Mazda MX-5 2.0 Sport Tech

If we consider Mazda’s moments of brilliance, then the MX-5 is its first line of defence. There are myriad clichés used to describe the sporty convertible’s go-kart handling and dynamic ride, and this sort of thing can often degenerate into misty-eyed bollocks. I was sceptical, as I not so much climbed behind the wheel but fell just short of it. There’s no elegance here, until you start driving.

It’s hard to find a description for the MX-5 that hasn’t already been done to death by a writer somewhere, but I can only say that it’s automotive trompe-l’oeil. In most cars I saw away at the wheel and stab at the accelerator and I’m genuinely lucky to be alive, but something within the mechanics of the MX-5 flatters you immensely. It flatters your ego, delivers undeserved compliments and a driving experience that sort of thrills.

I’d never buy one though – and I’ll tell you why. The MX-5 is the preserve of old men with flat caps and the type of driver who will go out on a Sunday drive for the sole purpose of practising their heeling and their toeing. It may be an exciting car to drive, but it’s just not that cool.

Would I borrow one for a jaunt through countryside? Yes I would, but I’d have to drive through the town with the roof up and my flat cap pulled well down over my face.

The thrill of driving.

When I was thinking Lotus last week I came across some publicity shots of the Europa - I love them. They really capture for me the joy of driving. Perhaps not the joy of driving in a Europa, I can't vouch for that. They've got that romantic picture-says-a-thousand-words vibe about them, it makes me want to find some way to access a lot of money, buy a GT and get myself over to them there Alpentines.

The Land Rover Range Rover Evoque Beckham Special Edition.

This is the new Land Rover Range Rover Evoque. Rhymes with poke, not rock. That last part isn't in the name, I was just explaining how it's pronounced. I think they're going to need to work on the name a bit.

No need for me to tell you how to suck eggs, though - you're a cars kind of person, you're switched on, you know these things. Having said that, given all the fuss this week since the car was launched, you could be forgiven for it slipping your mind that a car was launched at all. For at the launch party there was a particularly interesting optional extra perched in the back waiting to be revealed to a slack-jawed media.

The choice of Victoria Beckham as whatever it is they've hired her to do has been criticised by many of the motoring commentators that I've seen commentating on the issue this week - she is patronisingly referred to as Posh, the former Spice Girl pop star. Of course, this glosses over the fact that the Spice Girls dominated world pop culture for several years there in the mid-90s. Beatles with boobs. Yes, they've had intermittent success since they got shafted by the Ginger one, but Victoria Beckham has cultivated a dominating position for herself as a global brand. Every hair cut she has women storming hairdressers to get the same. She wears things, they sell, she appears somewhere and the pictures are instantly worth thousands - it's all terribly simple.

So anyway - I could go on, but to cut a long blog post short, I think it would be a terrible mistake to write off Range Rover's PR efforts at this stage. Personally, I think getting a cultural icon of the stature of Mrs Beckham (no laughing at the back there) on board, as it were, is a visionary move for the marque. The woman hasn't been Posh for years, but neither has Range Rover. These things are all relative these days, and celebrity is more the sort of cachet you need to boost a brand.

I drive the Mazda 3 MPS 2.3 5-door.

I’ve often thought that Mazda is the nearly-girl of the automotive world – there’s the odd good car, an occasional moment of brilliance, but it never seems to have quite made it. Take the 3 – it looks like a simple-minded frog, and I can’t imagine it’s too high up for people making an ‘interesting small cars I would like to buy’ list in their notebook.

It has no particular charisma, it’s just there. When it’s there. The MPS though – now that’s a different story. It’s all perky and bright, an eager and willing companion. It turns into more of a Red-eyed Tree Frog – more colourful, with a touch more presence. It’s not poisonous, but is it a little carnivorous.

I enjoyed the car – it’s something you could easily live with. But it’s not a moment of brilliance. And when the market is awash with brilliance, that’s sadly what Mazda needed in order to stop it falling off its lily pad. Or something.

I drive the Lexus IS-F 5.0L V8 automatic.

Like Jekyll and Hyde, Light and Dark, Gordon and Brown, there are rarely situations where the same thing can have the potential to possess such extreme opposites in such a close amount of time that it might scare you. There are rarely cars that can transform themselves from cosseting satisfaction to psychopathic hellfire so comprehensively, so quickly.

It cruises like a – well, like a Lexus, free to burble about as it pleases. But you fiddle about on the dash, stick the car in paddleshift mode, find yourself a clear stretch of road, stretch your toes and the IS-F is coiled and ready to vapourise your underwear.

I mean, I’ve driven some fun cars, pootled about with a vapid, stupid grin on my face, but none have quite left me in such an incapacitated state of euphoria. The engine sound alone over 3500rpm is something almost sexual, it has you driving like a fool just to hear it again.

I got out of the Lexus with hyperactive little butterflies in my stomach, the first flush of true love on the way. I could think of nothing else than getting back in and spending the rest of my life driving this way and that. Unfortunately Lexus wouldn’t allow it. My time with the IS-F was sadly brief, and I never did get a chance to play with all of those buttons, but ours is a love that will last forever...

I drive a Citroen DS3.

I don’t like to sound too provincial, but one of the things that I enjoy about visiting the Big Smoke, Old Father Thames’ place, London town, it’s the people watching, the sitting on the Tube watching all those strange people who dwell within the city streets. The insecure, the try-hards, the fashion victims. They’re all a bit DS3.

Perhaps you’ll see through my blatant attempt to coin a new phrase, but Citroen’s latest car is sat on the Circle line wearing 8-inch platform shoes and a weird Gaga-esque PVC catsuit. This is because it’s a bit keen to be noticed.

