on the sidewalls

There’s so much to say about the new Hybrid version of Porsche’s most controversial car that a review could easily fill the whole Internet. Nobody would read it to the end, nobody would gain anything from it and we’d have wasted our time. So, to avoid the bother and prove that no car review needs to be longer than 500 words, this one’s 499.

To address the fact that the old Cayenne was too heavy, too ugly and too poorly furnished, Porsche have released a new model that’s up to 180kg lighter, much sleeker to look at and infinitely posher to sit in. And to address the fact that it was a total bastard to the environment, they’ve made a Hybrid version. Sounds perfect.

But it’s not – there are two big problems. First, it’s the least satisfying model to drive. And second, despite the 3.0l supercharged V6 engine being the smallest in the range, and despite it being assisted by a 34kw electric motor and hybrid drivetrain, it’s actually less economical than the Cayenne Diesel. Oh, and at £57k it’s also £13k more expensive than the Diesel. So the Hybrid’s pointless. Right?

Well yes. But also no. Just like every hybrid, it depends on where you drive it.

On roads where other Porsches shine, the Cayenne is flawed. Not because it’s the heaviest model, or because it’s the only one with electric rather than hydraulic power steering – what really sucks enjoyment out of the Cayenne Hybrid is the droning engine note and the distracting commotion of hybrid electronics you can feel through the brakes and throttle.

Brush the brake pedal lightly and it seems to slow through magnetic resistance instead of friction; press harder and only a greater sense of deceleration makes you believe the actual brake discs are doing anything. A similarly numb inconsistency affects the throttle, but is less severe. The engine can go from purely turning the wheels, to charging the battery while turning the wheels, to being switched off totally if you’re coasting, to working at maximum power with electric assistance… all with one flex of the right ankle. The motor swapping is masked well, but never totally disguised.

Yet all that’s forgiven when you get into traffic and drive around on electro-juice alone. Like a Prius, the Cayenne has a parallel Hybrid system in which some MENSA powered clutches allow the electric motor to turn the wheels without turning the engine as a slave and therefore wasting energy.

So while its combined economy of 34mpg is worse than the Diesel’s 38, and its 193g/km CO2 figure only 2g better, the Hybrid gets better as the traffic gets thicker; the slower you go, the more chance you have of running without using any fuel. Press the E-Power button and the car will propel you for as long as possible on electricity alone. With suitably gentle driving across a city, we covered 1.1 miles without a spark plug firing once. On one gentle journey, we even hit 38.7mpg at an average speed of 15mph. You wouldn’t get that in a diesel. Or in a Fiesta for that matter.

So the Hybrid lacks the dynamics and mechanical intuition that Porschefiles get clammy over, but has the talent, badges and technology to give City types something to boast about. In the end then, it’s not actually that different from any other Cayenne.

Cliff Bloody Richard. No matter how much abuse critics give him for the drivelly nonsense that oozes from his anodyne musical pores, and no matter how much he looks like a creepy PE teacher, he just won’t stop. It’s the same with coupe convertibles – the fact that critics pan them for having useless boots, floppy dynamics and cramped back seats doesn’t seem to matter… they just keep coming.

So there’s no point in us noting that the new Renault Megane CC has the exact same faults as every other coupe cabriolet in existence – because folk who write about cars clearly know nothing about what makes normal humans like them. To really tell you whether or not the Renault Megane CC is worth buying, we need to find out what makes people ignore the faults of such flawed products and love them anyway. Should be easy. Cliff Richard has been flawed but loved for decades… we’ll just use his qualities as a framework. The Cliff Criteria.

Much of Cliff’s adoration comes from his ability to remind people of their youth, thus making them feel young again. Here, the Megane CC is exceptional. For a start, it feels incredibly large to sit in – this makes the driver think they’re smaller and therefore much younger. Also, because of the Megane’s excellent wind proofing and refinement with the roof both up and down, it also makes the driver feel protected, cocooned and cared for. Like a loved child.

It doesn’t stop there. Thanks to a glass roof and a button that drops all four windows at once, occupants always have the option of bright sunshine and fresh air… much like the option many children had of running round a playground or field or playing hopscotch or catch or something. A hayfever induced snotty nose is also a very real possibility.

Another key element in Cliff’s success is his keenness to embellish his imperfect face with a raft of cosmetic modifications. Again, the Megane CC follows Cliff’s lead. Despite having to hide the sins of a folding roof, the rear of the new Megane CC is styled reasonably cleanly. Just like with Cliff’s face, closer inspection reveals some inconsistencies in the way its lines flow from one end to the other, but the overall effect is pleasant enough.

Cliff is also keen to maintain an aura of athleticism, without ever actually having to exert himself – for example, while he is a fan of tennis, he is definitely not a tennis player. This is perhaps where the Megane follows his lead the closest. With the roof up, the Renault Megane CC is lithe, direct and energetic with a decent impression of agility.

But just like Cliff, this impression of athleticism doesn’t translate to any genuine sporting ability – the Megane’s default gait is one suited to a relaxed, meandering stroll. It’s also worth noting that when it goes topless, it has a tendency to shudder – much like Cliff would if he were to go topless on a cold day.

That awkward image brings us on to the difficult subject of mental aptitude. Despite his progressing years, Cliff has maintained a presence of mind that serves him well during public appearances… but his judgement isn’t perfect. Remember Millenium Prayer? That was NOT the result of an entirely rational mind. Again, the Megane CC treads in Cliff’s footsteps.

The complex 21 second routine that sees the roof fold itself away is completed with great mental agility – the Renault never, for example, forgets where it put the roof only to remember it’s actually sitting in the boot. But, just like Cliff did with the Millenium Prayer, the Megane CC does have some lapses in judgement. Despite being based on excellent Tom Tom software, the sat nav has little logic or sense to its operation, and the stereo is dim witted, slow to respond, always frustrating and often plain confusing.

Now to the final Cliff category, his premium price tag – people like to think they’re buying into something special. Tickets for his next concert (Royal Albert Hall on Monday 11th October Cliff fans), start off at the substantial price of £45. For comparison, Cliff’s more fashionable and critically acclaimed contemporary Tom Jones has tickets costing as little as £35.

For the Renault to follow Cliff’s lead it also needs to be more expensive than a more fashionable and critically acclaimed contemporary – which in this case is the VW Eos. And somewhat surprisingly, it is. The Renault Megane CC’s entry level price £21,595, which is actually £900 more than that of the VW Eos. The rest of the Renault’s range is more evenly matched to the VW’s – but for those looking for the cheapest possible way of buying such a car, the VW is the best option. Cliff would be proud of such confident pricing.

All of these similarities to Cliff means that despite the problems the Megane CC shares with all of its rivals, it will be a success. It makes you feel young, has had reasonable cosmetic modifications, feels pleasantly athletic without making you sweat, is intelligently designed but not always perfectly judged and comes with a premium price tag. But there’s one key difference. When it’s raining in Wimbledon, the Megane CC won’t be able to entertain the crowd with some music. Because, out of pure frustration, its driver will have smashed the stereo apart with a mallet.

‘Dat the new vRS?’, yaps the intricately bearded man waiting at the lights in a lowered 318Ci, ‘I been waiting to see one of dem man’. Fake Armani shades now lifted, his pupils pour over the Kermit paint job and, quite surprisingly, he doesn’t piss himself laughing. ‘Yeah looks sweet, nice rims. Open it up man’. So I do. Leave him for dead and leave me totally bewildered.

With a goopy face, under wheeled profile and self-conscious black roof, I expected the Fabia vRS to hit the streets with a handicap – but sitting at the lights outside a fried chicken shop in Birmingham, it’s the hottest piece of metal around. P Diddy could drive an R8 Spyder straight past unnoticed.

There’s more heckling at a petrol station in Kent, this time from an Accord Type S owner with even finer facial topiary than 318Ci man. ‘Nice car mate… petrol innit, what does it do?’. Being a massive geek, my answer is accurate; ‘7.3 seconds to 60, 139mph top end’. He replies in a tone of disgust, like I’d just told him my favourite hobby was rubbing crude oil into the eyes of rare sea birds ‘yeah, but what about to the gallon mate?’. Right. ‘They say 45mpg combined, but I’m getting mid 30s’ I reply in my politest voice. ‘Nah, I’d rather have the old diesel version then’.

