What Could Possibly Go Wrong. . . (38 page)

For a hundred years Mercedes was a byword for solid, sensible engineering. While the rest of the world let its hair down and listened to Jimi Hendrix, the company plodded on with its doleful recipe of longevity with just a sprinkling of toughness. The men of Stuttgart built no-frills cars that were made to last. They were tortoises to counter the hares from BMW.

If you want to drive across Africa next weekend, then by all means get yourself a Toyota Land Cruiser. But if you actually want to get there, you’d be better off with the standard Mercedes from the late 1970s and early 1980s. In a world of thongs and briefs and frilly bits of nothing, this was a sturdy pair of games knickers. It was a car that simply didn’t know how to let you down. And it still doesn’t today.

But then one day the company chiefs got bored with making games knickers, so they got together with a little-known tuning company called AMG and went berserk.

The cars that resulted are stupid. They are too big, too loud, too crazy, too brash, too sideways most of the time and too scary as a result. I like them a lot.

I like the way that a BMW or a quick Audi is designed to put a fast lap time on the board, whereas an AMG Mercedes is designed to put a smile on your face, and most of its rear tyres into the atmosphere. In a world where fuel economy is king and tall poppies are frowned upon, it’s refreshing to find a range of cars built purely for blood-and-guts savagery. They are not sniper rifles. They are dirty great artillery pieces.

If I may liken all of the world’s cars to weather, you have
many that are drizzle and some that are lovely sunny afternoons. You have those that are precise and fast, like lightning. And some that are just Tupperware grey as far as the eye can see. Then you have the AMG Mercs. They are cracks of thunder. They are V8 muscle cars. A blend of the American dream and German engineering. They are tremendous.

But then several months ago I drove an AMG-badged A-class Mercedes, and that wasn’t a V8, or thunderous, or even very muscly. Its AMG badge was writing cheques the car simply couldn’t cash. I gave it two stars and wondered what on earth Mercedes was thinking of. Putting that badge on that car was … well, it would be like calling a small river launch HMS
Ark Royal
.

And now the company has done it again with this car. It is called the A45 AMG, and, to be honest, I was expecting about 14 feet of solid, chewy disappointment. However … Let’s start with the engine. It’s a turbocharged 2-litre unit that meets emissions legislation that the EU hasn’t even introduced yet. It’s quite frugal too. Despite this, it’s the most powerful four-cylinder engine in production.

The figures are fairly astonishing. You get 355 brake horsepower, which means you’re getting almost 178 bhp a litre. To put that in perspective, the V8 in a Ferrari 458 Italia can manage only 125 bhp a litre. There is some very clever engineering in here.

And because the A45 is so clever and so potent, Mercedes decided it could not solely be front-wheel drive. Because asking the front wheels to do the steering while handling 355 rampaging German horses would be like asking a man who’s on fire to solve a crossword puzzle. So it has a system that sends up to half the power to the rear wheels should those up front become a bit flustered.

On top of this, Mercedes fitted big brakes, lowered the suspension and slotted in a fast-acting, double-clutch, flappy-paddle gearbox. And the result is … quite boring.

It’s all so planted and neutral and benign that you wonder whether you’ve climbed into the diesel version by mistake. And
then you look at the speedometer and what it’s saying is scarcely believable. Most of the time I was going almost exactly twice as fast as I’d guessed.

All previous AMG Mercs make you feel as if you’re going faster than you really are. This one does the exact opposite.

That said, Mercedes has tried to give it some of its big brothers’ traits. When you change up, the exhaust sounds like Rubeus Hagrid clearing his throat. And there’s a feel of great heaviness. Probably because that’s what the car is: heavy. But, whatever, you have to manhandle it through the bends as though you’re trying to get a piano up a back staircase. You have to work for your rewards.

And, boy oh boy, are they there. The engine has an uncanny knack of delivering lots of meaty torque right the way up to 5000 rpm and then, just as you think it’s game over and time for another gear, you get a frantic burst of power. And then you are going three times faster than you’d guessed. Happily, then, the brakes are immense and the handling is sublime. Obviously it won’t stick its tail out and smoke like every other AMG product. But it doesn’t understeer unduly either. It just goes round the corner in such a way that you get the impression it wasn’t really trying.

