Jeremy Clarkson - What Could Possibly Go Wrong...

The result is the Orlando. Built in South Korea from the same platform that props up the Vauxhall Astra, it is a 15½ foot, seven-seater people carrier of monumental awfulness.

We will start with the seats. Yes, there are seven but there is no one alive today that could fit in any of the five in the back. And there is no boot at all, unless you fold the two rearmost chairs into the floor. It’s hopeless.

But it’s not as bad as the engine. For the first mile, I was absolutely sure it was a diesel, but then I noticed that the rev counter read to 6,000. Dear God in heaven, I thought. This ailing cement mixer is running on petrol. It’s a 1.8-litre four-cylinder unit that does nothing well. Even movement is a struggle. I was staggered to notice the car was fitted with traction control. Why? That’s like fitting traction control to a chest freezer.

On top of the lack of power, it’s also thirsty, unrefined and sounds like a wounded whale. And none of that should surprise you. Because asking a Chevy engineer to design a four-cylinder engine is like asking a man in a burger van to poach a halibut. It’s still cooking, but it’s not the sort of cooking he’s used to.

I should say at this point that the prices are quite low. The LTZ model is just £18,310, which doesn’t sound too bad. But if you want any colour other than white, you must pay an extra £410, and if you want satnav, then that’s another £765. What are they thinking of? Why fit traction control, which is unnecessary, and make us pay extra for a road map, which is?

Handling? That’s terrible. The ride? Terrible. Seat comfort? Terrible. And to top it all off, it was plainly styled by a man who gets tumescent at the thought of house bricks, and finished off on the inside with a range of plastics that feel like Cellophane.

Some people may buy this car so they can tell their friends they have a Chevrolet. They won’t buy another.

We like to imagine these days that we live in a global village and that everything is the same wherever we go. But this isn’t actually the case. The Coca-Cola you drink in Russia tastes completely different from the Coca-Cola you drink in Ross-on-Wye. The Big Mac you eat in Cape Town tastes nothing like the Big Mac you eat in Cape Canaveral. The girl to whom you make love in Greece will be different from the girl to whom you make love in Grimsby.

You would imagine also that when it comes to cars the world is one harmonious, homogenized lake of similar goals, similar machinery and similar driving styles.

Not so. In the past eight weeks I’ve been to India, Italy, America, China and Australia. And although all these places are huddled together on one tiny blue pinprick in the vastness of space, they might as well have been in different galaxies.

In Australia, for instance, people drive much the same sorts of car as we do, on the correct side of the road and in a similar fashion.

However, every single Bruce is infected with a partisan attitude to motoring that you will find nowhere else. In Scotland there is Celtic and Rangers. In America there is north and south. In Australia there is Ford and Holden.

An Aussie friend of mine – a barrister – tried to argue recently that this was a working-class issue, but within moments he was busy proving himself wrong. ‘I mean, I drive an Audi, so I couldn’t care less about the Ford and Holden war,’ he said, before going on: ‘I mean, deep down, I’m a Ford man, like my father before me. I’m from a Ford family and, given the choice, would have a Falcon. I actually hate Holdens. Hate them, d’you hear?’

By this stage he was banging the table. ‘I would bleed blue blood for Ford and I would strike down with furious anger those in Holdens who would attempt to poison my brothers. Holdens are the worst things on God’s green earth. The worst!’

There is no equivalent of this in China, although it seems there are two very different types of Chinese motorist. You have the rich ones, who buy expensive European cars that they drive as fast as they’ll go, and the not-so-rich ones, who buy Trumpchis and Roewes and dither about at junctions, terrified that they are about to be mown down by a twelve-year-old in a 140 mph Range Rover Sport.

In India the car is not a device for moving you and your family from A to B. It is a device designed exclusively to take you and your family into the next life. You buy a car. You set off. You have an accident and that’s that. Someone is killed on the roads there every three seconds.

Then you have America, where, generally speaking, the car is a horse. And you don’t wear the poor creature out by galloping everywhere. You plod at about 35 mph, pausing only to shoot at someone coming the other way. Against that background there is no call for finely balanced handling and good looks. It’s why there has never been an American sports car. Not one. Ever.

Whereas in Europe, with our twisting roads and active minds, every single car ever made – with the possible exception of the Austin Allegro – has the spirit of the Mille Miglia at its heart. Here, a car that won’t handle properly is as wrong as a horse with no legs would be to the Yanks.

Let me put it this way. I can think of only two mid-engined cars from America’s mainstream manufacturers and only two from Japan. Australia has never made one – or not a serious one, at least. Nor has India. Nor has China. Whereas here there have been mid-engined cars from Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati, De Tomaso, Pagani, MG, Porsche, Rover, Renault, Peugeot, Audi, BMW, Jaguar and, if you stretch it a bit, Volkswagen, Skoda and even Hillman.

With my Chinese or Indian hat on, I can tell you that mid-engined cars are a damn nuisance. Because there will come a day when two people will want a lift. Or when you realize that your shopping won’t fit in the boot. They also scrape their noses on even the tiniest of speed bumps and are very uncomfortable.

But we Europeans like them, nevertheless, because the weight is at the centre, which means they’re bound to be better balanced than cars with their powerplants at the front. We also like the styling that results.

And the sheer frivolity of a machine that has no practical purpose. Mid-engined cars make us priapic. Which is a good thing because they also tell the world that we haven’t had kids yet.

Occasionally, though, a car maker will forget all this and try to make a mid-engined supercar that is more than just a toy. And that brings me neatly on to Audi and the R8. It’s very good. With a V10 it’s spectacular to drive, but because it’s all so sensible it doesn’t ignite the small boy that lives in us all. It feels like a big TT.

Well, now Audi has obviously realized the futility of venturing further down this road – an everyday supercar is as silly as an everyday ball gown – which is why it has produced the limited-edition R8 GT.

GT stands for grand tourer but it isn’t that at all. It’s a harder, lighter, louder, more powerful version of the original and it comes in two specs. You can have a road-going version, which I recommend, or the more focused track-day version that came to my house.

This has a switch in the ashtray that does nothing at all, a fire extinguisher, some scaffolding in the back and idiotic four-point racing harnesses that take six hours to adjust and three hours to fasten up and mean that when you’re driving along you can’t reach half the controls or the glove box.

There was much to hate about this car, then. But if you peel away the track-day frippery and nonsense, there was actually a lot to love. They may have only skimmed this and chiselled away at that to save a miserable 100 kg – most of which was then offset by the silly roll cage in my car – but the GT feels light. Much lighter than the standard car. And as a result of that, it feels more awake, more eager.