Last week the Daily Mail broke off momentarily from writing about
immigrants, Princess Diana and the value of your house, and published a
photograph of my wife and me walking down the road.
Why? Well, I was carrying nothing while my wife was lumbering along beside me
weighed down with a heavy suitcase.
“Look at him!” it screamed. “Making his long-suffering wife carry his bags.”
What this proves, most of all, is the absolute hopelessness of the Daily
Mail as a newspaper. My wife was carrying my bags not because I’m a male
pig, but because moments earlier an MRI scan had revealed that I’ve slipped
two discs. And that carrying heavy suitcases is something I’m not allowed to
do any more.
More importantly, and this is the story those blinkered people on the Mail
managed to miss, I’m no longer allowed to drive. Yup, for the next few
months I’m off the road.
Partly this is because I can’t look left or right, partly it’s because my left
arm doesn’t work at all, and partly it’s because I’m on a cocktail of drugs
so bright and vivid I spend half the day wondering if I’m a horse and the
other half answering only to the name of Stephen.
The only good news is that I’m taking steroids, so by the time I’m fixed I
shall have breasts and a handbag and as a result the Daily Mail will
write stories about my brave battle with a spinal injury and how I’m an
example to women everywhere.
In the meantime, however, my pain in the neck means I’m not allowed to drive,
which will be a pain in the backside. Mostly for my wife, actually, who will
have to carry my bags to the car and then drive me to work. She may even
have to write this column, because while I have a few cars stockpiled up,
the list is not endless.
Maybe I’ll do some features on what life is like in the back of a Rolls-Royce
or a Maybach until the steroids have worked and I’m mended. Unless they
don’t, in which case I’ll need an operation, and that could turn me into a
drooling vegetable. In which case I'll do some stories about wheelchairs and
mashed food.
Whatever, in this world where everything is always someone’s “fault”, the most
important thing right now is to work out how I, the world’s least active
man, managed to slip not one but two discs. I went through all the
possibilities with my doctor and we decided that the blame for my condition
lies fairly and squarely at the door of Vauxhall.
Apparently if you spend too long driving round corners much too quickly it
will pull all the gooey stuff out of your spine, and last week I spent a
very great deal of time going round many, many corners much too quickly in
the new Vauxhall Monaro.
It’s been around for a while now, the Monaro, and nobody seems to have paid it
much attention. Small wonder, really, when you consider that it’s an
Australian car, with an American engine. Sure, we’ll buy colonial wine and
we’ll concede that they’re good at sport, but that’s chiefly because they
plainly do very little else.
In the past 200 years Australia has only invented the rotary washing line, and
America’s sole contribution to global betterment is condensed milk. The
notion of these two great nations coming together to make a car doesn’t fill
anyone from the world’s fountain of ingenuity with much hope.
Especially when it lumbers into battle sporting a Vauxhall badge.
The thing is, though, that the original Monaro was a little gem. Or to be more
specific, a rough diamond. With a 5.7 litre V8, and 19th-century technology
feeding all that torque to the road, it was a crude but devastatingly
effective mile-muncher.
Think of it as an Aussie from the outback. Maybe he can’t quote Shakespeare.
Maybe he’s never heard of Terence Conran. But he can smash all the teeth
clean out of your mouth with a single punch. That was the Monaro.
And now there’s a new version. At first glimpse the prospect is even more
exciting because it has a restyled bonnet full of aggressive vents and
holes, and because underneath it gets an even bigger engine. A 6 litre V8
from the last Corvette.
Sadly, all is not sweetness and light, because the Monaro is sold in America
as a Pontiac GTO and the new version was designed specifically for Uncle
Sam. That means it’s all gone a bit soft. And for some extraordinary reason
they’ve moved the 60-litre fuel tank to a point directly above the rear
axle. This means the car’s handling will change depending on how much fuel
you have on board, and also that the boot is nowhere near as big as it
should be.
So, does the extra power from the bigger engine compensate for this? Or is
this the automotive equivalent of the American version of The Office:
a good idea ruined by the Septics? To find out, I took it to a track and
drove round and round until, as we know, my spine disintegrated.
The first thing worth noting is that the power isn’t delivered in a zingy,
revvy European way. It’s more a suet pudding than a champagne sorbet, but
there’s certainly no shortage. And as a result you’ll go from 0 to 60 in
5.3sec and onwards to 185. That’s pretty quick.
The lazy engine certainly suits the whole feel of the car. It lumbers rather
than darts, it feels heavy and lethargic. But then you might have said all
this about Martin Johnson. And that really is the point of the big Vauxhall.
It’s second row, not a winger.
The gearbox, especially, is worthy of a mention. The lever looks like it’s
come from the bridge of a 19th-century ocean liner and the effort needed to
move it around is huge. But then this is a muscle car. It’s not for sheilas.
My favourite part, however, and you’ll only really trip over this on a track,
is the way it goes round corners. The angles of oversteer it can achieve,
thanks mainly to its long wheelbase, are absolutely ludicrous, and if you
keep your foot planted, so too is the volume of smoke from the back wheels.
If you have the mental age of a six-year-old, and I have, you would never
tire of sliding this massive car from bend to bend.
In fact, after I wore one set of tyres down to the canvas, I went straight
round to a tyre shop, bought two more, and then proceeded to wear those down
to the canvas as well. This car is that much fun.
Of course, it’s not what you’d call luxuriously appointed. There are plenty of
toys to play with, and lots of space for four, too, but the quality of the
plastic and the feel of the carpets beggars belief. Until you look at the
price. This car, this 6 litre V8 185mph muscle car, is less than £37,000 —
the same as a BMW 535 diesel.
Yes, the BMW is more of a quality product, but which would you rather have, a
night out with a vicar or a few pints with your mates at the pub? When it
comes to fun, the Monaro is truly wonderful, and it’s not bad at cruising
either.
The seats are sublime, it glides over bumps, and at 70mph the engine is barely
turning over, so it’s quiet as well.
It all sounds great but there’s one problem. You can still buy the original,
harder, 5.7 litre car. Yes, this only offers up 349bhp compared with the 6
litre’s 398bhp. But you’re pressed to spot that difference on the road.
And here’s the clincher. The 5.7 is only £29,000. Put simply, there is no
better bargain on the market today.
Thank you, by the way, for all your e-mails on the Ford GT. There have been
hundreds and hundreds. Now that I can’t go anywhere I have time to read
them. And I’ll let you know what you’ve all decided.
Vital statistics
Model Vauxhall Monaro VXR
Engine V8, 5967cc
Power 398bhp @ 6000rpm
Torque 391 lb ft @ 4400rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual, rear-wheel drive
Fuel 17.6mpg (combined)
CO2 384g/km
Acceleration 0-60mph: 5.3sec
Top speed 185mph
Price £36,995
Verdict A seat-of-your-pants back-breaker, drives like it’s
got XXXX in the tank
Rating 4/5
