on the sidewalls

You join us at a VERY tricky moment. Our forehead’s prickling; sweat seeping out one molecule at a time.  Our right ankle’s twitching like Michael J Fox in a Mannheim bidding war. Our eyes are piercing space and time. The last time we felt a mental frenzy like this was 30 seconds before a fight in a Wetherspoon’s.

But we’re not fighting. In fact, we’re not moving. We’re very definitely not moving. We’re in Worcestershire, stationary, trying to join the A435 (North) from Tanners Green Lane.

Up until now we’d been getting on reasonably well with SEAT’s face-lifted Ibiza FR. It looks less like an M&S handbag than the VW Polo with which it shares its gubbins. It also WON’T lead people to believe that you’re hiding a stash of Tena Lady in the glovebox – and you can’t say THAT about its other brother from the Veedub mother, the Skoda Fabia. Oh, and this “ST” version’s estate rear end is integrated so well that it might take you 4 full days to realise it’s an estate. Spotted it already? Just us then.

But here’s the catch. This particular car has an FR badge on it, which means the bonnet contains a 148bhp, 1.4 litre twin-charged petrol engine and a DSG gearbox. Unfortunately, combining these two things creates all sorts of bad mechanical alchemy. We’ll call it badchemy.

Let’s talk about throttle response. If you’re travelling at a speed the engine deems appropriate, and you’re in a gear that the transmission finds agreeable, there’s a reasonable chance of being propelled forward within a second or two of suggesting such a thing to the accelerator. But, if the box and motor have a disagreement during their leisurely exchange, they’ll put you on hold indefinitely. It’s like the bad old days of double lag in auto-boxed turbo-diesels. You may as well play Greensleeves and put a brew on.

Which is a shame. Because if you change gear yourself, CONCENTRATE on what the engine’s up to and ANTICIPATE what gear the transmission might fancy a few yards down the road, the Ibiza FR can shuffle along very well. But can most people be arsed with that, most of the time? Doubt it. They shouldn’t have to in a car they’ve paid £18k for.

The quick shuffle is exactly what has led us to the end of Tanners Green Lane, where Betty Swollocks is paying us a visit. We’re suffering the most obvious symptom of the badchemy created twixt engine and transmission. Traction. Or lack thereof.

Like many cars with DSG boxes, the Ibiza FR isn’t a fan of quick getaways. But it is very keen on axle tramp and trying to blow the bulb in its ESP light. It goes like this… you press the throttle, and very little happens because the engine hasn’t got the memo yet. So you press it harder. Then the engine finally receives the memo, possibly via messenger pigeon, thus jumping into action and immediately causing one of the front wheels to get flustered and break traction. Obviously the ESP won’t stand for any such ruffianism, so it cuts the power immediately. At this point, you’re doing 4mph with the car’s brain assuming the road is so slippy that the wheels can’t possibly deal with more than 20% of the engine’s power without liquefying themselves.

The 178bhp version of this engine, like what you get in Polo GTIs, Ibiza Cupras and Fabia vRS isn’t as peaky or laggy, has an easier-to-modulte throttle and… is better. In the FR, you quickly learn to never attempt quick getaways at all. Which, when you’re trying to join a damp A-road without any slip-road run-up, is quite frustrating.

And so, we’ll leave you to get on – because we’ve given up on the idea of riding on the A435 (North). We’re doing a three-point turn, heading back the long way and acting as mediator in a counselling session between two high-tech pieces of engineering.

Should be simple really. The Cayman is the best handling Porsche model, and the £52,000 Cayman R is a lower, sharper and more powerful version of it. So, therefore, the Cayman R is the best handling Porsche full stop.

And that simple deduction is 80% true. If you’re a ham-fisted loon, the Cayman R offers a glorious blend of flattery and excitement. Where a GT3 RS is a form of domestic abuse and the GT2 RS motoring euthanasia, the Cayman R does a roaring trade in coaxing, coaching and cajoling. When you’re giving it 100%, the car gives you 100% back.

The Cayman R is on your side. It turns humans into heroes… while the GT2 RS and GT3 RS would rather turn us into corpses.

But now for the but: the Cayman R only buzzes through your hands, ears and arse if you’re giving it full clobber – and if you back off, it loses interest. When you’re not pounding the tarmac like a storm chaser, the once witty Porsche becomes dismissive and disgruntled. It’s no longer on your side…it’s a sulky bastard.

As soon as the front tyres aren’t experiencing some slip, the steering gives you the cold shoulder. No feel, no chat, no fun. And when the engine isn’t ringing in your ears, it won’t send shivers down your spine. It twists well enough from low revs, but such reward is only a booby prize compared to the sting nearer the red line.

‘I’m the best handling Porsche you can manage fuckwit… now drive me properly’ it bellows with frustration. All of a sudden, you’re a useless piece of meat flapping at the wheel like Dr Zoidberg. A normal Cayman feels at home on the road – reactive, sharp, fast and fun. The Cayman R feels like its feet have been bound.

It is, without any doubt, an incredible driver’s car for people who feel under-qualified in the seat of a GT3 or GT2 RS. But I don’t think it’s gobby or exciting enough at road speeds to interest the type of lunatic who fancies a BMW 1M.

