Sniff Petrol

Crisp crystalline snow swaddles the somnambulant scene like a talcum powder duvet, smothering and smoothing all detail into one icy entropy. All is calm, all is white, yet amidst this monochrome magnificence two yellow pools make their presence felt, like flickering floods of mid-air dog piss. But these are not the ammonium outpourings of an electric spaniel; these are piercing puddles of light, emanating for the four square stare of quad headlamps.

The beast to which they are attached squats motionless aside the road, its straight six shooter a-rumble with palpable potency as its fluids eventually achieve the warm embrace of their optimum operating temperatures. Let’s do this thing.

Slot shifter through the knuckly nub of the gate into first, let the clutch begin its connecting clasp. All at once I plant the power pedal and feel the swirling surge of whiteout wheelspin. The back steps out and straight away I catch it with a dab of oppo.

Then it swings the other way and we slide into a ditch. Shit.

My sister’s old BMW 325i E30 Touring was a bitch. And I crashed it. Sorry Claire.

Searing lumps of lazy light pierce the moist melancholy of an angsty Autumn as all at once the sonamulent sun deigns to radiate beyond the clumps of cloud that hang like pregnant party balloons forming an almost seamless ceiling across the badlands of the East Midlands. Yet the celestial fireball is not alone in attempting to illuminate this landscape for at mere mortal level are two fast moving orbs of Halogen, lightly searing this grey and grizzled Tuesday afternoon.

Headlamps on in the daytime? Yes. For that simple stalk twist action has a meaning far more symbolic than simply to spark into action the glimmering glower on the front of this machine. It says ‘I am on a mission’. I am kissing apexes, hugging kerbs, touching the limit. If I was any more intimate with this bold and brazen blacktop pretty soon one of us would be pregnant.

And my steed for this no-holds-barred brawl with the finest playground the Kettering area has to offer? The road gets more than it deserves for I am pedalling nothing less than the brand new Suzuki SX4 saloon. And yes, you read that right. The ‘saloon’ suffix is no tedious typo. The Big S really has given its sensational SX4 soft roader a right good booting. As soon as I saw the details of this beauty I could feel that it packed more promises than a shopping centre Santa. That longer rear overhang and firmly stamped slab of metal aft of the back wheels smelt strongly of enhanced balance. And now, as I spear across the scenery, I will discover if that initial suspicion can slap me with fact.

First impressions are strong like cheese. Engine feels as willing as a Japanese lap dancer, running to the redline like it’s sprinting from a storm. But the only storm here is grunt, and plenty of it, punting the Super-zuki along at will. The gearchange goes glove-in-fist with these four pots of power, slick as an oil salesman, smooth as a single malt sucked through a sax.

But in this class act, it’s the chassis that really brings the apple for teacher. Turn in is crisper than the Egyptian cotton sheets I slid from this morning, steering gives chat that would make one J. Ross sound Cistercian, and there’s BBC humbling levels of balance. Piling in hot to a particularly damp switchback I lifted off smartly, felt the back end go light, enjoyed the fertile budding of a full on slide. I simply gave it a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Suzuki SX4 1.6 SLX saloon is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-At-Large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

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Silent shafts of spearing sunshine shoot shimmering stains of summer across this somnambulant scene in front of me. It’s 33 miles to Corby, I’ve got a full tank of petrol, half a pack of Extra Strong Mints, it’s light and I’m wearing Serengeti Firenze driving glasses with polarizing lenses and satin gunmetal frames. Let’s hit it.

But before Dunlop gets cosy with blacktop, just one question sticks in the mind like a quizzical arrow. Will I actually need that full tank of juice? This is not the corpulent conundrum it might as first seem for today I am helming a Honda hydra, a beast not with two heads but with two engines, one that sups from the lead-less cup we all know whilst an electric motor sits bang next to it, snuggled up tight like an incestuous sister. As I prepare to get pedalling on some of the Peterborough area’s finest twisties I will be doing so asking if, motive power-wise, two is better than one. So let’s Tango.

