Drive and Test

Driving the interesting and the obscure. And occasionally dreadful.

Road Test: Citroën Ami 8

I asked ‘social media’ whether I should write about a Bentley MkVI Sports or another Ami, and democracy told me that another Citroen was the way to go. So, here’s my driving impressions on the Ami 8.

Far less quirky than the 2CV and Ami 6. All things are relative.

As I’ve already covered, the Ami was a major money-spinner for Citroen. A revamp was ordered in the late 1960s as as the Ami’s stylist – Flaminio Bertoni – had passed away in 1964, it was up to new boy Robert Opron to remodel this remarkable success story. He would go on to style the GS, SM and CX and there are hints of those, certainly the GS, in the new Ami 8 of 1969.

The controversial nose treatment was toned down and looked almost normal. Enough that British buyers became interested at last. At the rear, the reverse-rake window was abandoned, and a stylish fastback was now in place, with a vertical bootlid beneath its lower edge – just as on the GS. There were soon fancy options, like winding front windows on posh (later all) models, or individual, reclining seats. Disc front brakes were added mere months after production began too -a further benefit being that this system used the green LHM of the DS. A fluid which has a higher boiling point than conventional brake fluid, doesn’t absorb water and, most importantly, doesn’t encourage corrosion!

The engine remained the same 602cc M28 flat-twin as used in the last of the Ami 6s. This produces 32bhp DIN at 5750rpm. Otherwise, underpinnings remain refreshingly 2CV-like, with the same platform chassis, independent suspension and hilarious bodyroll. One change by the time this Ami was produced is that the suspension was no longer interconnected front to rear.

Blue Ami 8 between two sixes. Green one to the right is a rare Ami Super.

Remarkably, up until this very moment, I had never driven an Ami 8. It must be said, it felt incredibly refined compared to the 2CVs with which I’m far more familiar. Sure, that aircooled engine remains noisy, as does the transmission (especially in third in this example), but it’s far easier on the ear overall, and there is far less wind noise.

I mean really, it’s outright luxurious what with its reclining seats, proper dashboard and winding front windows. Of course, it doesn’t feel particularly quick, especially after you’ve jumped out of an XM turbo diesel, but you can follow the same 2CV principle of ‘maintain momentum at all costs’ with no bother at all. The owner, Richard Sadler, assures me it’ll sit comfortably at motorway speeds all day. I don’t doubt it. The handling is still superb, though the extra weight can cause even more comedic levels of bodyroll. Have faith. It will get you round that bend or at the very most, start gently pushing the nose wide.

The ride is truly magnificent, as you’d expect and I can’t say the lack of interconnection makes a huge difference behind the wheel. The overall comfort and practicality mean that this really is a very usable and very enjoyable motor car – if you can keep rust at bay. It makes me realise how wrong it is that these later Amis get overlooked for the super-quirky earlier ones. With the Euro weak and the French survival rate for Amis still strong, it might be just the time to nip over The Channel to buy one, just like this left-hand drive example. Tempting isn’t it?

Road Test: Triumph TR7 V8

Oh yes. Those last two digits make all the difference! After all, pretty much any car can be vastly improved with the insertion of Rover’s sweet V8 engine.

The TR7 was launched 40 years ago and was meant to be one of the crowning highlights of British Leyland, along with the wedge Princess. However, 1975 was also the year in which British Leyland went bankrupt, which tells you how challenging these times were.

Amazing how an engine can transform a car.

So, the TR7, intended to extend the legendary TR series of roadsters, was launched with serious build quality issues and, most annoyingly, only a four-cylinder engine option. There always had been a plan to insert the Rover V8 – there was certainly plenty of room to allow it – but a factory V8 would not arrive until 1978, and even then only in America. A convertible was also late on the scene and ridiculously, was not marketed until 1980 in the UK – just a year before production ended and after the TR7 had moved production facility twice!

The car driven here is one of many TR7s since converted to V8 power. Only a handful of genuine, factory TR8s were built with right-hand drive. So, ignore the TR8 detailing. It’s a lie. I reckon it’s an attractive car though, even with the lurid gold alloys. The TR7 works so well as a drophead that it’s ridiculous that it was not produced earlier in the TR7’s life – thank a misunderstanding of expected roll-over regulations for that. This is also why the Jaguar XJ-S was initially only available as a tin-top.