Spent a bit of time sneaking around Bordeaux in the new Kia Picanto. Despite threatening to just be a slightly chinnier version of the Hyundai i10 with which it shares a chassis, the little critter has a charm all of its own. Comfy, nicely done out and easy to bop about in… it doesn’t try to be too sharp and is all the better for it. Naturally, we wrote a limerick about it:

Its interior is now very smart

And emissions the smallest of farts

Add to that comfy springs

Plus good boot space for things

The Picanto’s a neat shopping cart

Kia Picanto Geek Table

Model: Kia Picanto 1.0 ’2′
Price: £9,595
Engine: 1.0 3-cyl
Power: 68bhp @ 6,200rpm
Torque: 70lb ft @ 3,500rpm
0-60mph: 13.9 secs
Max Speed: 95mph
Economy: 67.3mpg combined
CO2: 99g/km

Let’s start off with a simple fact: the Citroen DS4 is NOT a pick-up truck. It’d be crap at taking rubble to the tip, it doesn’t lumber on leaf springs and people won’t think you’ve got a tattoo of a bear on your chest if you drive it. What it is though, is almost every other type of car in existence.

A hot hatch for starters. Quite a good one actually. Fitted with the same 200bhp petrol engine that nestles behind the recently-caught-trout-face of the Peugeot RCZ, the DS4 can parp and charge with all the passion of a violently farty bullock. It’ll rattle off the 0-62 run in less than 8 seconds and keep the needle nudging clockwise to 146mph.

Quite bafflingly, and despite its parpiness, the DS4 is also a crossover. The driving position is described by the vaguely pornographic term of ‘semi-command’ – meaning while you can’t see over other cars, you are just about high enough to implement a condescending stare. The ride height too, which is the car’s least convincing symptom of being a jack of all trades, makes the car look rufty tufty rather than lanky.

Yet, despite the wheel arch gaps, it’s also a surprisingly spikey coupe. The suspension is stiffer and sharper than the Arran-sweater wearing C4 on which it’s based, resulting in a little victory over the supposed effects of a high centre of gravity.

It changes direction well, grips like a leech on a fatty and possesses that rarest of qualities in a modern car – steering feel. The electro-hydraulic steering (instead of purely electric) and racy Michelin Pilot Sport tyres deserve thanks for this. Subtle rubbery granules pulsing through the palms… what a treat.

We’re not quite finished yet – the DS4 is a sensible hatchback too. When it goes on sale in Autumn 2011, the cheapest model will cost around £18,000 and be fitted with a 1.6HDi engine capable of 60mpg while emitting 122g/km of CO2. Spec the clicky flap EGS gearbox and the figures improve to 64mpg with 114g/km. And the 385 litre boot is actually slightly bigger than the supposedly more sensible C4’s. Ooooh.

Did we mention the interior has an authentic touch of luxury car about it? Well it has.

Of course, this melee of contradictory goodness has led to some less welcome quirks. For a starter, it’s the only five-door hatch we know where the rear windows don’t open. Citroen’s spin wizard quite nonchalantly explained that ‘it’s because the DS4 is a coupe and coupe’s don’t have opening rear windows do they?’. Err, it’s a hatchback and a lot of coupes do have hinged rear windows actually.

Secondly, the gap betwixt wheel and wheel arch looks daft. But that’s about it. The DS4 really has nailed the fast/fun/frugal/stylish/sporty/spacious/different/not too bloody weird combo incredibly well. Makes a Countryman look… well, like the first syllable of its name.

We started with a fact, so we’ll end with another: the Citroen DS4 is the least compromising compromise in motoring. And we like it a lot.

Consider your reaction to the automotive atrocities grouped together by the word ‘quadricyle’. A cluster of cretins that includes the notorious G-Wiz – motoring’s equivalent of the electric chair, minus free supper and haircut. Feeling angry? Thought so.

Now meet the brand new £7,000 Renault Twizy – a battery powered, bug-eyed mode of 21^st Century urban transport. That’s also a quadricycle.

While we hate to start with such an unpleasant subject, it’s an important one; because the Twizy’s classification as a quadricyle has serious consequences.

Firstly, it means it doesn’t qualify for the Government’s electric vehicle grant – so it costs a full £7,000, plus £45 a month to lease the battery. Secondly, the Twizy doesn’t go through any EuroNCAP safety tests, meaning despite its driver airbag and front crumple zone, it doesn’t have any coveted gold stars. Finally, it limits the Twizy’s weight to a maximum of 450kg excluding battery – which means Renault have been sparing with the body panels. Such as full size doors.

And our three main criticisms of the little leccy lunatic? It lacks the reassurance of EuroNCAP stars, it isn’t cheap enough compared to proper city cars like the Hyundai i10… and, most importantly, it doesn’t have any bloody doors. Three problems, all related to its quadricyle classification, that prevent the Twizy from being a genuinely revolutionary little whizzer – because in many ways, it’s absolutely brilliant.

If you were to design a city car from scratch, it’d probably drive very much like the Twizy. It would be under 4ft wide. You’d be able to see the front wheels from the driver’s seat. It would have a tiny 3.4m turning circle and the instant lights-turn-green-zip of an electric motor. It also wouldn’t have any exhaust emissions. And the range? You wouldn’t need much more than 60 miles from a 3.5-hour charge. Perfect.

The fact that it’s a reet old giggle to drive is just a bonus. At parking speeds, the unassisted steering might prove heavy for those with particularly emaciated arm muscles, but as soon as the Twizy gets a jog on, it lightens up and sparkles. Skinny 125 section tyres scrabble for grip, passing Morse code messages of their valiant efforts straight to your hands and arse. It’s like being on an adult-sized Legoland ride.

