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The series of bends are a slow and sibilant S dropped like stocks and shares in a slump upon the sleek and somnambulant scene ahead of me. I am coming at them as fast as a crazed cricketer boldly bowling for his second successive century. Too fast? For a brief but brazen moment that might seem to be the case. But in truth I had nothing to fear for beneath me I have a chassis that grips like a wrestling snake in the midst of seizure, a chassis defined and yet all at once liberated by the two letters that stand proud on the rump of the body that sits four square atop it. K and A.

Yes, my steed for this all out assault on the most twisted sister of a blacktop the East Midlands can supply is Ford’s new baby but there is nothing childish about the way it sucks up that tight ribbon of road like a hungry Italian at a spaghetti festival.

You’ll notice I said Italian for a reason because this new pocket sized funster is neither literally nor metaphorically a Blue Oval. The hardware it packs under its pert and preened posing pouch of a shell comes from the land of pasta and Pisa, specifically the cute-as-a-kitten-crawling-on-Cameron-Diaz Fiat 500. Yet Ford’s suspension supremos have cut through the carbonara, tweaking and tuning so that this new bambino pedals like a pro.

The steering is as quick witted as Clive Anderson on QI, the gearshift as slick as Bryan Ferry in an oil spill, the chassis as classy as mid-era Shirley Bassey. Was I going too fast into those bends? Not in this baby, baby. Turn in, feels the forces build like a wave of lateral gravity, let it key into the road like a tarmac crazed locksmith. I lift off the throttle mid-way through the second arc, feeling the back end make like John Sergeant and step out of line. Instantly and instinctively I gave it a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Ford Ka 1.3 TDCi Zetec is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-at-large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

A hot and heavy silence embraces the slowly rolling flat lands of these most Eastern Midlands like a wet shadow, clawing and gnawing at their infinite edges like an invisible spaniel of nothingness. Yet as I survey the dashboard in front of me all signs are as normal as a Home Counties bank manager eating toast on a Tuesday. The dials glow like celestial suns of precious information whilst peppy pop music prances and patters from the preening speakers that surround me. But as I sit here, the car as stationary as the back section of a branch of WH Smith, something is as wrong as getting intimate with your gran. The engine is nowhere, AWOL, a desperate disparu making its presence felt by its absence. But I’m not worried for this is no reason to call Mssrs AA and RAC. This is singular shutdown by design. This is the Toyota Auris TR 1.33 Dual VVT-I Stop & Start.

Yes, you read that right. The medium car from the big manufacturer has just gone eco, buffing its green credentials like a burgeoning hippy gone crazed in a cress shop with the simple addition of know how that simply flatlines the motor when you come to a halt.

Do you want to know the best thing about this bastion of technology and simplicity? It works. Yet, like a failed parachutist hitting the beach, the rest of the car also leaves an impression. The engine revs like a fat hamster’s heart, releasing its goodness in thick blobs all over the power band, a task made all the more accessible by a gearshift that’s as easy as a Northern whore. Best of all, this Auris is no snore-is when you get to the twisty stuff. Chuck it in hard, feel the nose bite like a starved shark, squeeze the throttle like an unloved orange and just let it dive through like an Olympic apex hunter. For the more committed helmsmith there are games aplenty too. I lifted off hard and felt the playful tail step out. I simply gave it a dab of oppo and I was away.

Toyota Auris TR 1.33 Dual VVT-I Stop & Start is a bitch, and I spanked it.

A wet uliginous rain hammers from the skies like a curtain of liquid spaghetti and batters the flat crucible of countryside just outside Corby. For a brief moment its damp, damning rhythm focuses the silence with its sound then all at once the bucolic calm is broken by something that comes not from nature but derives from the thunder of combustion.

A shape flashes across the flatlands, all at once furious and bovine yet taut and familiar. If the angry clouds could read they would strain to chase its fast moving fury and scan with hardening eyes the cluster of chrome that gathers upon its glistering rump, spelling out the handle of this hard charging hero car. Note. Don’t take Note, just know that this is the Nissan Note, a pert and preened family friend now enhanced by a bolstered and boosted tribute to Dr Diesel and his darkened arts.

Suffice to say, this engine pulls like Brad Pitt in a brothel, not rippling with power but letting the turbo do the torqueing. Its perky partner in crime is the gearchange, slick as a smarmy salesman soused with salad cream. But like Lennon without McCartney or Cannon without Ball this positive powertrain performance would be nothing without a classy chassis and here is where you should really take Note. The ride is flexible and friendly, like sleeping on your gym instructor, yet corners are taken with the enthusiasm of a new puppy on acid. Flick it in hard and the tail steps wide but I caught it with a flick of the old opp-lock and I was away.

The Nissan Note 1.5 dCi Tekna is a bitch. And I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-at-large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

Against the crisp sky of a ruthless July, delicate curtains of brown drape the immortal profile of Issigonis’s creation, remixed for the Playstation age. Framed by a soft green canvas of whsipering grass, it’s a scene to raise the rev limiter on anyone whose four stroke heart pumps pure gasoline through their braided veins. I could happily drink in this vignette for an easy five minutes or so, my eyes suckling on each plump curve and details so delicious you could put them in a baguette and call it a sandwich. Sadly, however, there are driving chores to be done.

