I’ve been driving the new Range Rover Sport Autobiography. It’s without question the first sports autobiography I’ve ever been remotely interested in, although I once picked up Herschelle Gibbs’ tome only to be distracted by the Vanity Fair underneath.

Like most sports autobiographies, you might think Range Rover have written theirs a bit too young; a bit too early in the game. The Sport as a model is, after all, barely a generation old. But I’m happy to report that they’ve got this one right, if you happen to be Wayne Rooney.

Please head over to GQ right now to read the rest of the review. I manage to compare the car to a war and a private box at the cricket.

Ciro De Siena

So the nice folks over at Range Rover offered us a week in their Autobiography test unit. It’s a lovely thing this. But hideously expensive to run. I honestly think it would be cheaper to run a war. Gav’s got an iPhone with Hipstermantagram or whatever it’s called, and he’s grabbed some great shots of the Ranger in and around town.

My review on the royal brute will be up on GQ in the next few hours, and I’ll link to it here.

You want one, don’t you. A Cabriolet. A Droptop. A Convertible. You think it will improve your social life, help you get more out of summer and achieve more sex. You picture yourself whisking your better half away for a dirty weekend, pottering down tree-lined country lanes with the wind in your hair – not a care in the world.

Well, you’re mostly wrong. You do not want a convertible.

Because unless you are partial to wearing hats, and then chasing that hat down the road, you will arrive at your destination sunburnt, in a weird pattern, on your forehead. This will decrease your appeal to the opposite sex and ruin your social life. The very best aircon is ineffective against searing sunlight and warm winds, so you will look like you’ve just lost in five sets against Djokovic. The irony of owning a convertible in South Africa is that the sun is too strong, and in the day time you do have to drive around with the roof up. Which is very similar to the cheaper version of the car you’ve just bought.

I’ve just spent a week with two brand new cabriolets, the new Mercedes Benz SLK 350 AMG, and the Audi A5 Cabriolet. They are both stunning vehicles, and if you have R750 000 and R530 000 respectively, I would recommend them. The new SLK is aggressive and very quick, the new A5 is just about the prettiest modern car I’ve ever seen.

The very loud, very fast Merc SLK 350 with AMG kit.

Both will decapitate themselves very quickly, so you can get it over and done with at the traffic lights. The Mercedes has a wonderful soundtrack which is all the better without a roof. Like certain other beautiful creations, the Audi looks even better topless. But even with fancy new wind deflectors and improved aerodynamics, at anything approaching 100km/h the wind buffeting is quite severe. I know this sounds like a trivial first world problem, but this happens in all convertibles, and it’s something you have to live with, but it is genuinely tiring after a while. And if your hair, or that of your companion, is longer than a crew-cut, it will become knotted and resemble straw.

Luckily, I have devised a solution. The answer to all of this is something I enjoy immensely: a night drive. Convertibles were made for warm nights. There is something epic (and romantic) about driving around with nothing but the stars above you. To solve the hair problem, my better half suggested a good silk scarf, like they used “in the olden days.”

The whole experience is really quite magical.

Ciro De Siena

This article was originally published on www.GQ.co.za dated 23 February 2011.

By Gavin Williams

For a while there it looked like Jag were in a competition with Porsche for the design department least willing to change.  It was like working at Home Affairs or an Embassy in the Caribbean, except cushier.  Jaguar, like Porsche, were in a tight spot.  It’s difficult to attract new customers by staying current without alienating your anorak-clad acolytes.  But something had to be done.  The last S-Type had a face like a dropped pie. It seemed Jag were trying to make cars for foreigners who still viewed England as a place where men wear trilbys to the pub, have wood paneled parlours and footballers were called Mick McCullum and Archie Fletcher. i.e: Not Modern Britain.