Even more surprising is what happens when you follow a fearless French test driver through sweeping corners. Top speed from the 15kw electric motor is quoted as 75kph, but we saw an indicated 87kph as we struggled to keep up. Its front tyres cling on for dear life and thanks to weight of the motor and 100kg battery under the tandem seats, it never feels like it could ‘do an A-Class’.

But that’s in the sunshine… in the rain, it would just be an expensive way to get nearly as wet as you would on a scooter.

So we’re back at the door thing again – a basic issue that the Twizy will never leave behind. On a sunny road, it feels safe and stable enough to let you forget its lack of EuroNCAP stars. It’s also fun and useful enough to be worth the price if your driving habits and charging points accommodate the usual demands of electric car ownership. In the sunshine, the Twizy makes sense.

But on a drizzly day, as you’re bombarded by spray from passing buses? Even the electric chair starts to look more appealing.

Spent some time in the new Infiniti M30d – the first version of Infiniti’s Audi A6 rivalling saloon to come with a diesel engine. Other than being a few MPG short of class best, and perhaps being a little bit camp for some po-faced executive saloon buyers, it’s faultless. Wrote a limerick about it, obviously…

The Infiniti M30d
Is furnished by Liberace
But the engine is subtle
And the ride never rattles
I’d rather this than a lifeless Audi

Infiniti M30d Geek Table

Model: Infiniti M30d GT
Price: £40,190
Engine: 3.0 V6 turbodiesel
Power: 235bhp @ 3,750rpm
Torque: 405lb ft @ 1,750rpm
MPG: 37.7 combined
CO2: 199g/km
0-62mph: 6.9 secs
Top speed: 155mph

Yes. We know. It’s mechanically indistinguishable from a SEAT Ibiza Cupra or Skoda Fabia vRS. Do you know quite how BORED the world is of that fact? Jaysus.

What The Most Repeated Car Fact of the 21st Century So Far neglects to mention is that the minutiae of a car’s execution is just as critical as its gearbox, engine and chassis. Which is why the Polo GTI is better than two cars that are the same as it.

The extra sheen of the Polo’s interior is just the start – the biggest difference between the three cars is on the road. Seriously.

A Fabia vRS feels like a cheap car with a very expensive engine – fast, but also a bit tall and imprecise. The Ibiza Cupra by comparison gives the impression that it’s trying too hard… all shouty, darty and hard without much charm or feel. Blame it on the height of their bodies, sound proofing and weight distribution.

In comparison, the Polo feels like a perfectly judged hot hatch marvel. It’s the last of the three to go on sale, but the GTI gives the impression that it was designed first – the ideal calibration of a shared platform that Skoda and SEAT had to cheapen and differentiate themselves from.

The ride is fractionally less busy… the induction noise slightly richer… the steering infinitesimally meatier… you’ve got to be a real hot-hatch loser hell-bent on finding tiny traces of tweaked tactility to feel the difference, but that’s what we are. Give us a good hot hatch in Wales over anything else on the road. And the Polo GTI is a very good hot hatch.

Blame it on witchcraft, blame it on mysterious mechanical alchemy… but we honestly think the difference is big enough to avoid blaming our own exaggerated memories of the other two cars.

And yes. We also know that the fizzy brilliance of a Renaultsport Clio makes praising the tactility of a Polo GTI sound a bit overwrought. The best of the three is still second best to the Renault.

Can you imagine having nearly £40,000 to spend on a brand new car? It’d be like waking up with two willies. Some of the finest cars on sale vying for your attention, luring you in with their glowing reviews. Porsche Boxster, BMW 525d Touring, Land Rover Discovery 4… the list of class leading stunners could coax up a chubby.

And for the same price, you could buy the updated Nissan Murano.

So, what does it do to tempt that £40,000 from your lucky-git fingers? Well, erm… I was always told that if I haven’t got anything nice to say I shouldn’t say anything at all. So here’s a picture.

As I haven’t got anything nice to say about the ride, handling, styling or performance, I won’t talk about them. Certainly won’t mention the steering. And I can’t really discuss the qualities of the new 2.5 turbodiesel engine either – because struggling to do 30mpg is only a nice thing when compared to the V6 petrol Murano… which struggled to do 20.

I can, however, comment on the high equipment levels, including side and rear parking cameras, a good sat nav, Bluetooth and heated seats. Probably shouldn’t go into how the driver’s seat looks and feels like a dentist’s chair though.  Can’t mention the rest of the interior either. Especially not the plastic around the lever of the standard 6-speed auto-box. Or the brightness controls for the dials. Or the electric mirror switches.

In fact, the nicest thing I can say about the Murano is how it should make us feel very lucky. The big Nissan isn’t dangerous or even anything worse than mediocre in every way – yet it’s about as wide of the mark as brand new cars get. So thanks, Murano. Thanks for reminding us just how excellent every other car on sale is.