Very 1970s in here. Plasticky dashboard not brilliant. Seats are though.

Sure, it’s nothing like the TR6 it replaced, but then it shouldn’t be! The mid-section of the TR6 dates back to 1961 after all, and the launch of the TR4. Evolution is no bad thing. That’s especially true when you consider the good work Spen King did with the suspension. It’s pretty similar to the Rover SD1, with MacPherson struts up front and a well-located live rear axle with coil springs. King loved long-travel suspension (see Rover P6 and Range Rover), so the TR7 offers comfort you simply won’t find in earlier TRs, yet still handles very well indeed with delightfully accurate steering.

But it’s the engine that’s the star of the show here. I dread to think how many SD1s have given up their engines to make TR7s quicker, but it’s not just the shove in your back that’s intoxicating, it’s the bellow of those eight cylinders as you accelerate down the road. As much as I love electric cars, the noise a raging V8 makes just sends shivers up and down my spine. As you can see in this video of a TR7 V8 rally car in action.

The gearlever offers quick changes, so you can just keep the power coming – until you glance nervously at the speedometer and decide to ease off. But even just burbling around gently, this car sounds fantastic, yet you know with just a prod of that pedal, it’ll launch itself at the horizon like a cat after a mouse.

The meaty motor itself. Note delicious pantograph driver’s wiper.

You needn’t worry in the bends too. In fact, the only matter of concern is the brakes. They’re not all that great with just four-cylinders, so if a V8 conversion has been carried out, better brakes are a good idea – one reason so many converted V8s wear larger, aftermarket wheels. It allows larger stoppers!

Overall then, this feels like the car it should have been from the start. A crying shame then that the financially crippled British Leyland just couldn’t quite pull it off.

Road Test: Renault 4CV

Ok. This one’s from the archives, as I drove this car many years ago. So, is a 4CV twice as good as a 2CV?

Aw, does it really matter how it drives?

Of course not, but let’s start with history. The 4CV was France’s answer to the problem of affordable motoring. It was launched a full year ahead of the 2CV in 1947, with a rear-mounted, water-cooled engine driving the rear wheels. It must be said, while it had independent suspension all-round, it didn’t possess the fine handling manners of the 2CV – which could be hurled into bends with gay abandon. With the Renault, more care was needed.

Not that it harmed sales. It was the first French car to sell one million units and production continued until 1961. They even built them in Acton, London for a time.

Surprisingly stylish inside. And very, very cosy.

Clambering aboard is the first challenge, with a suicide door and a rather large wheelarch to contend with. Also, this car is tiny! The cramped cabin puts me in mind of my Perodua Nippa, where the door crushes one side of you, and the gearlever seems to be almost beneath your leg.

Things are a lot more charming once you get under way though. The four-cylinder engine has superb low-speed lugging power, so it doesn’t really matter which of the three gears you are in. It builds speed up nicely. Most of the time, it handles well enough too – it’s only if you start chucking it around, especially in the wet, that the limitations of swing-axle suspension and a rear-mounted engine can combine to cause real problems.

This is a silly place for an engine. Renault has not learnt this.

It’s just so utterly charming though! You can forgive it any fault just because it looks so cute and seems to try so hard. It’s clear, scientific proof that humans are stupid creatures who find it impossible to ignore the aesthetic. It’s why we put up with bird-shredding cars. It’s why puppies are allowed to wreak havoc and just get laughed at. It’s why people think Fiat 500s are good. No. They’re not. I think the Renault 4CV is much better than a 500. It’s certainly quicker. Yet, I’m worried that really, I’m just a sucker for looks.

Road Test: Citroën Ami 6

Yes, I have driven an Ami 6 before, but that was a modified monster that while hilariously amusing, was not something I’d necessarily choose to live with on a daily basis – unlike its creator, who uses it for the school run.

This time, I got to enjoy a sunset cruise in a late Ami 6 in stock condition. What sort of difference did that make?

Dramatic and beautiful. Sunset not bad either.

