on the sidewalls

And the award for ‘Most Gut-Wrenching Depreciation Suffered By An Early 2000s Sports Car’ goes to… the Mazda RX-8! Speech! Speech! Speeeeeech!

Oh, he’s gone to the bar for a top-up. The crazy bastard drinks like he’s at Shane McGowan’s wake.

Alcoholism aside (and partly thanks to the drink habit), the RX-8 thoroughly deserves its depreciation award. Because while £5,000 Honda S2000s and £6,000 Nissan 350Zs are wallet-twitchingly tempting, the Mazda RX-8’s value has dropped quicker than a D-lister’s knickers. You can now buy an RX-8 for LESS THAN £3,000. Why on earth wouldn’t you?

Well, inevitably, we’re back at fuel consumption. The RX-8’s fizzy Wankel engine might rev to the moon and give you the other-worldly thrill of not having pistons, but even driving sensibly on a middle-lane motorway run, you won’t break 30mpg – around town, you won’t even do 20. Even in Mazda’s own pictures, the RX-8 is barely a quarter full…

Its reputation for oil use is similarly deserved, although perhaps not as petrifying. As the oily bits of the engine aren’t separated from the exploding bits by piston rings or such rubber-sealy goodness, the oil gets burnt. It was all part of Mr Wankel’s design – and other than being annoying, is nothing to worry about. Check the level every-other time you fill up (so, quite often), and expect consumption of no more than 1 litre per 1,500 miles.

Anything else to be aware of? Well, yes. Mr Wankel’s rotary engine doesn’t like cold starts – the RX-8’s instruction manual even tells you to not switch off the engine unless it’s had time to reach temperature. While you’re all intelligent enough to follow this advice, previous owners may not have been – so cars with incredibly low mileage that never reached temperature aren’t necessarily good news. Make sure you ask the owner if they do lots of short trips.

At the other end of the spectrum, make sure the car starts when it’s warm – if it struggles, the problem could be anything from coil packs to spark plugs to a dodgy starter motor or low compression. Hot starting problem = not a good one.

But other than avoiding short journeys, tolerating the fuel consumption, checking the oil and making sure it starts when hot, the RX-8 handles and thrusts well enough to be a pleasure to own. If you can ignore the handbrake, which always looks like it needs adjusting and gets in the way when changing gear. Bloody RHD conversions.

Now you know the basics, you can choose between the 192 and 231bhp versions – and it’s not as simple as just going for the gruntier one. The 192bhp version actually has a smidge more torque (162lb ft versus 156) and a 5-speed gearbox to the pokier version’s 6-speed, giving it a slightly longer legged gait. It’s best to ignore the power and just buy on condition, history and the geeky enthusiasm of the owner.

So. The RX-8 does demand more of you than a barrel chested 350Z or ballet loving S2000, but handles just as well and costs over £2,000 less. It’s got to be the sportscar bargain of the year – and just think how many Nectar points you’ll get from your local BP.

A granite etched jaw line. Rabbit legged agility. Warbling rally success. Just three things that the brand new Audi Coupe didn’t have when it was released in 1988. And as they were the best bits of the previous model, it was a bit of a shame. ‘Booooo’ said men in bobble hats. And they were right.

The 1988 – 1996 Audi 80 Coupe was forever being seen next to the word ‘disappointing’, or the phrase ‘lacks the spirit of the original’. Whatever that means.

But now, away from comparisons with 20^th Century rally icons, it looks brill. Stocky, classy, clean… the proportions of an 80s hero, without the stupid quiff and face paint.

Yes, the engine is mounted in the ‘traditional’ Audi location of ‘slightly in front of the radiator’, and yes that means Walter Rohrl will look a bit sad if you offer him a go – but he’s a mentalist anyway. The 80 Coupe is now one of the smoothest, cheapest, most stylish Grand Tourers around. And because they now cost less than £1,000, you should go and buy one.

You certainly won’t have to worry about rust. All Audi Coupes have fully galvanised bodies, so unless a partially sighted cretin has driven into a bollard and repaired the damage with a piece of sheet steel from B&Q, the metallic tree bark should stay away.

The biggest problem is actually choosing which engine you want. There’s a 2.0 8v if you like going slowly, a 2.8 V6 Quattro if you like visiting Texaco, a couple of five cylinder jobbies to keep the bobble hats happy as well as an excellent 137bhp 2.0 16v if you like a smart mixture of everything. And, if you’re still feeling down in the mouth about it not being a ‘proper’ turbocharged Quattro, just save up the £5k you need to get a post-1990 S2.

