BMWs attract a bad press generally, and the people who like them are often considered of very bad judgement: People who love themselves and want to show the world how great they are by cruising around in an ‘enthusiasts’ motor car, not white good trash built for plebs. I’ve been one of the detractors for many years, though I was still alarmed to get accused of onanism on one occasion while overtaking a ‘classic’ Mini in a BMW E39 saloon. It wasn’t even mine and we owned a Mini at the time! At least, I think that’s what he was signalling. It definitely wasn’t ‘turning left.’

The annoying thing is though, BMWs often ARE really good cars, built for enthusiasts – though they do seem to produce feeble versions for the wannabe pleb-types. I always thought the four-cylinder Z3 roadster was such a vehicle. Surely the real enthusiast absolutely has to choose the sonorous, powerful six-pot version?

Apparently not. Because I drove this, and I liked it.

Annoyingly good

It’s a 1.9-litre, four-pot and the first Z3 I ever drove. (that’s not me at the wheel, this was only a couple of years ago). I jumped into it assuming I’d hate it. From the moment of its launch, it seemed to be a car that screamed ‘smug’ at the top of its voice. Even worse, James Bond abandoned his Aston for one in the film Goldeneye. I’m not sure I’ve got over that to be honest. It was a low moment for the Bond franchise. I’m not actually that bothered that all Z3s were actually built in South Carolina in the USA. Judging by this one, they did a decent enough job of screwing them together.

The quality was certainly the first impression. The way the doors shut, the interior plastics and the lack of rattles on the move all give a feeling of quality that you certainly don’t get in say an MGF, the sunvisors for which were stolen from Fisher-Price. The engine is punchy enough too for public roads, allowing you to build speed rapidly, with a nice exhaust note, without attracting the attentions of The Law. What really staggered me was the handling though. I thought I’d chuck it about a bit to see how good the grip was, but only managed to upset my internal organs.

Not rubbish

I clambered out of it feeling like I’d had an absolute hoot. The same day, I drove an MGF and found it entertaining if flimsy, and an Audi TT Roadster which was about as exciting as a four-hour lecture on envelopes. The Audi went so far as to be a disappointment. It was so typically a German car. It worked so hard to be good that it ended up being dull. The sort of extrovert that you hide from at parties before they crack another ‘hilarious’ joke and try to get the pretty girls to drink too much.

This makes it all the more extraordinary that the BMW delivered. It manages to be good without losing sight of the need to be able to go ‘wheee!” as you zoom down the road. My short road test of the Z3 just left me wanting more. On paper, that’s not very surprising perhaps. It’s so like me to favour a lesser-powered version. Maybe I need to savour a six-pot to see whether less is more. What is surprising though is that this is far from the first BMW that has left me realising that behind the much-derided badge, is a series of very impressive cars.

As Great Britain recovered from the ravages of the Second World War, its car manufacturers faces a huge battle to restart production. Some new models arrived – notably the Armstrong Siddeley Lancaster and Hurricane as early as 1945 – but generally most companies hastily relaunched their pre-war ranges. Progress was slow to arrive, so Jowett rather stunned the world with the Javelin of 1947. For a start, it looked very much of its time, not something styled in the previous decade. The sweeping lines hid torsion bar suspension all-round, rack and pinion steering and Jowett’s own flat-four engine in 1486cc form.

One of my very favourite cars, the Jowett Javelin

Gerald Palmer designed the car – he would go on to pen the delicious MG Magnette Z, a favourite sporting saloon of many, including myself. He was allowed to be rather unconventional for the time, with engineering seemingly inspired far more by the likes of Citroen than other British manufacturers. Sadly, crankshaft problems blighted the engines, gearbox woes were next in line and then Ford bought Jowett’s body supplier. It all went a bit wrong and the 23,307 sold just wasn’t enough. Jowett ceased production in 1953 and one of Britain’s most exciting manufacturers was dead and buried.

