Roadwork Library: Cars by Stephen Bayley.

Weighing in at 6lb 2oz this is a tome of considerable stature and presence. The year before last, while Christmas Shopping for “other people” every time I passed into a bookshop this spellbindingly presented volume caught my gaze, and having the name Stephen Bayley embossed into the spine served to further arouse my curiosity. My girlfriend bought it for me as a particularly generous Christmas gift, and it has proudly featured in my library ever since.

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Driven #17:- Mercedes-Benz S63 AMG

If you're shy and retiring, and a your yearly bonus ain't what it once was, you might well eschew the baroque excess of a Maybach in the knowledge that a long wheelbase S-Class is more than enough luxury car for most people. The extra few inches in wheelbase over the regular car are found in greater rear legroom, all the better for allowing you to relax in the reclining, heated rear seats. Sunlight through the glazed rear roof panel sets the mood, an electric blind for that and all rear windows can be deployed should things get a little too heated. It may run short of the Maybachs electrochromatic roof, but is nicer than the pop-up glass panel in an old Fiesta.

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Driven #16:- Fiat 500 Abarth

I’m six foot five and there are certain cars I simply cannot fit inside, a Renault Alpine, for example, and a Lotus Exige. Both of these cars have something in common; they were built for enthusiasts. Their drivers would likely put up with a bit of discomfort for the sheer joy of driving. I know I would, I have grazed knees, bumped heads and pulled muscles to savour the experience of a Lotus on a winding road.

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Driven #15:- Jaguar XKR Series 1

The first-shape Jaguar XKR left me with one of the most confused verdicts I have ever drawn to on evaluating a car.

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Driven #14:- BMW E46 320d Compact

Image and looks, two very separate things that just happen to be inextricably linked. See that cool guy over there? The handsome, well dressed guy? And that geek-chic girl he’s with? She’s really hot behind those glasses and the cable-knit sweater. And so it is, we will typically adjust our conceptions of a person’s image, depending on their looks. If a well-dressed man happens to be ugly people will say he’s craggy, or distinctive, or any of a thousand descriptions less insulting than simple ugliness. Ugly Betty, as we know, isn’t ugly at all. She just typically wears horrible clothes.

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Realworld Rides: Vauxhall Signum 2.2i Design Irmscher

Enough has been said about the Vauxhall Vectra, a car damned by its quest to be the ultimate motoring all-rounder. GMs' Mondeo fighter sought to be classier, more Germanic, more of an all-rounder than the opposition, and ended up doing absolutely everything about eighty per cent as well as it needed to be done.

And the Signum? Well, to this day nobody quite knows what the idea was all about. We kinda understand the need for an estate car which wasn't an estate car, traditionally the station wagon has held a kind of Grecian 2000, Antiques Roadshow, Male Pattern Baldness kind of stigma. Nobody with any youthful leanings would opt for one, and those who had really reproduced themselves into a corner did the job properly and bought a Renault Espace.

By creating what was ostensibly an estate car but with the emphasis on passengers rather than freight, Vauxhall, no, let's be honest here, there's no such thing as Vauxhall any more... Opel thought they were onto a winner. There was provision for rear seat entertainment packages, individual rear seats, drinks chillers and myriad other cool gadgets, all intended to somehow de-tweedify it and emphasise its non-estate-car-ness. Unmoved, the public responded by buying Mondeo Estates, which, somehow managed to be almost cool anyway.

Which leads nicely to the car you see presented before you. Opel UK did actually manage to sell some of these confusingly pitched vehicles, probably through heavy discounting, and presumably taking sales away from the Vectra Estate they had in the range anyway. I actually experienced a twinge of excitement when I was told that I had a Signum to sample, I had never driven one before and I like trying new cars.

Then a funny thing happened. I approached the car, noting from some distance that it appeared to have Astra VXR wheels on it. Curious, I thought, and then clocked that it also had the full Irmscher dress-up kit attached. To a Signum. To remind those of you at the back, this is not a performance car.

Once installed into the figure hugging seats that all Design models of Signum have fitted, I cracked the throttle open and was greeted by further novelty. In their wisdom, somebody had fitted some kind of sports exhaust. It was loud. Not a nice loud, no Lancia Stratos at full chat sensation, but a drony, stifled, midrange groan and a guarantee of tense, nervous headache at journeys end. Furthermore, as I tentatively launched; no that's too dynamic, I hiccuped the Signum onto the Southend Arterial, an attractive girl on a bicycle turned round to see what was making all the noise. She saw me. She saw my face. And she saw that I was behind the wheel of a Vauxhall Signum with a bodykit and a “sports” exhaust.

I'm embarrassed. I have to get out of this car.

On the open road came the opportunity to forget about the visual crimes the exterior was committing and put The Beast through its paces. This didn't take long because it had a normally aspirated 2.2 with a five speed manual gearbox. I began to wonder if, while spec-ing this car, the customer had been on a quest to create the most ironic car that had ever been built, if it had been a 1.9DTi he would have succeeded with honours.

