Archive for the ‘Troy Queef’ Category

Winter’s white weft still lingers like a decaying duvet across the flat firmament of the Midlands’ most Eastern fringes, kettling Kettering with a bony breeze and the fading flakes of a foot-tall fall. Yet there is no time to reflect on sundry snowings for now is the time to splice the ice with some serious pedalling.

My steed for today’s sub-zero shakedown on the Fenland’s finest is a machine guaranteed to slide. But fear not, for this does not imply inadequate adhesion but refers merely to the agents of ingress that cling gamely to its smoothly sculpted sides. That’s right, I’m helming Ford’s new sliding doored B-pillarless B-seg baby, the B-Max.

First impressions are of a righteous rightness to all major controls, each perfectly positioned to impress the willing wheelsmith. Question is, can this early ergonomic excellence maintain its game face in the theatre of blacktop?

Almost immediately, a depth of detailed dynamism is heartily heralded by the lusty lustre of the baby three-banger under the frontage. Packing purposeful power yet thimble-thin thirst from just a litre of leverage toned by a turbo, this downsized diamond punches like Ali on amphetamines, co-operatively coached by a shifter that’s slicker than a cormorant on the Torrey Canyon.

So the basics are nailed down tighter than a nun’s knickers but what happens when the wheelmanship gets serious? It’s time to take the B- to the max.

Turn-in feels crisper than a pile of poppadoms, shepherded by steering sharp enough to tear tarmac and a level of roll control that would make Mr Warburton weep. Bumps are soaked up like tears on a tissue as the feisty Ford makes short work of the switchbacks and arm wrestles each apex into supine submission.

I swoop at speed into an especially contorted curve complex, feel the cool crescendo of Gs and remove my hand stitched helmsmith’s loafer from the business pedal. All at once the tail twitches wide. I simply catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Ford B-Max Zetec 1.0T 100PS Ecoboost is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

Crisp slits of saturnine searchlight spear silently through the somnambulant gloaming of an East Midlands early morn. All at once the diminishing dawn darkness is rent asunder by a pair of hunting headlights, proudly on-point at the prow of a swiftly shifting shape that spears with impudent fantastical ease across the slowly wakening world of the cruel countryside near Kettering.

For the committed wheelsmith this is prime business time, cuddling up to the cusp of sunrise and making helming hay before the celestial fireball breaks cover. My steed for this early a.m. assault on the unploughed metaphorical soil of a fresh Friday is a familiar set of letters roundly remixed for the ‘13 model year in the handsomely hewn shape of the brand new Honda CR-V.

When I set off the central locking at shock o’clock this morning the first impression was the sturdy stench of quality and the perfect precision that only Soichiro’s squad can offer. Yet this sharply suited soft-roader is no soccer mom sludge sledge for it aims to inject more S without losing the UV. Question is, can this beautifully baked biscuit slip smoothly into a pair of dancing trousers?

This particular ‘V may suckle from the treacle teat but there are no complaints about the girth of grunt that accompanies its distantly dieselly thunderings. Powerful progress is a given, and it’s assisted by a gearshift as slick as a silk sash soaked in sunflower oil. So the powertrain is packed with pertinent promise but it will all be as pointless as a punched pencil if the chassis isn’t sassy.

Initial reports are good as the suspension sucks up the terrors of tawdry Tarmacadam like a Russian hooker with a straw. Rude ruts and perfidious potholes are smoothed off like a well-polished pebble as the hungry Honda devours devious backtop. It’s time to open the box marked ‘bends’. Sinuous steering makes an early announcement of CR-V’s intention to party, commands from the tiller are taken without question, turn-in as crisp as an Egyptian cotton pillowcase full of Quavers. Armed with such action, every curve becomes a no-appointment-necessary meeting with Mr Apex.

