Jeremy Clarkson’s Starlet Cars

MY COLLEAGUE James May calls it “the fizz”. He says that when he is driving a truly good car, its excellence manifests itself with a fizzing sensation in the root of his manhood. I have not experienced this myself, and it’s likely you haven’t either. But I sort of know what he means.

When you drive a Ferrari four hundred eighty eight GTB round a corner on a racetrack, it doesn’t feel like a instrument that you’re operating. Or even a comfy, well-fitting glove. It feels like an extension of your very self.

It’s said that a blindfolded human being, sitting in pitch darkness, can sense the moment when a lion comes in the room. He can’t see or smell or hear it but somehow he knows it’s there. Well, that’s the connection you get when you’re driving a Ferrari 488. You don’t know how you know when the front tyres are about to begin sliding but you know nevertheless.

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And then you know what to do to solve the problem. It’s instinctive. And then you’re sweeping through the corner, on the raggedy edge, and it’s a rush. James May feels that in his underpants. I feel it at the back of my neck. Sometimes a Ferrari can make me shiver involuntarily.

Of course you would expect this from Ferrari. Because the company’s engineers are like the best chefs. They use the same ingredients as everyone else but somehow they are able to make those ingredients work in ideal harmony.

Here’s the funny thing, tho’. If you put me in Heston Blumenthal’s kitchen and gave me the same produce and the same devices that he uses to make his chicken liver pâté, the chances are that I’d make a terrible mess of it and everyone in the restaurant would be sick. But. It is statistically possible, if all the starlets were aligned, that I’d do just as good a job as him.

“If a car doesn’t make you excited every time you climb inwards, then it’s just a implement. And if it’s just a device, you may as well use the bus”

You have eyes. You have mitts. So it is possible that you could paint a masterpiece to rival anything by JMW Turner, or create a sculpture that was better than any of Henry Moore’s efforts.

Which brings me on to the Ford Fiesta ST. Ford’s engineers cannot have known when they bought in the suspension components and the braking system and the tyres from outside suppliers that the end product would be anything other than normal. But somehow, when they put them all together, the end result was spectacular.

We see the same thing with the BMW M2. Even when you’re turning left at a busy junction in a town centre, you know that you’re at the wheel of something that is way, way better than the sum of its parts; something that would cause James May’s genital root to stimulate so alarmingly that his entire sausage might fall off.

When you look at a building and think, “That’s pretty”, an architect can use maths to explain why. It’s all to do with proportions. But no one can explain why some cars work and some don’t. Fords and Volkswagens use the same layout and the same basic components from the same suppliers, so why is the Fiesta ST better than the Volkswagen Polo GTI?

That’s like attempting to explain why, when humans are all made of the same basic ingredients, you can end up with Nelson Mandela or Adolf Hitler.

I could not buy a car that did not have this natural goodness. That didn’t cause the shiver. Unless, of course, it was utterly good-looking. Again, this is a human trait. What Leonardo DiCaprio needs is a good woman with child-bearing hips who will take care of him. But what he chooses instead is an endless succession of stick-thin underwear models.

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Which brings me to the Lamborghini Aventador. This is a car that doesn’t feel like an extension of your very self. It feels like a big, excitable dog, endlessly tugging at its lead. Its brakes are not good and the only way you know you’ve exceeded its thresholds of adhesion is when you crash into a tree.

And yet it is such a spectacular thing to behold that you will forgive it anything. I have a similar issue with the Jaguar F-type. It has a horrid interior and not much tech to swoon about, but ooh, it’s a looker.

But this is the point. A car must have something to elevate it from the norm. It may be speed, or cleverness, or the fizz, or styling to die for. But there must be something. Something that makes you excited every time you climb inwards. Because if it doesn’t, then it’s just a device. And if it’s just a contraption, you may as well use the bus.

Mazda MX-5 Two.0 Sport Recaro

Gravity didn’t come from a meeting. Neither did the Spitfire. But most cars today come from meetings, and as a result they’re almost all yawn-mobiles. Not so the Mazda MX-5.

The old model has been the world’s bestselling sports car for about twenty five years, thanks to its combination of low price, ease of use and a smile-a-minute factor that’s up there alongside a game of naked Twister with Scarlett Johansson and Cameron Diaz.