I liked it enormously. It had more character than any hatchback since the Fiat Strada Abarth, the speed was immense and there’s no getting away from the fact that it looks really rather handsome. Many Mercs are overstyled these days, but on this one the creases and the fussy little details seem to work.

However, there are a few issues. Let’s start with the little ones. It’s needlessly bumpy. This has been done simply to make it feel sporty, not for any handling benefits. The chassis is so stiff that Mercedes could easily have softened the suspension without affecting the performance at all. It was a mistake.

Then there’s the width. Certainly you do not whizz through width restrictions the way you would in a 1-series BMW. You need to breathe in and grimace first.

Other stuff? The petrol tank is too small, which means you have to fill up every few minutes. And filling up with petrol is worse than trying on trousers.

Then there’s the interior styling, which is completely over the top. Who, for instance, thought that it would be a good idea to make the air vents red? This is a Mercedes-Benz, for heaven’s sake. Not a Gillette commercial. Red air vents are like red trousers. And there’s a blog for people who wear those. (Google it.)

But the big sticking point for me is the price. It’s £37,845. Of course, for an AMG Mercedes, this is extremely good value. But it’s a shedload for what, when all is said and done, is a hot hatchback.

It’s a whopping £9,000 more than you’re asked to pay for a range-topping Volkswagen Golf GTI. Yes, the Mercedes is a better car. But £9,000 better? With that ride, that fuel tank and those stupid vents? No. I’m afraid not.

21 July 2013

As I write, the sun is belting down with a fury we haven’t seen for many years. Yet, after one of the coldest, most miserable springs on record, the countryside is still as green as an ecomentalist’s groin. It is truly beautiful out there and I am consumed by an overwhelming need to drive about in a sports car. But there’s a problem with that. You can’t actually buy such a thing these days.

The Mazda MX-5 comes close, but over the years it has swollen up and been given a bigger engine and a retractable metal roof, so that now, while it’s still delightful, it’s a bit too fast and a bit too sensible and a bit too grippy in the corners.

The Caterham 7 isn’t bad either. But these days it’s aimed mainly at the adenoidal track-day enthusiast rather than the chap who simply wants to slither about Oxfordshire in the sunshine. And it is extremely ugly.

The new Jaguar F-type is not ugly but it’s too expensive and too powerful. Which brings me on to the BMW Z4, a machine that is neither of those things. But it is too smooth and too polished. It’s lovely to behold and lovely to own but it’s not a sports car.

An Alfa Romeo Spider. That was a sports car. So were the Fiat 124 Spider and the MG. The Triumph TR6 was a sports car, too, as was the Sunbeam Alpine. These cars were built for fun, for a laugh, ha-ha, ha-ha. You could keep them by the racehorse that the Aga Khan bought you for Christmas. Even by the standards of the day they were not especially fast, but they were pretty and they all came with simple canvas roofs. They were like tenting but without the dysentery. And I miss them all.

I miss the days when handling mattered and grip didn’t. Today cars are built to go round a corner as quickly as possible. Which means you can’t indulge in a big four-wheel drift at 20 mph. And they have to be safe, which means they have to be heavy. And the one thing a sports car cannot be is heavy.

Sports cars are for long, warm summer afternoons. And on a long, warm summer afternoon you want a light salad. Not a dirty great meat pie. That’s why I was rather looking forward to the Citroën DS3 convertible.

I’m a big fan of the hard-top DS3, particularly the limited-edition Racing version. I’ll be honest: it isn’t much of a driver’s car; the gearing is too weird for that. On a hot lap of the Monaco Grand Prix track I stuck it in second about two seconds after the start and didn’t have cause to change gear at all until it was time to stop.

Then there is the suspension. That isn’t very good either. But all of these little issues are smothered by an interesting body, lots of natty decals and a sense of fun.

There will be a convertible version of the Racing in the months to come, but the car I tested was simply a chopped-down version of the standard model. And that’s fine by me, because who needs speed when the sun’s out and there are wildflowers to look at?

There’s more too. Before the car arrived, a chap at Citroën sent me a text saying that it was the world’s only genuine five-seat convertible – apart from the woeful Jeep Wrangler – that its boot was almost twice as big as the boot in a Mini convertible and that the roof could be opened at up to 74 mph. It all sounded good.