Spent some time thrumming about in Hyundai’s facelifted i10, complete with new 3-cylinder petrol engine. It’s a cracking little machine that dips below the magic VED/C-Charge CO2 barrier of 100g/km without resorting to diesel fuel or laptop batteries. Wrote a limerick about it, obviously…

With emissions that won’t hurt a flea

The Blue’s yearly tax disc is free

Add a chassis that’s quick

To a gearshift that’s slick

And city kicks you can guarantee

Hyundai i10 Blue Geek Table

Price: £9,195
Engine: 998cc 3-cylinder petrol
Power: 68bhp
Torque: 70lb ft
MPG: 67.3 combined (claimed)
CO2: 99g/km (claimed)
0-62mph: 14.8 seconds
Max speed: 93mph

We can confidently report that the brand new BMW X3 is rather excellent. Not just excellent for a ‘pointless crossover’ either – it’s an excellent car full stop. In fact, it’s got an answer for every single knee-jerk crossover criticism known to man. Look, we’ll prove it…

Knee-jerk crossover criticism no.1: ‘Yeah but these gas guzzling SUVs are making Eskimos homeless’.

Nope. Not this one. Thanks to CO2 emissions of 149g/km and a combined mpg of 50.4, it’s cleaner than any Audi Q5 or Volvo XC60 – even the green leaved DRIVe version. It actually uses less fuel and emits less CO2 than a Fiat Panda 4×4… and nobody has ever called a Panda a planet killer.

Knee-jerk crossover criticism no.2: ‘Yeah, but it’ll topple over as soon as you go round a corner’

We drove for over 400 miles in our BMW X3 and not once did any of its wheels lift the ground – and the same can’t be said about the mk2 Golf GTi we used to drive on a daily basis.

Its vigilance around corners is actually just one facet of a generally rather suave and confident chassis. The X3 doesn’t iron out road roughness entirely, but instead smothers it in rubber-backed velvet… you can enjoy the texture of tarmac without being distracted by it.

Knee-jerk crossover criticism no.3: ‘Yeah but I bet despite it being massive outside it’s got no space inside’

Its boot is bigger than a Q5 or XC60’s and just 5 bottles of coke smaller than a 5 Series Touring. And even Angela Rippon’s leggy sister would enjoy folding herself into the maturely tailored cabin.

It’s also worth noting that those of Angela Rippon’s advanced years will appreciate that both the boot and seats are higher up and therefore more easily accessed than a 5 Series Touring.

Knee-jerk crossover criticism no.4: ‘Yeah but, Angela Rippon aside, you may as well get a normal estate car’

Guess what? Some people live in the countryside. Or go to car boot sales in boggy fields. Or live at the top of a hill where it snows. Or like seeing over hedges and traffic. Sometimes having twice the amount of driven wheels and a higher ride height compared to a normal estate car comes in handy. Also, at £31,135, the X3 is actually cheaper than a 5 Series Touring with an identical engine… and, like the 5, comes with leather seats and climate control as standard

If you actually want to go off-roading then a Land Rover Freelander 2 would be better… but the X3 is infinitely better on road. And, because you’re probably thinking it, a Discovery 4 is at least £5,000 more expensive so doesn’t really count.

So there you go – the BMW X3 is the best mid-sized crossover thing by far. So good that it’s actually just a bloody good car that should quite rightly tempt a few country dwelling 5 Series buyers.

Spent some time in the brand new ‘global’ Micra recently – a car Nissan will sell in 160 countries across the world. In place of a traditional road test, may we introduce the second in our fledgling series of ‘Review… in a Limerick’.

The global Micra won’t make you giddy

And its styling won’t please the kiddies

But with soft springs, space and kit

It’s not completely shit

Suppose it’ll do for old biddies

Don’t quite understand why ‘global’ means ‘bland’, especially when the excellent Fiesta is equally global but incredibly enjoyable. You do get a thorough splat of equipment, but the nobs and blueteeth are just distractions that keep the price frighteningly close to the Ford’s – we reckon it’d make more sense with fewer gadgets and a cheap as chips, Lidl-spec price tag.

Geek Table

Price: £9,250 – £12,350
Engine: 1.2l 3-cylinder
Power: 79bhp @ 6,000rpm
Torque: 81lb ft @ 4,000rpm
Combined mpg (claimed): 56.5
CO2 emissions (claimed): 115
0-62mph: 13.7 secs
Top speed: 106mph

It’s a well documented fact that rockstars are just caricatures of children. Bad tempered, impatient and feisty little bastards with a love of noisy parties, fizzy drinks and eye-watering sherbet. Sometimes they even shit themselves.

So to find out if the Mazda5 MPV is any good, we’ll judge it by the criteria a rockstar would use when buying a tour bus. If it’s good enough for them, it’ll certainly be OK for kids.

Is it cheap enough to avoid denting the prostitute fund?

Yes. Even the most expensive Mazda5 costs just £21,950 and offers such privileges as electrically operated doors (to minimise erosion to the guitarist’s hands), leather furniture (which can be wiped clean of incriminating substances) and a 6CD changer (to accommodate every volume of that not-at-all-indulgent live album).

Running costs are kept to a minimum with the option of a diesel-powered version that should travel for over 50 miles on each gallon of fuel.

Will it function as an impromptu party venue?

Almost certainly. There are drinks holders for even large beverages, trays for preparing pharmaceutical extravagances, cubby holes for storing herbal remedies and armrests for those who prefer to sit back and pass out. A DJ can even plug his decks directly into the Mazda5’s sound system using the handy audio input.

Is there room for a pair of midgets in tuxedos?