With the ante upped, I chucked a fistful of mph into the pot and throw the Honda headlong at the most splendiferous switchbacks I can seek yet still this fecund family car grips like a drowning man to the side of a dinghy. On one especially S-shaped complex I slammed shut the gas at the corner’s crescendo and felt the tall tail begin to step wide. I simply caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Honda CR-V 2.2 i-DTEC SE-T is a bitch, and I spanked it.

As Britain basks in the warm glow of post-Olympic bliss, reclining as a nation under a downy duvet of deliverance and sparking up a smooth smoke of success, we must now face up to the absence of Ennis and the banishment of Bolt from our television screens and seek to extract entertainment from other avenues. Some may seek solace in cinema or amusement in booze but I have chosen the bonny embrace of my old buddy blacktop.

So it is that on this muggy Monday I am spearing across the badlands of the East Midlands in a streak of white lightning, the purity of its paint at odds with the on paper promise that this may be some unholy hybrid. Destination: Kettering.

More eager readers may have noticed an etymological elephant in the room of that last sentence. That’s right – someone just dropped the H-bomb. Yet the machine that has received this duopoly of drivetrains is not some lenient Lexus or pious Prius though it comes from the same hybrid henchmen for today I am pedalling Toyota’s tiniest two-motor tech to date. Welcome to the Yaris Hybrid.

First impressions when I popped the locks this a.m. were of nothing notable beyond the familiar face of this, the third gen of Toyota’s tiddler. Yet sparking the motor surrounds you in a suspicious silence that continues when you suggest the spindly shifter shakes hands with Mr D. Employing the instantaneous urge that only electrical motivation can bestow, the Yar-Hyb romps from rest with a silky smoothness that is literally all torque. You have only the merest moment to think about this pertinent push in the solar plexus before the petrol powered portion of the powertrain licks into life, as smooth and seamless as one of Des Lynam’s links.

So this baby’s got the balls to shift on the straights, but how does it rhumba on a black snake of bends? The Hybraris has an appointment with a particularly thorough examination. Dr Apex will see you now.

As the pace rises the reigned-in ride refuses to run out of answers whilst the CVT shift system keeps pouring on the power in an orgy of organisation that’s always on hand to dole out more drive. Caress it into a corner and you can feel the springs soak up the situation like kinetic kitchen paper whilst the handy helm never flinches from its focus. On one especially nuggety switchback I piled in at eleven-tenths and slammed shut the gas at the corner’s crescendo. The pert posterior attempted to step wide, I simply caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Toyota Yaris Hybrid T-Spirit is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

Where serendipitous sunshine should shroud the smooth scenescapes of the English East Midlands instead they are washed with unwelcome water as a ravenous rain repeatedly risks our wroth with its rapacious railing. Whilst conspicuous chunks of the country spake sad soliloquys for the sodden summer, weather worries cannot be allowed to harm the vital business of helming. And besides, today I am impervious to the impertinence of precipitation for I have all-paw drive.

Yet the creature I am pedalling is no lumbering ladder-frame log lugger for this is a lightweight 4×4 and it comes from Mazda, a company normally known for riotous roadsters and homely hatchbacks. This newcomer is neither, for now the firm is trying – literally – to crossover. The bold badge on the boot tells you all you need to know about the name – CX-5. The styling is equally stirring, from the proud prow through the filigree folds of the flanks back to a posterior that is packed with practical portent. Question is, can it sing as good as it looks on the CD sleeve?

Immediately, first impressions are sharper than lime eye drops; steering feels keener than a beaver on bath salts, gear change is crisper than a deep-fried Dorito. Even that optimised oil burner under the burnished bonnet feels hotter than a fireman’s phaal. Make no mistake; this high-riding whore is hungry for helming. Mazda makes great play of its ‘Skyactiv’ philosophy, laying on the lightness and extracting the efficiency, but all I know is, it’s a whole balloon of boon for the keen wheelsmith.