Really, it’s best not to get your knickers in a twist about what’s under the bonnet and concentrate on history and condition. Things to look out for are seized rear brakes (mk2 Golf anyone?), corroded brake lines, noisy fuel pumps and blue oil smoke from the exhaust when under load or on over-run.

If you’ve ever owned a Volkswagen or Audi from the 80s or early 90s, it’ll feel warmly familiar – if you’re a VAG virgin, so to speak, you just need common sense and some reassuring receipts.

The icing on the cake is that prices are at rock bottom right now. So find yourself a late car with a 2.0 16v engine, make sure it’s got tidy bodywork and a wedge of history, pay about a grand and you might be able to sell it on for profit in a couple of years.

If you look stupid in a bobble hat, a £1,000 Audi Coupe could be the best car you ever own.

In a survey we’ve just made up, it’s been revealed that 97% of all Jaguar XK8 reviews contain the word ‘golf’. Other fictional statistics of note include a 70% appearance rate of the phrase ‘more grand tourer than out-and-out sport car’, and a surprisingly low 50% score for ‘great place to be’. This conclusively shows that the XK8 forces writers into more tedious clichés than any other car in the world. Which is probably why you’ve never really wanted one – the lazy journos put you right off it. Golf is boring, so the car is boring.

They’re wrong. Well… actually, they’re half right to be fair: golf is boring. But the car isn’t, and that’s what matters now. Yes, the shape and capacity of the XK8’s rear was determined by Jag’s desire for it to accommodate two sets of golf clubs, but that doesn’t have to set the tone for the whole car. It’s far more interesting than a Nick Faldo pleasing arse. It’s Happy Gilmore.

On sale between 1996 and 2006, the XK8 is chronologically, dynamically and stylistically, the exact middle ground between fusty old Jags with quilted leather door cards and brand new ones with brushed aluminium dashboards and theatrical gearsticks. Except right at this minute, it’s cheaper than both new and old: a new price of at least £60k at the end of the last Century has now dropped to…wait for it… £5k. Which means you should want one. We do. Seriously and genuinely. It’s not like it’ll depreciate any further. Persuaded? Good. Now for the buying advice.

First, fuel economy. Every single XK8 came with a V8 so they struggle to go much above 20mpg. Before you even consider buying one, think how angry you’ll be when you realise the £90 of juice you’ve brimmed it with has gone after little more than 300 miles. You’ll be very angry. You might even want to punch the fuel station man in the face… and that could land you a nasty bout of community service. If, however, you don’t cover many miles and can stomach the thirst, you’ll be fine. Read on.

At launch in 1996, the XK8 came with a 290bhp, 4.0 V8 that lurched the car to 60 in 6.5 seconds and on to 156mph. Three years later, the XKR came about with a supercharger and an extra 80bhp, then the 4.0 V8 became a 4.2 in 2002 and the whole range got a facelift in 2003. As supercharged XKRs start at £8k, 4.2 cars start at £10k and facelifts slightly higher still, we’ll peg our ambitions at a standard 4.0. 290bhp is plenty anyway.

The biggest problem with these early (pre-2000) cars is the potential for bore wear, thanks to their Nikasil cylinder lining. A receipt for a new engine would be a bonus, but as long as it now runs smoothly without any lumps either at idle or under power it should be fine – so make sure it’s creamy and lovely. The wear is caused by fuel with a high sulphur content, which modern fuel doesn’t have, so if it’s OK now it should be OK full stop.

Cam chains and their tensioners are the second biggest ball-aches in the engine. Pre-2000 cars had plastic tensioners that were prone to cracking, causing a whole world of misery. The clue to cracked tensioners is a rattle when starting, especially from cold, so keep your ears sharp and be wary of any cars where the seller says ‘ah yes mate, just warmed it up for you – she’s ready for a drive’. Look him in the eye, and tell him he’s a devious little bastard. Then go home.

One step further from the rattle is a rough engine, indicating that a tensioner is so worn that the cam chain has already slipped a tooth – one more slip and the engine will go pop and your heart will break. If the tensioner’s been replaced, sensible folk would replace the chains as well, so look for receipts. Cam chains themselves should really be changed before 100k miles too – a £1000 job with new tensioners.