That’s all history though. What is a Javelin like to drive today? Naturally, it’s really rather good, or I wouldn’t like it. History is fine, but I won’t rate a car if I don’t like driving it. I demand a car that handles and stops. The Javelin does, with its distinctive flat-four engine noise giving a wonderful off-beat thrum familiar to anyone who’s spent time with Volkswagen Beetles or Subaru Imprezas. It remains refined though and delivers strong performance for its age and size – 80mph is comfortably within reach.

Large steering wheel and a great column gearchange

The huge steering wheel gives wonderful feel, and the column-mounted gearchange is an engineering delight. It makes you wonder why column change never became more popular. Reach a bend and you needn’t be too cautious as it’ll sail around pretty quickly if you ask it too. Full hydraulic brakes – far from universal in the late 1940s in Britain – ensure speed can be reduced without worry.

Time has enabled enthusiasts to overcome many of the car’s foibles. For my money, the Javelin remains one of the best classic saloons money can buy. I just wish I had enough money to buy one!

There’s been very little to report on the fleet this week, so I thought I’d put finger to keyboard to talk about cars that have scared me silly.

While driving a 440bhp Lola T70 replica on a damp December morning rates as one of the driving experiences most able to loosen the bowels, even that doesn’t come close to how terrified I was doing 40mph in an elderly British classic.

I remember it well. The car appeared to be trying to drive in two directions at once, the clutch pedal had about a millimeter of travel and the brakes seemed not to exist. Never has a straight road been such a shoulder-tearing challenge. Changing gear was akin to waving a wand at a bucket of cogs. There were no brake lights, no indicators and the headlamps redefined the word dim.

Terrifying isn’t it?

Yes, the car in question is an Austin Seven. I’ve driven several of them and they’ve all been pretty scary. Look at that picture again and you can just see the front brakes in the middle of the wheels. I’ve seen larger flies. I once drove one with an SU carburettor which could apparently do 70mph! I had enough trouble stopping it from 20…

But there’s something absolutely magical about a Seven. You really, REALLY have to drive one. You don’t just hop in and set off. Just travelling to the end of the road can be an adventure. I have major respect for the members of the Austin Seven world who drove the entire length of Route 66 in America. That’s just incredible.

The Austin Seven was conceived and developed in secret by Herbert Austin and a 14-year old apprentice. The management board thought it was a really bad idea, so Austin took to designing the car at home. Thankfully, the board were convinced that it was a good idea once they saw an actual car, and the Seven hit the road in 1922. It really was a shrunken down proper car, with a tiny four-cylinder engine, three-speed gearbox and mechanical brakes – the handbrake operated the front wheels, the footbrake just the rears. In 1930, the front and rear were finally linked.

Sales were hugely strong, backing up Austin’s bravery in conceiving such a small design. The Seven was developed into the Ruby of 1934, which had a little more luxury. In fact, the Ruby is quite different to drive. Sure, it still fights all over the road, but the brakes are better and it steers with a little more accuracy. Still a shock to folk used to modern classics!

Ruby at speed. But not very much of it.

Really, everyone should be forced to learn how to drive an Austin Seven. You develop much more of an awareness of the world around you. Hills must be anticipated as must danger. You feel more like you’re wrestling a snake than driving, which keeps you awake! It isn’t a car that transports you with the minimum of fuss, it’s a car you must pilot with the care of an aeronaut.

Yes, they may be scary, but I still regard any opportunity to drive one as humbling and entertaining. It’s an experience to savour, all well within the speed limits of our time. If someone offers you the chance to try one, take it!

Day two and the Ami is still making me giggle. Even just having it parked on the driveway is a pleasure.

Not as much of a pleasure as driving it though. Thanks to some choice modifications, including a Weber carburettor and gas-flowed cylinder heads, it’s ludicrously quick for a 602cc 4-seater built in 1965. At tickover, the exhaust sounds like it’s blowing badly, but give it the beans and it sounds insane! Acceleration is a bit of a shock to a 2CV owner too. This thing can actually shift.