First impressions are of a firm push in the back that would make an osteopath envious. Within mere seconds you know that this baby loves to torque, but can she dance? The first set of apexes will soon set it some questions it needs to answer. And there is no phone a friend. Turn in, the steering as searing as stepping on a Lego brick, feel the tyres tread shuffling their way into the attack position as the Gs reach a mighty crescendo of literal lateral gravity, their rubber souls clinging on for dear life as the sweet suspension commands them to do its benign bidding. All inputs and outputs are telegraphed in crisp digital real time. This is Chassis 3G, a broadband link to the road and all its secrets.

What insight have I got into the Insight? A game of two halves, and they both love to play hard. It’s only right and proper that I up the ante, piling in harder, coming on stronger, revelling in the heat that beats from its hybrid heart. As the road snakes onwards I press on like a panty liner, stringing the sinews together in sweet succession. At one moment I lifted off mid-bend and felt the cheeky tail shuffle sideways. I just caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Honda Insight 1.3 SE is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-At-Large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

This is it. This is The Road. This is seven miles of soaring, serpentine sensuousness that will scorch me from my slumber, censure my senses and shakedown my steed with a smooth and semi-sexual series of esses. It will also take me to Kettering. This will be distilled driving pleasure boiled down to its basics as if it were the key Tarmac ingredient in Heston Blumenthal’s kitchen. Let’s do this thing.

To give this delicious ribbon of main course its just desserts I’m here in a small but perfectly formed piece of weaponry. As it tears a tiny hole in the bumptious belly of the East Midlands’ afternoon there are no stray pixels on this picture. Only a Pixo. That’s right; I’m pedalling the Pixo, Nissan’s newly minted baby that’s got its laser sights trained on the Aygo and is about to give it a bloody nose.

As The Road unfolds before me the little Nissan seems to take on a sense of animal urgency, all three cylinders singing the same sweet song, and that song says “You are in control”. Performance is metered out like whiskey at an Irish wedding; smooth but punchy and in intoxicating quantities. And that’s a party the gearchange wants to be at, dancing across the gate like a petrified snake.

But the real happy couple here is the ride & handling. When the twisted Tarmac asks yet more questions of them, the answer is always ‘I do’. Bumps are soaked up by the mechanical thirst pockets atop each wheel whilst grip is so plentiful you could sell the excess to a leech factory. Power in to each corner, trim your tack with the telepathic steering and then let loafer unleash lovely justice upon the throttle and power on to the next date with destiny and an old friend we call Mr Corner.

As car and helmsman forge a deeper bond I delve further into the box of tricks marked ‘dynamic excellence’, lifting off the throttle mid-bend to see what secrets this will reveal. All at once the tail stepped wide, I caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Nissan Pixo 1.0 Tekna is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-At-Large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

The insistent urgency of the alarm shatters my shallow sleep like so many rocks thrown through the window of a fresh morning. Yet in truth my sleep’s fitful unrest has given me precious little perchance to dream. After all, how could I truly take a business class return to the Land of Nod when I knew what was awaiting as soon as the sun made its sneaky creep over the horizon’s lazy threshold. Clothes are thrown on with a careless speed that would make Gok Wan gasp. A breakfast is ingested with a vainglorious velocity that would cause a wolf blush. All functional actions seem to happen at the breathless and breakneck of a Buster Keaton DVD jammed on four times fast forward. At last I leave the house with the urgency of a diarrhea wracked cheetah and there in front of me is the reason for all this early a.m. hurrying and harrying: a perfect shape draped in ravishing red paintwork sits four square on the driveway. Oasis said Dig Out Your Soul. No need for digging Noel, my Soul is right here before me.

That’s right, the sensuous steed that stirred my slumbers is Kia’s new family friendly funkster, a tantalising take on the age old question of how to make a B/C-segment five door sing with a little more zing. The Soul’s style certainly takes that eternal question mark and drop kicks it into a week on Thursday; you won’t mistake this kid karting, dog dropping, teenager toting, bicycle barracking , windsurfer whisking multi-tasking marvel for a feebly fenestrated van. This Kia sits loud and proud, comfortable in its own artfully blocky skin.