The gearbox is ‘sealed for life’ but can start to slowly use oil without you knowing it, as there’s no easy way of checking. On a test-drive check for smooth, timely changes and make sure there aren’t any problems kicking down or changing up. Suspension bushes can wear leading to slack ride and handling, costing £500 for a front set, and wheel bearings can grumble and whine costing another £400 to put right. Easily spotted, not terminal and an easy negotiating point.

If you find one with no sign of bore wear, a receipt for a new timing chain and tensioner, a smooth gearbox, taut bushes and quiet wheel bearings for less than £7k you shouldn’t go far wrong. Put some private plates on it, give it a polish and 80% of people will think you’ve spent at least twice what you have done on your shiny new motor. And that statistic is real.

Technically, this is breaking the rules. Our Growers section is supposed to highlight cars that were considered grotty on release but have forged admiration over time. A zero to hero type thing. But the Mazda MX-5 has always been a hero… so what’s it doing here? Well, it’s all relative you see: we’ve just bought one, and despite the endless reams of glowing appraisal we read before handing over the cash, the MX-5’s talent is still a surprise. The reality is better than the superlatives.

For a start, they don’t age. Get into almost any other car that’s a few generations out of date and it’ll feel like stepping into Bobby Davro’s VHS player. Old hot hatches seem vague and loosely bushed, but hard and crashy all at once… old posh saloons feel cumbersome, tacky and slow. But a decent mk1 MX-5 will seem nearly new – less body roll, a snickier gearchange, more granular steering and a more athletic gait than a brand new one.

It’ll only cost 10% of a new one too. The entry price is £1500 – which in metric is very close to being free. And it’s not like it’ll depreciate either. Double your money and you’ll get some of the smartest mk1s about, with less than 80k miles, a full service history, tidy bodywork and a chassis that’s tighter than a nun’s purse. Put in some legwork and you’ll get an LSD, Momo steering wheel and leather seats too.

Taking into account the variety of 110bhp 1.6 and 130bhp 1.8 engines, UK models and Eunos Roadster Japanese imports (square rear numberplate and aftermarket foglight are how to spot these), the two most important factors are condition and history. Condition wise, look out for rusty rear arches, tired bushes that knock over bumps and feel vague, tippety tappets, failed pop-up light motors and perished rubber tubes under the bonnet. History wise, look for as many oil changes as possible (6k isn’t over-doing it) and a cambelt change at 60k… if it’s a Japanese import, any paperwork from before it came over is a bonus.

Both engines are sprightly enough, with the 1.6’s shortfall of horses counteracted by its smoother delivery. Best avoid the post-1995 1.6 though – they’ve got just 88bhp and will only accelerate after a telegram has been sent to Japan asking permission. A UK car will be easier to sell and insure, and will more likely have a more transparent history… but Jap Eunos Roadsters have a better spec (often with A/C), lower miles and less chance of rust – provided they were waxoyled when they were first imported. Like we said, buy on condition above anything else

Overall, they’re massively easy cars to buy, maintain, cherish and abuse – find one with decent UK history, rustless arches, and no chassis clonks or engine rattles and you won’t go far wrong. So, while it’s technically not a Grower, the MX-5’s depreciation-free low price, Russian gymnast chassis and novice-friendly mechanicals make it a worthy exception. And if you don’t agree just go and bloody buy one… we promise it’ll grow on you.

Go to a pub, banter with your car-brained mates, have a few beers, play some darts… then tell them that buying a Honda Insight is a thoroughly excellent idea. It’d be like suggesting they eat a Falafel salad with low fat mayo instead of pork scratchings. But their scepticism is wrong… and it’s your duty to talk them round.

First, recite some trivia. It’s still the most economical hybrid ever made. They’ll no doubt laugh, so tell them it’s made from aluminium. Probably won’t care about that either. So change tactic and frame the car as a two-seat, lightweight coupe with faired in wheels which are obviously the coolest things in the world. That’ll get them really laughing – but you’ll have their attention. So keep going.

Brag about the Insight’s long range and light weight. 85mpg on a 40 litre tank means you can go over 700 miles without stopping. Girls will suddenly be interested. The men will be jealous. While the 69bhp 3-cylinder 1.0l engine might sound limp, it will crack 62mph in about 11 secs with the help of the 10kw motor. Considering the long economy biased gear ratios (over 70mph in 2nd…) that’s not bad. And at just 820kg, it should drive with some degree of flightiness too.

