What Could Possibly Go Wrong. . . (30 page)

From a road-tester’s perspective, the good thing about Audi’s RS cars is that you never quite know what you’re going to get. Some are nearly as good as their rivals from BMW. Some are forgettable. Some are dire. And then we get to the new RS 4 Avant, which has just provided me with one of the worst weeks of my entire motoring life.

Bad is a small word that doesn’t even begin to cover the misery. Misery that was so all-consuming that, given the choice of using this car or taking the Tube, I would head straight for the escalator. Not just would. Did.

Day one involved a trip to a place called Stoke Newington, which pretends to be in London but is, in reality, an hour north of the capital, just outside Hull. And straight away I knew there was something terribly wrong.

I have driven bumpy cars in the past. My own Mercedes is extremely firm. But the RS 4 was in a different league. It was like sitting in a spin-dryer that was not only on its final frantic cycle but also falling down a very long, boulder-strewn escarpment. I couldn’t begin to imagine what Audi’s engineers had been thinking of. The interior was typical of the breed. It had all the toys. All the features. So it didn’t look like a stripped-out racer. But that’s what it felt like every time I ran over a pothole or a catseye or a sweet wrapper. It was, in short, a nicely finished brogue – with a drawing pin poking up through the sole. I hated it.

I tried to test some of the features, but so vigorous was the shaking that I gave up. I’d aim my finger at a button, but by the
time it got there I’d have run over a bit of discarded chewing gum so it’d bounce off course and hit something else. Usually a bit of carbon fibre that had been added … to save weight.

That’s another issue with the RS 4. It felt like it was set up to scythe round Druids with no roll at all, and yet it weighs more than 1Ç tons. Some of that is muscle from the big V8. But most of it is fat.

And then the brakes started misbehaving. This meant that every time I pulled up, they made a sound exactly like I was running a wetted finger around a wine glass. This made passers-by look at me very crossly.

But the worst thing, by miles, was the steering. There’s absolutely no feel at all when you are going in a straight line. It’s so floppy, you actually begin to think, as you bump along, that it may be broken. And then, when you get to a corner, it suddenly becomes extremely heavy.

That’s why on day two I used the Tube and taxis to get around. But on day three I had to go to Luton, and then Chipping Norton. So I slipped into the same sort of padded underpants I’d wear when being beaten at school and headed north.

You may imagine I’m going to say things got better. But they didn’t. So violent was the bumping and so alarming was the steering that I stuck to 55 mph on the M1. Listening to Radio 3. I’d wanted Radio 2 but my finger had cannoned off the roof, the wiper switch and various other bits and bobs before alighting in completely the wrong place.

What’s interesting is that wherever I went, squash-playing lunatics in other Audis and people on the street would bound over to ask what it was like – I can’t remember a car attracting so much interest – and all looked terribly deflated when I explained that it was utter, utter crap.

All weekend I didn’t drive it at all. Why would you? But then on Sunday night, with a heavy heart, I climbed back on board and set off back to London. As I drew near, it started to rain, so I reached for the wiper switch. Unfortunately I ran over a white
line as I did this, and as a result my arm boinged into a button on the dash marked ‘drive select’.

And everything changed.

The steering suddenly developed some feel. The ride settled down. The revs dropped. The RS 4 stopped being a wild animal and became a car. It turns out that ‘drive select’ alters the entire character of the machine. It changes the engine, the steering, the suspension and even the noises that come out of the tailpipe.

It’s there so you can tailor your car to suit your mood. Which does raise a question: what sort of mood was the delivery driver in when he left it at my house, set up to achieve a new lap record in the Saturn V engineering shop?

I have never met anyone who would want, ever, to put their RS 4 in what’s called Dynamic mode. I can’t imagine such a creature exists. Because on all the other settings it’s a good car. So good that I rode into town on a wave of guilt and shame, remembering what I’d been telling people about it. And how they’d be better off with a diesel BMW. Or a pogo stick. Or some new shoes.

In Comfort mode it’s quiet, the steering is light, the seats are seductive and the double-clutch gearbox creamy and smooth. And because it’s so relaxing, you can sit back and enjoy the firepower from that big V8.

