After three years of on-the-job training interspersed with block release courses at a college in Sheffield, I became a qualified journalist, (supposedly) proficient in the art of law, public administration, shorthand and how best to make a parish council meeting zing in print.

I saw myself becoming Jon Swain, dodging bullets and bombs in the world’s troublespots as I dashed hither and thither in a never-ending quest for the truth. But instead I moved to London and became a teddy-bear salesman.

I was rubbish at it. I’d drive all the way to Cwmbran or Pontefract where the usually horrid proprietor of a gift shop would listen to my spiel and then say: “No thanks.” I knew, of course, that I was supposed to talk him round, but instead I’d say: “Oh, okay.” And then drive back to London.

In the course of two years I covered 100,000 miles and sold six Captain Beakies, two stuffed dogs, a tea cosy and 14 Paddingtons. It was pathetic and backs up Adam Smith’s observation that in order to survive you must specialise.

Bernie Ecclestone, for instance, is a superb businessman but would not, and I’m only guessing of course, be a very good nurse. Can you see Kate Moss running the United Nations, or Jilly Cooper taking charge of the Football League? I struggle, too, to imagine Terry Wogan as a terrorist.

Tony Blair is blessed with an ability to lie through his teeth, which is a useful tool if you want to be a successful lawyer, but it makes him a hopeless prime minister. And then there’s his deputy, a fine and conscientious ship’s steward, I’m sure. But how can the ability to mix a decent gin and tonic qualify someone to run the nation’s housing? We see the same sort of problem in the world of cars. For the past 30 years BMW has specialised in expensive, well engineered sporting saloons. So unsurprisingly its attempt to make a small hatchback, as we saw recently with the introduction of the 1-series, was as successful as my attempt to be a salesman.

Then there’s Audi. Since the beginning of the 1980s it has made nicely designed, technically innovative large cars, but then one day the boss woke up and thought: “I know, let’s build a supermini.”

The result was the catastrophic A2, which cost £14,000, leading some to believe that it was made from gold. In fact, it was made from aluminium that was so light and flimsy the whole car rocked from side to side when you turned the windscreen wipers on.

More recently Volkswagen decided to forget its roots completely and introduce a £50,000 W12 super-saloon called the Phaeton. It’s a wonderful car, one of my favourites in fact. But the small number that came to Britain are now being used to ferry Jordan and Kerry McFadden to and from glittering functions in the West End.

The most disastrous attempt to switch direction, though, came from Mercedes-Benz, purveyor of solid, quiet and dignified diplomatic transport to 85% of the world’s governments.

After a hundred years, that three-pointed star became an emblematic byword for quality and engineering excellence, a symbol of what capitalism could achieve. And as a result it’s probably true to say that it has done more to bring down tyranny and end oppression than even the B-52 bomber.

Then Mercedes decided to make a hatchback and the world woke up one morning to find the A-class had arrived.

On the face of it this seemed to be a fine idea; all that Mercedes quality in a package that every man could afford. But pretty soon the whole thing fell apart.

In the course of doing a standard lane change manoeuvre — known as the elk test — a Swedish motoring journalist found the little Merc had an alarming propensity to roll over.

If you suddenly needed to swerve while travelling at more than 50mph, the little car didn’t understeer, as you would expect from such a thing. It flipped onto its roof.

The problem was, of course, that Mercedes was not Fiat or Renault. It had no real experience of small front-wheel-drive cars and consequently no deep-seated understanding of the way they might behave in extreme circumstances.

So the A-class was taken back to the drawing board and given a traction control system that cured the problem. Then it was released again with Mercedes trumpeting a safety message.

Mercedes actually argued that it had two floors — the normal one, and then another to which the seats were bolted — so that in the event of a head-on accident the engine would slide into the gap between the two, underneath the occupants rather than into their crotches.

Sounds brilliant. But the real reason that the car had a sandwich floor was rather different. You see, the A-class had been originally conceived as an electric car and the cavity had been created as somewhere to store the batteries.

It was a complete hotchpotch then — Merc’s Edsel. A Daimler-Benz Corvair. But in Britain alone 88,372 people bought one. So rather than give up on the idea and go back to making big saloons, the company has just brought out A-class 2. The Sequel.

The first thing you’ll notice when you step inside is that this doesn’t feel like a cut-price Mercedes. There’s no sense of going to Barbados’s west coast and staying in a two-star hotel. You will find that the quality of the trim and the texture of the upholstery are pretty much exactly the same as they are on a £100,000 S-class.

Then there’s the size. This new A-class is bigger in every dimension than the original, so you’d expect more space. But not this much more. The back, in particular, is hugely roomy, and if you remove the rear seats completely — well, it’s a van.

It doesn’t look like one, though. I always rather liked the style of the first A-class but the new version is in a different league. The three-door model, especially, is the funkiest thing to have come out of Germany since . . . um. Crikey. I suspect it may be the funkiest thing to come out of Germany ever.

Then there’s the list of equipment. My test car had satellite navigation, an in-built telephone, an air-conditioned glove box to stop your chocolate melting, an airbag for my thorax, and a traction control system that came down like a big steel firewall if I even thought about swerving round an elk.

Sadly, it also came with fat, ultra-low-profile tyres, which made the ride harsh and jarring. If you’re asked whether you’d like these on your car it doesn’t matter how charming the salesman is being, or how much you think they improve the looks, Just Say No.

And please, don’t try to argue that they’ll improve the handling, because that traction control will step in long before the height of the tyre’s sidewall could make any difference.

Under the bonnet I had a diesel that was . . . well, it was a diesel. So it made a din when it started but compensated for this by being economical. Same as every other diesel, in fact.

Overall, though, I have to say that the A-class was very, very good. It drives and feels just like a much bigger Mercedes, and that brings me on to the only significant drawback. It’s also priced like a much bigger Mercedes.

Oh, sure, we’re told that the base model is actually a few hundred pounds less than the base model of the outgoing version, despite a bigger engine and a longer list of standard equipment. But the car they sent me, an A200 CDI, costs a simply massive £19,995.

This is probably why the car works so well. Because it’s not a diversion for Mercedes at all. It’s exactly what Mercedes has been doing for 100 years, only a tiny bit smaller.

Before signing off, I would just like to say that Merc’s dealers seem to be improving. For the past few years they were the worst in the industry — rude and utterly incompetent. But my own experience, and a sharp drop-off in the number of letters I get on the subject, suggest that they’re back on track.

Vital statistics

Model Mercedes-Benz A200 CDI Elegance SE
Engine type Four-cylinder, 1992cc
Power 140bhp @ 4200rpm
Torque 221 lb ft @ 1600-2600rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual
Fuel 52.3mpg (combined)
CO2 141g/km
Acceleration 0-62mph: 9.6sec
Top speed 126mph
Price £19,995
Rating 4/5
Verdict Just as good as its bigger brothers

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