Firstly, history. The Ami 6 was introduced by Citroën in 1961 as an attempt to plug the enormous gap between the 2CV – the farmer’s friend – and the super-plush, super-complex DS. Under the skin, the Ami was little more than a 2CV chassis and running gear, albeit with a larger 22bhp, 602cc engine. The skin itself was penned by sculptor and stylist Flaminio Bertoni, who had already added some graceful charm to the 2CV and styled the Traction Avant and DS.

The looks are a tricky one. Most people run a mile at first but stay with it, and start taking in all of the delicious details and Bertoni’s motoring sculpture really does warm the heart. It is certainly quite unlike anything else and even more extreme than Ford’s Consul Classic. It was also one of the first cars to feature headlamps that were not round – though the later one I’ve driven here has quad circular units. Features shared with the DS included the remarkable single-spoke steering wheel, and the glassfibre roof.

Even in the dusk, that’s a rear end like no other.

The Ami was an enormous success in France, with more than one million sold by the time production ended in 1969 – when the smoothed-off Ami 8 took over. Attempts to market it in the UK were thwarted by a market that preferred convention and import duties. Only three or four right-hand drive Ami 6s remain in the entire world.

By the time this Ami 6 was built in 1968, power had been increased substantially. A completely redesigned 602cc engine had been introduced that year, taking power from 25bhp (DIN) up to 32. It had been facelifted too, with circular headlamps now the norm and new combined rear light units that would soon be fitted to the rear of the 2CV – remaining in production until 1990.

That redesigned engine ended up in the 2CV as well, though detuned to 29bhp. Again, it remained in production until 1990, and proved very robust.

To be honest, I’ve never been a fan of these later Ami 6s. The earlier cars may have less power and a more fragile engine (one that has no external oil filter), but they have a delicious purity that the later ones lack. That said, when I look at the pictures of this one now, perhaps I’m being too picky! It’s still a remarkable looking little car.

Inside, beneath all the paraphernalia that confirms this car’s role as a daily driver for its lucky owner, there isn’t that much that has changed from the earlier Amis. It’s very simple, but very charming. Turn the key, pull the button marked D (for démarreur or starter motor) and the engine swiftly fires into life with the usual 2CV-esque whirring noise. The same push-pull gearlever as the 2CV offers perfect gear selection and bodyroll is just as pronounced once under way.

Cluttered interior as this is a daily driver.

What really amazes me though is how refined this car feels. Sure, there is still plenty of engine noise – it’s hard to make a quiet aircooled engine – but it’s not as obtrusive as it is in my 2CV, nor Pete Sparrow’s modified Ami. It’s almost peaceful.

The ride is truly astonishing too. The Ami 6 was given telescopic dampers to replace the previous friction dampers in 1963, yet it still retained ‘batteurs’ on the rear of each front wheel hub. These are effectively oil filled tubes with a large weight in them, further damping wheel movement over broken ground. Certainly across a field, the ride is extraordinarily smooth. Far more so than my XM, which is a little bit depressing given the respective ages of the vehicles, and the complication employed in the XM!

Performance is certainly acceptable, for 2CVers at least, with 0-60mph taking 27 seconds and a top speed of 75mph possible. The engine must naturally be worked hard, but that’s fine, because it likes to be driven hard. Maximum power is delivered at 5750rpm. The brakes are more than adequate, with large inboard drum brakes up front.

Amis compared. The 6 next to two 8s.

Overall then, I must concede that perhaps I was wrong to favour the earlier Ami. It’s silly how looks can lead us to overlook practicalities. Certainly, if I am to achieve my dream of Ami 6 ownership, it will be to the later end of production that I will look after this experience. In fact, I must concede that I was very reluctant to hand the keys back! The later Ami 6 really is a most magnificent machine.

Road Test: Saab 96 V4

If you want genuine variety, it is to the past that you must go. Just picture which family saloons were on the market back in the 1970s. Ford’s utterly conventional Escort was doing battle with BMC’s adventurous Allegro. Their engines were mounted differently, they each drove different wheels and one used metal springs for suspension, while the other used balls of gas and liquid.

Styling like no other – Saab ploughed its own furrow.