With interest vaguely bubbling, hook them in with the fact that a mk1 Insight can cost less than £5k. You’ll never pay any congestion charging, and if you buy one that’s registered after March 2001, you won’t pay any road tax either. Even a pre-2001 early model will only cost £65 a year. When the Insight first came to Britain in 2000, it cost £16k and in the three years it was available, only sold a couple of hundred – so it’ll make the dowdy pub folk look unique and interesting as a bonus.

Servicing costs are pretty standard for a Honda too. The oil needs changing every 7,500 miles so look for proof of that, but they’re generally very well looked after. The battery has a warranty of 8 years or 80,000 miles, which is more than likely to be expired – but problems are rare and the lifespan is generally around 150,000 miles if driven normally. In the worst-case scenario, a new battery pack will cost a couple of grand but can be refurbed for around £500. If you’re a real hardcore hybrid high miler, you’ll want the factory fit Bridgestone B391 tyres too, which are worth a few extra mpg – 120mpg has been known.

Best not to go into details about tyre choice and oil servicing in the pub though – your mates are probably a bit pissed by this point anyway. It’s the perfect time to whip out the final tool in the Insight buying arsenal – increased beer money. Just show them how much more London Pride they could afford thanks to all the tax, congestion and petrol that wouldn’t need to be paid for. Save the world, get girls, drink beer… drive an Insight. Just never use the word hypermiling at the bar.

Having something missing from your nose ruins your reputation. Just ask Daniella Westbrook. The BMW Z3 suffered too. Like that woman from Eastenders, it will always be known for having a bigger gap in its hooter than it should have done – too many of them were fitted with diddy 4 cylinder engines that left the swooping, lusty looking nose completely empty. Even now, the Z3 raises more of a smirk than a smile. But there’s one model that never suffered Westbrook-nosehole-itis – the Z3 M Coupe. Its nose equipment was perfect…

Behind the kidney grill nostrils is a 321bhp straight six borrowed from the E36 M3, giving 0-62mph in a twitch over 5 seconds. Yes, you could get the same engine in a Z3 M Roadster, but with its Westbrook reputation you just wouldn’t. The M Coupe version’s roof also gave it a more rigid structure and tighter drive than the roadster; let’s not forget that the rear suspension can be traced back to the E30 from the 1980s. Sophisticated? No. Ball rupturingly brutal? Yes.

And now they’ve basically stopped depreciating. From as little as £8k, you can pick up a reasonable example of one of the early 98/99 cars with around 50k on the clock. And you’d be a happy person if you did just that. But just a little knowledge goes a long way. And we have just a little knowledge…

First up, the Z3 M Coupe had a facelift in Spring 2001, where it gained 4bhp, standard traction control, better brakes and a tyre pressure monitor. By the books, the extra 4bhp also knocked a whole tenth of a second from the 0-62mph time, bringing it down to 5.1 secs. Clearly worth getting a facelift model if you can afford it then… bank on about £12,000. They stopped building them in 2002 – the last models are the priciest, heading up towards £20k for specced up minty treats.

There are a few little niggles to look out for too. An over-enthusiastic yump down a particularly bumpy road can make the car bottom out, with the fuel tank being the first to take a hit – have a look underneath the boot and check there isn’t any damage.

Also, just like a lot of BMWs, the Z3 M Coupe can munch through front suspension components like bushes and ball joints – check the steering feels as tight as it should and there aren’t any devious clonks. A receipt for front suspension work would be a nice find, and a full service history an essential one. The interior isn’t as smartly crafted as current BMWs, so keep an ear out for squeaks and rattles that might drive you slowly insane.

You could buy a more practical E36 M3 for less money and similar speed, but don’t. You’ll look like you’ve nicked it. Or you could get a Z3 M Roadster and drop the roof when its sunny, but don’t. You’ll look like Daniella Westbrook. Get a Z3 M Coupe, lark about for a year, then sell it for the same price you bought it. It’s brilliant and you nose it.

Buying a Fiat Coupe in the 1990s was very similar to buying a mail order bride. The glossy brochures were full of slick beauty and love-you-long-time reliability, but reality was often very different – erratic behaviour quickly led to a catastrophic falling out, with the occasional spilling of fluids.

But, mood swings aside, there was never any doubt about the Fiat Coupe’s intentions. From the Pininfarina lines, to the pointy front-drive handling, it was a proper sports car. And now, just as the flakiest brides have already had their vows absolved, the flakiest Fiats have long since ascended to the scrappy in the sky, leaving just the ones we should be lusting over. But what to buy?