Pub hats off then to Jaguar, who even with limited financial resources, have made a truly astounding car; an unashamedly modern Jaguar that retains everything that a Jag should be. It’s smooth, quiet, fancies a bit of a trot and is so comfortable it could be made from afternoon snoozes while the cricket’s on.  I drove the Audi A5 Sportback a while ago and that diesel was simply superb, it’s the only one in the range I’d have (and that includes the bare-knuckled hardman, the S5).  Jaguar had a task on their hands taking on Audi and the stupendously good BMW 530d.

They got off to a good start a few years back by, I assume, employing a design department that didn’t smoke pipes, well, not in the traditional sense anyway.  Redesigning iconic brands’ cars is at once an appealing and daunting task, but the XF from the moment it debuted looked simply amazing.  It’s got the big car “haunchiness” that reminds you of Jessica Rabbit while still echoing Jessica Fletcher somehow. It’s a kind of quintessentially British sexiness, which is also a sexiness that’s finally moved on from Benny Hill-esque housewives in cheeky, sheer negligees batting their eyes fetchingly at milkmen exclaiming “Phwoaar, I have to take your jugs round back do I then madam?” etc etc.

For too long Britain was stuck in a kind of awkwardness after the swinging 60s where the Jag reigned supreme.  Blair’s Cool Brittania was about as cool as someone in parliament telling you they were cool. Enter this millenium however and Jaguar has got it exactly right in the premium car class looks-wise.  Some have complained it looks a bit Aston from the back, as in Aston Martin -not Aston Manor, the suburb of Kempton Park on the East Rand.  Complaining about something looking too Aston-Martin is like complaining that your girlfriend looks a bit like Penelope Cruz, even if it is just from behind.

But how does it drive?  As I mentioned earlier there’s a certain level of expectation from how a Jag puts it paws and claws down on the road.  To get down to brass tax the diesel engine is a thing of such potent clarity, smoothness and force I think again it’s the one I’d have.  You may think it boring but quite simply, the best engine is the diesel: 0-100 in 7.7 seconds, 228km/h top end and 204hp.  It’s all you need and the cornering still feels assured and poised despite the cloud like comfort of the ride.

Jaguars have long been the staple of long-suffering gentlemen of potentially stuffy social circles, and I found even this new modern cat brings out a certain “cattiness”. It’s like it comes with a standard ex-wife you feel compelled to pick up on the way to have her ingrown toenail seen too.  I picked up a friend who, quite contradictory to her personality, had a good old whinge in the car on the way to a gallery I didn’t feel dressed for.  Maybe it’s too comfortable and when there’s nothing else to complain about they turn on you.  They’re called Naguars I believe.  Buy a Maserati, S-something or AMG Merc to keep them worrying about other things like a fiery death to keep them off your case.

The Brits have probably done enough by now to shed their image of poor electrical reliability but the gear lever extending beautifully from the centre console when you fire her up just seems built to fail, eventually, with much beard scratching down the dealership and sucking of teeth as they squint at the diagnostics trying to figure out what exactly has caused your gear knob to retract.  There’s also a quirky idea involving a glowing lozenge like button that opens the cubby hole.

Jaguar shouldn’t do quirky, but the overall build quality is pretty flawless except for the faux wood paneling which is quite obviously plastic.  It’s obviously for the older Jag traditionalists and I was assured you can order the finish without it.  Somehow a carbon-weave and wood is just too much and it suffers from the same sort of identity crisis I complained about in the Range Rover.  But it is a car that has to straddle two worlds, one in the past and the other a few hours ago and for the most part it does it with aplomb. It feels like a Jag, rides like a Jag but doesn’t quite look like a Jag although it could only ever be a Jag.

To  sum it up, we always have work drinks on a Friday. It’s compulsory.  On my Friday with the Jag I had a Windhoek Light went home and had a calm night in, taking a few notes on a Warren Buffet documentary and then, waking up early Saturday morning, did my tax returns for a few hours.  I then called a taxi, went to the pub for a mate’s birthday and got absolutely plastered. Now that’s what being a modern Brit is all about.

