This is complicated, so pay attention. I recently bought something and then decided I didn’t want it. So I sent it back and the money was reimbursed to my credit card company.

I then telephoned the credit card company and asked it to put the money back in my bank account. I even had the sort code to hand and everything. “Yes,” said the girl, “I can do that, no problem at all.” But there obviously was a problem because a couple of days later I attempted to buy some petrol.

My card wasn’t rejected but I was made to talk to someone at the credit card company who wanted to know my mother’s maiden name and all sorts of other impertinent things. Then I bought some shoes and the same thing happened, so I telephoned the credit card company to ask why, all of a sudden, I’d become Osama Bin Laden.

“Aha,” said a man, “it’s because you are in credit with us.” This was baffling for two reasons. First, why was I in credit with them when I’d asked them to put the money in my bank, and why should being in credit cause them to think I needed a telephone frisking every time I bought a packet of fags? I therefore asked the man if he’d be so good as to move the money. I even made it plain that if he failed I’d come round to his place of work and insert something fairly chunky up his bottom. This obviously appealed because the next day, while using the card to buy some flowers, I was asked once again for my mother’s maiden name.

So I called the credit card company and spoke to someone else, who said I was in credit, a highly unusual situation and one that makes them think I may be laundering drug money. Yes, well since I’m not Pablo Escobar could they perhaps put the money in my bank account? “Yes,” said the man, who I knew would not do any such thing. And could they stop asking silly questions every time I bought anything? “No,” said the man. “Your name’s been flagged on the computer and I’m afraid I can’t turn that off.”

“Well, would you find someone who can turn it off.” It seems not. The whole thing is completely automated. And there is no one, not even the Queen, who can get into the program and make alterations.

This was Skynet, and I was John Connor.

And now the computer has decided that what I need most of all are 940 shiny new credit cards, so pretty much every day another one arrives in the post. To go with the original Premier card, which is gold, I’ve a plain one that’s Gold, and a Gold one that’s gold and one that says Premier which is also gold. When I present them in a shop, I’m asked for my chip and pin, which I do not know.

The letter in which the new cards arrived said the coded number would be sent under different cover, as though I have all the time in the world for sifting through every piece of post that lands on the mat. I’m not like that. I have no filing system at all. The truth is that once or twice a week, if the pile of letters is too daunting, I just put the whole lot — bank statements, stuff asking me to buy Johnnie Boden’s socks, letters from viewers, everything — unopened, in the shredder. I fear, therefore, that’s where my pin and chip number is. Being used by some seagulls as bedding for the babies.

And I daren’t telephone Skynet in case it sends another Terminator into the system and I have to go around Chipping Norton being asked questions about my mum.

Anyway, my point is this: I used to have one credit card and now I have four, all from the same company. I used to have one hole-in-the-wall card, and now I have three. And then there’s the Switch card, which I don’t understand at all, and a bluey-white card that says Barclays on it that doesn’t appear to do anything. So, I don’t need a wallet these days as much as a satchel.

Of course, in conference rooms throughout Milton Keynes I’m sure this new system makes a deal of sense. But in the real world it’s just another layer of complication no one wants or needs.

It’s the same story with DVDs. In the olden days the picture quality from your videotape wasn’t all that great but at least you could fast forward through the government health warnings about piracy. Not any more. Now you are electronically banned — banned d’you hear — from skipping the disclaimers.

In fact, there are very few simple, people-friendly ideas these days. One is valet parking at Heathrow. I bet there was a great temptation to introduce barriers, swipe cards and retinal scans, but instead you turn up, give them your car keys and when you come back your car’s there. Brilliant. Another simple idea is the Renault Clio Trophy that I’ve been driving this past week.

What we have here is a small three-door hatchback fitted with a large engine. And er . . . that’s it.

In most hot hatchbacks these days the extra power afforded by the big engine is wasted lugging around all the luxury and computer equipment that the Milton Keynes flip-chart salarymen think we all want.

Not on the Clio it isn’t. Instead of overly complicated climate control you get simple air-conditioning, and that, on the luxury front, really is the end of the story. Unless you count the weirdest cruise control I’ve ever found.

Like any other cruise system, you can choose a speed and the car will stick to that unless you turn it off, brake or accelerate. But unlike any other system I’ve encountered, there’s another facility that lets you choose the top speed of the car. Select 70 and it becomes impossible to go faster. The engine just won’t let you.

I had enormous fun with this, driving from one side of Birmingham to the other with it set on 30. You’d be staggered how much of a nuisance you can be if you are physically prevented from breaking the speed limit. I was given the finger maybe half a dozen times. Even more than usual, the Brummies were delighted when I got on the M42 and went back to Britain.

Here, I turned off the Clio’s only techno feature and just used it as a car. And it was great. The 182bhp 2 litre engine pulls with planetary torque from low revs and sings power ballads at the top end, but the car’s real party piece is its handling. It seems to go round any corner at whatever speed takes your fancy.

There is traction control but it’s the laziest, most ineffectual system in the world, not bothering to get off its fat arse once in a whole week of road rocketry. I got the impression after a while it was just a button on the dash, connected to nothing at all. And that’s a good thing. It meant I was in charge.

And boy, was I having a laugh. I loved the big, comfortable and hugely supportive seats, I loved the speed, but my most abiding memory is the way this little race-bred car arcs round corners like a mono waterskier on a millpond. I also loved the way that, when all is said and done, the Trophy is just a Clio, same easy-to-mend parts, same practicality and the same value. It’s only £15,500, for heaven’s sake.

There are only two things wrong. First, it has a very hard ride, and second, the Clio Trophy was a last hoorah before the new Clio came along. You are therefore hard pressed to find one. But if you can, go ahead and buy it. It’s a very human car in a very complicated world.

Vital statistics

Model  Renaultsport Clio Trophy
Engine  1998cc, four cylinders 
Power  182bhp @ 6500rpm
Torque  147 lb ft @ 5250rpm
Transmission  Five-speed manual
Fuel  34.9mpg
CO2 194g/km
Acceleration  0-62: 6.9sec
Top speed 139mph
Price £15,500
Rating 4/5
Verdict Proof that keeping it simple is best

Explore Jeremy Clarkson

• Greatest Hits

• Good Car, Bad Car