Such musings were soon overridden by a new concern, as it became apparent that the VXR wheels had had a catastrophic effect on the cars behaviour at speed. Forget tramlining, it was as if I were driving along the East Coast Main Line. The Signum was changing direction at every ripple as if passing over a set of points. Excellent wrist exercise, though, my hands were working the wheel like Mr T to keep her heading in some kind of straight line.

Additionally, for my further enjoyment, the Bernard Manning-width rubber was providing a full-on soundtrack throughout the entire audio spectrum. If I am ever father to a hyperactive ten year old with an attention deficit disorder, and he ever freaks out in a cymbal and gong factory, I already know what it'll sound like. I couldn't wait to stop driving and wait for the tinnitus to gradually fade away.

So I'm embarrassed and now I've gone deaf. I really have to get out of this car.

I zoned out for the rest of the journey. My brain went into a sort of self-preservatory autopilot, abandoning any further interest in the driving experience, (if you have to know, it felt like a long wheelbase Vectra with daft wheels and no power) until I got back to the office. Arriving with much booming of exhaust to the consternation and intrigue of everyone within earshot, amounting to most of our industrial estate, such was the row that one of the chaps came out remarking:

“So that's what was making all that noise? I thought you'd shown up in an F40”

I looked at the rear of the car to investigate this “sports” exhaust installation, expecting one of the Halfords-issue fart cans you see hanging limply from the tail of a bright orange Saxo. But no, what I was greeted by pushed the car beyond the limits of irony and into hilarity. There, purposefully mounted below the oh-so-necessary rear splitter were two rectangular-section dual tailpipes, a superb visual oxymoron when you note their proximity to the Vauxhall Signum 2.2 badging.

A quick recap, in order of amusingness:- Signum, Design, 2.2, Irmscher Bodykit, VXR wheels, quad exhaust. What in blazes would drive somebody to spec that? All that kit would have cost thousands from the factory and contributed exactly zero to the residual value of the car, so nobody in their right minds would have paid for it from new unless they had a pathological hatred for retaining money.

Maybe it was one of those bizzaro dealer-specials. Drive-Rite Vauxhall possibly had a dull as ditchwater Signum 2.2 in stock for ages and ages and wanted to market the Irmscher range of official add-on tat, so they bolted the latter to the former and ran it as a demonstrator until a fool and his money turned up to be easily parted. Yes, that must have been it.

In case you've forgotten, it's a Signum 2.2-litre, with a bodykit, VXR wheels and four exhaust pipes. Four!

Perhaps most tellingly, at the time of my drive the car was six years old and had only covered thirty thousand miles. And I'll bet that, to avoid the driver being seen and heard by public eye, most of those miles were travelled under cover of darkness.

Mass hysteria: Mercedes R350 CDi

A long while ago, I made a Roadwork entry on the re-styled Mercedes R-Class. I bemoaned the fact that the crazy, bug eyed visage of old had been dismissed, and a more conventionally attractive yet disappointingly bland face employed. I also mentioned that it's a car that also used to be unexpectedly fabulous car to drive.

And today I'm going to do exactly the same thing again.

Last weekend, after a hundred-mile dash to Gatwick Airport to help my hideously wealthy boss on his way to the Maldives, the R was as good as mine. My CDs in the stereo, seat electrically adjusted and climatically controlled to meet my exacting requirements. 

With His Nibs and entourage on board, the first part of the journey would be a sober, restrained, ministerial affair, and the R did a superb job of delivering my human cargo to its destination in an unruffled, efficient manner. I had four passengers on board and a hefty stack of luggage; in five-seat mode the load area made light work of swallowing a fortnight's worth of Gucci Bermuda shorts, Yves Saint Laurent thong bikinis, dress tiaras and sundry other holiday paraphernalia of the nouveau riche.

Despite this mountain of freight, the passengers still had their seats in their rearmost positions for maximised middle-row legroom. The young lady of the group was travelling in the least comfort, her seat being in the middle and somewhat compromised, compared with the throne-like outer perches. Still, there is lateral room enough for three people to travel abreast without developing homicidal tendencies.

After a journey free of drama, the Mercedes reached Gatwick Airport in what felt like double-quick time, and I hadn't even been misbehaving at the wheel. I disgorged the contents of the R-Class, human and otherwise and watched, sighing as they collectively buggered off to the tropics. I took comfort, though, in my subservience having been valuable in a research capacity; I had established that the R-Class is very good indeed at carrying people and their stuff. Of course, this was just a prelude to the main event. Balls to the passengers, what about the driver?

I would refer you to the complete non-review of the R350 by Matt Hardigree of Jalopnik. In fact, go and read it now. Chortle, belly-laugh, admire the wit and metaphor. Then come back and read about how it drives, 'cos Matt didn't really seem interested. In the comments he later admits that “It isn't too bad to drive”, and he's part right. The truth is, the R-Class is awesome.

