A couple of weeks ago my colleague AA Gill apologised to the nation for saying
that Oman was on the edge of the Sahara desert. And then berated those who’d
had the temerity to point out his mistake. Apparently when he gets letters
saying he’s ballsed up he laughs at them.
I don’t. When I get a letter from a reader saying I’ve made a factual error my
first reaction is rage. Then righteous indignation. And then, when my blood
has cooled down a bit, I’m overwhelmed with a new emotion. Guilt: deep, tail
between the legs, nose crinkling, hide under the furniture embarrassment.
Every week I come here with my tail feathers sticking up and proud. And it’s a
bit of a bubble burster when someone points out that I haven’t checked my
facts. That’s like strutting around with a telltale wet patch on the front
of your trousers.
That said, I recently wrote a piece saying that the Mercedes SL has air
suspension and a chap called Khushal Khan wrote to say that it doesn’t. He’s
right of course. But if I’d said it uses electrohydraulics then I would have
sounded boring. And I’d rather be wrong than dull.
Because in the big scheme of things, when I make a mistake, especially one
I’ve made on purpose, the world keeps on turning.
Mistakes are a strange phenomenon. Because if a television presenter makes a
mistake while on camera he’ll get a £200 cheque from It’ll Be
Alright on the Night. However, if a doctor inadvertently makes a mistake
while in the operating theatre, trust me on this, Denis Norden won’t barge
through the door with a clipboard and invite us to watch the “hilarious”
clip again in slow motion. “And look at the patient when he starts to
convulse, people.”
Once I invited a workman round for a swim in my pool. And that was fine. But
when Michael Barrymore did exactly the same thing he had to leave his job
and move to New Zealand.
But here’s my point. It’s now unlikely Michael will ever again invite anyone
round for a splosh. What’s more, after a poke in the eye from a reader two
weeks ago I have now stopped referring to electrohydraulic or oleopneumatic
suspension as “air”.
This is because we’re human, and humans learn from their mistakes. What’s
more, so do animals. Give a rat a choice of two tunnels, one of which leads
to food and the other to an electric shock, and eventually he’ll learn which
is which. Peugeot, however, doesn’t seem to be that clever.
When I first started writing about cars, the little 205 GTi was pretty much
king of the hill. Volkswagen’s Golf was falling off the rails, and as a
result many switched to the wonderful French buzz-bomb. In a flash Peugeot
went from being the maker of unbreakable taxis for the people of west Africa
to the must-have accessory in booming Britain, as important as a Diana
hair-do and a job doing something meaningless in the City.
Flushed with this success, the company kept on going, making a stunning
four-wheel-drive version of the 406, which was named after a machinegun (it
wasn’t, I’m using hyperbole) and went like one too. And then the tiny 106
GTi, which gave me one of the most memorable drives I’ve ever had. Flat out
from Carcassonne over the Pyrenees. Great part of the world. Great car.
And then they made a mistake. They decided to stop making exciting cars, a
move that culminated in the arrival of the 607, surely the most dreary and
underwhelming device in the history of mechanised transport. It wasn’t like
they’d gone back to their roots, making simple, tough cars to survive the
simple, tough continent of Africa. It was as if they’d just given up
altogether. It was like the Who releasing an album of humming.
You’d think that having failed so spectacularly they’d be keen to impress next
time around, but they haven’t. Examining the current Peugeot range is a bit
like examining John Major’s sock drawer. An endless grey world featuring
nothing you would even want to steal.
The 107 is a Toyota, the 1007 is a joke, the 307 has the stand-out qualities
of someone in a witness protection scheme, the 407 is the sort of car you
might buy because you forgot you already had one, and the 807 would be the
nastiest car in the world were it not for the aforementioned 607. I hardly
ever bother reviewing these cars because I can’t for the life of me think
why anyone might be interested. Whether you want excitement, robustness,
practicality, design flair, economy, speed, quality or just a set of wheels,
you can do better somewhere else.
But then along came the 407 Coupé and I thought, a-ha, here at last is a
Peugeot that someone might want. Because you’ve got expensive coupés from
BMW and Mercedes and then not much else. Honda has dropped its Prelude.
Toyota is about to abandon the Celica. Vauxhall never replaced the Calibra
and Ford sold William Hague a Cougar then axed that too.
So what’s left? Well there’s the Mazda RX-8, which is jolly good if you don’t
mind spending as much on oil as you do on petrol, and that’s about it. Yes,
I thought, Peugeot has woken up at long last. It’s seen a niche. The 407
Coupé will be excellent.
I was wrong. The first problem is the price. The GT HDi V6 version I drove
costs a simply staggering £30,900 and then they have the bare-faced
effrontery to whack on another £350 for metallic paint. This means the
Peugeot costs about the same as a BMW 330 or a Porsche Boxster. It also
means it costs a whopping £8,000 more than the Mazda RX-8. So it had better
be good.
It isn’t. The distance between the front wheels and the front of the car is
about 18ft (I’m exaggerating again), which gives the impression that you’re
looking at an anteater with a Peugeot sticking out of its bottom. That’s
certainly striking but I’m not sure it’ll catch on.
Inside, things get worse. There’s nothing to make you feel special. Oh,
there’s plenty of equipment and space but there’s nothing to make you go
“wow”. And it’s the same story when you put your foot down.
Yes, the big diesel drops lumps of torque into the mix but torque doesn’t blow
my ears off. Torque is what you get in an evenly matched rugby scrum.
There’s lots of grunt in there, but from the outside nothing appears to be
happening. So it gives the car a lazy feel, like it’s never really
stretching its legs.
Perhaps it can’t. The 407 Coupé weighs a significant 2 tons, and you can see
why when you open one of the doors. They’re so heavy I began to imagine that
they might have been made out of Anne Diamond.
To see if I was missing anything I went on the Peugeot website and asked to
look at the car in action. But to do that you have to register — presumably
so they can offer you a bigger penis at some later stage — and then you are
allowed to see exclusive content such as videos and, wait for it, an
interview with the product manager.
Who would do that? Who would go to the bother of giving a big company all
their personal details just so they can see someone from middle management
talking a load of middle management bollocks. You’d have to be clinically
insane, but then you’d have to be fairly mad to buy this car.
Yes, it’s extremely smooth and comfortable, but that’s like having two Jacks
in a hand full of low clubs. You’re still going to lose.
I fear then they’re not making this car because they saw a niche. I suspect
they’re making it because they’ve always made 2+2 coupés. And they couldn’t
be bothered to stop.
VITAL STATISTICS
Model Peugeot 407 Coupé HDi GT
Engine 2720cc, V6
Power 205bhp @ 4000rpm
Torque 330 lb ft @ 1900rpm
Transmission Six-speed auto
Fuel 33.2mpg
CO2 226g/km
Acceleration 0-62mph: 8.5sec
Top speed 143mph
Price £30,900
Rating 2/5
Verdict A losing hand all round