By: Ciro De Siena

Joy. It’s an odd concept. Sometimes just the word itself conjures outdated images, like a Swiss lady twirling around on a green hillside, singing. I think joy comes in smaller doses these days. Like emptying the pockets of your jeans before throwing them in the wash, only to find a scrunched-up R50 note.

I am, weirdly, one of those people that derives joy from driving a car. I know, what a delightfully strange concept, but I swear its possible if you have the right machinery, the right space and the right time. Luckily I was to spend a week with the right machinery, which came in the surprising form of the Renault Twingo Gordini RS.

Let’s quickly break that down for those of you who couldn’t care less about cars.

Renault: French company specializing in small cars and family run-arounds. On the Car-World-Excitement-o-Meter, which I’ve just invented, they are just above Peugeot and slightly below walking.
Twingo: Very, very small car from above automaker. Not to be confused with a Twinky, a submarine-shaped donut, filled not with seamen, but something that looks a lot like it.
Gordini: Italian bloke who helped the French out with some racing cars back in the day. The French have never really taken to racing in the way they took to, say, promiscuity.
RS: Racing Stripes? RenaultSport? Who knows, who cares.

However when combined, all of these elements come together to form one of the most exciting cars I drove all year. Quite simply, the Twinky RQ charmed me like a Jack Russell puppy with a sock in its mouth. I absolutely bloody loved the thing and would happily have one as a run-around.

Most small, frugal city-oriented cars are good at being just that: small, frugal and city-bound. However when you leave the city and perhaps want to enjoy some more, erm, enthusiastic motoring, they will leave you feeling uninspired, frustrated and bored, as if you’ve just nicked a golf-cart from an expensive golf estate.

At about-town speeds the Renault manages calm and docile, which is nice. You don’t always want to drive like you’re on fire. But when you cross the city limits and the roads open up, dropping a gear in the Twangle CZ will never, ever fail to put a small on your face. It hangs on in the corners with more determination and grit than the aforementioned Jack Russel will to that sock. Honestly, the levels of grip are astonishing, thanks to very sticky, very low profile tyres. (Warning: avoid any and all road imperfections. A man-hole cover will feel like you’ve hit a fridge.)

Small cars do not need large engines to do what big cars do with big engines. Thus, the Twinkle RP has the thirst of hamster, maybe two. We even bettered the claimed consumption. It’s little 1.6 litre turbocharged engine is not only frugal but an absolute hoot to drive; happy to rev manically and in any gear. Acceleration doesn’t seem blistering on paper (0-100km/h in 8.7 seconds) but feels literally twice as fast. The punch in higher gears is surprising too; no need to drop from 5^th to 4^th in order to overtake. 200km/h is achievable, which is impressive, but illegal.

After two days with the car I had experienced so many moments of joy that I was starting to work on excuses so that I wouldn’t have to return it. I’ve been trying to work out why this car provides so much fun. I think it’s the tiny little wheelbase, which is almost as wide as it is long, like a go-kart. As a driver you are so utterly involved with the process of driving that you can’t help but focus and enjoy yourself.

The exhaust has obviously been tuned for maximum smile-factor, but good on them. It sounds like a car much bigger and much scarier. This is excellent fun, especially when people whip their heads around to see what’s coming and then can’t believe the source of the noise. Occasionally it’s tempting just to rev the thing for no real purpose other than to please your ears.

I enjoyed every moment with this car. The sort of continuous joy that tapdancers in the ‘50s commonly display; whether it was a run to the shops (incredibly easy to park, mostly because of its sheer tininess) or a blast in the hills (I might have actually wooped and/or hollered).

Sometimes cars don’t need a million horsepower and tyres as wide as billboards to deliver performance. Sure, I like a V8 as much as the next guy, as long as the next guy isn’t from Texas, but the Twankle RJ proves that small and punchy can be just as effective as big and powerful. And often provide more of that elusive joy.