Unlike the engine in most modern performance cars, this one is not turbocharged. The upside of that is crispness and lots of hectic goings-on at the top of the rev band. The downside is that a polar bear could get a bit of asthma at some point in the very distant future. This was one of the world’s best engines when it was introduced six years ago. And nothing’s changed.

Handling? Well, in the past all Audis have been determined understeerers, partly because they were nose-heavy and partly because of the four-wheel-drive system. In this one much work has been done to shift some of the weight aft. And at the back there’s a locking diff. So now you have the grip, but when you get to the end of its tenacity, it’s the rear that starts to feel light, not
the front. This, of course, is better, because if you go backwards into a tree, you don’t see it coming.

You could buy one of these cars, and, provided you never, ever, put it in Dynamic mode, you’d be very happy. Your dog would also like it because in the boot there’s a bit of equipment designed, in my mind, to stop him falling over. It works for shopping too.

However, I thought pretty much the same thing when I drove the original RS 4. I liked it very much indeed. But it was not quite as good as BMW’s M3. It lacked the Beemer’s liveliness and, ultimately, its speed.

The new RS 4 bridges the gap and is therefore quite a tempting proposition. But I can pretty much guarantee that as soon as you take delivery, BMW will launch a new version of the M3 and that will once again surge ahead. It was always thus, I’m afraid.

23 December 2012

We may all harbour the dream of driving down a glorious stretch of road, on a jasmine-scented day, in a fast and beautiful sports car. But if you buy such a thing, there’s going to come a time, possibly in the middle of February, when there’s a hint of sleet in the air, and it’s cold, and you’re parked outside a hardware store and the timber you’ve just bought won’t fit in the boot.

Then you’re going to wonder, fervently and out loud, and with many expletives, why you didn’t buy something a bit more sensible. Something a bit more like the Volkswagen Golf GTI cabriolet. A car that gives you top-down sporty motoring and a boot and four seats.

In theory, this is the chocolate pudding that won’t make you fat. It’s the cigarette that repairs your lungs. It’s the gravy-resistant silk tie. And it has been that way since the first incarnation burst into the world of tanning salons way back in the early days of Mrs Thatcher.

However, do not imagine for a moment that the Golf will suit all your requirements. Because as I discovered in the run-up to Christmas, it sure as hell didn’t meet a single one of mine.

I was in London packing for a range of engagements over the festive period. I’d need a suit, my shooting things, some T-shirts for a quick trip to the Caribbean, an Elvis outfit for New Year’s Eve, a gun, some ammunition and all the usual undergarments. Plus, of course, all my Christmas shopping.

Other things that needed to fit into the car were two teenage children and their shopping. Along with all the electronic
equipment needed to keep people of this age from dying of boredom on the long and arduous fifty-five-minute trip to the country.

I’ll be honest, I’m not the best packer in the world. But compared with a teenager, I’m a professor of getting a square peg into a round hole. The pair of them made no effort, did everything wrong and there was not much festive spirit as we huffed and puffed and swore at one another. Until eventually the car was loaded.

Unfortunately the driver’s seat had to be pulled so far forwards that I looked rather like Mr Incredible. Still, we made it to the Cotswolds with nothing to report, apart from a lot of complaining, some light arthritis and a healthy dollop of cramp in my left leg.

The next day I was due to go shooting. And there’s a rule here. Your car must be the colour of mud, equipped with four-wheel drive and have good ground clearance so that it can handle all the rough tracks and slippery grass. A white Golf GTI convertible fits the bill in no way at all. I may as well have turned up in a motorized mankini.

Nor did it work for taking the dogs out on a Christmas Eve walk, or going to the garden centre to pick up a tree, or for making sure the pheasant feeders were full. Collecting logs? Running a family to the station? Taking rubbish to the dump? All of these simple, mundane things were beyond its cramped rear seat, its tiny boot and its low-profile tyres.

So what about the roof, which slides away electrically in just 9.5 seconds? Nope. Useless. Because, as you may remember, the run-up to Christmas was marked by some of the wettest weather Britain has seen. On the roads, only submarine commanders felt completely at home.

