Jeremy Clarkson - What Could Possibly Go Wrong...

People could see a clever ad about beating a German to the beach, or read a pithy review in Autocar , or talk to friends in the pub, but when push came to shove they wanted only one thing: safety, durability, sportiness or reliability. And those were already bagged. I suggested he go for ‘Germany’s biggest car’. But he said this would be silly and went instead for Vorsprung durch Technik.

Things have changed since then because Mercedes started to make little hatchbacks, BMW moved into diesels, Volvo went touring-car racing and today, if you want a reliable vehicle, you don’t have to buy a Volkswagen. Anything will do. Except a Citroën. Or a Peugeot.

The motor industry is one big blur, with all the manufacturers offering something to suit everyone. Just about the sportiest car made today is a Nissan, and the least sporty is a BMW. The most durable car I know is a Toyota, and the least, probably a Mercedes-Benz from ten years ago. And yet in the midst of all this we have Volvo, which is sitting at the back with its hand up, still claiming that it’s the one-stop shop for those who want to be safe. Indeed its engineers recently announced they were working on a range of developments that would mean soon no one would ever die while in one of Volvo’s products.

As a general rule I hate safety. It makes me nervous because when I feel safe I have a nagging doubt in the back of my mind that I can’t really be having much fun. As a general rule, the two things are mutually exclusive.

And, anyway, there’s no point trying to be safe because things can often conspire to prove you aren’t. For example, the most rigorously tested and inspected item Top Gear filmed was the jet drag-racing car Richard Hammond drove several years ago, and we all know what happened there. Whereas the least tested and inspected was the ‘Hovervan’, in which I found myself loose in a lock with a rampaging van full of blades. And I was not hurt in any way.

I laugh openly at the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents because here we have a body of worthies whose aim is to prevent something that, by its very nature, cannot be prevented.

And I’m afraid I scoff at Volvo’s claim that soon no one will die in one of their cars because what if you are driving along in your shiny new V70 and a giant meteorite crashes into the roof? What if there’s an earthquake? What if you are an arms dealer and a rival puts six tons of plastic explosive in your seat? Has Volvo considered all these possibilities? Quite.

Mind you, it does seem to have thought about pretty much everything else. Especially the business of protecting those in less fortunate surroundings. Because the car I’ve just been driving – a V40 T5 R-Design – is designed to make sure that you cannot run anyone down. And that if by some miracle you do, they will walk away from the impact thanking you very much for giving them such a good giggle.

In short, there are sensors that scan the road ahead, looking for people you might be about to hit. Warnings are sounded, and if you ignore them, the car will brake itself. And if this doesn’t work and you crash into the poor unfortunate soul, the front of the car will turn into a giant bouncy castle, ensuring he or she has not just a soft landing but a fun one too.

I’m afraid it is impossible to test these claims in the real world so I cannot report objectively on whether they work. But I can ponder awhile on it: all this technology costs money. Which means you are forking out cash to pay for the wellbeing of other people.

In a darkened room, when nobody is listening, you may wonder about that. You may even decide to buy a Golf GTI instead. And you may use the money you’ve saved on a luxury holiday for your family in Barbados. This would make you very pleased.

And you’d stay pleased right up to the time when, through no fault of your own, you ran over a small boy and killed him. Then you’d wonder as you faced a life of shame and regret if perhaps the Volvo hadn’t been the more sensible choice.

This, of course, is the trouble with safety. You don’t want it in your life right up to the moment when you do. And, anyway, the Volvo doesn’t just look after other people. It’s claimed that it does a pretty good job of looking after you and your no-claims bonus as well. For example, when you are reversing out of a side turning into a main road, you are warned if the car detects oncoming traffic. Again, this was something I couldn’t easily test.

But I did have a go with the automatic braking system. At speeds of up to 31 mph the car will stop if it thinks you are about to crash into something. And certainly it works a whole lot better than the company’s website, which doesn’t work at all. It doesn’t even seem to be sure that the front-wheel-drive five-cylinder T5 exists.

There are countless other touches too. Such as the key. You pop it into a slot high up on the dash and then push a button. This is annoying. But if you do somehow have a crash there isn’t a bit of metal poking out of the steering column, waiting to rearrange your right knee. That’s how my dad lost one of his kneecaps. He lost the other many years later while exiting a Ford Anglia through the windscreen.

And, oh dear, I seem to have reached pretty much the end of this week’s missive without talking too much about the actual car. Which is fine. Because there’s not much to say. It’s very good-looking, quite nice to drive, reasonably fast, fairly comfortable and decently spacious. It is also a lovely place to sit, even if some of the controls are unfathomable. However, it is fantastically expensive.

So go ahead. Buy the Golf GTI. It’s much better value. And a better car. But you will have to drive it with your fingers crossed.

It was the week before Christmas. Rush hour. Central London. And the weather was every American’s idea of what it’s always like in Britain. Awful. The wind was coming in great shuddering lumps and the rain was a collection of stair rods. It was a night for being in.

But I wasn’t in. I was out in the new Aston Martin Vanquish Volante, trying to find a parking space in St James’s. Nobody’s temper was even on that frightful night. The bus drivers had given up trying to run down lone cyclists and had just decided to kill everyone. The taxi drivers were hampered by steamed-up windows. Pedestrians were blind behind their inside-out umbrellas and, even with my wipers whizzing back and forth like a drowning man’s arms, the whole scene was streaked with neon, headlamps and Christmas decorations. It was like driving on an acid trip, into a kaleidoscope. It was like having all of the headaches I’d ever had, at once.

At a time such as this you want to be in a car only because it’s dry. You certainly don’t want to be in a £199,995 Aston Martin with bone-hard suspension and a roof that has seemingly been designed specifically to make everything abaft your head invisible. At an oblique junction the only way you can pull out safely is by having a deep and fervent belief in God.

The next morning I was down at the Top Gear test track and it was the sort of day we dream about. Crisp and cold and bleached. The sun was pale. And the air was as clear as a lake of gin. What’s more, the track was quiet, empty and beckoning. But even though the Aston has a 565 brake horsepower V12 engine, I didn’t bother taking it out there and opening the taps of that mountain of muscle. Because I’ve done some track work in its hard-top sister, so I know what it’s like.

Although it’s largely made from carbon fibre, it’s a heavy car, and it gets all bolshie and uninterested when you push it hard. The tyres don’t last very well either. After three laps they lose their bite and you end up with 300 yards of dreary understeer. And the gearbox, a smooth-changing automatic, doesn’t much like to be hurried. Taking this car on a track? It’s as wrong as playing rugby in a dinner jacket.