In summary:

Engine: Inline-4, 1.6 litre petrol (Manic, rev-happy little thing)
Power: 98kw @ 6750rpm (Enough for such a small car)
Torque: 160Nm @ 4400rpm (Plenty, see above)
0 – 100km/h sprint: 8.7 seconds (Feels twice as fast)
Top Speed: 201km/h (Woohoo! Stop it.)
Fuel consumption: 8.4 litres/100km (Claimed and bettered. Haha, Renault)
Price: R214 900 (Worth it, no one else will have one)

Waking up at 4am after barely two hours of sleep for a 06:30 Monday morning flight is, um, challenging. I arrived at the newly completed King Shaka airport in Durbs feeling rather bleary and contorted, to say the least, having sat between two former rugby props for what felt like 17 years. I was then immediately bundled into a Kombi, driven 15 metres to a parking lot where my one open eye was greeted by six brand new convertible and coupe BMWs. That sort of sight has the ability to improve your mood by some margin.

After what was probably the briefest press briefing in history, we were asked to pick a car for the first leg of the drive. The first vehicle of the day would be a maroon 335i convertible with flappy paddles. It takes about 5 seconds in this car to realise it is a brilliant machine. It’s athletic, comfortable, well stuck together and damn sexy. It’s by far and away the sportiest 4-seat convertible in it’s segment, barring the special performance models from various marques. But it is also R750 000, which is a lot. Even so, I prefer the coupe.

With the same engine, it is R100 000 cheaper than the convertible and about 220kg lighter. That’s like having Bakkies Botha and his dad sitting in the back, and asking them to get out. Climbing out of the convertible and straight into the coupe helped make the comparison easier, and the difference in feel is remarkable.

The convertible does an excellent job of making you feel like it’s handling well, whereas in the coupe, you’re actually made aware of everything that the tyres, suspension and chassis are up to. The drive is hugely involving and is more comparable to a sportscar than anything else. The combination of this chassis with this engine creates what is probably one of BMW’s most exciting cars.

And what an engine. The first turbocharged engine for 34 years from BMW won World Engine of the Year three years in a row. It’s good. Taking an already decent 3.0 litre straight six and twin-turbocharging it, BMW created an engine which didn’t betray their philosphophy too much; that turbo-lag has no place in a performance car. It worked, mostly, but there was a bit of lag which some poor engineer probably had to resign over.

The latest incarnation of the engine, which we were invited to drive yesterday, loses a turbocharger. In modern car design, where everything seems to have to get bigger and better, removing anything seems counter-intuitive. But it’s a clever new turbo this; it features twin-scroll technology, something BMW invented yonks ago, which does something very important and technical,  and which I can’t be arsed to elaborate on because you probably don’t care.

What you will care about is that the power is now on tap from very early in the rev range and hangs around for longer, almost to the red line. 99% of drivers would be hard-pressed to notice that the engine is turbocharged at all, which is exactly what BMW are aiming for. All you’ll get when you hammer the right pedal is a wonderful linear punch in the back, coupled with a simply delicious growl. Everybody love the wobble-wobble of a V8, but in a big straight six the howl is simply intoxicating.

Looks-wise, BMW has has spared the 3-series of intensive cosmetic surgery, choosing to simply touch-up the headlights and tail lights, to bring them in line with the new 5- and 7-series. New front and rear bumpers and a few new wheel designs round off the tweaks but unless you’re a BMW-nut or a self-confessed car nerd like me you’ll struggle to spot the small differences, while the overall effect certainly freshens up the appearance.

The cars were all on run-flats, and after all these years, I still don’t like them at all. While BMW debuted some lovely new wheel designs, I wish they’d shod those wheels in standard rubber. I find run-flats jittery over even slightly poor roads, and the fact that they generally can’t be repaired after a puncture makes them a particularly expensive exercise.

