What Could Possibly Go Wrong. . . (4 page)

The phone rings. It’s a friend who’s just crashed his Jag and is thinking of spending the insurance cash on a new Range Rover. I explain that, all things considered, it’s probably the best car in the world, but advise against buying one brand new. First, I say, the initial depreciation can be alarming and second, I am aware the battery on new models goes flat rather too easily.

I therefore advise him to buy the last of the old diesels from the second-hand market and am rather surprised by what he says in reply.

He explains that he lives in a part of the world where middle-aged women pour paint on friends if they are caught buying eggs from a battery farm. Come election time, you could be forgiven for thinking, as you see the posts in people’s gardens, that there is only one party, and it’s not blue, red or yellow. This is north Oxford. This is where the ultimate status symbol is a wicker trolley on the back of your bicycle and where everyone secretly wants to live in a yurt. As a result, my friend doesn’t want to buy the old model. He wants the new one because it’s more eco-friendly.

Hmmm. Although he doesn’t realize it, he has a point. It is far more eco-friendly to buy a car built just 50 miles away, even if it is a massive off-roader with a turbocharged V8, than it is to buy a Toyota Prius, the components of which have covered half a million miles before they are nailed into the vague shape of a car and shipped to your front door.

However, as eco people are not very bright, I fear my friend’s neighbours may not see it this way. And I’m absolutely certain
that his argument about the new car being more eco-friendly than the old one won’t wash even a tiny bit. In north Oxford a Range Rover of any sort is the devil.

I’m regularly told by people there that cars caused the hole in the ozone layer, usually when they are getting something from their trendy old fridge, or applying some deodorant. The other day, someone even blamed the motor industry for deforestation, even though the only car company still making its cars from wood is Morgan. And I hardly think a cottage industry making seventeen units a year in Malvern can be blamed for all the logging in southeast Asia.

However, because there is so much claptrap floating about in the ether, a company such as Land Rover must feel like it’s under siege. And that’s before we get to the rather more important question of fuel consumption. I had a supercharged Range Rover on loan recently and in one week of normal motoring it gulped down £250 worth of fuel. That is catastrophic.

As a result, it must be extremely tempting for Land Rover’s marketing department to do something stupid …

It is, of course, extremely important that I approach every single car that is reviewed on these pages with an open mind and no preconceived ideas of what might lie in store. However, because it’s so much more fun to write about a car that is rubbish than one that is OK, I do occasionally book test drives in cars that are likely to be awful.

And that brings me to the new Freelander 2 eD4 – the first car in Land Rover’s long and important history to drag itself into the market using only its front legs. I can see the logic, of course. Better fuel consumption and more ecoism.

But, I’m sorry, the notion of a front-wheel-drive Land Rover is idiotic. It’s as daft as Tarmac launching a new scent. Or Spear & Jackson moving into the lingerie market.

There’s more. Because when all is said and done, a front-wheel-drive Freelander is simply a very expensive and hard-to-park alternative to, say, a Ford Focus. They have the
same number of seats and don’t be fooled into thinking the Land Rover is better able to withstand a barrage of everyday bumps and scrapes. It looks that way thanks to a trick of the stylist’s pen. But it isn’t. And because it’s so tall, your elderly dog will struggle to get into the boot. So you’ll have to pick her up and that will make your hands all dirty.

As a result of all this, I approached the Freelander wearing the cruel smile of an SS officer who’d been given some pliers, a dungeon and a freshly downed Tommy airman to play with. I was going to torture it. Ridicule it. And then rip it to shreds.

Unfortunately, it’s a bloody good car. First of all, the chintzy bits and bobs that ruin the look of the modern Range Rover look rather good on the baby of the Land Rover range. It may only be a hatchback on stilts but it looks expensive. Regal almost.

And although it may be hard to load an elderly dog, those stilts do make you feel imperious as you drive along. There are many ‘soft roaders’ on the market these days, but none offers such a commanding view as the Freelander.

Inside, many of the features are lifted directly from the Range Rover, which can cost nearly three times as much, so again, you don’t feel like you’re driving around in something from the pick’n’mix counter at the pound store.

However, the best thing about this car is the way it drives. The removal of the four-wheel-drive system has resulted in a weight reduction of 75kg and you can feel this as you bumble about. I’m not going to suggest for a moment that it feels sporty, but it does feel agile. The steering in particular is delightful and the ride is sublime. Driving this car is like lying in the bath. It’s brilliant.