But when the car arrived, I discovered that, actually, it isn’t a convertible at all. It’s a normal car with a big canvas sunroof. Back in the Seventies my grandfather had a Rover 3.5 that had a Tudor Webasto sunroof. And that wasn’t a convertible either.

Then I discovered that if you push the sunroof button again, the back window flops down and the roof keeps on folding
itself back. This was good news, until it stopped, completely obscuring the rear view. How can Citroën have thought this was a good idea?

Actually, scrub that. I know exactly how Citroën thought it was a good idea. Because its last attempt at making a convertible was the C3 Pluriel. And it came with a roof that detached all right, but only after half an hour of swearing and broken fingernails. And then, when it was off, there was nowhere to put it. You had to leave it where it was and hope it didn’t rain while you were out. It was the stupidest piece of design since the Ronco Buttoneer.

I think the problem is that in all of automotive history the total number of sports cars made in France is, let’s see … um … exactly none.

For a country where motoring is a demonstration of nonchalance and cheapness is king, it seems odd that they never combined the two things. And it’s doubly odd when you look at their love of motor sport. Their engines dominate Formula One. A Peugeot has just smashed the record up Pikey’s Peak in Colorado. They rule the roost in international rallying. And yet, despite all this, they have never made a sports car. And on the evidence this far, the DS3 convertible doesn’t exactly change things.

But let us plough on. Let us treat it as a pretty hatchback that comes with a big sunroof. Then what? Well, it will cost you some money but not much. Because whatever price is quoted in the brochure, you can be assured that, being a Citroën, it will come with 0 per cent finance, £1,000 cashback, no VAT, an offer of an evening out with the dealer principal’s daughter and £5,000 to spend on a holiday. You may need an incentive such as this because as a car it’s not very good.

First of all there’s the driving position. The steering wheel is mounted pretty much directly above the pedals, which means the only person who can get comfortable is someone whose
arms and legs are the same length. To make matters worse, the seats were lined with a fabric that had the grip of KY Jelly.

That’s why I can’t tell you how this car handles. Because every time I tried to go round a corner with any gusto at all, I fell over. There were other issues too. There are no cupholders. And it comes with an entertainment system that couldn’t even find Radio 2 half the time. The satellite navigation system, meanwhile, was unfathomable. And even if by some miracle I did manage to type in an address, it would take me on a route of its choosing to a destination that it plainly thought was near enough.

I suppose in the interests of fairness I should say that the 154-bhp engine is quite nice and that there is a decent amount of space in the boot. But, to be honest, that’s like saying there’s a decent amount of space in a postbox. There is, but you can’t really get at it because the slot’s too small.

It’s odd. I haven’t disliked driving a car as much as this for quite some time. It was so bad that even though it was half full of petrol paid for by someone else, and had a big sunroof, I spent the whole of last weekend driving around, in the sunshine, in my own hard-top car, using petrol I’d paid for myself.

For a Yorkshireman to do this? Well, it should tell you all you need to know.

28 July 2013

Over the past few years many companies and organizations have announced they are close to putting a driverless car into production. They all speak of a vehicle that will use satellite navigation to find a destination and radar to monitor its surroundings. A car that will pull up when the traffic stops and move off again when the road is clear. A car that will find a parking space, and reverse into it, all by itself.

But then what? That’s what I’ve never understood. There’s no point sending your car into town to buy a pint of milk because while it will be able to find the right shop and the nearest available parking bay, it will not be able to go inside and actually buy the milk.

Similarly, it would be able to find your office but then it would spend all day just sitting outside. It wouldn’t be able to go to your desk and answer all the emails. A driverless car, then, is completely useless. You have to be inside or there’s no point. And if you’re inside it’s not driverless.

That said, I’m sure there are plenty of people who would very much like to step into their car after a hard day at work, tell it to go home and then curl up in the back for a little sleep. But could you actually nod off? Would you trust the on-board systems to behave? Really? You’d put your life in the hands of the same people that built your laptop?