The question is, does the Soul stir the soul where it matters, out on the toughest set of twisties the East Midlands can serve up? The answer is an emphatic, let’s find out. With the oils warmed through I set vectors for the heart of the red line and feel the motor spin as smooth as Liberace’s bathrobe. Grab another gear, change as precise as a brain surgeon’s Breitling, already this funk Soul brother is playing wah-wah with my heart. The road starts to buck and weave like a bronco playing basketball and Kia begins to serve up the meat of its Soul food. Each bump is soaked up like an oily Korean sponge as the chassis keys into the road and clings on like a Velcro cat in glue factory. Hard inputs through the transparent and tenacious steering elicit swift and decisive actions that let you know for sure that this Soul train corners like it’s on rails. I am a Soul singer, coming in hot and heavy. All at once I lift off, feel the tail step wide, give it a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Kia Soul 2 1.6 is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-At-Large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

The rev counter nestles in the upper quadrant of its range, harmlessly headbutting red paint with ever sturdy shove of my shoe upon the business pedal. Occasionally it slinks away from its new friends at the top end of the register, momentarily recoiling on the cue of another upshift then all at once making a lunge for the line as brake meets toe and the throttle again feels heel, another downchange timed to perfection and slotted home like a searingly hot scalpel slung into a butter factory.

To the outside world, the shape of this car may slip like a subdued symphony down the languid lanes, but inside I can tell you that I am having more fun than a boisterous bull in the world’s biggest china shop, spearing and swooping across sinew and scallop as I pedal post haste towards Corby. The fit and focussed carriage for this all-out assault on the East face of England is a rare and unusual treat best summed up by three preened but potent syllables – Magentis.

Yes, my sword for this slice through challenging blacktop is the facelifted version of Kia’s capable mid-ranger, re-nosed, re-honed and reacting well to all I am demanding of it. The 2-litre diesel engine pulls like a train full of carthorses, allowing me to work the six-speed gearbox like a Victorian orphan, knowing that I have a belt ‘n’ braces set of brakes taking care of business at the other end of the G-force spectrum.

Better yet, this often overlooked product of a glittering Korea has a classy chassis that loves to dance. Pile into corners hard and feel it key into the road, tyres biting, suspension soft yet taut like the breasts of a lapdancer. I stared this car in the face and not once did it flinch. Only as I crossed its ample limits did the tail step out. All at once I gave it a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Kia Magentis 2.0 CRDi is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-at-large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

The series of bends are a slow and sibilant S dropped like stocks and shares in a slump upon the sleek and somnambulant scene ahead of me. I am coming at them as fast as a crazed cricketer boldly bowling for his second successive century. Too fast? For a brief but brazen moment that might seem to be the case. But in truth I had nothing to fear for beneath me I have a chassis that grips like a wrestling snake in the midst of seizure, a chassis defined and yet all at once liberated by the two letters that stand proud on the rump of the body that sits four square atop it. K and A.

Yes, my steed for this all out assault on the most twisted sister of a blacktop the East Midlands can supply is Ford’s new baby but there is nothing childish about the way it sucks up that tight ribbon of road like a hungry Italian at a spaghetti festival.

You’ll notice I said Italian for a reason because this new pocket sized funster is neither literally nor metaphorically a Blue Oval. The hardware it packs under its pert and preened posing pouch of a shell comes from the land of pasta and Pisa, specifically the cute-as-a-kitten-crawling-on-Cameron-Diaz Fiat 500. Yet Ford’s suspension supremos have cut through the carbonara, tweaking and tuning so that this new bambino pedals like a pro.

The steering is as quick witted as Clive Anderson on QI, the gearshift as slick as Bryan Ferry in an oil spill, the chassis as classy as mid-era Shirley Bassey. Was I going too fast into those bends? Not in this baby, baby. Turn in, feels the forces build like a wave of lateral gravity, let it key into the road like a tarmac crazed locksmith. I lift off the throttle mid-way through the second arc, feeling the back end make like John Sergeant and step out of line. Instantly and instinctively I gave it a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Ford Ka 1.3 TDCi Zetec is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-at-large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

A hot and heavy silence embraces the slowly rolling flat lands of these most Eastern Midlands like a wet shadow, clawing and gnawing at their infinite edges like an invisible spaniel of nothingness. Yet as I survey the dashboard in front of me all signs are as normal as a Home Counties bank manager eating toast on a Tuesday. The dials glow like celestial suns of precious information whilst peppy pop music prances and patters from the preening speakers that surround me. But as I sit here, the car as stationary as the back section of a branch of WH Smith, something is as wrong as getting intimate with your gran. The engine is nowhere, AWOL, a desperate disparu making its presence felt by its absence. But I’m not worried for this is no reason to call Mssrs AA and RAC. This is singular shutdown by design. This is the Toyota Auris TR 1.33 Dual VVT-I Stop & Start.

