That’s right; this snub nosed spot on frosty face of Winter is none other than Volkswagen’s brand new baby, the seemingly surprised Up! That exclamation mark is no scribbler’s slip nor subbing snafu; VW put it there with deliberate determination, like a punctuated fox in the syntactical henhouse to bespeak of virtuous vim. Question is, can this Slovakian-made smallster extract exclamations of delight from the keen helmsman?

First impressions are as positive as the top of an AA battery. Under the pugnacious prow is a thrummy three banger numbering just 333cc per pot, stacking up to a cubed centimetre under the full one litre, yet this microscopic motor pulls like George Clooney in a singles bar, aided by a slick shifter that’s smoother than a silk sock full of single malt Scotch. This duo of delights also reflects a typically Teutonic quest for quality that infests the Up! like wasps in your loft. Question is, can the chassis be as classy as the fine finish of the facia?

Upping the pace on some of outer Kettering’s tricksiest tarmac soon reveals cornering cadences as neat as a brain surgeon’s beard. The sweet steering may fumble for feedback but when you ask for accuracy it pops a pile of precision straight in the post. Better yet, the pliant poise soaks up the worst of the road’s crumbling carapace like a five star hotel towel on a small puddle of piss.

Firing in hot to an especially sinuous series of switchbacks, when the questions come thick and fast the suspension scores an instant 12 with no passes. Keen to throw in a cruel curveball, I line up like a laser on the apex and then deftly back off the gas. All at once the Up! brings its pert rump into play with a saucily sideways stance. I simply catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Volkswagen Up 1.0 75 high up! is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Each clutch dip and apex clip reveals ever finer forensic detail about my straining steed, the action of its major control acting like mechanical tarot cards, hiding no secrets as to what it has, will and can done / do.

If a by-stander gazed upon this rapid advancement across the Easterly edge of the badlands of Britain they may behold a shape that at first seems recognisable yet strangely different, like the familiar face of a friend’s fatter brother. Yes, my chosen chariot is a potent totem to the power of evolution – Toyota’s very latest B-segment baby, the new Yaris.

The style is reassuringly dashed with déjà vu yet at the same time it’s as fresh as a lemon enema. Question is, is the chassis as classy as the exterior detailing? The stance is inking cheques but will they be payable into the engine’s account? When the heat gets turned up, does this French-fabriqued funster make for the kitchen door?

First impressions are as solid as a lead elephant. The motor feels as strong as an ant on amphetamines whilst the gearlever slips through the gate like an eager eel in a bucket of baby oil as the pliant ride mops up ruts and ridges like a steel sprung sponge. That’s the basics taken care of. It’s time to push some more searching questions down the helmpipe.

When the wheelmanship is notched up to gas mark 10, Toyota’s tiny tiddler responds in kind. Turn in is pointier than a nude Eskimo’s nipples as the steering telegraphs back fat slices of creamy information and the tortured tyres cling on like rubber raptor’s jaws.

Coming in hot to an especially nuggety switchback, I pile in under power and then slam shut the tide of gas. All at once the tail steps wide, I catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.

Toyota Yaris 1.33 TR is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Furthermore, there is an additional item that has driven me from the land of duvet and divan, and it sits silently yet sweetly outside awaiting the attentions of my thumb upon its remote key. Instantly, the locks pop on all four doors and in mere moments I am in. Eyes scan instinctively over the dashboard and the duopoly of perfectly placed spokes on the handsome helm. Engine fires, as crisp as the contents of Gary Lineker’s larder. Let’s see if this baby is hot. Or should I say, Picanto.

That’s right. My steed for this early morning assault on the cruellest curves the East Midlands can concoct is none other than Kia’s new shrink wrapped baby, set to shake up the somnambulance of the sub-B segment. And the most important question is, has it got the dynamic spice of a true tasty treat or is it about to ruin a keen peddler’s appetite?

First impressions do not disappoint. A micro motor as eager as a plutonium powered puppy working in sweet harmony with a gearshift as slick as the aftermath of a tanker disaster makes for pointedly pacey progress across the damp and dramatic flatlands as expert inputs to the truth filled tiller allow the perky Picanto to surf each curve like a supercharged slot racer.

Yet chunkier challenges await for the road is about to get a whole bunch curvier. Instantly the cute Kia seems to hunker down and power up, as if its well-hewn headlights have envisioned the challenge ahead. As the twisted Tarmac begins to batter its chassis, this feelsome funster responds in kind, with a ride that soaks up potholes as if they were made of marshmallow and handling that defines the very essence of adjustability.

Coming in hot to an especially nuggety right I palm hard on the wheel and slam shut the gas. All at once I feel the playful tail step wide. I simply catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Kia Picanto 2 EcoDynamics is a bitch. And I spanked it.