It is unusual hearing that 2CV soundtrack in something which looks like a proper car – albeit one that looks most unlike any other proper car. But it is a little saloon, with proper doors, rather more comfort and a solid roof – one made out of plastic just to add to the quirky features. It feels like you sit much lower down than a 2CV, but I’m not sure that you actually do. The gearshift is a bit more of a stretch away, and not just because this car is left-hand drive. The cabin is wider than a 2CV, which means you seem to sit further away from the middle of the car – and therefore the gearchange. I’m sure there’s a gnat’s wing in it, but it does feel much wider.

Impress the chicks with an Ami

It’s quieter too. Sure, that exhaust is barking like an over-excited terrier, but wind noise is vastly reduced compared to a 2CV. With this punchy engine, an indicated 70mph is both relatively quiet and requires surprisingly little throttle. It’s quite unusual to be able to travel that quickly and still have power in reserve.

The seats seem to be even softer, closer to the feel of a DS – with that car also providing inspiration for the single-spoke steering wheel. The car bounces, and you bounce too, like the driver of one of those posh trucks where the seat and even the cab are separately sprung from the road wheels.

Not that the soft springing seems to bother the handling. The large wheel can induce comedy levels of lean, though the slightly lower stance of this one means it seems to corner with a little less drama. Fat 145 Continental tyres help too.

One intricate and quirky feature is the indicator stalk. Toggle indicators seem like a modern invention designed just to confuse people. Yet again, Citroën got there first! On the Ami, you flick the lever the way you want to indicate. It then returns to its normal position but the indicators flash. You have to pull the lever towards you to cancel it! Sounds absolutely ridiculous, but works well in practice, and at least the stalk doesn’t fall off in your hand like it can in a 2CV…

If all this makes it sound like I prefer the Ami to a 2CV, then you might just be right. I’m a bit shocked. Cars I’ve always wanted to drive can often be a bit disappointing in the metal. Not this one! The only problem is that I must force myself to remember that not all Amis drive quite as well (or as quickly!) as this one…

The first car I drove after passing my driving test back in 1995 was an Austin Montego 1.6L estate in the rather pleasant shade of Lynx Bronze. It was my dad’s company car and a pleasant ol’ bus it was too. Leaping from a Vauxhall Corsa straight into this slab of Austin-Rover loveliness was akin to going from a dinghy to a royal yacht. This car was so big that you couldn’t easily reach the passenger door from the driver’s seat! It felt enormous.

All credit to my dad then because the weekend after I passed my test, he jumped into the passenger seat of said Montego and let me take him for a drive. Now, my dad is a lovely bloke, but he’s about as comfortable in the passenger seat of a car as I am. If Jenson Button was driving me, I’d question his abilities and would be convinced that I was surely to die in a spectacular fireball. I think my dad is similar of mind.

Happily, I didn’t crash but I still have happy memories of that first drive and find it a bit sad that the Montego in question was, like so many, scrapped many years ago.

Incredibly, I’d not driven a Montego since, though I did briefly own a Maestro 1.3L, which redefined the word ‘disappointing’ in my mind.

So when I found myself heading to the exotic location of Crewe to drive a Montego for the first time in 17 years, I was rather concerned about how the experience would pan out. Would it be utterly boring and disappointing like the Maestro or would it rekindle a whole heap of nostalgic memories?

I must admit that I’m one of few people who consider the Montego an attractive car. Especially in silver, with a surprisingly pleasant set of alloy wheels attached.

Montego. Surprisingly attractive.

I know that Roy Axe, who moved to Austin-Rover just as the Montego was developed, was horrified when shown a Montego prototype. He disliked the scalloped sides inherited from the Maestro and the uncomfortable rear side glass. To his credit, he tweaked as best he could and the Montego was one of the sharpest lookers of its time – though the blobby Ford Sierra and ruthlessly angular Vauxhall Cavalier were hardly masters of style themselves.