It may be higher than a basketballer’s ballbag but this funked up familyist likes to party on the Tarmac. Turn it in it hard and it grips like a Taurined-up trawlerman, balanced as a ballerina on a beam between two buildings. But what happens when you start asking harder questions? Does the chassis crack under some back road Paxman? To find out, I fire in hot to a particularly naggety switchback, feel the feedback flowing with each twist of the tiller, and then strangle the gas just as we shake hands with Mr Apex. All at once the tail comes into play with a saucy sidestep. I simply catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Mazda CX-5 2.2d SE-L Nav AWD is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

Grey curtains of rancid rain tickle the turbulent terrain of the East Midlands with the pure punch of headlong H2O. While experts spout about drought, here in the British hinterland the populous are fretfully fingering those downloaded diagrams for an aqueous ark. Yet ‘midst the murk and moisture a single bright star spears across the leaden landscape, piercing precipitation with palpable power. Fear not, for this is no malign meteor nor catastrophic comet. The bright burst of brilliance that sears across this scene is no less than the candescent child of a glittering Korea for today I am helming Hyundai’s crucial new mid-range lynchpin, the i30.

The proud prow tells you much that you need to know about this bold new battler in the hotly contested C-segment. Fluid flourishes identify handsome headlamps that bestride a gaping grille as aggressive as a pissed off pit bull. Every swoop of steel and plunge of plastic firmly informs you that this baby means business. The friendly Focus and genteel Golf have just been invited to a hatchback hoedown. Question is, has the hearty Hyundai brought an under-damped knife to this ride-and-handling gun fight?

First impressions do not disappoint. Control surfaces quiver with quality in an interior refreshingly free of egregious ergonomics. Time to get pedalling. The motor fires up fast and settles to a bassy beat. This 1582cc engine may suckle from the black teat of diesel yet its thrum turns to hum as soon as the business pedal is mashed. Couple it to a six-speed gearbox as slick as a Brylcreemed eel and you’ve got an irresistible recipe for powertrain poetry.

So it is that I find myself pedalling apace through the drowning diorama of the near-Kettering countryside, playing the gearlever like a vertical oboe and letting the motor do the torqueing. But now comes the big one. Can this honed Hyundai keep up the conversation when the twisties take a seat at the table? Time to fire this funster at some of the region’s ballsiest B-roads and see if it comes away crying.

I flow it into some searing switchbacks and feel roll being resisted as the Gs start to squeeze. The dynamic ‘dai grips like a gluey gorilla as the sassy chassis soaks up surfaces like steel sprung silica gel. The steering whispers wistfully with slivers of secrets about the suspension’s endeavours as I wind the wheelsmithery up to 11. Coming in hot to an especially luscious left hander I caress the apex and then slam shut the power pedal. All at once the Hyundai’s polished posterior comes out to play. I simply catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Hyundai i30 Active 1.6 CRDi Blue Drive is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

An infectious and fractious buzz rasps through the somnambulant sinews of the rural East Midlands, zizzing off trees and kissing clouds with its insistent ire. Could it be that Kettering is about to suffer another fatal wasp attack? Fear not my friends for this crisp cacophony is not the aural warning of a squadron of stripy stingers but comes from behind the bonnet of a bonny and benign baby. Can you see one? That last sentence is no accidental lapse nor keyboard calamity for the very wheels I’m referring to are indeed C1. Citroen C1.

At the risk of muddying your mind with obvious oxymoron, small is the new large. From the funky fizz of Fiat’s fashionable 500 to the quantifiable quality of VW’s virtuous Up, it’s never been bigger to be little which is why the kids at Cit have given their microhatch a mid-life makeover, all the better to let it surf the trendy wave that splashes onto a beach marked ‘downsizing’. We already know that this is an admirably minimalist sub-B funster but has it been ruined by the automotive analogue of collagen and silicone? Is it lightweight dynamically as well as literally?

I’m finding out in the only way possible – by pedalling across the cream of North Northamptonshire blacktop, giving it a good thrapping towards Thrapston. The brightening buzz that announces my arrival and whirls in my wake comes courtesy of a keen trio of cylinders delivering 67 perfectly preened ponies to the front rubbers. As the revs rise, the buzz strums upwards to thrum and then hum and the little Cit begins to punch above the weight it doesn’t have.

