There aren’t that many hot hatchbacks on sale today and it’s hard to figure out why. Some say they were killed off by theft. All those shots on the news of young men squealing around the Blackbird Leys housing estate in stolen Maestros spoilt the desirability of these souped-up, hunkered-down shopping trolleys.

Others argue that it was the sky-high insurance premiums. Certainly, I was once quoted £21,000 for a year’s cover on a £20,000 Escort Cosworth, and this spoilt the package somewhat. But actually, the hot hatch withered away because the country became rich.

According to a newspaper report last week it’s now possible to hire an entire cinema so that you can watch a film without being bothered by other people’s Maltesers.

And why only have one house when you could buy a ruined manor in 30 acres of tumbledown France? Think how much you could spend doing that up.

There was a time, not that long ago, when you paid the mortgage and the school fees and then had to live on coal for the rest of the month. But now, everyone has so much disposable income that it’s increasingly hard to think of things you might spend it on.

Our nanny recently bought our son a field on the moon. I saw a wall light the other day for £400 and, do you know what, I damn nearly bought it. And then there’s our local farm shop, where everything costs a million quid except for bread with walnuts in it, which costs a little more. Mad? Not really, because you can’t get through the door.

Do you remember the days when you rented a video for the evening and then sweated over the fine when you forgot to take it back? Now, every Saturday morning there’s a queue of people in Smith’s spending £17 a pop on DVDs. You upgrade your phone when you don’t like the ringtone any more, and you buy disposable cameras like you used to buy disposable razors.

My father gave me a watch for my 21st birthday present. Now I buy my daughter a watch for remembering to breathe out.

Recently our local council announced that it had spent so much money on bus lanes and outreach counsellors that there was none left to run the town swimming pool. Even as recently as 10 years ago this would have meant curtains, and the local youngsters would have been left with nothing to do on a hot afternoon except mainline heroin.

But not any more. Last night 200 people crammed into the local town hall and spent £11,500 in a charity auction on meals for two (including a bottle of house wine) at local restaurants, and signed books, and bought loads of stuff they didn’t know they wanted. The local doctor even offered a vasectomy, though it had to be withdrawn when he discovered it was impossible to do such a thing for charity. No matter, though: the pool is saved. Hoorah.

Of course the poor still claim they’re poor. But now they’re fat, which means they’re poor because instead of hiring cinemas and buying houses in Gascony, they spend all their disposable income on chips and Chinese takeaways.

This is why the hot hatchback no longer has much appeal. In the late 1970s, when everyone was on strike and people really were poor, the Golf GTI made a deal of sense. Here was a car that had a big practical boot at the back and a fuel-injected 110bhp engine at the front.

It was the car for all reasons, the automotive pig, capable of producing ham, bacon, sausages and pork. You could even eat its ears and its feet. Or you could push a stick up its backside, ram an apple in its mouth and tuck into the whole damn shooting match. Now, though, we mock compromise. Why have one car when you could have 10 of them? You have the big 4x4 for doing the school run, the classic Jag for trips to the pub, the Honda S2000 for when you want a blast, the hatch for the nanny, and the comfy saloon for nights in town. You think I’m joking, but I’m not. On average, a £50,000 Range Rover is a family’s third car. In California it’s bought, on average, as a seventh car.

It’s like medicine. You used to go to your GP no matter what the ailment. Now, though, you employ someone for your back, someone for your genitals, someone for your knees and someone for your inner being. And when your face starts to sag, you simply buy a new one.

This is one of the reasons Ford has had to pull the plug on its super-hot Focus RS. And the new hardcore Volkswagen Golf GTI is unlikely to fare much better.

Such a thing might make sense in German Euroland where, as we’ve seen recently, people eat one another to stay alive. But here, where we run up enormous credit card bills for fun, I doubt it’ll catch on. I doubt the new Mégane 225 will either, but for different reasons.

I like the style of all modern Renaults. The Espace is the only cool people carrier, the Laguna is pant-wettingly handsome and the Vel Satis is so fabulous that the British just don’t get it at all.

Certainly, this new hot Mégane ticks all the relevant boxes. It has twin exhausts, big wheels, a spoiler, frog-style foglights and a turbocharged 2 litre engine that kicks out 225bhp. That is a lot for a car of this size, so obviously the performance is electrifying. You go from 0 to 60 in 6.5sec and you keep on going until your peripheral vision meets up at the back, by which time the needle is sitting at just under 150mph.

Inside the magnificently orange three-door shell you have sporty seats. You know they’re sporty because they say “Renault Sport” on them in big, sporty letters. But otherwise it’s all fairly standard Renault fare, which means it is funky and stylish for 10 minutes. And then broken for the rest of time.

Still, this was always the appeal of the hot hatch. Power for the people. Low price, low-rent fixtures and fittings and lots of horsepower. Supermarket frills with superstar thrills. You put a wardrobe in the boot and wage war with the big gun under the bonnet.

Unfortunately, while the nigh-on £20,000 Mégane looks good on paper, Renault’s laudable quest to make theirs the safest cars on the market makes it a deeply annoying car on the road.

Actually, it’s a deeply annoying car even before you’ve got it off your drive because it beeps at you for not wearing a seatbelt. You can shout all you like, saying you’ll put it on in a minute, but it’ll make no difference, because the beeping becomes higher-pitched and more incessant until every dog within a five-mile radius is lying in the gutter with blood coming out of its ears.

Apparently a car can’t have a five-star safety rating from the NCAP people these days unless it bullies the occupants. Fine. I’ll take four stars thanks, and some peace.

I’d also like a brake pedal rather than a brake switch. Honestly, you just caress the pedal and with an almighty jerk the wardrobe in the boot shoots forwards, smashing all the cheap and cheerful interior fixtures and fittings to pieces.

Normally it’s possible to get used to a car’s foibles after a mile or so, but in a whole week I never did get the hang of those brakes, and it was a similar story with the long-winded and dreary gearchange. Changing down in a car like this should be a sensual moment. But changing down in the Mégane 225 is as sensual as changing Fred Dibnah’s underpants.

Think of this car, then, as a five-star luxury hotel. They’ve thought of every little detail so it looks fine in the brochures. But they've built it in Wakefield; they’ve lost sight of the main point. Put simply, it’s fast but no fun.

VITAL STATISTICS

Model: Renault Mégane Renaultsport 225
Engine type: Four-cylinder, 1998cc
Power/torque: 225bhp @ 5500rpm 223 lb ft @ 3000rpm
Transmission: Six-speed manual, front-wheel drive
Suspension: (front) MacPherson struts, coil springs, anti-roll bar (rear) Torsion beam, coil springs
Tyres: 225/40 R18
Fuel: 32.1mpg (combined) CO2 209g/km
Insurance: Group 17
Acceleration: 0-62mph: 6.5sec
Top speed: 147mph
Price: £19,500
Verdict: Looks good, goes fast, but misses the point
Rating:

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