He’s got a point. The first Fabia vRS, this car’s famously diesel predecessor, could be coaxed into hitting 60mpg. Standing in the shadow of a sign that puts petrol at £1.23 a litre, it’s hard to see the sense in replacing it with a car that does half that. That’s not the end of it though – there’s one more spontaneous talking head. Haven’t had this much attention since driving a Bentley Continental GT Speed to ASDA.

‘You see mate, you’ve made a mistake there’ said a Geordie over my shoulder, clearly thinking I’d bought it with my own money. Turning round to put face to voice, he’s wearing a Subaru cap – this man REALLY knows about cars. ‘Same as a Polo GTI that is… and yeah it’s two k cheaper on paper like… but what’s that monthly? Bet it’s nothing man. I’d pay the extra fiver or whatever and have the Dub fella’. Turns out Skoda badge snobbery isn’t completely dead after all… at least not amongst rude Geordies.

Being three potential customers who actually hand over money for their new cars, they are of course all absolutely right. The new vRS is good looking and quick, but has two big problems – it’s not a diesel and it’s not cheap enough.

First, the diesel thing. The Fabia’s 178bhp twincharger petrol engine is a brilliant thing, especially when synced up with the equally brilliant DSG gearbox – but it doesn’t feel as happy in the vRS as it does in the Ibiza Cupra, which to man-on-street is only a fiver a month more to buy. On occasions where you’d slip the SEAT into manual mode and parp about using the paddles, you leave the slightly taller, softer and calmer feeling Skoda in auto, where it upchanges early. The more laidback chassis wants a laidback, and frugal, diesel engine.

Which brings us onto problem two – it’s not cheap enough. At £15,700 it is £1300 less than the Cupra and a couple of grand less than a Polo GTI (both of which, as Subaru hat man pointed out, share a powertrain and a great deal of chassis bolts)… but, to man-on-street with a monthly payment plan, that’s not a big enough incentive to turn down a posher badge – especially when the fuel consumption, tax and insurance will be the same. What he wants is a hot hatch that’s not only cheaper to buy, but cheaper to run. He wants a diesel engine too.

Just imagine Skoda put VAG’s 140bhp 2.0TDI engine into a Fabia and then slapped a vRS badge on that. It’d hit 60 in the mid 8s, do 50mpg and be even cheaper to buy in the first place. It’d be a genuine, economical but still reasonably quick alternative to the Polo GTI and Ibiza Cupra, instead of a cheaper, less desirable version of the same thing.

So, thanks for the help 318Ci man, Accord Type S man and Subaru hat man. You’ve forced us to awkwardly conclude that despite being cheaper than two almost identical cars, and despite being fitted with an engine that’s just been awarded International Engine of the Year 2010, the Skoda Fabia vRS should cost less and have a different engine. Hilarious.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way with first. Skoda haven’t made a rubbish car for a decade, and the Superb name is neither new or inaccurate, so don’t scoff at that either. Alright? Good. Now we can get on.

Based on last year’s all new saloon, this is the first ever Superb Estate – and it’s proper, genuinely, 100% totally bloody amazing. Not in a ‘oh yeah… that Skoda’s really brilliant… I mean, ha, fancy Skoda making a good car’ way. Not in a ‘I suppose it’s an impressive achievement considering its price’ way either. But in a ‘Shit. Really. Where an earth did that come from? Wow’ way. If you want an analogy, this is their iPhone – a product that does absolutely everything, redefining the brand all over again.

Seeing as sycophantic reviews always sound rubbish, we’ll stay factual, measured and objective… and being as it’s an estate, we’ll start with the boot. The Superb’s rear measures 633 litres with the seats up and 1865 litres with the seats down – massive. But unless you frequently carry around fresh air or litre bottles of water, that’s all meaningless. So have some reference points:

Volvo’s biggest current estate is the V70 – with the seats up it’s got a 575 litre boot, rising to 1600 when they’re down. So the Superb Estate has a bigger boot than the biggest Volvo. Fact. That also makes it bigger than an A6 Avant, new BMW 5 Touring, Ford Mondeo Estate, Vauxhall Insignia Sports Tourer and VW Passat Estate. In fact, the only estate on sale today with a bigger boot is the new Mercedes E-Class.

So we’ll use the big-E as a reference point for price, interior quality and equipment – a Mercedes is a tough benchmark for a Skoda to match after all. The cheapest Superb Estate is the 1.4 TSI at £18k, rising to the most expensive £30k 3.6 V6. The very cheapest E-Class Estate is also £30k, in the shape of the E200 CGI 4-cyl petrol. A handy comparison.

The interior of the Skoda is better to look at, nicer to touch and more intuitive to use than the Merc’s. Less tacky, better damped, more ergonomic. There’s more kit in it too, including the best touch screen entertainment system of any car on sale anywhere, standard fit sat nav and the flawless DSG gearbox from VW. If you want sat nav and auto in the Merc, you’ll need to spend another £2,500.

But you still won’t have the Skoda’s performance – the V6 has 260bhp and cracks 62mph in just 6.6 seconds. Through the gears, using the massive 258lb ft hunk of torque that’s spread right across the middle of the rev range, you’ll outrun most hot hatches that bother to try. The £30k Merc is 80bhp and 60lb ft down as well as two seconds slower to 62mph… a Merc with similar performance and similar kit costs over £40k. Crikey.

Of course though, you’d be a little mad to buy a brand new V6 car with an mpg figure in the 20s when petrol costs £1.20 a litre. As quick as it might be, it’s not worth the pleasure. What you should really get is the sensible 140bhp diesel which, even when you’ve added the DSG box, costs less than £25k in top-spec Elegance trim.

With the double clutch set-up, the diesel Superb is just as smooth as the V6, barely noisier, cracks 60mph in 10 secs and is still effortlessly torquey – but it’s quoted at 51.4mpg combined. The most economical, cheapest Merc estate diesel is over £6,000 more expensive, 5mpg worse off and only 1 second quicker to 62mph. Its auto box isn’t as smooth as the Skoda’s automated manual either.

Bored of the praise yet? Sorry. It’s nearly over. We’re labouring the point just to make sure you don’t under-estimate quite how brilliant the Skoda is. The E-Class Estate hasn’t been used because it’s an easy benchmark to beat and prove a point – it’s been used because it’s currently the best premium estate on sale, and because it therefore gets the closest to matching the Skoda’s ginormous spread of talent.

So, bad points then. Erm… literally? No. Space, refinement, speed, price, economy, ergonomics, equipment, quality and even styling are all beyond criticism. This is a real second coming for Skoda. After the revelation at the beginning of the last decade that they can make cars as good as anyone else, they’ve now gone and shown that they can actually make cars better than anyone else.

If you can think of another estate that can do everything the Superb does, please let us know. If not, then let’s all form a loyal band of disciples and worship the new Messiah of Estates. If Apple geeks can call the iPhone the Jesus phone, can’t us car geeks call the Superb Estate the Jesus car? You don’t get a brolly in the door of an iPhone anyway.

You can tell a lot about a car’s character from the material covering the inside of its A-pillars. Cheap, brittle little cars have pillars garnished with the type of plastic that photocopier paper trays are made of. Expensive, plush cars have smartly upholstered fabric pillars that invite a casual backhand stroke.

Usually, it’s a pretty clear-cut affair: fabric or plastic. Good or bad. But the revised MiTo is deceptive. For three whole days, we thought the pillars were fabric… and true to analogy, the car stood up well. It felt premium and strokeable.

The premium-ness actually comes from a couple of new MultiAir engines – the most newsworthy of a variety of changes that took place at the end of 2009. Instead of the valves being moved by the camshafts, they’re controlled electronically in a manner that can either boost economy or power. Sounds simple, but making an engine’s valves move independently of engine speed is ruddy smart. Feels it too.