Question is, it soars on the straights but will it sink on the switchbacks? I’m about to plunge my head into a bucket of answers. The brakes feel firm but friendly, like a reasonable teacher. Bang down a change, feel the lever move sweetly, snappy as a photobooth. Initial turn-in comes crisp as the contents of Gary Lineker’s larder, the helm responds rapaciously to my commands, my eyes lock like lasers onto the apex and the Double Chevroned doozy follows my gaze telepathically. As the apex is kissed like a Cornish man on his cousin, I lift loafer from loud pedal and feel the C1’s glassy ass begin to step wide. I simply catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Citroen C1 VTR+ is a bitch. And I spanked it.

The foul frosty crow of winter has got its beak stuck firmly into the East Midlands hinterland. The air hangs sharp and unsympathetic like a spherical switchblade, cutting into all it envelops like a doom-laden duvet of shivering sub-zero. No man nor beast would surely venture amidst this freezing frieze yet there upon the horizon a bold and bulbous blob of red powers petulantly through the merciless moodscape. What’s up? Or, should I say, what’s Up!?

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.

The hot, urgent sound of raw revs swarms about the cabin like a cloud of invisible power bees. All at once my ears are reminded that we are pedalling hard along this sleek and sinuous stretch of bucking and brilliant blacktop, a writhing and retching ribbon that prods at the very concept of wheelsmith nirvana whilst also getting us within significant spitting distance of Kettering.

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.

6am is no reasonable time to rise from silent slumber, especially when the British summertime rewards your early endeavours with solid shafts of liquid disappointment, falling fast from a sombre ceiling of crestfalling cloud. Yet there is good reason for this ahead-of-schedule achievement of the upright state since at this unholy hour the roads are quieter than a mouse’s mute button. Even in weather as foul as a tramp’s underpants, this is one good reason to rise. The other is that I have an 8am appointment with my dental hygienist in Kettering.

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.

Another shift slots home like a vertical missile firing across the tight gate of the transmission. In the next nanosecond my left foot flies upwards like a loafer-clad leopard to cause clutch plates to collide like so many distant meteors and drive once more pulses and paws its way through the very heart of the car as we continue in our ball-out quest to make it to Kettering on time.

The mission may be massive but the car is not, as evinced by the faux metal moniker affixed to its short and shapely rump: Micra. Yes, this is the brand new version of Nissan’s bulbous baby, re-tooled and re-mixed for 21^st Century v2.0 and assembled not by the stottie scoffing stalwarts of Sunderland but built by the bhaji boys of India. Question is, have they got curried away?

First impressions are of a beige trimmed passenger zone as airy as a spacious summer meadow. From wheel to a/c, all controls are exactly where you’d expect them, finding the driver’s focus and firing it forwards over that bug faced bonnet. But interior ergonomics are not what concerns us here. This micro Micra might have the style to seduce but can it put its hands down your pants when the blacktop starts to buck and bend?

That’s the question I am now barking straight into the Micra’s easy going ears as yet another gear change slots across the gate like a rifle bolt, creamy as a Devonian teatime. This control is nothing without power and the nubile Nissan’s thrumbly three pot does not disappoint, signalling its perky pedalings with a crispy whirr and the urgent arcing of its tiny tacho needle. So its pace is as cute as its face, but when Mr Corner comes a-calling will the little Nissan pretend to be out?

A micron turn of the Micra’s steering sends it spearing smoothly into a meeting with Mr Apex as the slick chassis soaks up bumps like metallic kitchen paper and the tiny tyres grip like a ketamine-crazed kitten on your curtains. On the hard entry to a particularly nuggety switchback I really upped the ante to ten-tenths by slamming shut the thirsty throttle. All at once the titchy tail stepped wide, I caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Nissan Micra 1.2 Tekna is a bitch. And I spanked it.