Yes, you read that right. The medium car from the big manufacturer has just gone eco, buffing its green credentials like a burgeoning hippy gone crazed in a cress shop with the simple addition of know how that simply flatlines the motor when you come to a halt.

Do you want to know the best thing about this bastion of technology and simplicity? It works. Yet, like a failed parachutist hitting the beach, the rest of the car also leaves an impression. The engine revs like a fat hamster’s heart, releasing its goodness in thick blobs all over the power band, a task made all the more accessible by a gearshift that’s as easy as a Northern whore. Best of all, this Auris is no snore-is when you get to the twisty stuff. Chuck it in hard, feel the nose bite like a starved shark, squeeze the throttle like an unloved orange and just let it dive through like an Olympic apex hunter. For the more committed helmsmith there are games aplenty too. I lifted off hard and felt the playful tail step out. I simply gave it a dab of oppo and I was away.

Toyota Auris TR 1.33 Dual VVT-I Stop & Start is a bitch, and I spanked it.

A wet uliginous rain hammers from the skies like a curtain of liquid spaghetti and batters the flat crucible of countryside just outside Corby. For a brief moment its damp, damning rhythm focuses the silence with its sound then all at once the bucolic calm is broken by something that comes not from nature but derives from the thunder of combustion.

A shape flashes across the flatlands, all at once furious and bovine yet taut and familiar. If the angry clouds could read they would strain to chase its fast moving fury and scan with hardening eyes the cluster of chrome that gathers upon its glistering rump, spelling out the handle of this hard charging hero car. Note. Don’t take Note, just know that this is the Nissan Note, a pert and preened family friend now enhanced by a bolstered and boosted tribute to Dr Diesel and his darkened arts.

Suffice to say, this engine pulls like Brad Pitt in a brothel, not rippling with power but letting the turbo do the torqueing. Its perky partner in crime is the gearchange, slick as a smarmy salesman soused with salad cream. But like Lennon without McCartney or Cannon without Ball this positive powertrain performance would be nothing without a classy chassis and here is where you should really take Note. The ride is flexible and friendly, like sleeping on your gym instructor, yet corners are taken with the enthusiasm of a new puppy on acid. Flick it in hard and the tail steps wide but I caught it with a flick of the old opp-lock and I was away.

The Nissan Note 1.5 dCi Tekna is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-at-large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

Against the crisp sky of a ruthless July, delicate curtains of brown drape the immortal profile of Issigonis’s creation, remixed for the Playstation age. Framed by a soft green canvas of whsipering grass, it’s a scene to raise the rev limiter on anyone whose four stroke heart pumps pure gasoline through their braided veins. I could happily drink in this vignette for an easy five minutes or so, my eyes suckling on each plump curve and details so delicious you could put them in a baguette and call it a sandwich. Sadly, however, there are driving chores to be done.

In truth, today these are no chores at all for I am about to sample the new Mini, re-tooled, re-booted and re-edited for a whole new audience. This is nothing less than the Mini Clubman. Some say it’s an estate, some say it’s nothing more than a Mini hatch made more spacious to the tune of a gnat’s snatch. Me, I say it’s both. And that’s a good thing.

However, what really makes the Clubman work is the way it pedals. Slam it down a testing twist of hard baked blacktop and the Mini comes home to work. This baby is alive in your hands and you decide the song. The steering is heavy yet precise like cutting cheese with a sword, the gearchange as firm and chunky as a fridge full of Branston Pickle. But it’s the chassis that really steals the sunshine in this all-star show, keying into the road and gripping like a Velcro monkey as you guide the Clubman almost telepathically towards Wisbech.

If that sounds boring, don’t worry. This little Mini isn’t just about sheer Evo-Stik grip; it also wants to dance like one of Spearmint Rhino’s finest, and you’ve just put a 50 in her pants. Turn in hard, feel the back go light, let it come round and chose your escape route, giving Mr Apex a clip round the ear on your way through. One dab of oppo, I caught the lot and I was away.

I don’t know where it is, but I want to be part of this club, man. The Mini is a bitch, and I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-at-large for DAB OF OPPO magazine