Of course, it’s not going to get as far into the woods as the four-wheel-drive version, but if you needed to go into the woods, you wouldn’t have bought it in the first place. However, that said, because of the ground clearance, it will get you further in tricky conditions or bad weather than a normal five-seat hatchback.

The only drawback I could find in the whole package was the engine. It has slightly less power but more torque than the previous 2.2-litre Freelander engine and that’s fine. You get quite a big punch when you put your foot down. But while I have no complaints about the performance, this is certainly not one of those cars where passengers say, ‘Is this really a diesel?’ In fact, as they sit there, vibrating, they may ask what you are using instead of fuel. Pebbles? It’s like a powerplate with a tax disc.

It’s so unrefined when it starts that after a while I disengaged the system that cuts the engine when you stop at the lights and starts it again when you put your foot on the clutch. This may save half a thimbleful of fuel but it drove me mad.

Because of this roughness, the car cannot have a five-star rating. However, it does get four. Which, is four more than I was hoping to award. The fact is, though, that the cost of fuel and the blinkered prejudice found in the nation’s mental yurt-heads has resulted in something that’s pretty damn good.

13 February 2011

I spent most of last week playing with the new McLaren MP4-12C and I must say that, in a technical, mathematical, common-sense, add-up-the-numbers sort of way, it is extremely impressive. Plainly, it has been designed for the serious business of going fast. And yet there are no histrionics at all. In fact, in road mode, it rides and sounds like an S-Class Mercedes. It’s also beautifully made, so, unquestionably, this is a car that you could use every day.

As a result, even though it’s a bit more Ron Dennis than Ron Jeremy, it is certainly the best car ever to wear a McLaren badge. It’s definitely better than the old F1, which I hated. And it’s definitely better than the more recent SLR, which had a switch masquerading as a brake pedal – you either went through the windscreen, or you didn’t slow down at all.

It may even be better than the Ferrari 458, which is not something I thought I’d be saying any time soon. And yet I don’t yearn to own one.

It was the same story with the Bugatti Veyron. Yes, it was a masterpiece, a composite and magnesium firestorm of brilliance, perseverance, engineering persistence and planet-stopping power. But at no time did I ever think, Crikey. I’d love to have one of these on my drive.

I experienced much the same sort of thing at Heston Blumenthal’s new restaurant in London the other day. He makes food in the same way that McLaren and Bugatti make cars. The duck is stripped down to a molecular level, treated with exotic gases and then reassembled before being cooked by a team of men who are
dressed up like the guards in a Bond villain’s lair. Even the ice cream is made with a sewing machine.

The results are simply spectacular. Without any question or shadow of doubt, Heston’s rhubarb mousse is the second nicest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, and although the texture of the duck fat was a bit like a quilted anorak that’s been left in the rain, it tasted astonishing. It was a duck plus. A super-duck. A duck Veyron.

And yet, while I admire Heston’s skill and respect his knowledge of food preparation, I’m not sitting here yearning for the day when I can sample his wares again. Did I like it? Yes, very much. Am I glad I’ve tried it? You’re damn right I am. But will the day ever come when nothing but a plate of his bone marrow will do? I doubt it.

I think it’s because, in our complicated lives, we yearn only for the simple. An evening in front of the telly. A nice sit-down. A game of cards. At a drinks party, I can find myself talking to a fascinating and beautiful woman who’s just written a book about something interesting and clever. But what I yearn for is to be in the pub with my mates.

This is especially true of food. When I am struck with a sudden craving, it’s always for something simple: a chicken sandwich, an apple, some tongue or, more usually, a pot of crab spread. It’s never a truffle in a rich jus made from a koala’s ears.

The same can be said of cars. I like the Mercedes SLS, the Jaguar XKR, the BMW M3 and the Ferrari 458 very much. But the car I yearn to own most of all is the Citroën DS3 Racing that I wrote about on these pages last month. And close behind is the little Fiat 500.

Of course, you are familiar with the 500. Your estate agent’s daughter probably has one. And unless you are James May, the chances are you like it very much. You like the cheekiness and the way it’s both retro and very modern at the same time.