Of course. The Mazda5 has two pop-up rear seats that are perfect for humans of more modest proportions. These seats could be used by two midgets, or perhaps by Prince and his guitar. Behind the seats, Mazda have provided ample room for storing tuxedos and other formal wear, with spare space for any mirrors, razor blades or rolled up banknotes that the midgets might be carrying.

Is it discreet enough to sneak out the stage door unnoticed?

Possibly not. The Mazda5 was styled by Mazda’s recently departed pencil wielder Laurens van den Acker, who seemed to be a massive fan of wavy lines. The front is plain and the rear as unwieldy as any 7-seat van, but the sides are a panel beater’s nightmare that might inspire a few unwanted glares. Happily, privacy glass is available for rear-seat passengers.

If the shit hits the fan, will it outrun the cops?

It depends on the road. Around corners, the Mazda5 grips well and demonstrates all the agility of a well greased groupy, but it is not a machine designed for straight line speed. The fastest model takes 11 seconds to reach the national speed limit, while the slowest takes 13.7. No models in the range can travel faster than 120mph – a speed that’s easily matched by a cop in a Mondeo.

So, should the band buy one?

Unless the swoopy styling knocks the drummer’s mind out of time, it’s hard to argue against it. The Mazda5 demands little from the band’s account and provides all the space and wipe-clean practicality that even the most debauched rockstar parties could need. It’s just a shame the engines can’t be turned up to 11.

What a confusing, contradictory fellow the handsome new Volvo V60 is. Not only is it very definitely not a ‘Naughty Volvo’ as the company’s tremendously misguided marketing bumpf would have you believe, it’s not a staid or boxy one as Volvo’s previous form would suggest either. And it’s got a smaller boot than an Audi A4 Avant or BMW 3 Series Touring. Seriously.

Not naughty, not boxy, not roomy… so what is it?

Perhaps a sporty estate? Well, no. Despite Volvo’s suggestion that the V60 is a ‘sports wagon with driving properties that do the sporting appearance full justice’, it’s actually a very stable, refined and relaxing drive. Yes, it’ll negotiate a mini-roundabout without bending a wishbone, but it’s not sporty. ‘Capably athletic’ is as far as we’ll go.

Is it luxurious then? Nope. There aren’t enough twinkles, baubles or massagers to make it feel sparkly and posh. No ambient lighting, no hidden surprises or jewel encrusted buttons – just a fairly drab interior slab that isn’t quite as ergonomic or responsive as you’d expect. It’s even less luxurious than it is sporty.

Right. So, maybe it’s cheap? Ah, things are picking up – the V60 is cheaper than a  BMW 3-Series or Audi A4,. The range starts at £25k for which you get climate control, Bluetooth, 4 electric windows and a charismatic but slightly peaky 5-cylinder turbodiesel with 163bhp. Prices hit max at £36k and there are some petrols too – but the sweet spot is our £30k D3 Lux SE with the 163bhp turbodiesel, leather, sat nav and electric seats. It’s a good value car in which we averaged 40mpg.

And, being a Volvo, surely it’s safer than abstinence? Indeed it is. The V60 is endowed with the safety kit from the automotive world’s biggest hypochondriac, the S60 saloon.

Not only can it show warning lights if you’re too close to the car in front or if someone’s in your blind spot, it will brake for you if you fail to notice an approaching obstacle. And it’ll slam the brakes on if a pedestrian walks out in front of you. And it’ll beep if you change lane without indicating. And it monitors your alertness to make sure you don’t nod off. There’s a even fictional optional extra that can cure speech impediments.

The lights and warning bongs can be irritating, but the enormous cluster of radars, sensors and cameras mounted to the front of the car are reassuring – and if they avoid or minimise the effect of a collision just once, they’re worth the occasional distraction.

So. After that exploration of the Volvo’s talents and foibles, what have we learnt? Well, it’s not particularly dynamic, spacious or luxurious but is cheap, comfortable and safe – the V60 is actually a brilliant car for people who don’t really give a shit about cars. So while car geeks might find it contradicory and confusing, it’s actually very well judged. What do we know anyway.

Spent some time in a Fiat 500 TwinAir a few weeks ago. Mainly because of the rorty thrump of its two cylinder engine, I really enjoyed it. Was going to write a standard review of it, but because there are far too many incredibly similar such things in the world, I’m not going to. Here’s a limerick:

The fruity new TwinAir has got

An engine with only two pots

It’s supposed to achieve

69mpg

But 40 is all that I got

It’s the most charismatic 500 engine, but not the most economical. And just in case you don’t think that limericks are the future of automotive reportage, here are some reassuring facts:

Price: from £10,665
Engine: 875cc 2-cylinder turbo
Power: 85bhp at 5,500rpm
Torque: 107lb/ft at 1,900rpm
Claimed fuel economy: 68.9mpg combined
Achieved fuel economy: 39.2 mpg
Emissions: 95g/km (claimed)
0-62mph: 11 secs
Top speed: 108mph

Quite like limerick car reviews actually. Maybe I’ll do it again.

The art of disappearing is one of the most impressive talents a car can possess. It only happens in machines that allow the actions and sensations of driving to merge into a cohesive brainwash of seamless motion. When you stop thinking about what your limbs are doing, stop noticing any one part of a car’s behaviour and start to feel like you’re moving of your own accord.

Most cars can’t do it. My Rover 75 has too much body inertia to disappear – its top half feels like it’s being left behind by the bottom. My MX-5 can’t do it either, because the scuttle shake makes you constantly check that the windscreen is still attached.