Simple. Only buy a Coupe with the later 5-cylinder engine – quicker, newer and better sounding. They’re usually referred to as 20v models, and replaced the earlier four-pot cars in November 1996, staying on sale until 2000. There are two versions – the naturally aspirated 147bhp 20v, and the ruddy quick 220bhp 20v Turbo. You want a turbo more than your pervy uncle wants a Thai bride, for incredibly good reasons…

Even now, a 0-62mph time of 6.5 seconds and a top whoosh of 155mph sound unfeasibly quick. And while they might slither and tug with the type of torque steer that could dislocate your wrists, they’re actually very agile and accurate to hustle about. The Coupe might miss out on the rear-drive cheek of an MX-5, but the payback is extra speed, a smarter interior and, of course, some little Pininfarina badges finishing it off like Cindy Crawford’s mole.

Some advice. First, you need to find out if you can afford the insurance – the 20v is a group 17, while the 20v Turbo is a ridiculous 18. If you can stomach what the cartoon elephant quotes you, then the price of the actual car will be no problem – a tidy 20v Turbo can be had from just £2k.

Before getting anywhere near a test drive, make sure the car comes with the red key. Sounds daft, but a new set of locks and keys can be £1000 without it. Other than that, the biggest potential life-ruiners are the cambelt, exhaust manifold and, in the case of the 20V Turbo… the turbo.

The cam belt ideally needs doing every 36k miles, and is massively fiddly and expensive. While it doesn’t have to be an engine-out job it’ll still cost around £750 so look for proof of it being done. The exhaust manifold can crack, which is very hard to spot; any rattling or blowing are sure signs, but they’re the worst case scenario – if you don’t think you could spot a problem, get someone cleverer to have a look. Finally, the turbo oil seals can perish, giving off blue smoke at idle… so make sure it’s running clean or you’ll need a new one.

Find a bright red one with a full history file, a recent cambelt change and tidy bodywork and you’ll have an excellent value Italian sports car that makes the MR-2 and Celica look cold and soulless. This Coupe love you long time.

It bought Steve McQueen back to life, had propellers for wheels, a Yamaha designed 1.7 litre engine and a freezing cold alloy gear knob. All of these details should have made the Puma a car lusted after by men – but even Steve McQueen couldn’t manage that.

With a Fiesta chassis, come-to-bed eyes and a pert rump, the Puma was pounced on by lady folk with no interest in driving, and quickly became a ‘girl’s car’. Trust us, we owned one – 6 months of blokey mates taking the piss was all we could take.

Now though, with such genitalia based stereotyping faded away, anyone can benefit from the fact that the Puma is a stunning used buy. It still looks modern, still feels lively and can still be found with the cracking 1.7 litre 16v engine. And it’ll only cost about a grand.

Being an old Ford, there are some quirks to peel the eyes for. The rear wheel arches can rust from the inside out, so look for bubbling. The 1.7 litre engines have Nikasil lined cylinders and can suffer bore wear – short journeys, cold starts and infrequent oil changes don’t do them any favours, so ask the seller about their driving habits. And the front suspension is easily knocked out, hinted at by uneven tyre wear.

Find yourself a 1.7 with less than 100k, check the above, hand over £1250 and you’ll be laughing like you have got boobs after all. It’s hard to decide whether it’s the tightrope taut gearchange or wired-in steering that stand out as the defining points of loveliness, but pinging your way through both is a joyously tactile feel-fest.

126bhp might not give it the speed of the newest hot-hatches, but the engine’s got a cammy, zingy nature that lets you forgive its lack of real pull. Slamming it around with ham fists will show off a slightly lumbering gait when you hit the limit, but at anything up to the point of cloth-touching it feels tight, agile and balanced. If your mates tell you it’s based on a Fiesta, tell them that you’re based on Steve McQueen and that they’re missing the point. It’s not like you’ve bought a Tigra… more a cut-price Scirocco.

So, if you want to help proper drivers reclaim the Puma from the depths of nonsense-based sexism, go and buy one and do the rest of us a favour. Remember how the mk1 MX-5 used to be called a hairdresser’s car? Well, that’s already made the transition to modern classic driver’s car… it’s the Puma’s turn next. Whatever you hide in your pants, a Puma will make you feel naughty.

PS. If you’re still not convinced, watch the old advert. If you’re not convinced after that, you’ve probably got some underlying insecurities – go and see a psychologist.