At low revs, the 135bhp turbocharged 1.4 MultiAir engine fitted to our mid-spec £16k Veloce model (there’s also an £18k 170bhp Cloverleaf version) is quiet and docile, but torquey and flexible. Ask it to do something more interesting and it changes character entirely, giving a surge that you’d never think was coming from such a small capacity. The combination of 50.4mpg, 129g/km and 8.4 second 0-62mph time give paper-proof to the tarmac impression.

The strokeability comes from gently caressed steering software. The MiTo used to feel like it had been programmed by the chap that engineered Sega Rally – a light, numb action with inconsistent resistance trying to emulate genuine weight. It was bad. Now though, it’s better… and the body control and general nimbleness are still just as respectable as they have always been.

For the first three days of our week with the MiTo, those were our impressions. Clever engine, improved steering, decent dynamics and pleasantly upholstered A-pillars. But then we got stuck in a traffic jam and it all started to unravel. In a moment of boredom, a restless index finger stretched out like E.T to touch a pillar and – O M Flipping G. They’re plastic. It’s a fake! Closer inspection of the whole car was of course now required. So instead of waiting in the traffic jam and marvelling at the Start/Stop system, we turned off and took the rurals… and it didn’t go that well.

Look past the clear improvements to the steering and the persistent faults of the MiTo’s set-up remain. There’s still a dead spot in the middle, a lack of feedback and an impression that any apparent ‘weight’ that builds through a corner is actually a computerised, artificial response instead of a physical, rubbery one.

Tuning into the car over the A-roads that people used before the M42 existed, more faults revealed themselves. The gearchange, which to our pre-pillar revelation selves had basically felt fine, was baulky and vague under closer inspection. The engine, which is easily the car’s strongest feature, developed an attitude problem if asked to do anything useful above 5,000rpm. The car’s ability to deal with any significant lumps was noisily absent too. The MiTo showed itself up to be dynamically inferior to not just the Mini, but also the Citroen DS3.

Thought turned to the MiTo’s DNA system, which adjusts throttle response and steering weight from All-weather to Normal to Dynamic. Being human, we’d always switched the MiTo to Dynamic for the sharpest responses… but now, in a move to find a better set-up, it was switched back to Normal. Perhaps this would reveal more a more natural side, with a smoother power delivery and less computerised resistance to the steering. Not a chance. It just makes the throttle so baggy that you genuinely think you’re in third when pulling away from a junction.

Then we got back home, still annoyed that the car had tricked us into thinking it had fabric A-pillars, not plastic ones. And the deception sums it up well. On the face of it, the MiTo is desirable, smartly engineered and good to jaunt about in; a car you’d buy if you want a Mini but can’t stomach actually buying a Mini. Initially, the MiTo is also just as satisfying to drive as the German too – but there’s a numbness and artificiality lurking beneath the surface – cheap plastic where you expect nice fabric, and dynamic niggles where you expect simple pleasures. If you never delve beneath the surface of a car, the MiTo will be fine… just don’t look for any hidden depths. You might scratch the A-pillars.

You half expect BMW’s repsonse to being asked ‘will you ever make an economy model?’ to be ‘Actually, a lot of our normal cars already have Start/Stop, brake energy regeneration and intelligent ancilleries – so that’s like asking the Queen if she’d like a crown you spaz.’. But this 320ED shows that their answer is ‘Why yes. On top of our usual Efficient Dynamics routine, we’re going to go one step further by taking a 320d, detuning the engine, lengthening the final drive ratio, fitting some aero alloys, wrapping them in energy saving tyres and lowering the ride by 15mm.’.

Which is exactly what they’ve done. So while a 320d SE has 184bhp and does 60.1 mpg, a 320ED has 163bhp and does 68.9mpg – the 280lb ft of torque and £27,245 ticket are identical. Jolly good show really. With a 0-62mph time of 8 secs, you do lose half a second to the normal car and forfeit the option of speccing big alloys or M-Sport body kits… but that seems a fair swap for covering an extra 12% of road from each drop of fuel.

And rather cleverly, it’s actually a smoother drive than the standard car. The unsung hero is an unfathomably brilliant device called a Centrifugal Pendulum Absorber, which lives inside the dual mass flywheel and smoothes out the juddering you usually get from a car when it labours at low revs. It works incredibly well, making any vibrations almost imperceptible at slow engine speeds and just as smooth at high ones – so you stay in a higher gear for longer, using less diesel. If you’re lazy, it can trick you out: approach a junction, downchange to third, slow to a crawl, then try and accelerate with the engine still smooth as it languishes at 700rpm. The moral? Don’t be lazy or you’ll bog down. A life lesson.

The rest of the car is exactly how you’d expect a mid-spec BMW 3-Series to be. A fantastically judged 50:50 weighted chassis that’s forgiving and alert in perfect measures, a stubborn resistance against understeer even on the energy saving tyres and, to us at least, no effect whatsoever from being 15mm lower and having a higher final drive ratio than normal. If anything, the tall sidewalls on little wheels make it more compliant than the typical Barry-spec 3-Series on 19″ rims and runflats.

So, what about the three other pesky German midi-execs? Audi make an A4 TDIe which costs a couple of grand less, but is 30bhp and 7mpg down on the 320ED, while Merc will sell you a C220CDI BlueEfficiency for the same price as the Audi, which has the same power as the BMW but is less economical than either. Unless the extra £2k is a deal breaker, the BMW is a no-brainer.

You half expect any manufacturer’s repsonse to being asked ‘does detuning the engine, shrinking the wheels, compromising the tyres and lengthening the gears in the name of economy make your car better to drive?’ to be a pretty straight ‘no’. But BMW actually answer it with a convincing ‘yes’.

There’s a chicken/egg parallel to the premium supermini market. What came first; the new Mini, or the public’s lust for a posh small car? Almost definitely the former. The car came first, BMW made us want it and now it’s King of the Cocks – a shiny feathered man hen that everyone wants a piece of. Which makes the Citroen DS3 a hungry, wily fox.

And it’s got a lot to do… even after nearly a decade of lording it about the farm on its own, the Mini is yet to be faced with a fox to match it. The Fiat 500 is cheap and cuddly but a bit soft. The Alfa MiTo has an 8C’s face but is secretly rubbish to drive. And the Audi A1 looks great but doesn’t exist yet. The DS3 could be the first bushy tailed urban warrior with a full quota of Mini chomping teeth.

It’s certainly got a wide enough grin… and that counts for a lot when appealing to the clutch-bagged shoppers who want a Mini. LED daytime running lights set the DS3 up with a tarty, glitzy look that only gets more impressive as you head to further down its plumage. Chrome door handles look posh; half-cut, forward leaning B-pillars look mad and smartly surfaced bejewelled lights and badges out-style the Mini in one glance. Fox is sexier than the Cock.

That’s half of the battle won, really. But not all of it. Because Citroen, despite their ginormous improvements over the past few years, still have the slight whiff of ‘value’ around them… and ‘value’ doesn’t sit well with ‘premium’. So, it’s actually a good thing that the DS3 isn’t an awful lot cheaper than a Mini.

Prices start at £11,700 for a 95bhp 1.4VTi petrol with 95bhp – £500 less than the Mini One with similar power, and go up to £15,600 for a 110bhp 1.6HDi diesel with 110bhp – £750 more than a Mini Cooper D with similar power. Awkwardly, or perhaps cleverly, the best DS3, our £15,900, 150bhp 1.6 petrol sneaks into the middle ground between the Cooper and Cooper S for both price and power. Wily, wily Fox avoiding direct Cock comparison.

Perhaps it’s no surprise that Citroen didn’t want their fastest DS3 to square right up to either of the sporty Minis – because even after some sharpening up, the C3 chassis which underpins the DS3 can’t perform the some hot-footed chicken dance as the Mini. It’s not overly baggy or dull, but there’s a touch more body roll, an inch more squat and dive than you’d get in a Mini andless feel through the steering. The upside is a slightly more compliant ride, but there’s no mpg payoff for the softer edge – 42.2mpg is good for a 150bhp petrol, but not so smart next to the 52mpg Cooper and 48mpg Cooper S.