As this instrumental routine swings on, the flatlands of England pass by in a barely noticeable blur for there is no doubt I am literally dancing through the door marked progress. Take it to the max? No. Today it is time to take it to the C-Max.

Yes, my stoic steed in this balls-forward headbutt on the twisties of the East Midlands is nothing less than Ford’s newest attempt to seduce the procreating peddler. A cursory inspection this a.m. revealed standard seats that can do a flip/fold riff to satisfy even the most demanding dad or multi-purpose mum.

But what really matters is how this baby bus dances when the shifting gets twisty. I’m literally pointing it face first into the blacktop and if it shats its nappy we will know Ford has failed.

As the revometer rides its lonesome curve once more there are certainly no gripes in the grunt department. This 1600cc motor may sip from the black bottle but when talk turns to torque, diesel do nicely. Question is, can the chassis deliver the legs to match those lungs?

First impressions reveal a ride that’s as firm yet flexible as a blob of new Blu-Tack yet despite that roll has no role when a righteous right hander rears its head. Time to see if the grip becomes gristle when I turn it up to ten-tenths.

I pile hot and hard into a series of switchbacks, reading the messages through transparent steering that supplies literally fistfuls of feedback. Still the C-Max doesn’t blink, slicing through every successive corner like a five seater knife. Poking my fingers deeper into the dynamic envelope I dive into a particularly nuggety curve and slam shut the grateful gas tap. All at once the tail steps wide, I catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Ford C-Max 1.6 TDCi Zetec is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-At-Large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

From behind the valiant shining lights that cast asunder all shadow from the landscape all is calm. I work the controls with slight, precise moments of movement knowing that I must look pace in the face and tell it who’s boss. I must also be in Wisbech by 3pm.

My weapon for this all out assault on the north face of the East Midlands is a compact hatch with a name that gives it a lot to prove for I am atop none other than the new Kia Venga. If that name puts you in mind of a high tempo explosion of brightly coloured beats then you would not be alone. The questions is, have Kia’s own Venga boys (and girls) scored a number one smash?

There are certainly no concerns over the engine which releases the power and perfect pitch of a Mariah Carey vocal line, panting hot and heavy talk of torque right into your heart. So this baby’s got the pace. But can its brassy chassis turn classy when the going gets sassy?

I squeeze every last drop from the pipette of performance and snake into a series of switchbacks like an angry anaconda. All at once the little Kia senses my ever firmer hand upon its helm and responds in kind. The ride rocks hard but remains pliant as a pillow fight in a puppy factory whilst the tyres grip like a loyal leeches mounting guard at each corner of castle chassis.

Sensing that this baby wants to play I power into a particularly snickety section of sinew at 110 percent. With an instinctive twitch of the right hoof I snap shut on the gas and feel the Kia’s taut tail step wide. I simply catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Kia Venga 1.4 ‘2’ is a bitch. And I spanked it.

In such predictably unpredictable conditions where second guesswork becomes as pointless as a mangled missile there is nothing so warmly reassuring as being clasped to the warm bosom of four-wheel drive. I therefore count the lucky stars in my metaphorical bag of blessings that the steed I am pedalling today apportions power to all four paws, since I am literally in Sorento. That name is no slip of the finger tips as I pound the PowerMac for I am not in some Italian idyll but instead presented before multiple miles of Eastern England’s most brutal blacktop that will shortly test the metal mettle of Kia’s strangely striking new 4×4. Time to see if it’s the full antipasti…

First impressions are of grunt like a gnu and a gearshift slicker than Don Draper’s hairstyle. The 2.2-litre TDI four banger may suck from the mucky pump but its muscular moanings are smoother Nigels Havers in a single malt sodden silk sock. Net result is that the Sorento can be rowed along like a supercharged speedboat in a squall.

So it scampers soundly in a straight line, but what’s it like at answering questions when the shifting gets twisty? The answer is, quite simply, not bad at all. The stiff shell soaks up suspension shocks like a solid sponge, allowing the McPhersons to strut their stuff as this tall and talented high rider flows through corners like a metal river.

I pile in hot to one seasoned switchback and slam shut the gas as the apex winks back at me. All at once the tall tail steps wide, I simply catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Kia Sorento 2.2 CRDi KX-1 is a bitch. And I spanked it.

The sun may be snuffed from view but the feisty flyer that fires like a leopard from a Luger across the lazy landscape brings its own heat haze, burning with the nubile heat of newness. Yes, I am moving Swiftly and that capitalisation is no terrible typo for the newcomer I am pedaling is none other than Suzuki’s womb fresh baby, re-birthed for the start of the ‘10s.

First appearances might confound even the most anal anorak with an exterior that is cut from the same cute cloth that made its predecessor prettier than a peach perched on Penelope Cruz yet underneath that perky pelt is a mechanical make up as fresh as a fairies fart. Question is, how does she sing when you ask her to dance?