The last car I drove that disappeared on a regular basis was actually a Ford Puma; the steering, brakes, chassis and gearchange were cut from the same neatly stitched cloth. The feedback from every control was engineered by an over-arching Lord of Matching Tactility.

I’ve just discovered that the brand new Suzuki Swift can disappear too. Sounds like an amazing talent for a humble shopping car, but its granny-pleasing clarity of purpose is actually key.

As it’s designed to be controlled by arthritic wrists, swollen ankles and emaciated biceps, every aspect of the Swift is light. And, either through coincidence or clever engineering, the lightness of every control is perfectly matched. This allows driving it to become one act of simple subconscious control… it means the car can disappear. But that doesn’t make it boring.

Far from it – because there’s an incredibly consistent mechanical tactility under the lightness too. Everything you touch with your feet, hands or bum has a sugary granularity to it, like a cupcake dusted with icing sugar. As with the Puma, the steering, gearchange, brakes and chassis are all sliced from the same sweet pie. It’s not got the most steering feel or the best handling of any supermini, but its array of dynamic traits are so well matched that they all work in perfect harmony and… disappear.

If you’re a gran, the Swift’s ability to simplify the act of driving to the point of invisibility will suit you perfectly. And if you’re a closet-racer, you’ll enjoy hours of intense driving pleasure as its dynamic elements gel into one seamless act and then… disappear.

So, the Swift is not only one of the simplest cars I’ve driven for ages, but also one of the most satisfying. It’s cheaper than a Fiesta too.

Greatest Hits albums are generally tragic affairs. Bought as presents by clueless Aunties, they’re compiled by record labels in a bid to scrape cash from artists who can’t be arsed to write anything new. Or are dead. Tacky, unimaginative and cynical… you’d never be daft enough to buy one yourself.

So the fact that the Juke is styled as some kind of compilation is a worry. Yes, first impressions are that it’s a totally original, barking mad mentalist with lines that are as challengingly cock-eyed as Natalie Cassidy’s face… but look closer.

It’s just a Greatest Hits album. A 370Z’s rear lights. A Qashqai’s chunkiness. A Murano’s techo-oddness. The top spec Juke even has GT-R DNA in its torque vectoring 4×4 system. As excellent as the ingredients are, they’re not new. It may as well be called ‘Nissan’s Best: The 21st Century So Far…’

So. Does that mean it’ll just be bought as a present by your Auntie? And does it just warrant the response ‘I’m sure it’s great… but I’d prefer some new songs actually.’? No. Because thanks to some weird aesthetic alchemy, the Juke is the first ever Greatest Hits that feels box fresh.

Dynamically, the Juke pulls off a smart trick – ‘semi-command’ loftiness without too much wobble and thunk. The way it mixes ride height, agility and comfort is no revolution, and it can’t match the exquisitely damped balance of the lower-down Ford Fiesta, but it still feels fresh under your bum. Different, fun and good.

It’s tidy inside too. While the Juke doesn’t have door cards made of natural sponge or seats trimmed with albino bison leather, the flashes of colour and motorbike-petrol tank style transmission tunnel make it look like something new instead of a Nissan ‘Best Of’ re-hash.

The Juke even does tedious things like making sense as an affordable, practical car. Costing from £13k to £20k, it’s well priced to take on alternative superminis like the Mini, Citroen DS3 and Audi A1. And as the Juke’s basic shape is just a square box, it’s actually more spacious to sit in than any of them.

Despite no single part of it being revolutionary, the Juke still feels sparkly and exciting. So while its Audi A1 rivalling price lumps it into the ‘premium supermini’ class of cars that are posher but objectively no better than a Fiesta, its actually unpretentious enough to cut a dash all of its own.

Nissan have made something very unusual – a greatest hits album you actually want to buy.

No. We’re not being drawn into it. The words ‘heritage’, ‘brand’ and ‘sacrilege’ are simply not allowed. Nor the phrase ‘Issigonis would be spinning in his grave’. That’s banned. This is just a car, and shall be judged as just that. Your eyes can decide how it looks, while your focus groups and deep rooted fear of change can decide whether or not it really is a Mini at all. We’ll just talk about the fact that it’s not very good.

The most striking area of ungoodness is its interior. With Mini pushing the Countryman’s apparent practicality and versatility, it’s not unreasonable to expect a re-think of the normal Mini’s fiddly controls. Nothing major, just some chunkier nobs better suited to snowboarders in gloves. But no. What do we get? An interface that’s controlled by a tiny dog’s dick.

Heated rear window buttons smaller than a cat’s nostril. Toggle switches that are even further recessed behind their shiny cowls than normal. Daft. Not even that pretty either.

So that’s a shame. The space in the back goes some way to making up for it, but only in comparison to a normal Mini. Next to a Skoda Yeti or Ford Kuga it’s average.

Perhaps more surprising is that the ungoodness continues when you drive it. Our car is a top spec Cooper S All4, which comes with four wheel drive and – quite interestingly – ‘Sports Suspension’. Here are the facts on that: the Countryman’s ride height is 10mm higher than a normal Mini, but the Sports Suspension lowers it again… by 10mm. Now, I only got a D in A level maths, but I’m pretty sure that means Cooper S Countrymen have the exact same ride height as a normal Mini. So all the downsides of a taller body and higher centre gravity without any extra ground clearance. Hilarious.