The car didn’t really work as a style statement either. Because there was a time when a white convertible was just the thing. But now? Turning up in a car of this type is like turning up with a Wham! days George Michael blow wave.

There’s a similar problem on the inside because it has the sort of upholstery used to make jackets for German newsreaders. VW will tell you it’s a nod to traditionalism since it’s the same material used to line the seats in the original Golf GTI. But what’s the point of resurrecting something no one remembers or cares about?

What we have here, then, is a car that appears to be a mass of fun but still has one eye pointed in the beige-infused, drip-dry direction of common sense. It sounds good but actually it’s like a leather-soled training shoe. The worst of both worlds …

Because as a sports car it’s not much cop either. I have always been a fan of the Golf GTI. And I’m very much looking forward to trying the new version, which will be the same as all the others; a no-nonsense blend of hard-charging speed and dog-in-the-boot practicality. It doesn’t really matter who you are or what you do, a Golf GTI is the answer.

Take off its roof, though, and it all goes a bit pear-shaped. Not only do you lose a lot of interior space but also you have quite a lot of scuttle shake; a sense that the front of the car and the back aren’t connected quite as well as they should be. Which is true, of course, because whereas in a hard top, you have a sheet of steel joining them together, in a cabrio you only have a bit of canvas.

And to make up for the lack of rigidity, engineers are forced to fit many strengthening beams. Which a) add weight and b) don’t really mask the problem. So the Golf cabrio is like a normal Golf in the same way that Anne Boleyn after her beheading was like Anne Boleyn when all her bits were still joined together.

And it gets worse, because although the roof has many layers of fabric and fits with Germanic precision, you still get a fair bit of extra noise. Which is annoying when you just want to listen to the radio and go home.

In various other ways, the GTI cabriolet is very good at this. It has a delightfully easy-to-use command and control setup. The seats are very well thought out, offering both comfort and
support in all the right places. And its ability to deal with speed bumps and potholes is exemplary. Plus it is fast.

But I couldn’t live with the drawbacks and that is neither the end of the story, nor the end of the world. Because the Golf I tested was £30,765, and for around £2,500 less you can have exactly the same car with far fewer problems. It has the same 207-bhp engine, the same suspension, and the same seats, comfort and ease of use. It’s made by the same company and it’s called the Eos.

This comes with a folding metal roof, which is more rigid and better able to protect you from the elements and all their noises. Sure, it’s not as practical as the normal Golf, but for walking the fine line between sports-car motoring and everyday usability it’s not bad at all.

But here’s the clincher. The Golf cabrio really does have a whiff of fake tan about it. I think it may even have the ghost of Duran Duran in its genes. But the Eos does not. The Eos is exactly what you want and expect from VW. A simple, clean blend of well-made anonymity.

Plus, with an Eos, you don’t get a sense that it’s only been made to use up the last of the Golf bits and bobs before the new model arrives next year.

So there we are. If you want a Golf convertible, buy the Golf convertible that isn’t actually called a Golf.

30 December 2012

Motoring journalism: someone brings a car to your house on a Monday morning. It’s clean, full of fuel and insured. You have it for a week and then you say whether you like it or not. Couldn’t be easier.

That was certainly the case when I began in the job, because adjusting the vehicle to suit my requirements was a doddle. I simply tweaked the reins and jiggled the saddle around, and all was well. Even as recently as five years ago things were a piece of cake. The car was dropped off and all I needed to do to get comfortable was move the seat back.

Now, though, it’s often Saturday afternoon before I’ve got it set up just so. Because every single thing is adjustable. Not just the seat but the components inside it: the lumbar support, the massage facility, the headrest. All have been set to suit the chap who dropped it off and they need to be reset to suit me.

When you’ve done that – and I’m well aware these are First World problems – you have to waste more valuable time finding the button that adjusts the suspension. Or, as I discovered with the Audi RS 4 that I wrote about here recently, you spend the whole time being vibrated so badly that your skeleton turns to dust.

Then we get to the climate control. You used to have a choice: warm or cold. Now you can select a temperature – to within half a degree – for each person in the car. This takes about a week. And you don’t have a week because you are way too busy reconfiguring the satnav.

