Jeremy Clarkson - What Could Possibly Go Wrong...

So intense was my lack of interest in a Lexus sports car that when the time came to test it on Top Gear , I hid under the sofa and let Richard Hammond do it instead.

Why? Lexus doesn’t engineer its cars for Britain. They’re engineered for fatties in Texas. For the long, straight roads of Nevada. For show-off eco-mentalists in Hollywood. The SC 430 is one of the most disgusting pieces of automotive crap I’ve encountered. So why should I imagine for a moment that the LFA would be any different?

This was a car that took nine years to develop. Some would say that demonstrates a fastidious attention to detail. To me it demonstrates that the company hadn’t a clue what it was doing. There’s some evidence to suggest I’m right, because after five years, when the prototype was nearly ready, Lexus decided to scrap the aluminium body and make it instead from carbon fibre.

That took so long that by the time the finished product was ready, Formula One racing had switched to V8 engines, making the LFA’s V10 look like a dinosaur. Only not a very big one.

It develops 552 brake horsepower, which is about 200 bhp less than the current going rate, and it sends this dribble of power to a flappy-paddle gearbox that has half as many clutches as, say, a Golf GTI. On paper, then, the LFA looks to be the dinner of a dog. In the flesh, however…

Some say it looks too similar to a Toyota Celica, or a Toyota Supra, but because it’s so wide and low it actually looks like neither of those. It looks very, very special. And inside, it’s even better. Unlike Ferrari, which fits buttons wherever it can find a bit of space, Lexus has thought everything out beautifully in this car. Apart from the switch that engages reverse – which is behind the mileometer – there’s a Spock-like logic to everything. And when you push or pull or engage anything, there’s a sense that it will continue to work for about a thousand years. It’s the nicest car interior I’ve ever encountered. And I would never, ever, tire of the tool that moves all the dials around.

Then you fire up the engine, snick it into first, move off and… whoa! The noise beggars belief. This is not a car that shouts or barks or growls. It howls. Up there, on the moors, it sounded otherworldly. Like a werewolf that had put its foot in a gin trap. And while it isn’t as fast as you may have been expecting, you quickly realize on damp moorland roads that 552 bhp is perfect. Any more and you’re going to be picking heather out of the grille for a month.

The LFA inspires tremendous confidence. Then, up ahead, you see a dip. Gouge marks in the tarmac show clearly that, over the years, many a sump has clattered into the road, and you brace for an impact that never comes. The LFA may be lower to the ground than a worm’s navel, but so successful is the suspension, it never bottoms out.

I have to say I loved it. It’s an intelligent car, built by intelligent people. In some ways it’s raw and visceral; in others it’s a lesson in common sense. Engine at the front, two seats in the middle and a boot you can use. And yet, despite this, there’s a sense that you’re in a real, full-on racer.

If cruise control was invented for Nevada, Yorkshire was invented for the LFA. It’s a car that reminds you every few seconds why we have corners.

The trouble is that only 500 are being made. And the reason only 500 are being made is that only 500 can be sold. And the reason for that is that each one costs £336,000. An idiotic price. Still, it’s not the end of the world, because you can have a Nissan GT-R. It’s nine-tenths as good. But costs almost five times less.

I spent a few days up north recently. And, at the risk of provoking howls of protest, I came home wondering if the region’s love affair with value for money might be a bit overrated. In restaurants the waiter would not tell us what the food was, or how it had been cooked, or where the ingredients had come from – only how much it would cost. Up north, people like all they can eat for £2.99.

So let’s take this to its logical conclusion. If I were to open a restaurant serving nothing but horse manure and grass clippings, the prices would be very low indeed. But would people eat there? No. This means that at least some emphasis must be placed on quality. And that’s the problem. Quality costs. So, if dinner looks like it could be cheap, there’s a reason. It’s rubbish.

As I’ve said before, there is no such thing as cheap and cheerful. There is cheap and disgusting. Or expensive and cheerful. There is no third way.

We see this with everything. Near where I live a firm of developers recently built a row of terraced houses. They are for sale now at extremely low prices and there’s a very good reason for this. I watched them being built. So I know they are made from old cardboard boxes and dust. I suspect most of the structural integrity comes from the wallpaper.

In short, there is no such thing as a bargain. Something is cheap because it’s cracked, broken or hideous. If you buy cheap garden furniture, it will rot. If you buy cheap pots and pans, they will melt, and if you buy cheap antiques, you will get home to discover they were made yesterday in Korea.

However, where all of this gets blurry is when you introduce the concept of a badge. A pair of sunglasses made by Scrotum & Goldfish would sell for £14.99. Stick a Prada badge on exactly the same glasses, though, and all of a sudden the decimal point heads east.

This makes me froth with rage. I look sometimes at a T-shirt and I think, That cannot possibly cost more than 40p. But because it has a horse or a fox or some other knowing smudge on the left breast, the shopkeeper is allowed by law to charge me £40. Often I’m consumed by an uncontrollable urge to stab her.

All of which brings me neatly to the door of the swanky Audi A3. It costs more than a Volkswagen Golf and you are going to say, ‘Of course it does – it’s an Audi.’ But, actually, it isn’t. Underneath, it is virtually identical to the Golf. They just have different bodies.

You are paying more just so you can go down to the Harvester and tell your friends you have an Audi. And that in turn brings me on to the Skoda Octavia. That costs less than a Golf and you’re going to nod sagely and say, ‘Well, yes. Stands to reason. It’s a Skoda.’ But it isn’t. Underneath, it is also identical to a Golf.

So why would anyone buy a Golf, or an Audi A3, when they could buy exactly the same car for less? Simple answer: badges make people stupid.

In recent years every single Skoda I’ve ever tested has been enormously impressive. There was the Yeti, as good an all-rounder as I’ve ever driven, and the Roomster, which is a blend of practicality, VW engineering and some wondrous styling details. And there was also the Octavia Scout – a perfect farmer’s car with four-wheel drive, low running costs, a boot big enough for a sheep and a fine ride.

I was therefore very much looking forward to a drive last week in the Octavia vRS, because here we have a large five-door hatchback that costs £20,440. That makes it £5,210 less than the Golf GTI. Even though, at the risk of sounding like a stuck record, they’re the same car.

That means you get a 16-valve turbocharged direct-injection 2-litre engine, which equates to 0 to 62 mph in 7.2 seconds and a top speed of 150 mph. You also get big brakes, lowered suspension and a six-speed gearbox.

Apart from the big wheels, though, the Octavia doesn’t look especially racy. But neither does the Golf. However, it is extremely racy when you put your foot down. There’s an almost diesely clatter to the engine, and a hint of lag, and then you’re off in a blizzard of face ache and rush.