Now don’t get me wrong here - underneath the glossy of-the-moment exterior there is a nice car...the C3, in fact, but Citroen has decided to wheel out the DS name as a signifier of cool. And the DS3 is quite cool, in a self-aware sort of way. I like those aimless B-pillars, the jaunty coloured roof and the gimp mask dashboard – and they’ve almost managed to out-Mini the Mini with the prodigious list of options to personalise your DS3.

The DS isn’t as darty as, say, a Twingo, but it’s less likely to do your head in. It’s not as fun to drive as a Mini, but you won’t be needing a spine replacement after an extended bout of reasonable driving. It feels big inside, and grown-up. Which is nice, because you can be cool and grown-up at the same time. Not all sexy shoes need to make your feet bleed.

Yes, it’s not as single-minded as some of the hotter hatches out there, but do you know what? I think it would make a thoroughly pleasant prospect for day-to-day running. But not much longer than 12 months mind, because it will long since have ceased being fashionable by then.

Lotus ditches its heritage.

So, gone is Colin Chapman's philosophy of lightness and simplicity from Lotus cars, and in comes aspirations of selling fancy, upmarket, luxury £100,000 cars. There are even plans to introduce a city car - Aston Martin's Cygnet is surely crass enough, but at least it's based on the fairly marvellous Toyota iQ. A Proton Lotus city car? Don't make me retch.

I posted some thoughts many months ago about the Elise facelift - positing my opinion that Lotus seems to think it's Ferrari - all but confirmed by the latest announcements.

Thing is, we already have a Ferrari. From Italy. A Ferrari from Malaysia is going to take a while to become quite as glamorous and exciting, why not stick with 50 years of heritage from being Lotus of Norfolk? The problem for Lotus has been a lack of investment for years, not of engineering nous and a great philosophy. So many cool concepts and ideas have not come to fruition - where's the new Esprit, a sportier grand tourer to rival the Rapide?

With not even the merest hint of melodrama, it's a sad day, methinks.

A version of this entry was originally posted here on Carchat.

I drive a Bentley Supersports Continental.

I happened to be sauntering casually past the Bentley enclosure and nonchalantly walked up to the charming PR lady and off-handedly enquired as to whether one might get the chance to have a wee waft in a Bentley that afternoon, or even just a little sit in one - a quick stroke. I have not spied the waiting list stretching into the next decade. As luck would have it, there was a 15-minute window to have a quick go in...what the hell is that? It looks like Pierce Brosnan’s Death Train, with a touch less nuclear bomb on board.

In a slightly less casual manner I puddle behind the wheel, mentally assessing my chances of surviving a spell in the woods if I crash this thing. At a decent speed, it is clear that Bentley have created something that shouldn’t have been allowed to escape. This is what happens when a moveable object meets an unstoppable force – it’s relentlessly focused, any journey bordering on an insurgency. It’s terrifying and exciting, but also terribly louche.

Disappointingly, it’s really easy to drive at slow speeds, this boulevard cruiser, this charlatan. It’s bloody new money’s fault and it probably comes with a little guy in the boot who can park it for you so you won’t kerb your alloys. It’s built to roll down allées. The insane performance is incidental, just there so you can brag about it. Like a cheetah in a safari park, the Supersports’ performance and related paraphernalia serve no useful purpose whatsoever.

It remains, however, an intensely pleasurable vehicle - but the tragedy is that whenever you see one, you’ll know that it’s being kept in captivity.

I drive a MiTo 1.4 TB MultiAir Cloverleaf.

Now this was a surprisingly fun little car – it had been completely off my radar until I walked past one with the keys waiting in the ignition. Alfa is a marque with a special cachet all of its own (although I must admit I would never drive one myself unless I owned a nightclub) but the Cloverleaf chucks an extra pinch of sex into the mixing bowl.

It has a wonderful interior that makes you want to move in and live there – the brown leather seats feel sculpted, the Alfa logo embossed right in the middle. It's dark, but not in too sombre a way. The overall effect is classy, but the ride will make you want to move back out again. It’s terribly unforgiving and intense. Go-kart handling would be too much – the Mito Cloverleaf is more like a souped-up golf buggy – it feels that tall.

There's something called the 'DNA' badge on the centre console that helps you to switch the character of the car depending on your mood - you have it relaxed, or you can have more sporty and responsive. I can see what Alfa has tried to do, but the effect serves only to highlight the fact that you're in a steroidal city car rather than a thoroughbred sports car.

At the end of the day, as with any Alfa Romeo, this is a car you buy with your heart, not with your head. If your bum had any say you might steer clear...

I take part in a secret annual ritual.

I’m afraid that after you’ve read this post I shall have to come round to your house and kill you (Nottingham Airport officials please note that this is quite clearly a joke and fabrication), but at the end of May I went to a super top secret test day with the Society of Motor Manufacturers and Traders at Millbrook proving ground. Every year, under the cover of getting up earlier than everyone else, auto journalists flock to rural Buckinghamshire just off the M1 to feast on the wares of manufacturers. It’s like Alton Towers for car geeks. You know Daniel Craig crashed his Aston in Casino Royale? That was Millbrook. Cunningly disguised to look like Montenegro.

The hill route at Millbrook is almost spiritual in its perfection – undulations, dips and terrifying drops, easy lefts, hard rights and heart-stopping hairpins. It’s a rollercoaster.

But anyway – over the coming whatevers I’m going to write about the cars I drove on that magic-filled, wondrous day. I’m also going to create a page at the top soon as a repository of the good, the crap and the fugly. I’ve got some other pages on the go as well, but I shall keep them as a glorious surprise.

Bis dann, Freunden.