I flew to the Isle of Man last weekend on a brilliant little aeroplane. It had a whizz-bang glass cockpit and was completely up to date in every way. So the pilot set the autopilot and we sat back for a chat. Things were going very well until we descended
out of the clouds near the island’s airport to find that we were heading straight for a hill. If he’d been asleep we’d have hit it.

Which brings me to the Audi RS 5 cabriolet. This has something called active lane assist, a technology that’s not new. But systems we’ve seen in the past simply vibrate the steering wheel if sensors think you’re straying out of your lane on a motorway. The system in the Audi is different: if it thinks you’re drifting out of your lane, it actually takes control of the steering and puts you back on the straight and narrow.

I tested it on the Westway in London and was amazed because it simply stayed in the outside lane, steering nicely round the long left-hander. I didn’t have to do a thing, so I thought, Brilliant. I can get on with some texting …’

But no. Because after a short while a message flashed up on the dashboard saying I now had to take manual control of the steering. What’s the point of that? Why build a car that is capable of steering itself but after a minute or so can’t be bothered?

I’m afraid it gets worse. Because later, on the M40, I decided to pull into the middle lane, and the steering wheel wouldn’t really let me. It was gently pushing the wheel to the right, thinking that I’d nodded off and that my life needed saving.

It was not a big push. It was like arm-wrestling a child. You can overcome the system, but unless you indicate – which tells the sensors you’re moving on purpose – it argues every single time you cross a white line. This started to drive me mad. I therefore decided to turn it off. But I couldn’t find out how to. And that made even my hair angry.

You spend an extra £370 on this system, hoping that one day it will save your life. Then it will drive you so mental that you’ll want to drive into a wall and kill yourself. And it won’t let you. My advice then is simple. There are many options you can have on the RS 5. But don’t, whatever you do, buy this one.

Which brings me on to the nutty question. Should you be buying an RS 5 cabriolet at all? Well, let’s start with the engine. It’s a joy. To meet stringent emission regulations, most new
engines are turbocharged. You can’t really tell. There’s no lag any more between putting your foot down and the commencement of acceleration. And yet …

When you put your foot down in the Audi and that naturally aspirated 4.2-litre engine is energized, it’s just better. You can’t put your finger on why this is so. But it is. This is a tremendous engine – one of the very best in production today.

And the rest of the car? Well, that depends. If you have the on-board drive control software set to Comfort, it’s a fairly quiet, reasonably comfortable boulevardier. You don’t drive it in this mode so much as promenade in it.

But if you engage the Dynamic mode, the feel of everything changes. The engine becomes more urgent, the gearbox snaps to attention. Even the noise is different. In Comfort mode the RS 5 is quiet, like a nuclear power station. You sense rather than hear the grunt being produced. But in Dynamic mode it’s like a nuclear power station that’s blown up. It’s loud and a bit scary. I liked it.

It encourages you to drive a little more quickly, to explore the outer limits of the four-wheel-drive system. But sadly I can’t report on how the handling stands up to right-foot brutality because the active lane assist system kept steering me where it wanted to go, rather than what was necessary.

It’s remarkable, really, that I liked this car so much when it had such a deeply annoying feature. It would be like AA Gill enjoying his dinner, despite the large globule of chef phlegm that was clearly visible on the potatoes.

Perhaps it’s because my week with the car coincided with what the government laughably called a ‘level-three heatwave’. A convertible this good in weather that sensational was a joy. It made you question the need for a driverless car. It would be like having driverless sex. Why give over such pleasurable duties to a machine?

I had that canvas top up and down like a pair of whore’s drawers and I learnt many things: that you can raise or lower it at
speeds of up to 31 mph; that when it’s up, it keeps the sound on the outside and the chill on the inside. And that when it’s down, you get a burnt face.

I also decided that Audi does a pretty good interior these days. Everything is sensibly placed, intuitive and well screwed together.

There are a couple of things that grate, though. It’s not the best-looking car in the world. It comes across as heavy, which it isn’t especially. And it is bit pretentious. But worse than this is the price. It’s not even adjacent to cheap. In fact, it’s on the wrong side of bleeding expensive.

However, until BMW gets round to launching a convertible version of the forthcoming M4, this is as good as it gets. Just remember: do not fit the active lane assist. And spend the £370 you save on Red Bull. That way, you won’t need it.

4 August 2013