Aluminium body panels, a kerb weight less of than a tonne, 3 cylinder diesel engine, space-frame chassis, 65mpg and a plastic flap instead of a bonnet; it sounds like the revolutionary technology you’d hope to see behind the next Mini. But it’s not. It’s what makes an Audi A2, which was released a decade ago.

Despite the engineering and innovation, A2 sales figures were just 10% of those achieved by its Mercedes A-Class rival – basically because it was too clever for its own good. Manufacturing costs were massive, which meant Audi couldn’t afford to promote it and had to price it so steeply that only the wealthiest architects could afford to buy one. A bit of a shame really, because it was, and still is, thoroughly excellent.

Because of the lightweight aluminium body panels, the top heavy appearance doesn’t make it drive like a double decker. With a low centre of gravity, the A2 is as fun to chuck about as a frisbee… and with the majority of them garnished with 17” wheels and chunky rubber, they grip hard and ride well too. Servicing is at 20,000 mile intervals at the very least, the interior has the quality of a mini-A8 and they’ve simply stopped depreciating. A future classic, and a very safe place to put money – just as long as you don’t have to pay for any panel repairs.

The cheapest model now is the 1.4 petrol in white bread spec, costing around £2,000; but it feels a bit own-brand with manual air con and trolley wheels. Throw in an extra £1,000 and you’ll find an 1.4 TDI SE with climate control, big wheels, and if you’re lucky, a panoramic glass roff. Even now, the TDI out-trumps a Mini or Fiat 500 for technology, looks icy cool, costs £35 a year to tax, only needs servicing at 30,000 mile gaps and will resolutely refuse to use any diesel. Ever.

So, if you’re thinking about putting a deposit down on a brand new Mini Cooper D, have a sniff around an Audi A2 1.4 TDI first. Not only will you save yourself £10,000 and enjoy a depreciation-free feeling of superiority, you’ll avoid looking like an estate agent. Not all great Audis have 5 cylinders and 4 wheel drive… next year’s A1 has a lot to live up to.

Time has a funny effect on whether or not a car is seen as being any good. Motors that were scintillating at launch often turn out to be forgettable, while truly terrible cars can take on an iconic rubbishness that quickly evolves into affection. This moment in time marks a turning point for a car that, by most accounts, was at least a little bit terrible – the Calibra.

When it loped onto British shores in 1989, first impressions were positive. The Calibra looked better than a Ford Probe, was better built than a Rover 200 Coupe and cost about as much as a Cavalier. Sadly, those first impressions were shattered when you sat in it. The Calibra was like Dr Who’s tardis, but backwards; not because it was tiny on the inside and massive on the outside, but because the swoopy showy exterior was so at odds with the low-tech Cav-shaped dash and interior.

The chassis was basically untouched from its family car roots too. While a mk3 Cavalier drove well for a dad car, it clearly didn’t have the verve of a coupe. So, sadly, nor did the Calibra – it seemed a bit of a fraud. We’ll never forget seeing one parked up at that massive hyper-marche near Le Mans, proudly showing off its green-painted rear brake drums from behind 18” wheels. Wrong.

But now it doesn’t matter. The mk3 Cavalier dash has matured well (compare it to a Sierra), it drives as well as you’d expect any mid 90s car to, and somehow its looks, always the Calibra’s main selling point, seem sharper than ever. Time has healed the pain.

At the money Calibras are currently selling for, it would be rude not to have a flutter. On the Sidewalls spent a week cruising the country in a tidy SE9 – the run-out model which, tellingly, was still on sale after the Cavalier had been replaced by the Vectra. Leather seats, air con, electric sunroof, trip computer, CD player, some airbags and a smooth 2.5 V6 all for £1500. With 80k on the clock, a decent raft of service stamps and golden oil it’s a bargain.

The original criticisms of Cavalier interior and dynamics are less obvious too – cars of this vintage feel like different animals altogether, having developed a patina of their own. There’s never any urge to abuse the Calibra – it prefers a torquey, lazier approach to flying along, making it easy to settle into the car’s mature rhythm. The fact that anyone with a Halfords socket set and a pair of hands can fix it only adds to the pleasure. Don’t forget to look out for that other effect of time on a Calibra; rusty sills.

So, now is the time to hunt down a nice standard Vauxhall Calibra – preferably with a V6, leather seats and standard wheels. Pay around a grand, wait for everyone else to realise what a cracking car it is, then sell it on for profit just in time to buy the next car that time will save. Meriva VXR perhaps?