Make no mistake, R650 000 is a great deal of money for a motor car. But, if you’re looking for a sportscar with the practicality of a sedan, this could be your ticket. The rear seats are hugely comfortable for adults and children alike and the boot is of a very decent size. It’s not an exageration to say that the car’s performance and handling are comparable to some of the best two-seater sportscars, which makes this a fun weekend toy and a practical and luxurious weekday run about.

It was certainly a lot more comfortable than my flight home that evening. A few of BA’s best gin and tonics can only do so much to make your second flight in one day bearable.

Ciro De Siena

Unfortunately, a one-day car launch is a bit like trying to be a tourist while on fire. I didn’t have much time to analyse the car, but we’ll get it on test soon for a few days which will give Gav and myself time to come up with at least one more opinion about the car.

Gavin, my co-editor, is quite an observationalist. He spots things that most wouldn’t, and then relays the information in an often hilarious manner. Once he’s made me notice something, I can very rarely ignore it. Like the way Vic Maharaj, a panellist on SuperSport’s Formula 1 show, begins every sentence with ‘basically’. I’ve probably ruined that for you now.

Another astute observation that has stayed with me concerns Jazz musicians. They’re the only musicians on earth who seem to make a habit of having more fun than the audience. Watch the next jazz band you see carefully; they’ll constantly smile at each other, simultaneously nodding in approval of each other’s astonishing musical ability. It’s nauseating. We bought the tickets, we’ve paid for your awful checkered pants and we’re over here, you wallies.

Luckily, the Honda Jazz is exactly the opposite of the genre. Like most Hondas, it gets on with the job of being a great little car with absolutely no fuss or pointless posturing, allowing you, the driver, who paid for thing, to enjoy it. A saxophonist’s vehicle this isn’t.

I know you’re expecting me to immediately sing the car’s praises (that may or may not be my last music pun) but let’s start with what I don’t like about the car. The door handles are too ‘clangy’ – they should be sprung. It just doesn’t feel good. The USB connection, while I’m glad the car has one, feels very much like an afterthought. The cable juts out of the dashboard looks like a lizard’s tongue and the clip is too plasticky. The boot cover rattles over bumps – it should be secured. And that is that when it comes to negatives. In my line of work, that is a very short list, in case you’re from Honda PR and you’ve just had a mild stroke.

The interior. Reminds me of those oversize calculators.

Otherwise, I loved pretty much every moment I shared with the bright red Jazz I commandeered for a week. It is the third car I have every driven which I would consider actually buying, after the Chevy Lumina SS V8 and the Suzuki Jimny.

It is such a clever little car. It’s pretty tiny, yet there is loads of space inside: a boot that can take golf clubs and a guitar AT THE SAME TIME, a backseat big enough for grown-ups and a light airy cabin, thanks to a seriously raked windscreen and a simply giant moonroof, which essentially is your entire roof. A nifty cover slides into place if the sun is really cooking, but 90% of the time the moonroof is a delight, keeping children occupied and wowing potential partners of the opposite sex.

The Moonroof.

It’s not just a pretty package either. The car is an absolute hoot to drive. The iVTEC motor is revvy and helluva perky; it pulls in any gear and the power delivery is smooth for such a small motor, while the engine note somehow stays on the pleasant side of harsh.

I had a clear run on the epic coastal road from Hout Bay to Cape Town and enthusiastically remained within the speed limit, exploring the car’s impressive ability. I love small, ballsy cars. Many bigger, powerful sports cars have a slightly dead feeling about the handling, leaving you to drive using The Force. The Jazz on the other hand conveys loads of information to your fingertips, as well as your backside. All four wheels are pushed out as far as possible into the corners, which lends the car a go-kart-like feeling. I know that term is bandied about a fair bit but it truly applies here. It all makes for an involving drive which is terribly refreshing these days.

The Jazz has topped the JD Power Customer Satisfaction survey more than any other car in recent times. It’s a solid family run about with a dash of enjoyment for the more enthusiastic  driver. In a market awash with decidedly boring mini-hatches, it’s a little gem. The Jazz will put a smile on your face, rather than smirking at itself like a self-interested keyboardist.