First impressions are of an engine that’s zestier than a lemon enema, hooked tight to a gearchange so slick you could be stirring a box of butter. But all this will be as useless as a dog in a dress if the chassis is soggier than a cardboard codpiece so can the MacPherson strut as the torsion makes you beam? Attacking a customary cluster of corners is soon going to smoke out the solution. And straight away it seems little Suzy likes to shimmy with more grip than an arsenal of anacondas and handling that’s as adjustable as an Anglepoise.

Piling in hot to a seasoned switchback I slam shut the power pedal and feel the pert posterior attempt to swap ends. I simply catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.  

The Suzuki Swift 1.2 SZ3 is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-At-Large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

The word looms and thunders like a dinosaur in the dining room once more today as I find myself confronted with a beast that has been splashed with his most obtuse of appellations.

Yet the crossover before me is no sly spy or tranny with a fanny for I am inside Mitsubishi’s new high rider for those who have precious little mud to plug nor roads to be off and it goes by the name of three simple letters – A S and X.

So, let’s find out if this soft-roader can play hard. First impressions are of plentiful poke from a directly injected diesel mill that raises the curtain on a new era of variable valve cam cleverness for the oil burner, so that the ASX lunges for the horizon like a stabbed stallion.

Helping me to row this car along with the vim of a Cambridge cox is steering as sharp as a needle in a knackers and a shift as slick as a Louisiana beach. But how will she kiss when you take her to a little club called ‘corners’.

I alight on a set of switchbacks that will truly test the mettle of this crossed up crossover cross-roader. They will also take me significantly nearer to Wisbech. Let’s make this happen…

First impressions are of the kind of grip that could suck the piss from a pigeon. The ASX may walk tall but it’s not going to bend when you show it a bend. We pile in hotter and hotter until we’re pedalling at gas mark 10 and still this crosshatch stays in the crosshairs, never missing the target that we call ‘apex’.

For one especially nuggety curve I pile in hard, slam shut the well hammered throttle and feel for a pico-second the tail stepping wide. I simply caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Mitsubishi ASX 3 1.8 DiD is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-At-Large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

Anyone looking from the window would be forgiven for furrowing their burnished brow in confusion for the sight that greets them is not the distinctive prow of a Prius nor the looming largesse of a Lexus RX. At first glance this is a mere family hatch, properly propelled by petrol or driven by diesel. How can no sound emanate from its comfortably contoured carapace? Let me be the bringer of new news, dear onlooker. The hatch I hold before you is a Hybrid.

I present to you Toyota’s new Auris electro-fest. And this British built baby loves to whisper so that at low speeds you won’t be getting aural with the Auris at all.

Grinding up gravel in a shrine of silence of all well and good, but what about the really important stuff? How does this honey handle on the real roads? I abandon the slow swish up to a stately home and set my sights on Market Harborough.

Instantly I’m on a ragged roughneck of a road that bucks and weaves like a shot snake across the velvet duvet of bosomy English countryside. It’s time to turn things up at notch. Before you can blink, 1.8 petrol power has slid seamlessly into synergy with barely audible battery boost in a move that gives a simple one word answer – more punch.

Soon we are licking along at a clip, feeling the lowered suspension working with the efficiency of a Swiss watchmaker’s long serving Labrador. Bumps are blown away like a baddie at the business end of an Uzi. Corners are sucked up as if this thing has just popped out of an Electrolux factory.

Yet this eager eco machine is no mere appliance for sometimes it likes to party. During one especially satisfying switchback sequence I piled in hot and slammed shut the gas. In an instant the tail stepped out, I caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Toyota Auris Hybrid T4 is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-At-Large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

Yes, the Meriva’s suicide rear doors are clever. But does the driving experience make you want to top yourself? There’s only one way to find out. Let’s do this thing. First impressions are of no-holds barred normality, of suit and tie sensibleness at odds with those wacky-backy back doors. Time to take things up a notch. Soaring past 5k rpm the little four pot gasper goes feral, burrowing deep into its power band to give you all its little legs can muster. Slicing seamlessly through the cog box reveals a shift that’s swift if you’ve got the wrists to take it.

The roads ahead are clear. Corby will soon be in our sights. For the next few miles Meriva and me power south in storming fashion, a fortuitous juxtaposition of situation and circumstance. As the pressure piles on, the little Vaux comes back smiling. Steering transmitting everything it knows on a DAB channel marked ‘feedback’ as the classy chassis absorbs every bump and bobble as if the tyres are made of kitchen paper. Balance is like a bull, ultimately led by the nose but dance like Louis Spence on the pedals and you can get the ‘Riva to tango as if it’s in the Strictly final and Len Goodman is holding up a card marked ‘apex’. On a particularly chewy left hander I slammed shut the gas and felt the tail step sideways. Instantly I gave it a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Vauxhall Meriva Expression 1.4 16v is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-At-Large for DAB OF OPPO magazine