Most press-fleet delivery drivers like to have the map constantly
spinning round so it’s pointing in the direction of travel. I prefer north to be up. So I have to find the buttons that make this possible and work out the sequence in which they have to be pressed – hard when the lumbar support is digging into your back and the temperature is set at absolute zero. And you’ve got the suspension set on Rock. And then we get to the voice guidance. I cannot imagine for the life of me why delivery drivers like to have their chosen radio station interrupted every few seconds by a woman barking orders when there’s a perfectly good map on the dash. But most do. Which means I have to work out how she may be silenced.

If I designed a satnav system, there would be a massive red button in the middle of the steering wheel marked ‘Silence the Nazi’. But I haven’t. So there isn’t. And in the Hyundai Santa Fe I was driving last week that was a problem.

I tried every single thing I could think of. I even resorted to pulling over and reaching into the glovebox for the handbook … which wasn’t there. So eventually I had to turn to Twitter. And it worked. I was told that while the woman was speaking, I had to turn the volume knob to zero. Doing so at any other time would simply silence the stereo. Not that this would have been a bad thing, as it had been left on Radio 1.

Small wonder the satellite recently launched by the Korean rocket went out of control once it got into orbit. It had probably been driven mad by the constant stream of spoken instructions about where it had to go next.

So, anyway, the first impressions of the Hyundai were not good. And the second weren’t much cop either. Because it’s all a bit rubbishy.

Cleverly, the company has fitted a soft-touch leather steering wheel, so the first thing you touch when you get inside feels expensive and luggzurious. But don’t be fooled, because everything else feels cheap and nasty. The box between the front seats, for instance, has the quality of a Third World bucket. Johnny Hyundai knew a box was necessary and fitted one with no
thought at all about how it felt to the touch. If he’d thought for a moment that it could be made from cardboard, it would have been.

Then we have the leather that covers the seats. It is leather. It must have come from a cow. But most cows I’ve seen are made from meat. The cows Hyundai uses are plainly a bit more synthetic.

This, then, is not a car you can love, because you sense all the time that it was made using bottom-line engineering by a gigantic Korean corporation that produces cars only to make money.

Small wonder this car is so popular with caravannists. They choose to go on what nobody else in the world would call a holiday. So it stands to reason that they like what I can’t really call a car.

However, the Santa Fe is cheap. The high-end, seven-seat, four-wheel-drive version that I tested is £30,195, way less than you’d have to pay for a European seven-seat, four-wheel-drive car.

It’s also cheap to run, though only if you go for a version with a manual gearbox. The automatic will send your fuel bills through the roof.

The options list, however, will not. You get, as standard, ABS, BAS, DBC, EPB, ESP, ESS, HAC, TSA and VSM. This thing has more abbreviations than the British Army. And more airbags – seven, to be precise. In fact, it’s hard to think of anything you’d get on a Volvo XC90 or a Land Rover Discovery that you don’t get on the Santa Fe. Apart from a sense of style, wellbeing and oneness with yourself.

That said, the Hyundai’s not a bad looker and it drives pretty well too. Again, the people who set up the suspension were plainly dancing to a tune conducted by the company’s accounts department, so they haven’t gone the extra mile. Or even the extra inch. It’s not a rewarding car to drive in any way, but it goes round most corners at most speeds without crashing.

Can it go off road? Yes, but not very far. With a part-time
four-wheel-drive system, it’ll get your caravan into a field. But it probably won’t get it out again. Which is a good thing for the rest of us.

And so, as we approach the end, I have to start thinking about a conclusion. It’s tricky, because the petrol in my veins dislikes cars of this type in the way that a restaurant critic would dislike a McDonald’s Filet-o-Fish.

However, in the real world where people live, where a quail’s egg’s a bit daft, the Filet-o-Fish is very popular. And there’s my problem. In the real world the Santa Fe is cheap, it doesn’t drink a lot of diesel, it’s well equipped, it’s good-looking, and the 2.2-litre engine is torquey enough to pull your caravan. Even if it’s a Sterling Europa 565. So who cares if the seats are a bit plasticky?

It’s not a car for the silly world in which I live. But elsewhere it’s bloody brilliant.

13 January 2013