In truth, today these are no chores at all for I am about to sample the new Mini, re-tooled, re-booted and re-edited for a whole new audience. This is nothing less than the Mini Clubman. Some say it’s an estate, some say it’s nothing more than a Mini hatch made more spacious to the tune of a gnat’s snatch. Me, I say it’s both. And that’s a good thing.

However, what really makes the Clubman work is the way it pedals. Slam it down a testing twist of hard baked blacktop and the Mini comes home to work. This baby is alive in your hands and you decide the song. The steering is heavy yet precise like cutting cheese with a sword, the gearchange as firm and chunky as a fridge full of Branston Pickle. But it’s the chassis that really steals the sunshine in this all-star show, keying into the road and gripping like a Velcro monkey as you guide the Clubman almost telepathically towards Wisbech.

If that sounds boring, don’t worry. This little Mini isn’t just about sheer Evo-Stik grip; it also wants to dance like one of Spearmint Rhino’s finest, and you’ve just put a 50 in her pants. Turn in hard, feel the back go light, let it come round and chose your escape route, giving Mr Apex a clip round the ear on your way through. One dab of oppo, I caught the lot and I was away.

I don’t know where it is, but I want to be part of this club, man. The Mini is a bitch, and I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-at-large for DAB OF OPPO magazine

A ribbon of road snakes out before me as if some glistening metallic shark has been laid upon the countryside, the early morning light glinting off its crystalline surface like a celestial laser. This is the kind of terrain the really sorts the men from the mice and today it seems to be all mine.

By the end of its five mile length I will know as much about the car as if I had literally eaten its suspension for breakfast. I will also be slightly closer to Corby. My weapon for this full scale assault on the north face of driving nirvana packs so much on paper promise they might as well have printed the press release on a rucksack full of dynamite. Ford Focus TDCi Powershift. Yes, you read that right. That last word really does mean the installation of a double clutch gearbox in the Blue Oval’s C-seg mid ranger. So double the clutches, but is it double the pleasure? Let’s do this thing.

First impressions count, and on this basis the Focus has just met me in the bar of a mid-priced hotel on the outskirts of Kettering and is already squeezing my balls. Chassis tuning feels tight as a countertenor’s undercrackers after a lengthy session in the boil wash, the whole car reacting like an amphetamine crazed leopard to my expert inputs. The ride is nuggety yet tasty like Mr McDonald’s finest. Just go easy on the mustard dip. You can almost telepathically guide it through corners, lifting off to adjust the line, letting the back step out just the breadth of gnat’s vagina. I caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

But, like booking tickets for U2 and then finding that The Beatles are the support band, there is another surprising talent in this car and it’s the double-clutch gearbox. Double-bubble, double-mint, double-dip. Changes are quick, they’re smooth, they’re perfect, as each gear goes in, crisp like Quavers.

After my spiriting sprint across the badlands of the East Midlands I know that this car is truly the medium C1 family owner business user chooser hatch of choice for the committed helmsmith. This focussed Focus is a bitch. And I spanked it.

TROY QUEEF IS EXECUTIVE ASSOCIATE EDITOR-AT-LARGE FOR DAB OF OPPO MAGAZINE

A pulchritudinous sun casts it gentle dawn rays across the badlands of Kettering and grasps but for one fleeting moment the soft curves of metal, enveloping them like a warm, gentle envelope and scampers like a cheeky spider over a chrome effect badge, picking out each letter as if it were a sniper picking off a target from a celestial bell tower. Singularly those letters mean nothing; together they spell out potency and promise: A G I L A.

I grip the Vauxhall badged fob in my feverish palm and deploy the button marked with the distinctive shape of an open padlock. Instantly the driver’s door unlocks with erectile urgency and soon I’m behind the wheel. The motor fires quickly, promptly, immediately and we’re under way. First impressions? Gearchange crisp as a bag of Walker’s cheese & onion crisps, clutch action soft as stepping on the face of a kitten. It feels good. The fluids take a few moments to warm like a watched pot gathering moss and then it’s time to see what she can really do. Run it to the red line, bang through the gearchanges, timed to perfection. In a straight line, a Fiat Panda wouldn’t know which direction it had gone.

Time to test her on the twisties. Turns in well, feels keyed to the road, feedback is like a focus group, firm but fair, the coiled springs soaking up the worst the road can throw at them like a well turned sponge in a bath of gravel. Go in hard, lift off the throttle and the tail steps out, but it’s as controllable as a well trained spaniel on a short lead in a fenced in garden with Barbara Woodhouse watching on. As soon as it gets sideways I gather it up with a well timed dab of oppo and I’m away.

What price driving pleasure to put a smile on your face as if you’ve slept with a coat hangar full of Ecstacy in your mouth? In this case, from £7595. The Vauxhall Agila is a bitch, and I spanked it.

Troy Queef is Executive Associate Editor-at-Large at Dab Of Oppo magazine