Even with Sweden’s own manufacturers, all two of them, there were big differences. The boxy, traditionally-engineered Volvo had rear-wheel drive and was utterly loyal to convention. The Saab was an evolution of its radical 92, launched in 1947 and could not be more different. Saab recognised that front-wheel drive gave many handling advantages, especially in poor conditions. The teardrop shape was typical of the aeroplane manufacturer and a stark contrast to the angular Volvo. Under the bonnet, Ford of Germany’s narrow-angle V4 provided an off-beat soundtrack, and drove the front wheels. This engine was bought in to replace the DKW-inspired two-stroke, three-cylinder engine used until then and finally deemed as likely to put some buyers off.

The gearbox was still allied to a column gearchange, and there was still a freewheel device – which disconnects the gearbox from the engine when you ease off the throttle – coasting in other words. This was very necessary with the two-stroke engine, as easing off the throttle in one of those cuts the fuel supply, and the lubrication as two-strokes use one fluid for both. High-speed engine running is therefore a problem if you’ve lifted off the throttle, hence a freewheel device is fitted.

Using Ford’s engine gave much more power and torque than the two-stroke design – 841cc compared to 1498cc and 40bhp up to 65bhp. It certainly helped boost sales. More than 326,000 V4s were built in 13 years compared to 220,651 two-strokes in eight years. Production finally ended in 1977, ten years after Saab’s new-fangled 99 had arrived on the scene. The old favourite had continued to sell well.

Smooth shape allows a world-beating 0.32cD drag coefficient.

The car I’m driving here dates from early 1977, so is a very late one. You’re struck by how lengthy it is – those swooping lines take it to 4.17m long, so a fair bit more than an equivalent Escort. The lack of rear doors might be an issue for some, but there’s lots of space – including an enormous boot. The 95 estate offered more load lugging space, but no extra side doors. The looks really are like nothing else. They stand entirely alone. They’re genuinely low drag too – a 0.32 drag coefficient, which puts it in the same ballpark as the McLaren F1 road car of two decades later! The swoopy Citroen DS and NSU Ro80 are 0.36. The original Volkswagen Beetle is an appalling 0.48! That helps the Saab to a 93mph top speed, and a creditable 30mpg.

Clambering aboard, the interior is a rather sombre place to sit. It’s all very black. A heavily-padded steering wheel – Saab were always big on safety – sits directly ahead of you, with the gearlever and two dainty stalks hanging from the steering column. The handbrake sits straight up from the floor where you’d expect the gearlever to be. The seats are soft and supportive, with large head restraints. Switchgear is dotted about the place, and it’s not necessarily that clear what everything does. The seatbelts lack buckles – the belt itself is merely clipped into the unit tucked down to your left.

Padded steering wheel and clear gauges.

You sit quite low, and the scuttle seems quite high, but visibility is pretty good. Being a hot day, I wind the window down, delighting in the way it pivots on its forward edge as it disappears into the door. The V4 engine thrums into life, with a booming noise exaggerated by what seems to be a fairly sporty exhaust.

Setting off requires you to pull the gearlever towards you and raise it. Second is straight down, with a slight push away and up to find third, and down for fourth. It’s all pretty easy to get used to once you’re under way, though I must concede it feels nowhere near as precise as the fantastic column change of a two-stroke era Saab.

Speed builds up quite nicely, though the 0-60mph time of 16.5 seconds remind you this is no road-burner. Still, that’s a couple of seconds quicker than an equivalent Beetle. The engine is quite noisy on the move, though I’m sure the exhaust isn’t helping. There’s a definite boom as you ask the engine to work harder, though the freewheel means things get very quiet when you ease off. Just a gentle rush of wind noise.

Handling is rather pleasant. It rolls a bit, but not too much and the rack and pinion steering offers plenty of feel and accuracy. The long gear lever does slow down your changes though, and the overall feeling is that this isn’t a car for chucking around. Not that this stopped Erik Carlsson and Stig Blomqvist on rally stages in the 1970s! Perhaps as you become more familiar with the gearchange, you feel more able to snick through the gears. Disengaging the freewheel would help too as there is no engine braking whatsoever. A good job the brakes seem good then.

But overall, this car makes a fine alternative to some of its more conventional and/or famous rivals. I’d certainly rather have one than a Beetle or Escort. It’s just such a shame that individuality like this has been all but removed from modern cars. Saab battled long and hard to retain its individuality, but all it found was bankrupcy as a reward. The company has recovered (as of 2015), but only offers one model these days.

