Jeremy Clarkson - What Could Possibly Go Wrong...

The drivers said we’d have to get out and finish the journey on foot, but for two reasons we didn’t want to do that. One, we’d be lynched, and two, if we continued to sit on board, everyone would assume they were being held up by a party of Japanese tourists.

‘Unlikely,’ said the promoter. ‘English is not the mother tongue in Belgium but they speak it well enough to work out the anagram of “Live Gear Top”.’ And so, with heavy hearts, James Emerson, Richard Lake and Jeremy Palmer emerged into the cacophony.

I’ve never heard anything so pointless. What did these people hope to achieve by sitting there, leaning on their hooters? Did they imagine that the coaches would simply disappear, crumbling to dust in the barrage of decibels? Or did they think that the noise would cause the offending drivers to think more clearly about how a solution might be found?

Fat chance of that. The car horn is like the screech of a frightened vervet monkey. It’s a warning. A precursor to impending doom. One blast is enough to make anyone look around. When you have a hundred horns, though, sounding continuously, it causes the brain to go into a sort of panicked mush.

You can’t think straight. You don’t know whether to go left or right, whether to run or stand your ground. So you just wait there, ghostly white in the headlight beams, looking as if every ounce of gorm you’ve ever had has suddenly migrated from your face to your feet. For all I know, the buses are still there. Because I didn’t just walk to the hotel. I ran.

I do not understand why the modern car has a hooter. Because, as we’ve established, it is useless at clearing an obstacle. And if you do have to use it to sound an alert to another driver, it means you weren’t anticipating the road ahead and what might happen next. The horn, then, is an admission on your part that you’re a crap driver.

I blew mine the other day. I was making my way out of a petrol station and had spotted the hatchback pulling out of a parking space just ahead. Of course the driver had seen me. Cars are pretty big, and mine was a Ferrari so it was pretty loud and pretty red as well. You can’t sneak up on things in a Ferrari, so with that in mind, I kept a watchful eye on the hatchback, and kept going.

Sadly, though, it did too, and eventually I had no choice. I had to pip. What makes this incident even more harrowing is that the hatchback in question was a Peugeot. I should have known. I warned my daughter when she was learning to drive that she could forget all about mirror, signal, manoeuvre. The most important thing on the road is to be aware that Peugeots never, ever, do what you’re expecting them to do.

Just because they’re in the left lane and indicating left, that doesn’t mean they are actually going to turn left. Last summer, on these pages, I said I’d seen two accidents in one week. Both featured Peugeots. And still it goes on. You look, when you’re out and about, and I can pretty much guarantee that the next car you see upside down in a hedge or parked in a florist’s window display will bear the prancing lion on its nose.

I don’t know why the police bother with measuring tapes and photo evidence. In any two-car smash, it’s dead easy to work out who was to blame: the chap in the Peugeot.

I was driving one last week. It was the new 208 GTi, and I must say that, like many other cars in the range, it’s rather good. Peugeot is at pains to say that it’s not designed to be a word-for-word replica of the original 205 GTI. On the upside, this means you don’t get incredibly heavy steering and woeful unreliability. On the downside, you also don’t get riotously exuberant at-the-limit handling.

What you do get is the same turbocharged 1.6-litre engine as Mini uses in the Cooper S, four seats, a usable boot, a steering wheel the size of a vicar’s saucer and the sort of character that causes you to drive along as if your hair’s on fire.

It’s not perfect. The gear change feels loose, and when you hook a tyre into the potholed apex of a bend, you can feel it banging and scrabbling through the steering wheel. But this doesn’t really put you off. In some ways it’s nice to feel that you’re part of the action and that the gearbox is rather more than a switch. It seemed a very human car. It’s also fairly well priced and well equipped. The satnav on my test car was very good, and the glass roof was a joy too.

Problems? Well, the seat gave me a bit of backache after an hour. But at my age a Vietnamese massage does that as well, so I can’t grumble too loudly. Worse was the 208 GTi’s tendency to settle to a 110 mph cruise. The Mini does this as well. It must be a characteristic of that engine and its acoustic qualities. But whatever; on a motorway you have to keep a constant watch on the speedo.

Overall I did like this car, but when all is said and done, the Ford Fiesta ST is better. However, the Peugeot does come with one feature that the Ford cannot match. When you are driving it, everyone gives you a wide berth.

According to the promotional material, the MG6 was conceived, designed, engineered and built in Britain. It’s a great British name, and a great British car. A slice of Jerusalem among the dark, satanic mills of Germanic nonsense. A UKIP pin-up girl with windscreen wipers. Brown beer with a tax disc.

This is a car for people who grew up dreaming of driving a sporty B but who are now to be found at home, in their wing-backs, flicking through the channels and muttering about how there’s nothing to watch on television these days. It’s a car that takes them back to their youth. A car that reminds them that Britain was, and still is, the greatest country on earth. It’s the Spitfire, the hovercraft and Nelson. It’s Churchill. It’s Elgar. It’s Wordsworth and Shakespeare and Brunel.

Except it isn’t. Because it turns out that the MG6 is actually built in China by SAIC Motor – the company that now owns MG Rover (though not the name Rover). It is then shipped over to Birmingham, where a small team inserts the engine. Claiming that this car is British is like claiming that an Airfix model was built in your front room. It wasn’t. It was merely assembled there.

Yes, the car we buy here was styled in Britain, and some of the chassis work was done here too, with – whisper it – German components. But in essence, while this car may be pretending to be Kenneth More, it’s as Chinese as a chopstick.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. Because, typically, what happens when a Far Eastern country starts exporting cars to the West is you get a substandard product with a price that’s so low, no one really cares that it’s held together with wallpaper paste and has an engine that sounds as if it’s running on gravel.

Then, in an alarmingly short time, the cars are suddenly as good as their European rivals. Toyota went from the Toyopet to the Lexus LFA in about five weeks. One minute Kia was making the woefully awful Rio, and the next it had the bloody good Cee’d.

The company behind the MG6 started with an advantage. It didn’t begin with a jungle clearing and a workforce that thought it was making dragons: it began with the underpinnings of the Rover 75 and employed people who navigated to work with their iPhone 5. In theory, then, the MG6 would drive quite well and come with a DFS everything-must-go price tag. Which would make it a tempting proposition even without the nonsensical Last Night of the Proms- style marketing.

So why, I wondered, was it so hard to book a test drive? Excuses were always made. Other phones were ringing. Other priorities had to be addressed.

Well, last week I sneaked behind the wheel for a short drive, and very quickly the reason became obvious. This car is not bad at all. It’s hysterically terrible.