It really struck a chord with me. Sorry.

Specifications, pricing and other information about the Honda Jazz in South Africa

Model: Jazz 1.5 i-VTEC EX-S 5 door Manual
Price: R201 900
Power: 88kW @ 6600
Torque: 145Nm @ 4800
0 – 100km/h: 11.6 seconds (claimed)
Fuel consumption: 8.24 litres per 100km (combined)

And the Chevy Cruze is one of the cars that contests the championship and it’s absolutely got nothing in common with the one we drove besides the number of steering wheels.

Before we continue, here’s how your Cruze isn’t built:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=guA6oJgTyv8

This is Chevy’s first foray into the medium compact market and this Korean-built sedan is more grey skies and minimum pay than blue skies and Chevrolet.  That isn’t to say it’s built badly. On the contrary it’s a solid enough piece of car and has a satisfying level of finish to just about everything.  Of course, stupidity does creep in to off set the good parts (the Alfa-Romeo style forward mounted speedos so the passenger can’t see how fast you’re going most of the time).  Like this daft ill-shaped storage space on the dash.
You could fit an ill-shaped envelope in there.

But it seems to add to the kind of clip-on tie unintentional cool of the Chevy.  It’s trying to be a Chevy but it isn’t.  Like the opening scene in Office Space where David Herman’s character is rapping along to some gangsta shit behind the wheel of his beige Dodge Aries in a morning commute traffic jam and apprehensively locks his door as soon as a black guy walks past.  It sums up the wigganess of the Cruze. It even shares a surname with the whitest actor alive next to Tom Hanks.  It’s more scientologist than black panther.
But that’s just me trying to put a youthful spin on the whole deal.  It really, really doesn’t matter.

Much like a Cadillac I drove a couple of years ago for Overdrive it comes into its own when you drive like you’re retired.  There must be many older South Africans out there who want to “drive American” again after Chev upped tent and moved their caravan terug oorsee in the 70s.

I initially spent the week flooring the thing at almost any opportunity for a laugh. This engine with this gearbox is just abysmal.   It truly is.  The 104Kw 1.8l four pot just starts with a harshness that turns into a thrashing and finally translates into a rubbish attempt at motion.  It’s monumentally loud and testicleless.

Once my teenage kicks routine had subsided though, I drove it home in the rain late the other night along some tricky coastal roads.  Forced to take it easy, the car came alive.  It suddenly felt taut where it had been giving the impression of flimsiness from that braying lisping engine note.  It was smooth and planted, assured even.  The engine lilted along sedately with no kick-down silliness it swathed through the mist and rain.  I began to like it.

Then my iPod, an ever present companion (the Cruze comes with an AUX inlet) spooked up the roads as it slipped into Speedy Marie by Frank Black a song I’ve probably heard over a thousand times.  But on this standard sound system it was mesmeric.  I heard tambourine in their somewhere I’m sure for the first time.  Far off and lazy. This was transport.  It looks good too, and as I said you can cheer them on when Supersport decides to show WTCC highlights a 3:27 on Tuesday mornings.

The guy who dropped the car off for me asked if I’d ever been to America. “Nope, only Canada,” I replied, to which he said once I’ve been to America I’d understand this car.  How right he was.

Gavin Williams

The interior, yesterday. The Chevy doesn't disappoint here, it's well stuck together and void of cheap plastics.

It’s difficult to explain how much I love the Suzuki Jimny. And it’s not my fault, I am after all, an impartial motoring journalist. But quite accidentally, or maybe on purpose, Suzuki have built a car that is incredibly endearing. Not liking the Jimny would be like not liking a Jack Russel puppy. Or a four year old girl with blonde curls. Or a that little girl’s little hamster, Smartie.

It is, for all intents and purposes, a niche car. There is no boot to speak of, but you can remove the backseats which helps. It is very narrow, and quite cramped if you’re over 6 foot tall. But I’m not, so it’s perfect.

