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

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.

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.

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.

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