It cheats, really. There's no direct comparison to make. Sitting on the same mechanical underpinnings as the ML and GL SUVs, the R shares a feeling of go-anywhere, do-anything. However, an R might have the same engine and transmission, but has nothing of the higher ground clearance, hill-descent control or differential lock that its taller stablemates employ on hostile terrain. Retaining permanent four-wheel drive, though, and this being teamed with road-biased tyres, what it does have is grip. Lots and lots of grip. On tarmac or concrete, in rain or snow - it hangs onto whatever you throw at it.

And grunt, too. This particular example is the R350 CDi, powered by a diesel engine that feels far more muscular than its three-litre capacity would suggest. It weighs in at 265bhp, which is quite a big number in itself, but it also has 620NM of torque, and it's this latter figure that has me doing very immature things on the motorway. Put simply, the novelty of pulling alongside something in such a leviathan, and then flooring it and disappearing towards the horizon with seemingly exponential acceleration just never wears off. It's magical, and I'm seriously surprised that Jalopnik Matt never noticed it.

This would be one hell of a machine in which to conquer continents. Endless shove and a surreal Orient-Express ride quality at motorway speeds. Best of all is the presence it has in the rear-view mirrors of lesser vehicles. People just yield, unquestioningly, although the shock-and-awe of the Xenon laser-death-beam headlamps and look-at-me LED running lights is probably partly responsible. 

Cruising at quasi-legal speeds as if it were second nature for the R-Class, I imagined the aesthetic that the car presented as it passed slower traffic. In a dark colour, with privacy glass, a fast-moving R-Class is undoubtedly a sinister looking machine. One might imagine some Government rapid-response special ops team to be lurking on board, speeding to intercept a secret shipment of classified materials at a darkened aerodrome somewhere, far from the likely reality of it containing the Wilkins family returning from a skiing trip to Val Disere.

I even enjoy the noise it makes. Diesel engines can never match the sonorous howl of a flat-plane petrol V8, or the crisp scream of a straight-six. At worst they are agricultural, a constant death-rattle redolent of imminent big-end failure; the best thing you can say of most of the better diesels is that they are nicely muted, usually being shrouded with heavy duty sound deadening materials. The V6 unit in the R350 CDi, though, is the best-sounding diesel I have ever sat behind.

For the most part it just provides a reassuring background hum, at high motorway speeds  it's not dissimilar to the sound in the cabin of a long-haul airliner, only quieter. Telegraph a demanding message to the engine-room, though, and the R-Class responds with a deep bellow that is the sound of pure industrial power.

Nought to sixty takes 7.7 second in this two ton monster, but the figures only tell a fraction of the story. Fact is, it goes like a stabbed rat. The deep well of torque, the, responsiveness of the gearbox and that 4x4 traction colaborate to make the R350 a devastatingly accomplished overtaker, and one whose firepower can be further massaged by those clever Brabus folk if you so desire.

Numbers aside, I always feel a little disappointed when I dismount from the R and saddle up in something like an S-Class. The S, even with the same engine as the R, feels so normal. It's a big Mercedes saloon, everybody expects it to be fast. The R has that delicious element of surprise to it.

 

Personally, I'd rather have an R than an S, as you're probably gathering by now. It's cheaper, even more so if you opt for the less powerful, rear-wheel-drive, shorter wheelbase R300 CDi model, but the full-fat 350 CDi is the one to have. I just wish it felt a bit more like an S-Class inside. 

Architecturally it's fine; everything is in the right place. The materials are perfectly respectable too, it's well built and feels like it'll last in the same way as Mercedes products used to. It all feels very professional, it just really needs to look a little more special.

Frustratingly, they nearly managed it; the armrests and switch panels on the doors are covered with beautifully stitched Artico (AKA "pretend") Leather to match the seats, but this finish doesn't stretch quite as far as onto the adjoining dashboard. It's such a shame; the plastics are nice, but a little bit everyday to be at home in such a unique car. 

 

Mercedes needs to have a better look at how it markets the R-Class; at the moment they haven't really assigned any particular image to it. Get some as VIP cars for film premiers instead of the usual raft of S-Classes. Add a little luxe to some of the more visible interior surfaces and it  suddenly becomes an entirely new kind of limousine. I mean, it's now far less polarising to look at now than it was; by the end of my weekend I had found several angles from which the R350 honestly looks very tasty indeed. Appealing enough, even, for me to cease defending the previous, facially disfigured R-Class. Yes, it used to stand out from the crowd, but I'll admit that this was for all the wrong reasons.

I look forward to using the R to collect my freshly tanned VIPs from Gatwick in a fortnight... I'll do my utmost to avoid giving away how much fun I've been having in the meantime.