Road Test Video: Jaguar E-Type

To tie in with the 1st July 2015 issue of Classic Car Buyer, which features my full report on my experiences in a Jaguar E-Type Series 3 V12, I’ve made this short video which summarises some of my views. It also does the one thing that my words cannot do – it lets you listen to the car itself!

So, what is a last-of-the-line E-Type really like?

Be warned, it does also feature an out of control beard. Sorry.

My thanks to Hartlebury Castle and Great Escape Classic Car Hire.

e-Golf: The biggest electric road trip yet

Road Test Part 4 – The 300-mile roadtrip. Part 3 (The not-so good) Here.

Sorry, you’ll have a further wait for my conclusions on the Volkswagen e-Golf, as I first need to relate the details of my biggest ever electric car road trip.

I began the day aiming to crack 200 miles in the day, though I’d actually done this before with the Nissan e-NV200. After failing the other day, I aimed to get a rapid charge at Oswestry on the Electric Highway. From there, I would hopefully head north – probably to Chester, though that opened up the whole of the M6 and therefore, much of England.

Success! e-Golf slurps DC current at 110Amps.

Now, things didn’t start all that well. The first two attempts to get electrons flowing resulted in a baffling error message. So, I did what any IT bod would do. I effectively rebooted it by removing the connector from the car and starting again. Third time lucky, and I could head off for a brew.

It was definitely time for a brew, as I’d been driving for almost two hours by this point, having covered 62 miles on typical Welsh A roads. By the time I got back to the car, it was already at 85% charge! It had been at 48% when I arrived just 15 minutes earlier. Charging slows as the battery fills, so although going to maximum is not advised (certainly on a regular basis – it’s healthier to stop at 80%), I left it going and supped my brew. And perhaps a cookie.

Soon enough, it was time to continue my journey. I headed up the A483 towards Chester. Now, Chester is a nice place, but the next rapid charger was a mere 35 miles away. That hardly felt like the stuff of adventure. Hold on. Isn’t there (bizzarely) a rapid charger on Holyhead? A quick consultation of Ecotricity’s map revealed that this was the case. Sat nav reckoned it was 92 miles away. The range estimate was 98 miles. Easy!

Of course, I may have neglected to remember that Snowdonia lies between the two, and that electric cars (and normal cars for that matter) use up a lot more energy when climbing hills. I got off to a good start though, and twenty miles in, it still reckoned it had over 80 miles of range. Brilliant. I passed through beautiful Llangollen (for the third time this year), delightful Betws-y-Coed and as I climbed the next steep hill, noted that I appeared to have 38 miles of range for the 34 remaining miles. Ah. I knocked the cruise control down from 50mph to 45. Perhaps if I climbed hills more slowly, all would be well.

Normally, travelling this slowly would pain me – even going uphill in the 2CV – but actually, it was really relaxing. Mainly because this was not a weekend and there was not much traffic. Incredibly, I still encountered folk going more slowly than me! I set the Adaptive Cruise Control and let the e-Golf follow their pace. Saving yet more miles. As we neared the A55, the range was again around 20 miles higher than my destination distance. I could do 60mph with relish.

I arrived at Holyhead with a full 16 miles of spare range. The charger (or rather chargers) took a little finding, being hidden at the far end of the short term car park at The Port of Holyhead. I was pleased with my stats so far though.

5.2 miles per kilowatt hour is pretty impressive for the speed and terrain!

Frankly, managing to AVERAGE 40mph across Snowdonia and mid-Wales is not bad in any car. But to do it while achieving a very creditable 5.2 miles per kilowatt hour impressed me no end. Clearly all the momentum-conservation tips I’ve learnt through 2CVing came in useful, as did actually allowing the car to slow on hills rather than using all of that beautiful torque to keep the speed up. It was also fun, as I didn’t slow down much for bends…

At Holyhead, the only issue was that I first parked at a charger that didn’t have the DC CCS plug I needed. The other one did, and started charging straight away – no issues.

Just to prove it. That’s a ferry in the background at Holyhead.

The only other issue is that the port is unremittingly grim! I’m glad I only had to enter the main building to use the toilet. I charged to about 90%, giving a range of 100 miles, and set off back to Oswestry.