With Cooper S trim, you also get 19” wheels – which to be honest look great, but do emphasise the Countryman’s granite edged but cumbersome gait. Not only is the ride hard, it also feels loosely bushed and clonky – potholes ricochet through the cabin as if its bonking up to the bump stops, while the body seems to casually lumber without much control. The electric power steering’s been tuned to keep the dartiness of a normal Mini, but with the extra inertia of a taller body lolloping around, this actually emphasises the Countryman’s lack of real agility.

The engines are the same as in the normal Mini, and therefore excellent – but with an extra 200kg to accelerate, a Countryman needs about a second longer to hit 62mph. The extra weight dulls the fuel economy too, with a Cooper D quoted at 64.2mpg and a Cooper S 46.3mpg. Adding the £1500 option of 4×4 drops the figures by another 10%. And that’s after you’ve paid £3,000 over the standard car. Expensive business, this leg room malarkey.

Upsettingly, there are other niggles that crystallise the Countryman as a bit of a disappointment. If you choose the free option of two separate rear seats instead of a three-wide bench, there’s a smart looking centre rail with moveable storage bins – but their mounting points snap off in your hand.

The optional Harman/Kardon stereo has expensive looking metal tweeters – but the bass is so ponderous and heavy, even when turned down to minimum, that it sounds terrible. The gearchange is short and light – but nobbly and baulky. The brake pedal is nicely weighted – but the clutch is snatchy. The sun visors don’t actually reach the edge of the windscreen. BMW usually engineer simple things like these better than anyone else, but the Countryman just isn’t right. As a premium priced car, it should feel like a perfect jewel in your hands – but it doesn’t.

So, stop worrying about Mini designing themselves into a ditch. Stop looking at the Countryman like it was drawn up in a hall of mirrors. Stop considering its role in the evolution of the Mini brand. The massive Mini shouldn’t have the luxury of being judged on its symbolic and stylistic merits, because the fact that it’s simply not very good is an even bigger disappointment.

To many, the lasting memory of Paris 2010 will be of Naomi Campbell vacantly smiling at a Lotus Esprit like it was a child with one eye. Baffled, almost sympathetic – but generally indifferent. To us though, even the A-list weirdness of new-era Lotus is forgettable. What’s clinging to the inside of our skulls is driving there and back in a Focus RS500. The big black Ford is a horrendous bastard of the highest order… and it’s totally fucking brilliant.

But also tinged with sadness. Dressed entirely in black, the RS500 mourns the demise of the Focus RS and its gargling baritone of a five-cylinder engine. For a mainstream model, the RS was actually pretty controversial. ‘Pah! It won’t be able to handle the power! The torque steer will give you tennis elbow!’ yelped car fans with sheltered lives; ‘it’ll amputate your arms and storm off into a ditch’ they continued, ignorantly. And that was just about the standard 300bhp car. The RS500 has another 45bhp, not to mention 15lb ft more torque. Only 500 will be made and it costs an almost unbelievable £35,000. Yet it’s still brill.

Picture the scene. You’re at Beaconsfield services, in the rain, at 11pm and all you want to do is reach a warm bed in Maidstone. Car brimmed, you approach the M25 entry slip. Because you’re bored, not to mention curious about how 345bhp could possibly be applied to damp tarmac via two front wheels, you check the mirrors and stop, right at the start of he slip road. Then, with traction control optimistically switched off, you nail the best getaway possible. Like you’ve just robbed a Post Office.

Bwaaarpp-ba-ba… tsshh… Bwaaaaaaaaarrpp… tsssh… bwaaaaaaaaaaaaarp… you’re doing the speed limit. 0-62 in 5.4 seconds. Apart from the judder of axle tramp (which incidentally, is no worse here than in a DSG equipped Golf GTI), and a swerve through the lorry ruts it happens cleanly, smartly and without a hernia. Of course, just like even a rear wheel drive car with over 300bhp, you can’t just hoof the throttle and slam the clutch without ultimately looking like a bit of a tit – but the RS500’s extra turbo boost, bigger fuel pump and fatter exhausts haven’t made it undriveable.

What they have done is make it disgustingly quick. Through 3rd, 4th and 5th, it’s M3 fast. Unhinged, nobs turned up to 11, laugh out loud even on the M20 at midnight fast. Its stability is phenomenal too. While at town speeds the steering could benefit from a quicker rack, at velocities where the RS500 beggars belief, it’s perfect.

Micro-adjustments in the fast lane are second nature. You never actually consider how much input the steering needs to change lane or tackle a sweeping bend, you just turn the wheel and it moves instantly and gracefully. No twitching, no nervousness, no delay – just great steering with a natural feel.

When you get off the motorway and stop marvelling at the speed, steering and stability, the RS500 shows off its talent as an urban magnet for admiration, camera phones and ‘rev it’ hand gestures… even from surly Parisians. We parked it right in front of the Eiffel Tower and a tourist actually asked to have his picture taken next to the car instead of the iconic French landmark.

Through the horrendous jam that is La Peripherique, it’s just as easy to drive as a standard RS, which in turn is just as forgiving as any other Focus on sale. A light clutch, progressive brakes and lots of windows to see out of. It even treats you to parking sensors and a reversing camera, to help avoid scuffing the matt black wrap when parking at the Porte de Versailles.