Quite how much the average Mini driver appreciates the chassis under them is up for debate though – so, ignoring the mpg figure, maybe the DS3’s slightly softer set-up will be a good thing. Comfort lovers will prefer the Citroen’s interior too – lighter, less fussy and more spacious, and you get the sense it won’t develop rattles quite as quickly as a Mini too. The 280 litre boot makes the Mini’s 160 litre hole look like somewhere even a battery hen would baulk at too.

So is the DS3 foxy enough to take the King of the Cocks off its pedestal? Not quite. It’s got a better combination of style, space and comfort – but that can’t quite make up for the inferior dynamics and economy. The DS3 deserves to do well on the talents it’s got, but it’s going to have to hand the chicken killing responsibility to the Audi A1. It better tart sharpening its teeth now.

When the Leon was born, Cornish people still spoke Cornish, the mk5 Golf was in the prime of its life, the Astra was rubbish and the previous shape Focus was King. Now though, the mk6 Golf exists, there’s a new Astra which isn’t rubbish and the Focus is still King. So… what have SEAT done to keep the Leon relevant? Paint it orange and give it black wheels of course! Wicked tings!

Obviously, that’s not all. It’s also had a minor redraw inside and out – and more importantly, can now be had in sporty FR spec with VAG’s gratuitously torquey 168bhp common rail 2.0TDI motor. This isn’t just a five-year-old hatchback. This is a five-year-old, facelifted, bright orange diesel hatchback that’s a bit feisty. So, is it still relevant? And does a 168bhp diesel engine make it hot enough?

In terms of relevance, it’s impossible not to start with the price – £19,490. Nearly five grand cheaper than the identically engined Golf GT TDI. The SEAT’s tweaked interior isn’t a patch on the Golf’s rubbery fetish den, and neither does the Spanish car carry the same Waitrose car park clout… but £5k is a lot of money. Enough money to overlook the dip in perceived quality. Enough money to ensure the Leon is still very relevant.

But relevance is nothing if it’s a little bit shit. Let’s not forget that the chassis is a generation-old – even family cars like this see big leaps in quality with each new model. The Leon might be so dynamically outdated that even its cheap price is a waste of cash.

The first thing you notice when you sit in the thing is how snug it feels – short windscreen, dark rooflining and decently low seat. The second thing you notice when you sit in the thing is that it sounds just like a diesel. But once you spool it up and let the low profile tyres contribute their own racket, the diesel drone dies off and it all starts to sound sportier – as well as feeling tightly sprung, firmly damped and actually quite good.

Some ECU magic must have been worked on the engine, because unlike the vast majority of diesels, there’s actually a point to revving it past 4,000rpm. With the peak 258lb ft of torque available from just 1,750rpm it’s easy to just ping yourself around at low revs, but there’s enough genuine power at higher revs to allow a more petrol-minded gear changing style… you don’t just leave it in 4th and lumber out of corners, you stick it in third and let the power pull you out.  A 0-62mph time of 8.2 secs might not sound scintillating… but through the gears, and regardless of revs, it pulls like a kicked donkey.

The chassis doesn’t mind bucking about either.  It’s quite nose-led in the way it snuffles round tighter corners, but in faster corners the Leon’s more neutral and happy enough to shimmy a tail – adjustable, grippy and fun. The steering feedback’s good too, and while the ride is firm it doesn’t ricochet off bumps with so much force as to make you slow down. The only real quibble is the over-keenness of the ESP to grab an outside front wheel if it thinks there’s a bit too much yaw going on – you can’t fully switch it off either.

Let’s not forget that the backdrop to the Leon’s speed and agility are figures of 53.3mpg and 139g/km of CO2 – the economy and emissions of a brand new car, not a five-year-old one. So, while the nuts and bolts are getting on a bit, and the interior is showing its age, the Leon FR TDI is actually a very convincing, excellent value package with a chassis that feels fresh. It’s still just right for anyone who wants to find a happy combination of bright orange corner hooning, low price and real-world fuel saving… there’s a few years left in it yet.

Can you make a carrot taste meaty? Think about it – because it’s a tough and incredibly pertinent question. Would you even want to? Aren’t carrots and meat better off in harmonious, balanced diet co-existence? Or would life be easier if you could get a meat hit and vegetably goodness from one crunchy stick? It’s a tricky one. And so is the new Honda CR-Z… because it throws up the exact same quandary.

Honda call their new coupe the world’s first ‘sporty hybrid’ – a juxtaposition of words just as awkward as ‘meaty carrot’. At the £16k to £20k price level of the CR-Z, hybrids have always been about economy, economy and a little bit more economy. Very much carrot cars. So, has adding some sporty meat diluted the purity of the carrot or made it a more widely desirable dish? Is it good?

Against all odds, yes. As long as you manage your expectations. The engine, for instance is very much carrot – a 1.5 litre, 112bhp version of the Insight’s 1.3 petrol unit, which together with the Insight’s 14bhp electric motor can muster a peak of 122bhp. Which gives the CR-Z the performance of a car that isn’t fast.

But thanks to a grunty exhaust note and decent 128lb ft wedge of torque from a low 1,500rpm, it still feels meaty enough to call itself sporty – and the 9.9 sec 0-62mph time sits well with the combined 56mpg and 117g/km of CO2. Only just squeezing under the 10 second 0-62mph mental block might sound weak, but let’s get back to the CR-Z’s price again – it’s at entry level Scirocco and mid-spec Volvo C30 money. Of the three S, Sport and GT trims, Honda expect the £18k Sport to sell the best – an £18k Scirocco 1.4 TSI is just two tenths quicker to 62mph, but 10mpg worse off. The Scirocco TDI is £3k more, half a second quicker but no more economical. An £18k Volvo 2.0SE will crack 62mph in 9.4 secs but won’t even do 40mpg.

It all adds up to an enticing package for real life humans who want a rorty sound, angular metal and a decent chance of not being forced into poverty at every BP visit. Honda have clearly worked hard on giving it a proper exhaust note too.

It’s a similar menu of well-judged finesse for the chassis – a lower, stiffer and wider version of what you’ll find under the body of a Jazz supermini or Insight hybrid. The forgiving, easy nature of the Jazz is tangible, but bolstered with a keener to turn, sharper attitude. Carrot shaped Jazz with beefed up geometry. There isn’t an endless meaty bucket of grip, or an overdone attitude to firmness and roll control – just an intelligent balance between fleet footed fun and soft edged compliance.

The alertness of the Scirocco is missing, but so is the occasionally crashy ride, while it both corners and cossets better than the C30. You just can’t quite shake off the feeling that an extra 30bhp would transform it from incredibly enjoyable to proper fun. There’s always the rumoured Mugen version…

What it does better than either Scirocco or C30 is look a little bit special, inside and out. The first glimpse most people had of the CR-Z was at the Detroit Motor Show last year, where it seemed under-wheeled, awkwardly angled and slightly bulbous around the bonnet. In the flesh, on the streets, it now looks spot on. And it gets better on the inside. Some of the plastics that make up the lower half of the dash feel like they’d crack on a sunny day, but the top half and touch points all feel posh enough, with a genuinely fresh feeling to the design and layout. The decently snicky 6-speed manual (the first time such a box has been bolted onto a hybrid powertrain) deserves mention too. Meaty, but not erm… too fatty or stodgy. Hmm.

So, there’s just enough meat to the way it sounds, corners and goes to justify Honda’s apparently contradictory placement of the word ‘sporty’ next to the word ‘hybrid’. This carrot got meat. And, bizarrely, all of the hybrid electronics actually add to this sporty feel – not just in the way that the electric motor pushes you along with a hint of turbo like torque, but in the way the workings of the powertrain are presentered to the driver. There are three driving modes; Normal, Eco and Sport, all of which feature their own mini-technicolour dash show and appropriate dynamic tweaks.

In Sport mode, the throttle response is sharper, steering weightier, electric motor more keen to assist and instrument binnacle light a constant red. Hit normal and the throttle softens off, steering eases up, electric motor holds itself back and the instruments glow to reflect your driving style – green is good, blue adequate and red bad (otherwise known as fast). Eco mode softens things up so far as to be offensive and even weakens the car’s air con to keep fuel efficiency up. As well as the mood glowing lights, the CR-Z also shows five LED trees which either shed or grow leaves depending on your driving. Trying to make them all fall off as quickly as possible is clearly the best game to play, but attempting to nurture them back again does at least provide the opportunity for fun when you’re not driving like a robber.

