There’s a curious and extremely ugly styling detail on the rear wings of the new Mercedes E-class. It’s a crease that sets off from the back end with much purpose and drive, but when it reaches the door, it sort of gives up and, like the Okavango river, meanders about before giving up on the idea of existing in the first place.

One thing is for sure. It serves no purpose. It will make the car no faster, no more stable at speed and no more economical. And it’s not a traditional Mercedes thing either — it’s not like the BMW Hofmeister kink in the rear window, which is present on all models.

Mercedes says, apparently, it added the crease as a nod to some model in the company’s dim and murky past. Probably the one Hitler drove. But this makes no sense really. When I buy a new iPod, I don’t want it to look even remotely like my grandfather’s gramophone player. So why should I want my new car to have a feature from the days of running boards?

And, anyway, no one is going to say: “Ah so. I see you’ve hinted at the 1942 Doogleburger model with that crease on the flank.” They’re just going to do what I did: spend hours wondering if Mercedes has the first idea about form and function.

I dislike conspiracy theories. The smug, self-satisfied, arms-crossed demeanour of those who would have us believe that Neil Armstrong didn’t walk on the moon or indeed anywhere more exciting than a sound stage in Nevada invariably fills me with an uncontrollable need to set them on fire.

We see the same sort of thing with Top Gear fan sites on the internet.

Every single thing we do is analysed and then dismissed as fake. All the races are staged. Every word is scripted. Every opinion bought and paid for. Recently a deer ran out while I was belting down the runway in a Mercedes. The shot was included in the film and, immediately, the boys were at their keyboards. “Aha,” they said, “the car wasn’t moving. Television jiggery-pokery has been used.”

Honestly, chaps. If we were going to spend a fortune CGI-ing something onto the screen, we’d blow Richard Hammond’s head off. Or detonate Belgium. Certainly, it’d be something a bit more exciting than a horned rat running about on an airfield.

Nevertheless, despite all this, I don’t believe the crease in the E-class was there from the get-go. I may be wrong, of course. But in my mind the stylists did the car and then thought: “Oh dear. That’s a bit boring. Let’s put a styling detail on the rear wings to distract people from the tedium.” Think of it, then, as one of Jon Snow’s ties.

There are more problems with this car. I tested the E 500, which has a 5.5‑litre V8 engine. That means 382 horsepowers and 391 torques. It means 0-62mph in 5.2sec and, you’d think, plenty of excitement. However, there is none. I have experienced more interesting drizzle.

No matter how brutal you may be with the seven-speed gearbox, it is extremely reluctant to put down its paper, extinguish its pipe, change out of its slippers and actually go. Kickdown provokes a reluctant surge of sorts and if you go right to the bottom of the throttle pedal’s travel, right through the carpet and into the firewall itself, the surge becomes a bit more meaty. But if this car could talk, and you did that, it would say: “Oh, for God’s sake.”

Seriously, asking this car to behave like a 5.5-litre V8 super-saloon is like asking a man to empty a dishwasher. It’s technically possible but only if you are prepared to put up with a lot of harrumphing. I wouldn’t mind, but the engine — the only one in the line-up not changed from the previous model — is either silent or making a strained noise you don’t want to hear.

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