It’s not a bad story inside either. The interior hasn’t dated very much at all really, with clear, informative dials only let down by the rather scattergun approach to switchgear. One gimmick I love is indicator stalks that are gently illuminated. The fit and finish isn’t bad, but sadly there are some nasty plasticky creaks and groans. Nothing unusual to a Citroen BX owner it must be said…

Not bad inside, almost pleasant!

But the time had come. Being a freelance writer allows you to indulge in moments like this. I was about to drive a Montego again.

You might mock, but I was genuinely excited about this. I’d hurtled northwards in my Nissan Bluebird with a genuine buzz, and not one generated by the Bluebird’s amazingly well constructed interior. I was putting the two cars head to head for a feature in Classic Car Mart – the details of which you can read in the November 2012 issue.

But this was it. The S-Series, 1.6-litre engine was up and running. Off we go!

The first thing that struck me is how un-boat-like it felt. That last Montego had felt wallowy and enormous, but I’ve driven an awful lot of cars since then. The Montego now felt really rather pleasant. There was no power steering, but it simply didn’t feel necessary, even with the extra width of the non-standard wheels and tyres. Noise levels were good, the engine felt perky and it was very comfortable.

Sure, it was about as composed in the bends as an X Factor contestant talking about how they were doing it for their guinea pig or grandfather or something, but that’s ok. This car harks from a time when family cars rightly placed comfort ahead of excellent on-track handling. It was fine if you didn’t push it. If you want a sports car, buy a sports car!

I really did enjoy this one though. It might seem odd to get excited about what has become such a forgettable car to so many people, but it was a firm reminder to me that ALL cars are worthy of collector status, for these are the cars that we remember from our younger days, and they’re often really rather good.

Montego – worthy of remembrance

The Morris Marina may not seem the most ideal choice on which to base a sports car, but that’s exactly what the Yorkshire-based Naylor Brothers did in the 1980s.

They hit on the rather spiffing idea of combining the flowing-yet-traditional lines of the MG TF with more modern running gear and a few more creature comforts. The Marina and Ital’s new O-Series engine would provide rather more urge than the old XPEG MG engine, linked to the Morris gearbox and rear axle. Happily the Marina’s leaf springs were replaced by coils and the ancient trunnions of the Marina were replaced by MacPherson struts. The Naylor TF1700 was fully type approved, with backing from Austin-Rover. 100 were built between 1984 and 1986 before the venture failed. A further 61 were sold as Hutsons after the failed company was purchased by another enthusiast.

The heart of a Marina lurks beneath the traditional bodywork

The car driven here is a Hutson and it was rather a revelation. There is a hint of kit car in some details, like the out-of-place front indicators and the chunky Chrysler door handles, but it is otherwise a very faithful copy of the TF. Like the original, there’s a steel chassis and the body is formed in ash, with steel panels wrapping around it. It therefore feels nice and solid.

The interior is an interesting mix of tradition and modernity with controls nabbed from then-current Austin-Rovers. The walnut dashboard is a nice touch though and it doesn’t feel any more ‘wrong’ than a Morgan, which similarly mixes traditional wood with modern switchgear.

Proper wood and modern switchgear combine

The biggest surprise comes when you drive off though. Who would have thought that a Marina engine could sound so rorty! Acceleration is strong enough too, feeling much quicker than the 12-second 0-60mph time. I may only have been blatting about the bumpy roads of Birmingham but this car felt taught, responsive and above all good fun. The Marina rear axle is better located, with a proper four-link set-up with Panhard rod. The coil springs all-round mean a much more comfortable ride than any original MG T-Type but this doesn’t seem to come at the cost of cornering ability.

There is a very passionate club for these cars, and it’s easy to see why. Who needs a Morgan if you want tradition and a few creature comforts? I was certainly impressed and in the best tradition of MG, the mechanicals of a thoroughly ordinary car have been transformed into something rather special.