These little gimmicks help you realise you’re not just driving a slightly underpowered coupe – you’re driving a car that lets you choose between class-beating economy and class matching performance. Instead of questioning whether you can make a carrot taste meaty, or how much the world really needs one, the CR-Z has a wide enough spread of talents to let you just accept it for what it is – a good value, fun to drive, comfortable and smartly resolved coupe. It might not look great on the menu, but Honda have made the world’s first meaty carrot. Very well done.

The previous Sorento always seemed at its most comfortable with a Border Collie on the back seat, some wellies in the footwell and a small cottage connected to the towbar. With a body-on-frame chassis, low transfer box and live rear axle, it was a farmers’ weapon that shifted nearly a million units across the world.

Which makes the new Sorento a brave move by Kia – because with a monocoque chassis and independent suspension, it’s completely different. More for Mrs Farmer and the family than Mr Farmer himself.

Happily for Mrs Farmer, Sorento mk2 is also very good. The hero is Kia’s brand new, 194bhp 2.2CRDi engine – especially when hooked up to the smooth £1300 6-speed auto box. Spinning between 1800 and 2500rpm, peak torque of 311lb ft is maintained quietly with the box shuffling through ratios without bother. Bumble around in this comfort zone and the Sorento’s 38mpg combined figure isn’t out of reach either. A good engine.

And Mrs Farmer won’t complain when she encounters her first corner. Body roll is kept to a minimum, the steering has a consistent and natural feel from its hydraulic assistance and there’s more than enough grip and stability to stand up to any emergency sheep avoidance routines. A slightly over-firm ride is the trade-off for making a 1.8 tonne SUV corner without drama – but it’s not a deal breaker.

Nor is the interior. All but the base £20,495 2.4 litre petrol (which is next to pointless) have 7 seats, with a rear pair that are big enough to transport children with limbs, but small enough to use as a method of punishment if they get lippy. Pay £25,495 for the mid-spec KX-2 trim and you get leather, climate control, rear parking sensors and cruise control – it all contributes to an ambience that Mrs Farmer might feel is too push for her husband. Best not tell him that even her new Sorento has actually got a pretty handy 4×4 transmission then.

Perhaps the interior plastics are a little brittle, and perhaps the price looks strong next to a £24k Nissan Qashqai+2 with similar spec – but there’s no escaping from the fact that Mrs Farmer’s new Sorento is a much smarter car than Mr Farmer’s old one.

Handling handling handling. Think of any great Peugeot, and an ability to dance on tippy toes will be what defines it. Brittle interiors, moody electrics and Rizla-thin panels are all forgiven if the Pug can cock a wheel and shimmy a tail. All memorable Peugeots handle better than they look.

Which puts a massive weight of pressure on the brand new RC Z – because it looks amazing. The double bubble roof, an Olympic swimmer’s shoulders and the peachy rear of a keen female jockey manage to distract the eye from the genetically flawed Lesley Ash gob. And that’s not the only pressure. Seeing as the top spec RC Z (the only one you need care about) is a 200bhp turbocharged coupe costing about £25k, it’s heading for a flouncy cuffed fist fight with the VW Scirocco and Audi TT. So, that handling we were on about…

70mph, spread eagled over both lanes of a Spanish A-Road with a clean line of sight for at least half a mile… 10 corners of handling indulgence. Gingerly into the first left-hander, not braking but lifting, touching the apex and easing away. Already there’s a sense of weight, an impression of width to the RC Z that builds your trust. Accelerate back to a right that’s a mirror of the first left. Don’t lift this time. Steering develops more weight… a few nudges as it kicks back over ridges. Hydraulically assisted, consistent and linear – not overly chatty but the tyres aren’t loaded up yet. There’s still time for it to shine.

Approaching a downhill corkscrew. Taking the first right-hander on the brakes to shed speed before the tighter left that follows. Car’s led by the front, with understeer at the limit – but the back will shimmy under braking. Not what you’d call oversteer, not something you’d deliberately provoke but satisfying to feel all four tyres doing some work, even if the rears seem like passengers.

Right, left, right all dispatched in 2nd, barping off the limiter with the final corner left behind. Not overly sharp or too quick and fidgety – just agile but easy, accurate but flattering. Three corners to go. Sounds awesome. Crunch time.

Massively egged on by the meaty noise now. 3rd gear into a right hooker that’s sensibly 4th, just for the rort. Outside wheels loaded up as the RC Z leans on its springs, front tyres starting to have their sidewalls nibbled away as they succumb to understeer… but it won’t be thrown off line. Hanging on, riding the humps, keeping its feet on the ground, lift as the bend straightens out for the left that follows. Turn in, carrying too much speed, ABS rattles the front wheels on a damp patch and tightens their line – good steering feel now, rubbery, grippy, connected. Blast out of the bend, still in third, into 4th for the final sweeper… car banks in, sits on its springs, holds its line and is away. Still holding onto each gear to make the most of the noise, only easing off to spare being hexed by the approaching villagers.

That was fun – not electrifying, but fun. The RC Z is no dynamic scalpel, no overly focussed track addict. But it’s balanced, fluid, softer than you’d expect and satisfyingly physical to chuck about. Perhaps not as tight, tactile or adjustable as a Scirocco, but definitely more fun than an Audi TT. Easily the best handling Peugeot since the 106 GTI disappeared in 2002.

But, somehow, it’s not the way it corners that defines the Peugeot. There’s more to it than that.

The ride is better than a Scirocco or TT – still firm, but not crashy. The interior, while very clearly related to the 308, feels special. You’ll need a GT spec car to get the leather-trimmed seats and dash but it makes it feel a cut above. Also, despite the roofline, the RC Z has also got a decent boot – long and flat as opposed to short and upright like a Scirocco’s. The back seats are as useless as you’d expect, but if you need better you should be buying a 3008 anyway. And while the 200bhp version’s 0-62mph of 7.5 seconds might not sounds amazing, it never feels underpowered and should do nearly 40mpg. Go for the 156bhp version of the same engine or the 163bhp 2.0HDI diesel and you can bump that up to 40.9 or 52.3mpg. It’s all incredibly convincing.

Compromise is usually a dirty word. It makes cars comfortable instead of fun, frugal instead of fast, practical instead of stylish – but the compromises in the Peugeot RC Z are actually what make it so easy to like. A Scirocco might be a better handler, but it’s not as pretty, satisfying, economical or enjoyable. Instead of sacrificing any aspect for another, Peugeot have given the RC Z a perfect blend of them all. It’s a Peugeot that’s memorable not just for handling, but for everything else as well.

For the first 120 miles of our time in Volvo’s economy leaning V50 1.6D DRIVe, we were slumped back in the passenger seat with our eyes tightly shut. It was daft o’clock in the morning, the birds’ paperboys hadn’t even been yet and because we were heading to Geneva, we still had 622 miles to go.  At that point in time, it was the best car in the world. Because we could sleep in it.

Compared to a normal V50 diesel, the DRIVe’s got longer 3^rd, 4^th and 5^th gears, slippier gearbox oil, carrot slicer alloys, low resistance tyres, a blanked off upper grill and a few other aero tweaks that let it slide through the air like a vet’s arm through cattle. It’s all designed to make the V50 as aerodynamically and mechanically slippy as possible. It also makes it incredibly quiet.

Starting in Birmingham, England blurred by without a fanfare. Into Eurotunnel, out of Eurotunnel, into petrol station, into toilet, out of toilet, out of petrol station, into driver’s seat. Time to drive. The trick to making economy derivatives of normal cars is to make the driver feel as if they’re making a few dynamic sacrifices for the planet, without making them feel like a martyr. They should feel different from normal models, but they shouldn’t feel broken. One overly long gear ratio and the car’s undriveable – which doesn’t help anyone.

