The car you see in the photographs this morning is not very good. Quite apart
from the fact that it’s a Vauxhall Astra, which has the social appeal of
herpes, it has wonky steering and a completely unfathomable on-board
computer. But I’d have one.
This, you see, is a fabulous piece of design, as handsome and as “right” as
any Ferrari. If Aston Martin were to make a small three-door hatchback, it
would look like this. And I’m sorry, but when something looks this good, who
cares if the steering wheel is wrenched from your hands every time you stamp
on the loud pedal? I’m not being silly, either. I mean, who cares if your
children’s nanny keeps setting fire to the house and leaving hypodermic
needles in the bath? Just as long as she’s easy on the eye.
In fact, it’s the same story with everything we ever buy. Televisions, kitchen
utensils, flowers, paintings, trousers. We look at the range of what we can
afford and then we buy the prettiest. I recently bought a cheese scraper
from the Conran shop. It can’t actually scrape cheese but it doesn’t half
look fine and dandy, hanging on the wall.
For some reason, however, cars are different. People do go out and
deliberately buy something that has all the aesthetic appeal of a
pensioner’s diseased gum. I’m thinking now of the Chevrolet Tacuma. (Don’t
be fooled by the name. It’s a Daewoo really.) Then there’s the
soon-to-be-launched SsangYong Rodius. Styled by the same man who brought you
the Bentley Continental R and the Aston Martin Vantage, it is quite simply
the most hideous shape to grace the world since Ena Sharples went west. It
has wheels the size of Smarties, a body with the fat content of a Floridian
television addict and a back end more scary than anything you have ever seen
on Doctor Who.
We’re told that when it comes to Britain it will cost around £19,000 and that,
you might think, would be the final nail in its coffin. But I can absolutely
guarantee that someone out there, a caravannist probably, with a lifetime
subscription to Which? magazine, will buy one. What’s more, I can
also guarantee he won’t be alone.
Frankly, I’d make them get planning permission. I mean, if you aren’t allowed
to build a small wooden shed outside your house without council approval,
why should you be allowed to park something this offensive on your drive?
Good contemporary car design isn’t hard these days, now that car makers once
again have one platform onto which any body that takes their fancy can be
nailed. Land Rover, for instance, launched the new Discovery and then, in
the blink of an eye, used the same underpinnings to come up with the
Cheshirised Range Rover Sport.
Over in Germany, a Jaguar fan working in the Mercedes design studio tinkered
in his free time with the notion of a Merc that looked like a Jag. His
bosses liked the idea, told him to bolt it to a standard E-class chassis,
and within a few months the staggeringly beautiful CLS was outside Bernie
Ecclestone’s house . . . with two wheels missing.
Best of all, there’s the Alfa Romeo Brera. This replacement for the GT is, and
I’m not exaggerating, one of the most stupendously beautiful cars ever made.
You see it and you don’t care that underneath it’s just a collection of Fiat
bits. You just have to have one.
Think of it as Angelina Jolie. You’ve heard that she’s mad and eats nothing
but wallpaper paste. But you would, wouldn’t you.
Thanks to the Alfa, and the new Mazda MX-5, and the CLS, and a whole host of
others, there is now a bigger range of good-looking cars on the market than
at any time since probably the mid-Sixties. And almost none of them are
Vauxhalls.
Ever since I was a small boy, Vauxhall has never ever produced anything even
remotely beautiful. I’m thinking back now to the Viva and the Cresta and
that woodlouse Astra it did in the Eighties, and there’s no warm glow of
nostalgia. In fact, I’m starting to feeling vomitous.
Vauxhalls have always been my bête noire, because they’ve always
been so depressingly dull. Magnolia paint with a tax disc. As appealing and
as tasty as warm skimmed milk. As dynamic as someone who’s dead.
Mainly, I suspect this is because Vauxhall’s a part of General Motors which,
so far as I can tell, is a bit of a misnomer. It seems to concentrate mainly
on pensions and healthcare and for as long as I can remember has seen the
carmaking side of the business as an expensive loss-making nuisance.
This explains the Vectra. They gave it some seats, a pair of windscreen wipers
and a roof, and, just before the morning coffee break, with a sigh of
relief, went back to their Medicare and pension plans.
I read recently that a copper in Shropshire had been videoed doing 159 in his
Vectra. Now I know that anyone in their right mind would want to get the
journey over quickly, so they could get out of the car, but come on: 159? In
a Vectra? If I’d been his defence lawyer, I’d have had a close look at the
video equipment because this sort of speed, even in the V6, is simply not
possible. Quite apart from the engine’s lack of grunt, you lose the will to
live by the time you ’ve hit 40.
I hate the Vectra. I hate the old Astra. And I really hate the Corsa. They are
an affront to me in the same way that a poorly made sandwich is an affront
to Gordon Ramsay. There’s no pizzazz, no passion, no point.
But the three-door Astra hatchback is different. Quite apart from the
meaningful stance and the Brad Pitt body, it has an air of quality you
certainly wouldn’t expect from a Vauxhall, or indeed any car in this part of
the marketplace.
Under the skin there’s been a bit of cost cutting — the rear suspension’s a
bit basic, for instance — but you don’t notice this when you’re inside,
especially at night when the whole cockpit is bathed in a submarine-style
red glow.
It’s robust, too. On one journey I put all three of my children on the rather
cramped back seat — it is a coupé so the lack of space isn’t a complaint —
and went for a little drive. It took only five minutes for the fight to
begin and 10 minutes for it to become a full-scale war. But impressively,
none of the trim broke.
Meanwhile, I’d become fixated with a little button on the dash marked “sport”.
Now in most cars “sport” buttons are connected only to a light on the dash
that comes on to say you’ve pushed the button. But in the Astra it really
does have an effect.
When you press it the ride becomes hard and the engine actually jumps. The
revs rise and you feel good. My children were so amazed they even stopped
throwing tennis rackets at one another.
Sadly, they were quickly bored again because the satellite navigation woman
was plainly on drugs. I’ve never encountered such a dopey attitude to
navigation. And it was impossible — impossible, d’you hear — to make the
radio pick up anything but long wave. And all you can get on long wave is
the sound of paper rustling, on Mars.
Then I put my foot down and whoa. There’s lots of oomph from the turbocharged
2 litre engine, so much in fact that the front wheels can’t cope at all.
It’s been a long time since I drove a car that torque-steered this badly and
I dread to think what the forthcoming 240bhp VXR model will be like.
So, with the wayward steering and the stoned sat nav, the journey home took
longer than I’d anticipated. But I didn’t care. Because after I’d hosed all
the blood out of the rear quarters, I stood back and thought: that is one
very good-looking car. And that’s enough.
VITAL STATISTICS
Model Vauxhall Astra SRi 2.0i 16v Turbo
Engine Four-cylinder, 1998cc
Power 168bhp @ 5200rpm
Torque 184 lb ft @ 1950rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual
Fuel 31.4mpg (combined cycle)
CO2 216g/km
Acceleration 0-60mph: 7.9sec
Top speed 136mph
Price £17,495
Verdict When a car looks this good it can’t be bad
Rating 3/5