It gets better, because while the Fiat is very similar in concept to the Mini – they’re both fashion statements first and cars
second – it is much cheaper. And as a little bit of icing on the cake, here is a car that doesn’t have to be grey or silver like 75 per cent of all the other cars on the road. It can be powder blue or egg-yolk yellow or child’s lipstick red. You can even cover it in stickers. And you should.

In short, the little Fiat is a joyous machine that makes you smile, but the car I’m talking about today is different. And better. It’s the new TwinAir, so called because it has an engine quite unlike anything else we’ve ever seen before.

First of all, there are only two cylinders, which is not a revolutionary idea. The original Fiat 500 was similarly equipped. However, in the new version, there is no camshaft. Instead, the exhaust valves drive the inlet valves using hydraulics and electronics, and that sounds like the greatest ever solution to a problem that doesn’t exist. But the end result is spectacular.

First of all, there’s the noise. Remember that sound you got when you put a lollipop stick in the spokes of your bicycle wheel? It’s that. Only amplified. It is one of the best engine noises I’ve ever heard. It’s nearly as good as a Merlin.

And then there’s the grunt. Yes, it may be tiny – just 875cc – but it is turbocharged so you get 85 horsepower. That means you can cruise down the motorway with ease. And it takes off from the lights like it’s being kicked into action by Toby Flood.

There’s more. Because there is much less friction in a two-cylinder engine than there is in a four, it is incredibly efficient, which means it produces less carbon dioxide than a fat man on one of Boris Johnson’s rent-a-bikes. As a result, you don’t have to pay the London congestion charge.

Certainly, this little car is ten times more environmentally friendly than the Toyota Prius because it’s smaller and it’s made from fewer parts and Fiat doesn’t have to plunder the Canadian countryside and cause acid rain to make its batteries. With this little car, everybody wins.

Especially the oil companies, because unfortunately, the TwinAir is not what you’d call economical. It could be, if you
drove it sensibly, and if you press the eco button on the dash, it probably is. But you won’t deploy the eco button. And you won’t drive it sensibly because it’s impossible. It’s as impossible as expecting a puppy to sit still.

I’ve had the car for a week and because I’ve enjoyed the noise it makes so much, I’ve averaged just 38 mpg. I got more from the hot Fiat 500 Abarth. And to make the economy argument even less palatable, the TwinAir costs around £1,000 more than a similarly specced model that has twice as many cylinders. So it’s not cheap to buy and, unless you have the will power of a donkey, it’s not cheap to run, either.

And it doesn’t matter because, as you sail through central London, flicking V-signs at the congestion camera and beating bikes off the lights and revelling in that fantastic noise, you really won’t care. The 500 is a great little car. And now you can have it with what is almost certainly the best engine … in the world.

20 February 2011

I don’t like marzipan. I’m aware that it is categorized as a foodstuff and that you are supposed to put it in your mouth and move it about and swallow it, but honestly, I’d rather lick the back of a dog.

I don’t like kidney beans, either. Or Piers Morgan. I know that he has a nose and a liver and all the other things that qualify him to be classified biologically as a member of the human race, but he grates, and I find myself gloating in an unkind way over the true fact that his new television show now has fewer viewers than
Kerry Katona: The Next Chapter
.

We all have likes and dislikes and it’s often hard to find rational explanations. I don’t like whisky, for instance, and I can’t understand why. Everybody else I know likes it, but as far as I’m concerned each sip is a nose-busting reminder that in the morning I shall wake in a puddle of sick with a headache. It’s the same story with calvados.

And Surrey. I have many friends who live in its dingly dells. I even work there one day a week, but each time I visit, I am consumed with an irrational need to leave again as soon as possible. It’s strange.

Nearly as strange as my unbridled hatred of Marks & Spencer. It is a proud boast that in all of my life I have never bought anything from M&S, even though I am aware that its clothing is well made and its sandwiches are nutritious and delicious.

I think I don’t like it because of the flooring or because I have it in my head that everyone in the queue for the tills is going to be a magistrate with firm home-county views on youth crime
and bad language. But I can’t be sure because I’ve never been through the door.

Strangest of all, though, is my dislike of Porsches. I joke that my hatred of the 911 stems from the simple fact that both Richard Hammond and James May have one. But this, if I’m honest, isn’t it. I haven’t liked these arse-engined Hitler-mobiles since way before Hammond was even born. This is annoying because in many ways a Carrera 2S would be almost completely perfect for the life I lead and the driving I do.