There seemed a little more traffic on the way back, so I made more use of the cruise control. I found it accelerated more gently when placed in Eco mode, so I sat back to enjoy the views, listen to BBC Radio 6 Music on DAB (where terrain allowed) and focus merely on not steering the car off the road. I did get fed up with a dawdler in a BMW at one point and made a lavish, range-sapping overtake. That torque means you can zip past and expose yourself to danger for a very short period. Confident I’d make it back with miles to spare, I allowed myself the luxury of a 60mph cruise.

There was one brief period after a long climb where the range dropped below the predicted mileage, and the car started frantically asking me if I wanted to find a charging station. For a giggle, I told it to do this, and it told me it couldn’t find any. None of the Electric Highway chargers seem to be on its map. This is poor.

But I made it anyway, gave it another charge, drank more tea (I refuse to comment on cookie intake) and headed home. I had way more charge than I needed, so got a positive hoon on along the A44. It’s a nice car to drive briskly. As I pulled up at home, the e-Golf reported that it’d clocked up 300 miles since leaving home that morning. In total, I’ve driven this car 700 miles since Thursday. Not bad going for any car, but unthinkable with an electric car only a few years ago. Truly, times have changed.

Road Test: Talbot Alpine LE. Dreadful but fantastic.

A quick break from the world of electric Volkswagens as I correct a massive oversight – how could I forget that I’d finally had a decent drive in a Talbot Alpine?

Sheer glamour, the other week. Surely it must be dreadful to drive?

I’ve long admired the Talbot née Simca/Chrysler Alpine. As Simca’s final flurry, it was a bold statement. It took the basic formula of the Renault 16 – hatchback, space, comfort – and brought it bang up to date, with sharp styling and quite a few less quirks. It was powered by the ‘Poissy’ four-cylinder, overhead valve engine that had first seen life in the 1961 Simca 1000. Ok, that bit was less bang up to date!

Sold as the Simca 1307 in France, and the Chrysler Alpine in the UK, the car took the European Car of the Year award in 1976 – the year after launch. That was also the year that UK production commenced, at the now-sadly demolished Ryton-on-Dunsmore plant near Coventry. Fewer than 200,000 were built there by the time production ended in 1986. Not a hugely successful run, though the Simca 1307/1308 sold much better – 200,000 were built by the end of 1976! This one model accounted for 7% of all French car sales that year.

The British were not so welcoming. The engines were seen as too noisy, and the market the Alpine was aimed at wanted a nice, conventional saloon. Like the Morrs Marina, Ford Cortina or Vauxhall Cavalier. Our loss really, as these are rather good cars. Chrysler Europe was sold to Peugeot in 1979, who dug the Talbot name out of the archives. The Talbot Alpine soon got a restyle, with a squarer nose.

This one looks dreadful. The body was absolutely hanging – at the time of writing, the entire rear quarter on the driver’s side has now been replaced and further work is ongoing.

Typical Talbot Alpine rot. This has all been cut out and replaced now.

Oddly, this base LE model has the 1592cc, 89bhp engine. It starts promptly and isn’t as noisy as you might expect. A lot of the ‘Simca rattle’ is down to poorly adjusted valve clearances. It certainly sounds much healthier than it looks! The seats are typically French – very soft, with coverings that have disintegrated in UV light. Pulling away, you soon realise that this is an exceedingly jolly car to drive. It feels leagues ahead of the Cortina/Cavalier/Marina trio. How stupid British conservatism can be. It is hard to place it as a car of the 1970s as it feels much more like a Cavalier Mk2 or Montego. The steering is particularly nice and while the car rolls a bit in bends thanks to that soft suspension, it corners really, really well. They do have a reputation for understeer if you push too hard, but that’s easily avoided by not pushing too hard.

The engine pulls staggeringly well. I tested the car up my favourite hill, and it just loped up it in fifth gear! You barely need to change gear at all, which is a shame as it shifts very nicely, with seemingly none of the baggy nonsense that a Peugeot gearchange usually entails – jump into a Peugeot 205 to see what I mean.

Shabby chic? Soft seats offer great comfort. Very 1980s in feel, even though design dates from 1970s.

