn’t quite have enough money to design and engineer a new car. Which is probably the case. And as a result, despite the looks, it’s not as good as a Golf. The end.

  Except it’s not the end because this car scored a whopping 98 per cent in independent safety tests for adult occupancy. The highest score of any car in history. And I’m not surprised because it comes with a vast range of devices to warn you of impending doom as well as many features to ensure you’re OK even if the worst happens.

  And it’s not just good at protecting those inside, it also comes as standard with an airbag that inflates to protect any pedestrians that get in its way. This is all part of the company’s mission to ensure that by 2020 no one should ever be killed or injured in a Volvo.

  It’s an ambitious target, and in all probability it’s completely unrealistic. But the aim is noble, nonetheless, and for that reason I would completely understand why you might buy a V40 rather than a Golf.

  All things considered, the VW is a vastly superior car. But in an accident you will probably be better off in the Volvo. Think of it, then, as Cuba. In terms of Caribbean islands, Mustique is much better. The food, the beaches, the crime, everything. But if you become ill, you can’t get round the fact that Havana has better hospitals.

  2 December 2012

  I ordered a full English but ended up with bubble and squeak

  Aston Martin Vanquish

  I’m a fiddler. Whenever I get the furniture in a room arranged just as I like it, I sit down and decide immediately that I don’t
like it at all. It all started in my study at school. I had to share it with five younger boys, so that meant five tables and five chairs. And pretty much every day I’d try something a bit different.

  Usually this meant four boys sharing one table and me having the others for my various hi-fi components that had to be laid out horizontally for aesthetic reasons one day and then vertically the next.

  I think, therefore, I’d make a good fist of running Aston Martin. It is a small company with limited resources and no big-boy owner to help out with the economies of scale when buying components. Bentley can get its masters at Volkswagen to make noises when negotiating a deal on a new supply of brakes. Rolls-Royce can turn to BMW. Ferrari can look to Fiat. But Aston has to go and see ZF, the German gearbox manufacturer, and say, ‘Please, sir, can we have some more?’ And usually the answer is, ‘Nein, Englander.’ So it has to produce a range of cars using nothing but what it’s got. And what it’s got is two engines. And one basic design.

  It started with the DB9. An excellent, graceful and fast car. It heralded a departure for the company and many were sold. So a new car was launched, the V8 Vantage. To the untrained eye, it looked pretty similar to the DB9 but to start with, it had a different engine and was a bit more sporty. Then it was fitted with the same engine as the DB9. And then the DB9 was given some new sills to become the DBS, which was very brilliant but quite expensive. So some new sills were invented to create the Virage. And you could also buy most of these cars as convertibles or coupés. In essence, then, Aston’s engineers were in my study, endlessly rearranging the same bits of furniture.

  And now they’ve rearranged them again. The DBS and the Virage are gone and in their place we have this car. A car that doesn’t even get its own name. Instead they’ve rummaged around in the company tuck box and found an old moniker – Vanquish.