With 3 humans and some luggage on board, the Volvo’s 108bhp and 177lb ft of torque is deployed with great expectations… and it does a passable job of not making the car feel broken. Pulling out into angry French traffic with a full tank and reset trip isn’t a lesson in slip road melting pace, but it’s safe, quiet and untroubling. If we’d have ditched the cargo, 0-62mph could been achieved in 11.5 seconds – a figure that the word ‘adequate’ seems designed for.

Once coaxed up to French overtaking speeds, the V50 starts showing a wider variety of traits – which for the first 100 miles, are entirely positive. At any speed you choose right up to the 118mph max, it feels unruffled, relaxed and refined. Smooth ride, good stereo, smart interior, great seats. It’s only when you ask it to more than cruise that the V50 trips up.

Motorway bends show the steering to be light and vague around the dead ahead position, just when you expect some weight and precision. And then comes a toll. Gas off, brakes on and… eugh – a brake pedal with a long travel and precious little feel. It’s like treading on a loaf of Hovis. None of this is the DRIVe’s fault though, as the standard car has a wooliness about it already. The economy twiddling hasn’t made it any worse.

As the V50 nudges onto its 400^th mile of relentless French motorway, at least 50% of which has been with the toe firmly in, there’s still over a quarter of a tank left and the mind turns to economy. This £20,545 stop/start version of the DRIVe has got a combined mpg to make a camel look like Oliver Reid – 72.4mpg. Even the more realistic urban figure of 57.7mpg is impressive.

Understandably, with three on board, a stiff right ankle and a boot of luggage that’s impossible to achieve; this is the real world, not an EU econo-testing lab. As we tickle the boundary of Switzerland, the range display falls to 50 miles and we peel off to fill up. 487 on the trip meter and 50 miles still in the car,  all with a 52 litre tank. A quick iPhone calculator job by our passenger makes that’s about 47mpg – quite a real world achievement.

So, all the way through France without stopping. All the way through a whole tank of diesel without stopping. And all in refined comfort, without feeling like environmental martyrs. It might be a little numb, a bit woolly in the core – but the V50 is one of the most discreet, efficient ways of doffing a cap towards green motoring there is. And with that sorted out, we swap drivers and go back to sleep with a clear conscience.

The Citroen C-Crosser is a 7 seat, diesel only, 40mpg, fairly massive 4×4 that in Exclusive trim costs £27k. It will appeal to folk who live in the country with children who occasionally bring their mates home. Families who can afford a new car, but struggle to justify spending over £30k on a Discovery. Pleasant humans who want something that can deal with the pitted, muddy track to the stable without bottoming out. It will make these people very happy. As a sensible, rugged, reasonably affordable family car with a couple of spare seats in the back, it’s good. Very good.

It’s good at doing stuff it doesn’t need to bother with too. Like going round corners. We spent a whole weekend driving it round the Cotswolds, and on more than one occasion deliberately drove straight back where we’d come from just for the hell of it. Obviously, the C-Crosser is no Saxo VTS – there’ll certainly be no inside wheel cocking, lift-off oversteer or hairpin handbraking. But, considering it weighs 1750kg and takes 11 secs to get to 62mph, its fleet footed bend taking ability is a gentle shock, especially given that the ride is still perfectly composed and comfortable.

Perhaps a Mazda CX-7 feels tighter, and perhaps a BMW X1 is quicker to change direction – but the C-Crosser has a more fluid, better-resolved ability to manage both bumps and corners simultaneously, shrinking around you and being easy to place on the road. The similarly priced Mazda and BMW don’t have 7 seats either. It’s not supernaturally good, just much better than it has any right to be. You can enjoy it.

Some of the fun can be attributed to the new ‘DCS’ double clutch gearbox, a £1200 option. Snicking it across to manual and using the massive wheel mounted paddles adds to the involving nature of the chassis. And, if we’re being picky, this also avoids the auto mode’s occasional tendency to languish in an optimistically high gear, below where the peak 200lb ft of torque steps in at 2,000rpm. The only other downside to the DCS is an environmental one – figures of 38.7mpg and 192g/km of CO2 aren’t as pleasant as the manual’s 40.4mpg and 185g. No biggy though… the smooth auto changes help the big Citroen’s refinement.

The C-Crosser’s other bonus feature is a usefully robust 4wd system. A dial lets you choose between FWD, occasional 4WD if the fronts lose grip, or locked 4WD. Admittedly, we didn’t blat up any mountains to test it to the limits, but over rough, slippy, pitted dirt tracks where the back wheels were at least being called into action, the C-Crosser felt perfectly happy acting agriculturally. Seeing as it’s been co-developed with Mitsubishi (who rebadge it and sell it as an Outlander), this impression should at least have some objective backing – they’re pretty handy at the 4×4 business.

It’s only when you stop moving and look around the interior that negativity starts to creep in. The heating dials feel flimsy, with materials that are bettered by the new C3, which costs £10k less. The £1690 optional sat nav has the iffy ergonomics you’d find in an aftermarket Halfords job – and like too many factory fit sat navs, you can’t change the CD track or radio station if you’re using the navigation. The rear seats are only very temporary too. But that’s about it. The C-Crosser is a surprising car… not just because of how well it achieves what it set out to, but because it offers much more than you’d expect.

When you’re part of a big family, hand-me-downs are a way of life. Your older brother’s school trousers, your dad’s tools, your uncle’s Haynes manuals, your 2nd cousin’s wife – the usual stuff. It’s a lot cheaper to recycle than buy new, which is why the VAG family have reused the previous Audi A4 to make the new Seat Exeo.

But it’s not just a straight recycling job – the Exeo has been given the automotive equivalent of taken up hems. Seat have tweaked the A4’s damper and spring settings, grafted on a new face that meets current crash regulations and used the VW Group’s new common rail diesel engines – in 118, 140 and 168bhp states of tune. There’s also the 2.0 TSI petrol engine that was in the previous A4.

And it does feel like a different car. Because the interior is lifted from the old A4 cabriolet, there’s at least the suggestion that you’re not sitting in an old Audi saloon. It might not be gleamingly modern, and it still suffers the cramped back seats of the A4, but the precision and quality of the controls prevent it from seeming obviously recycled.

The tweaks to the chassis have helped the Exeo seem quicker witted round bends too. The nose-heavy Audi gait remains when really stuffed into a twist, but it’s got a more alert character than the A4, with sharper turn in, decent grip and even a muted hint of steering feedback. You’d struggle to get that from an old shape A4.

It does share a similarly rigid approach to dealing with bumps though – although our 17” alloys and lower Sport spec suspension will have shown the Exeo in its hardest guise. It relaxes at speed, with a slightly smoother motorway ride than an old A4 on similarly sized wheels, but the drive never manages to match either the agility or suppleness of a Mondeo.

And it’s the Mondeo rather than any Audi comparisons that cause the Exeo the biggest problems. For all the hand-me-down cost cutting, it still costs between £18,755 and £23,285. A middle of the range 140bhp TDI in SE spec will set you back £21k – only a couple of grand less than a similarly specced and equally powerful Mondeo. Next to the £25k you’d need for a new A4, the Exeo makes more sense – but despite the old Audi gubbins, the Seat just isn’t premium enough to compare.

Ultimately, it’s a tricky car to justify. As an improved, lower price version of a premium car that only went off sale a couple of years ago, it seems to offer decent value. But it’s not cheap enough to look enticing next to the more talented Mondeo. If you can afford a new Exeo, it’s only a small stretch to get the Ford – if you want an excellent value A4, go to the used section of the Audi dealer and save even more cash. Sounds harsh to what is an intelligently engineered, thoroughly decent car – but as every younger brother will confirm, you always get stick for wearing hand-me-downs.

Analogue clocks are generally a sign of good taste, subtle style and nuanced craftsmanship. They grace some of the best interiors in the world, from Bentley to Rolls Royce to Range Rover. Even the VW Phaeton, one of the most carefully considered cars ever made, has one. So to find one in what is essentially a Nissan made for Americans is a bit of a shock. It’s not just a clock – it’s a statement of classy intent.