It is easy, of course, to say that I prefer the excitement of cars from Italy, but in truth, and on a wet Tuesday morning in February, a Lamborghini Gallardo or even the magnificent Ferrari 458 would drive you absolutely bonkers. They are pantomime dames: fun when you are in the mood, but the booming and the palaver would quickly drive you insane when you were not.

The Porsche is not like that. You can drive a 911 in the same way as you drive a Ford Mondeo – quietly, to the shops, where its relatively small size means it is easier to find a parking space. What’s more, provided you avoid the silly high-performance versions that have scaffolding in the back instead of seats, you can take the kids along, too.

And not only can it handle family duties, it is electrifyingly good fun to drive when the road is empty and it’s just you and the sun is shining and you fancy getting a move on. Plus, it is built by people who are German, which means it is likely to be fifteen times more reliable than a Swiss pacemaker.

So. It’s a great car. A brilliant car. A perfect car for the man who wants everything. And compared with all the competition, it’s not even that expensive. But I don’t like it. Wouldn’t have one in a million years.

It’s not like I have a problem with the Porsche badge. I loved the old 928 and the 944, and I may be the only man alive who has publicly professed a fondness for the 924 – even though it was propelled along by the engine from a Volkswagen van and was, as a result, slightly slower than continental drift.

However, I do have a problem with the current offerings because the Boxster is a palindrome, the Coxster is stupid, the Cayenne looks like a 911 with elephantiasis of the underparts and then, sitting on top of this festering pile of aesthetic dreadfulness, we find the Panamera.

You can see what they were trying to do. To make a big, comfortable four-seater with a family resemblance to the 911. The spine of Porsche’s reason for being. This might, just, have been possible had they employed a stylist who actually knew what he was doing. But, unfortunately, it seems they chose instead to give the job to a committee made up of the man who did the Ford Scorpio, the man who did the Pontiac Aztek, Ray Charles and some lunatics. It is the ugliest car on the road today.

This is annoying because, underneath, it’s not that bad to drive. I recently tried the four-wheel-drive turbocharged V8 and, my God, it was fast. And a nice place to sit as well. Partly because of the tall centre console and partly because from behind the wheel you can’t see it.

If only, I thought, they’d restyle the ruddy thing, this would be a cracking car. A genuine rival to the Aston Martin Rapide and the wonderful but fragile Maserati Quattroporte.

Instead, however, Porsche has chosen to make its gargoyle slower. I can’t quite understand the logic behind this move because I cannot imagine that anyone has spent the past couple of years thinking, Hmmm. Yes. I’d buy one of those Panameras if only the damn thing wasn’t so fast.

Of course, the new model is much more economical and far cheaper than the V8, but in base trim with rear-wheel drive and a six-speed manual gearbox, it’s still £62,783. And that kind of money buys an awful lot of 5-series. Still, if you don’t like BMWs and Audis and Mercs, and you are impervious to bad design, you might be interested to know more.

So, you get a 3.6-litre V6 that develops 295 horsepower, and that’s enough to make the car move about. You can also have a seven-speed double-clutch gearbox that is just like all the other
modern double-clutch boxes – ponderous and dim-witted at low speeds in town. Like the Mercedes SLS, this is not a car that can be used to exploit gaps in traffic.

There’s another problem, too. It’s enormous. To get through the width restrictions on Hammersmith bridge, ooh, you have to breathe in.

But the worst aspects are the interior fixtures and fittings. The gear lever feels like one of those toys McDonald’s gives your children when you buy a Happy Meal, and the electric window motors sound as if they’ve been asked to move a mountain. I know it’s a well-made car, but it doesn’t come across that way.

And it really isn’t exciting or special to drive. You pay a premium to have a Porsche and you should be rewarded with a ‘feel’ that you don’t get in mass-produced cars. In the V6 Panamera, though, you don’t. Yes, the centre console is still delightful and the driving position is perfect, but the ride and the acceleration and the steering – they’re flat. They’re inert. They’re Korean, almost.

Still, all this means I can at least be rational in my conclusion. I don’t like it because it’s not a very good car.

27 February 2011