The fresh one is better than ever. Because it’s so organic and raw and elementary, it feels how a sports car should. It sings and fizzes and hops about. It always feels impatient and sprightly, and that makes you feel antsy and sprightly too.

It’s a cure for depression, this car, it truly is. You just can’t be in a bad mood when you’re driving it.

Alfa Romeo 4C coupé

I’ve never driven any mainstream road car that generated fairly such an outpouring of affection as the Alfa Romeo 4C. Not ever. It was like I was whizzing about in a reincarnated blend of Gandhi and Diana, Princess of Wales. The reason people like it is plain: it’s sporty and interesting and different but it’s not even slightly menacing. Think of it as a Ferrari puppy.

Sadly, however, there are a few issues with the actual car. There is almost no rear visibility. There’s a draught from the bottom of the doors. And then there’s the noise. After driving on the M1, I think my ears were actually bleeding.

It’s a terrible car. And yet I adored it. Every other vehicle, with its ideal refinement and its ideal electrics, cannot help but feel like a machine. Whereas the Alfa, with its flaws and its tendency to go where it wants, feels human.

Mercedes-AMG GT S

The SLS AMG was a stupid car for stupid show-offs, which very likely explains why I liked it so much. Anyway, the latest GT sits on the same basic chassis as the SLS but costs, for reasons that are not entirely clear, almost £50,000 less. Sure, you don’t get gullwing doors — which is a good thing — and you don’t get the old 6.2-litre V8. But that’s not the end of the world either, because what you do get is a wondrous 4-litre dry-sump V8 twin turbo.

The GT S version weighs just over 1½ tons, which is light for a car of this size, and it feels it — it’s almost unnerving. Because from behind the wheel it seems as if you are sitting at the back of a supertanker. The bonnet is so vast that if it arrives on time, you will be twenty minutes late.

It’s not just long, either. It’s so broad that someone could land a medium-sized helicopter on it and you wouldn’t even notice. I think I know why. This is a modern-day muscle car. It’s Merc’s Mustang. You sense this when you drive it. It feels raw.

Of all the vehicles in this bit of the market, it’d almost certainly be my choice.

Ford Concentrate RS

In the early 1990s I had a Ford Escort RS Cosworth, and that car would go into anyone’s list of all-time greats. It was a working-class hero, a blue-collar bruiser that could mix it with the bluebloods. A Ford that could keep up with, and then overtake, supercars that cost five or six times more.

After the Cossie was dropped, tho’, Ford rather lost its way. Well, with the fresh Concentrate RS, you know after about one hundred yards that it has created something very special. Even at James May speeds, on a roundabout in Hounslow, this car feels cleverer than is normal. It feels like a Nissan GT-R.

That’s because it uses one of the most advanced four-wheel-drive systems fitted to any car at any price. The Two.3-litre engine is less amazing, but even so, 345bhp is enough to provide a meaty shove in the back when you accelerate and a growly 40-a-day rumble from under the bonnet.

Ford Mustang Fastback Five.0 V8 GT

Plainly, someone at Ford in Detroit was given an atlas for Christmas, because after fifty years or so of making the Ford Mustang, the company has determined to put the steering wheel on the correct side of the car and to sell it in the hitherto unknown Good Britainland.

Exceptionally, this 410bhp, 155mph American icon costs less than I paid for a Volkswagen Golf GTI. It’s billed as a sports car, but that’s like calling the Flying Scotsman a “sports train”. It just isn’t. It’s too strenuous.

What it is, is a muscle car. And you sense that in the 2nd yard. This is a machine that wants to turn its tyres into smoke and go round every corner sideways.

You’ve seen the film Bullitt. Well, it’s that.

Volvo XC90 D5 AWD

When the second-generation XC90 was brought round to my gaff, I thought it’s not much of a looker any more. My God, it’s big. Truly big.

But the bigness pays dividends on the inwards, where you now get a boot and seating for seven adults. Not five adults and a lot of shrieking from the teenagers in the very back.

And, ooh, it’s a nice place to sit. The dials, the textures, the air-cooled subwoofer and the design are wonderful. It’s so elementary too. There are only eight buttons on the dash — not counting the starter button — because everything is managed by what isn’t an iPad but sure as hell looks like one.