Because while Infiniti are owned by Nissan, and while they have been making cars for Americans for years, they’re now intent on making us tasteful Brits take them seriously. Everything from the dealer network to the chassis has been specially prepared for us; walk into an Infiniti shop and you won’t get heckled by a thug in a nylon suit, you’ll be offered your own ‘account manager’ who will see you through sale and aftersale for the entire time you own the car. But is their EX37 worthy of the analogue clock?

Moving from the clock outwards, it starts well. The interior sees soft leather meet sharp technology – a bird’s eye view 360º camera system, adaptive cruise control and decent touch screen sat nav are bedded into the European standard materials. Wearing brown and black together might break Trinny and Susannah’s rules but it doesn’t creak, is ergonomically sound and feels tightly glued together. The ambience is in keeping with the timepiece.

And, thanks to the engine, so is the drive. Until a Nissan/Renault V6 diesel is offered later this year, the only motor you can have is the 3.7 litre V6 petrol from the 370Z, which in the EX37 thrusts out 316bhp. You’ll rarely get more than 20mpg from it, but the brawny noise and neck-bothering force it generates maintains the impression of class. Comparing it to its Roller and Bentley clock-mates is obviously daft, but there’s at least a trace of similarity in the way the EX37 is defined by its engine – smooth, strong, linear… and seeing as it hits 62mph in 6.4 seconds, it’s certainly not running slow.

The only aspect of the Infiniti’s mechanism that isn’t precisely metronomic is the ride – a hefty 1900kg kerb weight obviously needs a firm set of springs to keep in check. Roll control and turn in are decent, and grip from the 4wd with rear LSD is excellent… but you can feel the engineering compromise in the way it jolts across bumps. The ride quality is definitely more harsh LED than subdued analogue.

Steer around the potholes though, and the impression of a plush, grunty and refined carriage remains. At £37k, cars like the £10k cheaper Mazda CX-7 and more spacious, similarly priced VW Touareg offer better value, especially with diesel engines up front – but the Infiniti makes them look stark and dull. So while it might not make perfect financial sense, the EX37 is at least worthy of the posh clock.

You’ve already made your mind up. The Nissan Cube is either a look-at-me narcissist with a Smeg fridge and Gok Wan glasses, or a sharp piece of automotive art with a Manga comic in its back pocket. What it’s like to drive and live with doesn’t come into it. We need say no more.

That’s no exaggeration either – people’s opinions of the Cube make their attitude towards Marmite seem wishy washy. They’re either scathing of the style – ‘it’s like that shit new Beetle… it’ll be cool for a week, then you’ll feel like you’re driving about in a shell suit’ or gushing – ‘can you actually buy one? It’s awesome’. But Nissan aren’t worried by the knee-jerk reaction to the Cube’s looks – they’re happy to sell just 2,000 a year, pleased to be offering such a talked about rarity. Which in a way is a shame, because it’s just as interesting as it looks…

While shag pile dashboards, mood lighting and a whole array of colour options are all available, our Cube’s simple black womb is as much of a functional pleasure as the outside is a cosmetic one. Masses of headroom, loads of light, plenty of cubby space, and driving controls that work with all the syrupy sweetness of the nicest Japanese superminis. The seats deserve special mention: covered in the type of material pyjamas are made of, they’re as soft and springy as a nursing home chair. No form over function – just comfy common sense.

Happily, this is maintained when you drive it. The word bouncy is rarely used to positively describe a car’s suspension, but it can be with the Cube – it rides with the comfort and comedy of a 2CV, but with a much greater sense of safety and stability. There’s a fair amount of body roll, it swims around on motorways and hates crosswinds but in its natural city habitat it makes perfect sense. A car that rides better at low speeds? Told you it was just as interesting as it looks.

Some of the design-led touches initially seem to threaten the Cube’s pursuit of substance over style – but it doesn’t take long for you to come round to its ways. You expect the side opening boot, for example, to be a massive pain when you’ve parked up against a wall. But it’s not. Stand at the side of the car, open it as far as space allows and reach in – no reaching under a partially open lid or being decapitated, just alternative simplicity. For £15,100, it’s also well equipped with cruise and climate control, touch screen sat nav and a reversing camera. You can opt for the base model for £1,100 less, but you sacrifice all the snazzy kit that makes it feel complete, so don’t.

But it’s still the Cube’s funny face that will make or break a sale. This defining feature is its only downfall – the only stylistic decision that doesn’t make it easier to live with than a normal car. But, you get the impression it doesn’t care. The Cube is comfortable in it’s little artistic paradox: softening the look to get more sales would be selling out – a Banksy in a gallery. It might have the quality to go mainstream, but the Cube is happy on the fringe.

Because there isn’t any time for self-indulgent road-test guffiness, the Christmas holidays are perfect for testing a car. Instead of pondering steering feedback and other trivialities that most people don’t care about, there are countless opportunities to hear feedback from the real life humans who ride shotgun. So to find out if Peugeot’s 3008 is any good, we just listened to what its passengers said. Like a turkey chomping automotive focus group.

Normally, we’d start off by putting the 3008 in its Nissan Qashqai baiting crossover context. But we’re not going to. Our humans live too far from a Nissan dealer to bother with a Qashqai, and they don’t care what a crossover is. So, onto the all important first impression: ‘it’s massive’. Bugger. An enormous stumbling block, which leads to a very final sounding ‘I’d never be able to drive this’… before being immediately overruled by ‘actually it’s nice to be able to step in… especially at my age.’ Our 3008’s first passenger drives a Mini Cooper and thoroughly loves it – but, unlike in the Mini, she doesn’t need to squat to get into the 3008, so it’s immediately a better car. ‘I’d get used to the size, because I wouldn’t do my back in getting out of it’. Don’t think the Peugeot 3008 and Mini Cooper are rivals? Well, humans think otherwise. And the Peugeot wins.

The next passenger’s observation is a simple one: ‘oooh, it’s lovely’. Right. Admittedly, our £21k Exclusive model is frothing with spec, but the heads up display, sat nav and heated seats are irrelevant because ‘lovely’ actually translates to ‘soft without being sicky’. Clearly the human passenger is complimenting Peugeot’s chassis team on developing something called Dynamic Roll Control – a rear axle set-up where the rear dampers are basically linked, allowing them to be soft but still resist body roll. It’s only available on models with the most powerful of each petrol or diesel engine – but that still means you can have it fitted, as well as a panoramic roof, climate control and alloys, for less than £19k. Only plugging in a phone and making it play music through the car speakers is a bigger revelation.

The wide-eyed disbelief continues with a new passenger, who immediately switches off the heated seat because ‘if I wanted to feel like I’d pissed myself, I’d stay at home’:

‘It’s not a diesel. I can hardly hear it’.
‘It is… it’s got 250lb ft of torque and will theoretically do 50mpg so it’s not going to be a petrol.’
‘Don’t blind me with science, let me have a go.’
‘OK, you drive…’
‘…It’s got some go. What does it do 0-60mph in? About 10 seconds?’
‘Erm, yes actually. Now give me the keys back.’
‘No… let me go round these corners, then we’ll swap.’
‘Fine.’
‘Doesn’t feel wobbly, but the steering’s too light… suppose it’s for women though.’
‘Yes. It’s for women. Because their arms aren’t strong enough to steer a normal car.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I was sort of joking actually.’
‘About what?’
‘Never mind… pull over here.’

That’s the driving settled then; quick and quiet, taut but light. Spot on. But the next passenger doesn’t even need to get in to be won over – they’ve discovered the boot. ‘That’s bloody clever’. The back seats are flipped down using levers inside the 512-litre rear – a nice touch that avoids faffing with doors, latches and seatbelts. Next, the bottom half of the tailgate is ‘lowered like a castle’s drawbridge’. But that’s not the peak of the praise. Oh no. The boot floor is an adjustable shelf. The world is a different place. Gaping chasm? Check. Flat surface with the folded seats? Check. False floor to hide stuff under? Check. ‘Well, if only we’d had this when we had prams.’