Rather than squash obstacles, like a Range Rover or Land Rover Prado would, it sort of skips over them. Like a Jack Russel actually. It is monumentally good fun off road.

Ironically though, I can’t think of a better city car. Think of it as a Smart car on stilts. Because of it’s diminutive dimensions it is very easy to park and because of its ride height you can park it anywhere and confidently mount any curb, without risking damage to the vehicle.

The fuel consumption is spot on and you’ve got everything you’d really need for a trip to the shops; an MP3 CD player, aircon, power steering and 4-wheel drive to keep you safe in the wet. Given that Cape Town is currently under water, this is useful. It’s got cult status this car, but I wish it got the attention it deserves. I feel like it’s a young rapper, who knows he’s got talent and just needs a chance to prove himself.

Much like Jack Parow. Which is why, when he rang us up and asked what we thought of the Jimny, we were delighted to reply that we actually had one in the Overdrive Garage. So he came over and we went for a spin.

Jack Parow is not a small chap. He’s over 6 foot and has more presence than most WWE characters. Gavin, Mr Parow and myself hopped in and went to fetch some other musical types named Hunter and Pierre. And I’m pleased to report that with a bit of creative mangineering it is possible to fit five grown men into a Jimny. Look, we couldn’t make it to Durban like that. But it was fun.

Back in the Overdrive Garage, Parow delivered his verdict: maybe.

But don’t listen to him. Well actually you should, because he’s hilarious and his beats are insane. But don’t listen to him about cars. That’s our job.

Oh, and that’s Gavin in his new video by the way. Which we’ve handily linked for you here.

Like windsurfing, but manageable and vaguely cool.

The Japanese seem to stumble onto great cars and it’s usually when they’re not trying too hard.  They take a basic idea from an existing car and make it better.  Simple.  The other way is when they forsake Western convention and just make something so outrageously Japanese it bristles with tech so sharp it could clone you while you sleep and handles like a ninja’s cat.  The new Nissan GT-R for example, but that’s another story for another time.

Back to the Suzuki Jimny though, which is the heir to the wet t-shirt title the SJ410 owned for years.  I’m so super stoked (maintaining Umhlanga slang for a while) to report that they haven’t strayed from the formula one bit.  The new Jimny’s an absolute hoot.  It’s as light as a nun’s night out and has this bitchingly grippy, torquey little engine that won’t quit until it’s exploded or reached the summit.  It’s like those small dogs that are fun to wrestle with and be chased by.  It will chase the same ball for days and come back for more.  Awesome.  Suzuki needs to be applauded for not trying to make the car “hip” and *shudder* funky.  It’s charm lies in a place that a turquoise indicator stalk could never reach.

But -like the windsurfing culture it infiltrated- it isn’t all fun and games.  The lightness is great on dunes and treetops but it sometimes feels like you’d be safer naked on a Suzuki Hayabusa in an accident. There’s absolutely no space for luggage with the 4 seats and at my height it feels a bit like you’re riding a body board on castor wheels.  I’m not one to go for that all too human trait of loving small angry things like Staffies but there’s such an undefinable charm about the little tyke it’s really endearing. Its eagerness to please is intoxicating and you will fall completely in love with the thing.  You won’t see many around either adding to the cool secret club it founded back when people drank Hunters Gold.

Cult status is something that cannot be touched by marketing or created purely by design. It’s achieved and coveted despite everything. That’s why people still like Beetles. They’re shit but charming.  The Jimny is a car you’ll fall in love with but not be able to live with.  Rather leave it at the beach house as an eager, brilliant little companion that isn’t a beach buggy, although it has the soul of one and the carefree heart of a favourite holiday spot.

It's the automotive equivalent of the thrill you get breaking into a liquor cabinet.

Jack Parow was also considering buying one so we took him for a test drive.  He said “maybe”.

-Gavin Williams