Overall then, this car was one of the biggest surprises from a day of driving ‘dreadful’ motor cars. That honour is perhaps shared with the Lancia Y10, but while the tiny Italian tearaway was an absolute hoot, it’s the Talbot Alpine that I’d much rather own on a day-to-day basis. A shame then that they rot so readily! I’m glad this one is now getting the restoration it deserves.

Road Test: Lancia Y10 1.3GTie entirely wins me over

This is a car that attended Shitefest last year, after a monumental weld-fest. Unsurprisingly, it was rotten as a pair, and most of the underside had to be replaced. I didn’t get to drive it last year, so, despite the owner now temporarily living in Australia, I thought I’d better not miss out this time.

While the owner is away, he has loaned the car to various members of the Autoshite forum. It was one of these temporary carers who brought it to Shitefest.

Tiny Lancia is sheer joy to drive.

First, a bit about the Y10. In Italy, it was actually badged as an Autobianchi – the spin-off from Fiat that has a history of producing slightly-quirky designs, such as the Primula – the first modern-era hatchback with a transverse engine and end-on gearbox. MacPherson strut front suspension is allied to a dead ‘Omega’ beam axle at the rear. This formed the basis of the suspension improvements on the Mk2 Fiat Panda, when the simple leaf springs were replaced by coils.

This one is a GTie – which replaced the frenetic Turbo in 1989. It uses a 1.3-litre engine, not one generally used on Fiats at the time, but an overhead-cam version of the Fiat 124 engine, built in Brazil. It seems the Y10 uniquely used a fuel injected version of this engine. Power output is 78bhp.

I’d heard people say these cars were a good laugh, so I climbed aboard with many great expectations. The first thing that struck me is how wide this car felt for a small thing! It’s a bit Tardis-like. The engine isn’t overly quiet, but as I accelerated up my favourite test hill, I actually hooted out loud! Gosh, this car is hilarious! A kerb weight of 850kg means there’s not much weight to shift, but it really does feel a lot more powerful than the paper stats suggest.

The pedals are tiny though, so its best to avoid braking. That’s fine, as this car handles absolutely superbly. It makes Minis seem a bit reluctant with the way it dives into corners at seemingly suicidal speeds. I just had not expected a supermini to be such an absolute riot. I imagine it’s not bad on a long trip if you can resist endlessly wringing its neck.

You can keep your XR2s and MG Metros though. When it comes to diminutive fun, this is my new benchmark. It’s entirely worthy of the Lancia badge.

Road Test: BMW 335i Touring

BMW E30 fans will already be querying the model name that doesn’t exist, so that tells you already that this is no normal motor vehicle. Open the bonnet and you won’t find much spare space – this engine is a full litre larger than any E30 from the factory.

I must admit, I had mixed emotions as I clambered aboard this silly-looking, chopped-suspension estate. This is exactly the sort of car I don’t much like. Slammed, noisy and with more power than any reasonable person needs.

Meaty Beemer fends off hovering males

I mean, just look at it. Barely any suspension travel and silly wheels. Clambering aboard revealed a tiny steering wheel thrust towards your chest, and seats that grabbed you in a bear hug.

A twist of the key fires the six-cylinder engine noisily into life. I pointed the nose up a nice, steep hill and floored it. Cue loads of misfiring and not much acceleration. See? Silly car. Then the chap who owns it switched off the (now empty) LPG tank and encouraged actual petrol into the engine. I tried again.

Jeepers! We must have overtaken several scalded cats and excrement ladled from a shovel as we flew up the hill. The car showed the sort of disdain for gravity that I usually reserve for Tory MPs. It had that typical, smooth BMW six-pot bellow. Yes, it was louder than you might normally expect, but still wondrously smooth. I didn’t dare take it near the redline at first, for fear I might simply run out of road.

Not much space in here. Meaty.

Perhaps the most annoying aspect was the way this car darted into corners. No roll, no upset if any bumps were encountered, just a lithe feeling that made you want to try harder next time. I did eventually trouble the upper echelons of the rev-range and it was something I just wanted to do again. Instantly. To do so in third gear would have taken us way beyond any desirable road speed though, so I didn’t.

That kind of proved my point really. It is a stupid amount of power. Totally unnecessary and very hard to exploit on the road without getting into trouble. So, why was I grinning so much when I clambered out?

Car provided by Fu’Gutty Cars.

HubNut – celebrating the average!