Next to be slotted in are two half-size humans with attention spans even shorter than their sticky little fingers. Without a headrest mounted Wii or Disney back catalogue, the 3008 doesn’t immediately seem set up to keep kids amused – until you press the little lever in front of the handbrake. The whole of the sky is revealed, making anyone from Patrick Moore to little kids look up, shut up and become immediately impressed. ‘I can see the moon’. Five minutes of silence is won… before they bicker over whether it’s actually Mars. Roof closed, Miley Cyrus on. Pretty good stereo too.

Then, as quickly as they landed, the humans have gone. We’re back in sensible-headed review land, wondering if all the praise is justified. Is it time to explain how they’re naïve and too easily pleased?  Time to come across as condescending and superior? Well no. Because they’re completely right. Without giving a rat’s crack about what anybody else thinks, the real life humans have quite rightly discovered that the Peugeot 3008 is the smartest family car on sale. Most other cars have got one killer app to suck in buyers; a glass roof, cool tech, plush interior, nice ride, big boot or cracking engine – the 3008 has got all of them. You’d have to be inhuman not to like it.

Very soon, V6 engines will only exist in the glowing nostalgia of our motoring minds. They’re too big, too heavy and too polluting for the stressy types that invent emissions regulations to tolerate. Like Alf Garnett, they had a time and a place – but now we need more of The Good Life. Clean, self-sufficient… and less prone to offensive outbursts of hot air.

So lets welcome the Alfa Romeo 159 with a brand new 1750TBi engine: a turbocharged, direct injection, 1742cc four cylinder unit which is basically that Barbara woman played by Felicity Kendal; green, friendly, and efficient. While the 1750 isn’t technically a replacement for the 159’s V6, it may as well be: 110kg lighter, just as torquey and despite having 200bhp to the V6’s 260bhp, still able to hit 62mph in less than 8 seconds. Perhaps more important to Felicity Kendal though are the enviro-stats: 35mpg to the V6’s 25mpg, and 189g/km of CO2 to 260g/km. On paper at least, the V6 is already dead.

But Alfas aren’t about making sense on paper. Equally important to the engine’s success is its ability to back-up the Kendal pleasing stats with some pleasing Kendal sexiness – green or not, it still needs to drive like its bright red.

The first thing you notice is that it’s got the torque response of a diesel – because of some clever valve timing and airflow, the turbo spools up and thrusts away from as low as 1,400rpm. And just as you think it’s going to run out of breath like a derv-sucker, it picks up again as the power takes over and chucks you on even further still. While the surge might not stretch much past 5,000rpm, the new engine feels flexible, tractable and linear… but somehow it misses out on the sense of drama you’d hope for. Despite the grunt, the 1750TBi doesn’t have the soul or soundtrack to tickle the synapses.

This competent but uninspiring aura is reinforced by the chassis. Thanks to some mild tweaks to the steering, the 159 is still a reasonable car to chuck about, but a soft throttle response and artificially heavy steering never offer a tingling link to what the wheels and engine are actually up to. It does have price on it’s side though – starting at £21,800, you’d have to spend £5k more to get a similarly quick BMW 3 Series.

While the smart but bland engine might occasionally leave you pining for a bout of inappropriate Alf Garnett V6ism, it has prevented the 159 from slipping too far behind its German enemies. Somehow though, the improvements make the Alfa Romeo seem topsy turvey: praised for its engineering and criticised for its lack of personality. It’s got the morals, looks and efficiency of that Kendal character – but is missing the naughty little smile.

For the last two years, anybody with £25k could have bought themselves a brand new Mazda CX-7. And there are plenty of reasons why they should have done – it’s a good-looking, well-built, smartly priced crossover that’s secretly incredibly capable. Think of it as the BMW X6’s long lost Japanese cousin, without all the brash idiocy. Big and slightly pointless – but very good.

Except because it was only available with the 2.3 litre turbocharged petrol from the Mazda3 MPS, nobody bought one because it would only do about 20mpg. Mazda have realised this and made amends by ditching the petrol engine altogether, now only offering the CX-7 with a 170bhp 2.2 litre diesel. Which means it will do over 30mpg.

But that’s not all – Mazda are making further amends by fitting the new car with an AdBlue system, one of the first available in the UK. Hidden in the boot is a 15l tank of a chemical that’s one-third urea and two-thirds de-mineralised water – basically, it’s piss. The piss is squirted into the exhaust system, where it reacts with the gases and reduces the car’s NO_x. It won’t improve the mpg or reduce your tax bill, but it will lower the amount of nasty stuff coming out the back of the car. A full 15l tank should last 15,000miles and is best refilled when the car is serviced.

And it’s not just a diesel engine and tub of piss that have improved the CX-7 – the outside has been smartened up with new lights, grills and chrome. Inside is tidy too, with everything chucked in as standard for the £25,785 price; heated leather seats, cruise and climate control and Mazda’s usual excellent Bose stereo. Also standard is a sat-nav that despite having the smallest screen ever seen by man, is actually very clear and useable. The styling, ergonomics and materials are all similar to the previous version, but somehow more polished.

Which is exactly how to describe the way the CX-7 drives. Thanks to some better welding and higher quality steel, it feels lighter than its 1800kg weight suggests, and tighter than the previous version. The steering is over-light but gives decent feedback, while the gearchange and general flightiness are just what you’d expect from a Mazda. The new engine feels strong too, with 295lb ft of torque useable from basically anywhere – it’s a very easy engine to drive, although it does get gruff when punched out of its comfort zone.

Yet, despite the CX-7 broadening its horizons with a diesel engine and pot of pee, it’s still going to struggle to sell in massive quantities. Crossovers are bought for badges and status as much as for quality and dynamics – and while an X1 is smaller and no better built, it does have a BMW badge on the front for no extra cash. Mazda have made the CX-7 a much more sensible prospect; it’s just a shame they can’t give its potential buyers enough sense to appreciate it.

Owners of the last shape Mazda3 MPS spent just as much time defending their cars against cynical mates as they did driving them. Banging on about the 256bhp power output, 6.1 second 0-62mph time and 155mph top speed, they were adamant that because it had better stats than a Golf GTi, the MPS was a better car. Sadly, their mates knew otherwise. The old car looked bland, felt synthetic and squirmed its power away with embarrassingly premature wheelspin. So, perhaps this new one can redress the balance and give its owners some more sophisticated grounds to argue on.

Encouragingly, all the key numbers have stayed exactly the same. Power, acceleration and top speed benchmarks are all identical to the last one, from the same 2.3 litre turbocharged four cylinder engine. All the work has gone into making it lighter and more rigid. So, in not worrying about making it look more impressive on paper, have Mazda made it more impressive on tarmac?

Being based on the current Focus, it’s got a crisp balance, a well-judged blend between roll control and pliancy, and decently chatty steering. It feels better resolved, more sophisticated and smarter than the last one – but it’s still not as accomplished as a Megane, Golf or Focus hotty. The better ride and awesome speed do mean we’d have an MPS over a Civic Type-R though.

And there’s still no getting away from the insanity going on at the front wheels. Any camber, rut or grease will be sniffed out and followed like a hunting hound to fox piss. On dry country roads it’s fun chasing the car down the route it wants to take, but on anything damp it’s a pain – even on what look like straight roads, you’ll be tugging against the torque as the boost comes in at 2,500rpm. Despite having limited torque output in first and second gears, and despite an LSD and torque-sensing software that adjusts the grunt depending on your steering inputs, it too often shows exactly why Ford invented Revoknuckle.

But the new MPS doesn’t rely on paper stats anywhere near as heavily as the previous car – despite the common faults, it comes closer to feeling like a well-rounded, controllable and dynamically talented hot hatch than before. Add an enormous kit list with parking sensors, bi-xenon lights, a cracking Bose hi-fi, leather everything and sat nav to a low £21,500 price and it starts to look like a sensible buy. The looks, even though it’s only available in practical but uncool 5dr, finally do the frenetic power delivery justice.

So, while even new MPS owners will need to defend their car to their mates, they’ll be able to put up a much stronger argument. It’s still no class leader, but offers incredible value, is incredibly quick and  much of the time frantic fun. If you’re the type who likes to end an argument with an arm wrestle, it could be just what you’re looking for.