What Could Possibly Go Wrong. . . Read Online Free PDF Page B

quite a big punch when you put your foot down. But while I have no complaints about the performance, this is certainly not one of those cars where passengers say, ‘Is this really a diesel?’ In fact, as they sit there, vibrating, they may ask what you are using instead of fuel. Pebbles? It’s like a powerplate with a tax disc.
    It’s so unrefined when it starts that after a while I disengaged the system that cuts the engine when you stop at the lights and starts it again when you put your foot on the clutch. This may save half a thimbleful of fuel but it drove me mad.
    Because of this roughness, the car cannot have a five-star rating. However, it does get four. Which, is four more than I was hoping to award. The fact is, though, that the cost of fuel and the blinkered prejudice found in the nation’s mental yurt-heads has resulted in something that’s pretty damn good.
    13 February 2011

Little Luigi’s turbo boost
Fiat 500 0.9 TwinAir Lounge
    I spent most of last week playing with the new McLaren MP4-12C and I must say that, in a technical, mathematical, common-sense, add-up-the-numbers sort of way, it is extremely impressive. Plainly, it has been designed for the serious business of going fast. And yet there are no histrionics at all. In fact, in road mode, it rides and sounds like an S-Class Mercedes. It’s also beautifully made, so, unquestionably, this is a car that you could use every day.
    As a result, even though it’s a bit more Ron Dennis than Ron Jeremy, it is certainly the best car ever to wear a McLaren badge. It’s definitely better than the old F1, which I hated. And it’s definitely better than the more recent SLR, which had a switch masquerading as a brake pedal – you either went through the windscreen, or you didn’t slow down at all.
    It may even be better than the Ferrari 458, which is not something I thought I’d be saying any time soon. And yet I don’t yearn to own one.
    It was the same story with the Bugatti Veyron. Yes, it was a masterpiece, a composite and magnesium firestorm of brilliance, perseverance, engineering persistence and planet-stopping power. But at no time did I ever think, Crikey. I’d love to have one of these on my drive.
    I experienced much the same sort of thing at Heston Blumenthal’s new restaurant in London the other day. He makes food in the same way that McLaren and Bugatti make cars. The duck is stripped down to a molecular level, treated with exotic gases and then reassembled before being cooked by a team of men who aredressed up like the guards in a Bond villain’s lair. Even the ice cream is made with a sewing machine.
    The results are simply spectacular. Without any question or shadow of doubt, Heston’s rhubarb mousse is the second nicest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, and although the texture of the duck fat was a bit like a quilted anorak that’s been left in the rain, it tasted astonishing. It was a duck plus. A super-duck. A duck Veyron.
    And yet, while I admire Heston’s skill and respect his knowledge of food preparation, I’m not sitting here yearning for the day when I can sample his wares again. Did I like it? Yes, very much. Am I glad I’ve tried it? You’re damn right I am. But will the day ever come when nothing but a plate of his bone marrow will do? I doubt it.
    I think it’s because, in our complicated lives, we yearn only for the simple. An evening in front of the telly. A nice sit-down. A game of cards. At a drinks party, I can find myself talking to a fascinating and beautiful woman who’s just written a book about something interesting and clever. But what I yearn for is to be in the pub with my mates.
    This is especially true of food. When I am struck with a sudden craving, it’s always for something simple: a chicken sandwich, an apple, some tongue or, more usually, a pot of crab spread. It’s never a truffle in a rich jus made from a koala’s ears.
    The same can be said of cars. I like the Mercedes SLS, the Jaguar