Then a motorshow happened. Lamborghini released a fake car we thought would be real. Porsche showed a car with spinal curvature. Ferrari took the roof off a 599. Jaguar made the world’s first fictional hybrid with jet turbines. Ford showed off a four cylinder Focus ST that makes the RS500 look even more special. And Brian May made five very similar looking new cars from Lotus all smell off hairspray. After all that, it was time to drive back. Paris back to Brum.

Most of the return journey was a blur – but we can’t talk about it for legal reasons. Some toll booths. Darkness. 20mpg. Driving from full to empty without stopping. A tunnel. A game of Angry Birds. The M20. A panini. The M25. The M40. The M6. And then, coming off a junction early for Birmingham at 1:30am. Brilliant.

If you ever drive to the middle of Birmingham from junction 5 of the M6, you might have already discovered the series of roundabouts that start at Castle Bromwich, go past Fort Shopping Park, through Nechells and into the City centre. If you’re a cock with a Saxo, you’ll already go there every Sunday night to compare neon lights with your dickhead mates. These are the best urban roundabouts in the country… and at 1:30am there’s nobody else to bother you.

First, you’re forced to stand on the brakes as you hit the left-hand exit slip-road towards lights that are always red. Sit. Wait. Then tackle the wide roundabout, right at the top of second gear. Half throttle pulls a tight line, 3/4 throttle forces the front wide with inside wheel scrabbling. Take the third exit, grabbing third gear after the apex. Heading back under the M6 now, towards the Spitfire roundabout and Jaguar plant… there’s a tight left after the hill has crested. If you don’t know it’s there, you best phone the paint shop.

Take it in second, again finding the inside wheel’s traction point and breaking it just for fun. Now a blat to the top of third as you pass Fort Dunlop. The wall is high to your left, and the car sounds frightening and awesome. Straight over the next roundabout at the Bentley dealer, in third. Up the hill, hoping the lights at the next roundabout are green. They are. Entering with a slither of brake pressure, the back is firmly tied down… jolt on some more lock, feather the throttle, lift off to try and provoke some tail swinging action – but the RS500 is having none of it.

The next roundabout is on the crest of a hill, and a very easy one to get violently wrong – as we came very close to experiencing in an R33 Skyline GT-R last year. Full throttle would see any car crash… so we give it as much as we dare and it sticks. Change direction quickly to take the exit, the front snuffling for grip as wet tarmac turns into rough, damp concrete. Grip increased, the throttle touches floor mat for just long enough to see third gear… and a speed camera. Brakes on, fun over. The last trickle into the city is taken with a heart rate far quicker than our speed.

Yes, a normal RS could have covered the ground very nearly as quickly and would have required less concentration to do so. But the times where the RS500’s massive power is a glorious pleasure far outweigh the occasions where it’s unusable or a burden. It’s expensive, ridiculous, tacky, does less than 30mpg and looks like the type of character who’d draw a cock and balls on a gravestone. But that’s exactly what it should be – a tribute to the RS, with a personality that’s a caricature of what makes that car so great. The RS500 is the naughtiest epitaph ever written.

Ginger hair, NHS specs and buck teeth. That’s what the Renault Wind would be blessed with on its first day at school. Such an easy car to bully.

Mocked for having a hunched back. Teased for its ridiculously flatulent name. Giggled at for its piddly 1.2 or 1.6 petrol engines. But, much like the best victims of bullying, the Wind has a few tricks that help fend off the cussing and let it start pulling punches of its own.

For a start, the roof is brilliant. Like the Ferrari Superamerica, it’s a one-piece flip top that hinges at the back window – in 12 seconds it emerges from under its cover on top of the boot, swings over the seats and attaches to the windscreen. You’ve got to close the final latch yourself, but unlike every other folding hard top, the roof doesn’t bulge into the boot when it’s down. Smart, quick and practical… easily outsmarts the bullies.

It’s even better when you drive it. The Wind uses RenaultSport Twingo running gear, which in turn means it shares a lot of bushes, bolts and funlinks with the goosebumpingly lovely Clio 182. Roof up, there’s no noticeable body shimmy – just massive clumps of grip, a tweakable rear end and a snuffly front. It’s the most chuckable front wheel drive convertible I’ve ever driven.

There’s some scuttle wobble with the roof down, and the steering’s not the most granular, but it wazzes in the eyes of Tigras, 207CCs and other such drivel wagons. A ninja’s roundhouse kick to the teasing fatties.

Starting at £15,500, the Wind is cheaper than its comparatively terrible rivals too. It’s worth paying a grand extra to upgrade from a 100bhp 1.2 to the ferociously revvy 133bhp 1.6 from the Twingo Cup, but matching its performance in a 207CC would cost another two grand on top. And the Peugeot drives like a soggy tissue in comparison.

So… any reasons to tease the Wind at all? Well yes. The interior is made of melted down Smartie lids. You can’t see anything over your shoulder. And no matter how hard you press the clutch, the gearbox occasionally snags its cogs. But that’s it.

If tedious twazbags hadn’t started referring to everything from eating a Wispa to watching Wheeler Dealers as a guilty pleasure, then that’s what I’d call the Wind. But I won’t. It might be an unusual car to like, but it’s not going to make you feel as guilty or happy as snorting cocaine off a French prostitute’s left breast. Although it could probably go topless in about the same time as her.

The moral of the story? Don’t be a bully. Or you’ll be attacked by a ferocious little fart.

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.