If you let the driving aids do their thing, it becomes fairly calming, because the 2-litre engine is far quieter than in the old model, and the rail is pretty good. It’s so soothing, you could nod off. And you’d be fine, because it’d wake you up if anything was wrong.

This car is so good in fact that it’d be ideal for those who find the offerings from Land Rover a bit — how can I put this? — pratty.

Vauxhall Zafira Tourer 1.6 CDTi Tech Line

I arrived at Bono’s house in France with a crimson face and sweaty moobs, having arranged to borrow a car. He wasn’t at home so I was greeted by a shabby-looking individual who I thought was the gardener. But he turned out to be John F Kennedy’s nephew. He passed over a key. My head was spinning. Bono. Has. A. Zafira. With. A. Diesel. Engine.

A previous model had a reputation for bursting into flames but as I climbed a mountain what struck me was how brilliant the engine in this Zafira was. Then I went over a bump and didn’t feel a thing. Never have I encountered any car, including the Rolls-Royce Phantom, that’s so good at refusing to transmit road irregularities into the cabin. Which makes it the most convenient car in the world.

Later, JFK’s nephew told Bono a tramp had borrowed the Zafira. He was astonished: I was meant to have had his BMW 6-series convertible.

BMW M2

I was overtaken by a Porsche nine hundred eleven GTS that was travelling at about a million. And then, before I’d had a chance to think, “Golly, that was quick”, my world was rocked by an Aston Martin DB9 that tore by at a million and one. It’s been a while since I’ve seen two cars indeed going for it on the public highway. It’s a hobby I thought had been killed off by speed cameras.

I didn’t join in. Well, not much. But, coming off one roundabout, I may have put my foot down a bit, into the overboost zone of the M2’s turbocharged torque lake, and there’s no getting round the fact that it was quicker than both of the way more expensive GT cars.

It’s not just rapid in a straight line. It’s also quick through the corners. And not just rapid, but a finish delight. It’s so good that in a few leans I was actually dribbling with joy.

I like the M3 before the present model — the one with the V8 — and I adore the current M6 Gran Coupé. And then there was the original, 286bhp M5: the ultimate Q-car. It looked like the sort of box that your chest freezer was delivered in but it went like a spaceship. That’s always been my favourite M car. Until now.

Ferrari four hundred eighty eight GTB

There are those who say that a four hundred eighty eight is not a decent Ferrari because it’s turbocharged. And that turbocharging has no place on such a thoroughbred.

Yes. I get that. But let’s not leave behind Gilles Villeneuve’s Ferrari race car was turbocharged or that the best Ferrari of them all — the F40 — used compelled induction. And also let’s not leave behind that thanks to modern engine management systems, you simply don’t know that witchcraft is being used to pump fuel and air into the V8. It doesn’t even sound turbocharged. It sounds like a Ferrari. It sounds baleful. It sounds wonderful.

And, oh my God, it’s lovely to drive. You can potter about with the gearbox in automatic and it’s not awkward or difficult in any way. That is very likely Ferrari’s greatest achievement with the 488. To take something so very tuned and very strung and powerful and make it feel like a snatch cat.

It’s so docile that you get the impression it can’t possibly work when you put your foot down. But it just does. I know of no mid-engined car that feels so friendly. So on your side. There’s no understeer at all and there’s no suddenness from the back end, either.

The old four hundred fifty eight was not as good as a McLaren 12C. But this fresh car puts the prancing pony back on top. As a driving machine, it’s — there’s no other word — flawless.

Lamborghini Aventador

The Aventador is not the best supercar to drive. It feels big and powerful. And if you go for a hot lap of a racetrack, you’d better not think about doing another, because the brakes will fade and then fail.

But who cares? Nobody buys a supercar because they want to get round the Nürburgring in four seconds. Supercars are capable of 200mph, but they’re bought mainly for doing 1% of that speed in Knightsbridge. And when it comes to prowling, nothing looks fairly as good as the big Lambo.

Yes, it’s soundly hammered both in a straight line and round a corner by the fresh hybrid hypercars, but, while they make a range of unusual noises, they can’t contest with the visceral bellow of the T rex that lives under the Aventador’s engine cover.

Given the choice of any supercar, this is the one I’d buy. I admire the McLaren P1. But which would you rather have as a pet: a clever and sophisticated electronic robot? Or a bloody superb brontosaurus?

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