Archive for the ‘Troy Queef’ Category

The clouds above part like some mythical doorway to allow the familiar face of a combusting celestial chum to poke through, ablaze with the smell of hope. Yet those parting pillows of puffy pre-precipitation are not the only unusual doorway to open this splendid and sunny Spring morn. For here down on earth mere mortals may for one snatched second delay to a double take at the hinged apparition before them. An apparently innocent hatchback that hides a party piece as remarkable as anything involving ping pong balls. The trick – suicide rear doors. The name of the flirty family funster to perform it – quite simply, Vauxhall Meriva.

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

It’s a name the might rumble and grumble around your brain like a puzzling peal of thunder. GreenLine. The last time I got the green line I ended up in Bayswater. But today GreenLine has no relation to tawdry Tube travel for this is something that pings pristine with the sheen of eco green. Yes, GreenLine is Skoda’s one stop trip to the town called Virtuous. Today, that newly confected and configured label is gummed with whale-free glue to back of our Czech mate’s mid range snazzy hatch, the Octavia. She’s big but she’s pretty, so how does she dance?

First impressions are good. Steering as direct as Paxman’s pointing finger, brakes as firm and reassuring as a Clint Eastwood handshake. But the biggest surprise is that despite economy figures to make a Scotsman smile and exhaust emissions so slight they would earn you a kiss from Sting, this baby can hustle. It may drink Rudolf’s ruin, but this 1.6 TDI lump can be wound up like a turbocharged four-pot watch.

Fortunately, when the engine punches hard, the chassis has got the face to take it. The ride may be pliant as a pile of poodles but don’t think this eco-hippy won’t go to war in the corners. I pile in hotter than Satan’s sunbed but the smooth Skoda just clings on. Next bend, try the same party trick but lift off at the clip of the apex. The tail does the smooth shuffle, I catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Skoda Octavia Greenline 1.6 TDI CR 105bhp DPF is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

A single sliver of sunshine spears like a shaft through the gloaming cloud shroud that envelops and embraces the brooding flatlands of Eastern England. All at once this crystalline crack of light seems to speak of new hope and a new season that will send the lingering white wall that has blighted Britain for many a week back whence it came. Yes, the snow has gone. Yet ironically, whilst the conditions may no longer produce a perfect paradigm of abysmal, the four square shape that sits upon the once-white blacktop could truly be said to be abominable. Yet this is no solitary striding snowman boldly braving the bitter wind that still caresses the neck of the heartless landscape just outside Wisbech. This is something better yet. This is a better Yeti.

Yes, my steed to celebrate the first stirrings of the soon-coming Spring is nothing less than Skoda’s spirited attempt to bite off a meaty chunk of the soft-roader party. And immediately, this square cut high rider comes over all Jon Culshaw. Yes, this baby’s got first impressions nailed. And nailed hard. But is there a tasty filling behind that pretty pie crust? Time to find out.

Engine catches softly with a stern urgency that flirtily fails to mask a teasing under note, like a mid-flight giggle from an air hostess. First gear slots as a smooth as Roger Moore’s snooker table, clutch bites like an Alsatian on amphetamines and we are rolling. Straight away, you can feel that this baby wants to play, and the game is called ‘progress’. That motor under the prow may pack just 1.2 neat little litres but such is its eagerness to please that you might wrongly guess it runs on pure prostitutes.

The Yeti is really on the rampage now, motor spinning like Alistair Campbell, ably rowed along by a gearchange that’s keen as Roy’s mustard. But how does the sturdy Skoda cope when the going gets twisty? The answer comes in one simple word – simply brilliant. Steering reacts like a crack fuelled cat, pouring the Yeti into each corner with poised precision. Blindfold the driver and they might easily assume they were pedalling a perfectly polished German car. But this is Czech, mate.

At nine-tenths the Yeti is as frisky as Seabiscuit and just as rewarding. But the really good news is that when you poke this snow monster with the sharp stick of helmsmanship it comes back smiling. Mid-bend I lifted off, felt the tail go light, simply caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Skoda Yeti S 1.2 TSI is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

Crisp crystalline snow swaddles the somnambulant scene like a talcum powder duvet, smothering and smoothing all detail into one icy entropy. All is calm, all is white, yet amidst this monochrome magnificence two yellow pools make their presence felt, like flickering floods of mid-air dog piss. But these are not the ammonium outpourings of an electric spaniel; these are piercing puddles of light, emanating for the four square stare of quad headlamps.

The beast to which they are attached squats motionless aside the road, its straight six shooter a-rumble with palpable potency as its fluids eventually achieve the warm embrace of their optimum operating temperatures. Let’s do this thing.

Slot shifter through the knuckly nub of the gate into first, let the clutch begin its connecting clasp. All at once I plant the power pedal and feel the swirling surge of whiteout wheelspin. The back steps out and straight away I catch it with a dab of oppo.

Then it swings the other way and we slide into a ditch. Shit.

My sister’s old BMW 325i E30 Touring was a bitch. And I crashed it. Sorry Claire.

The weather being what it is you’re probably thinking about buying a T-shirt about as much as you’re planning to run outside in your pants and swan dive into a massive pile of choc-ices. If, however, you do fancy adding another item to your impeccably tasteful collection of Ts you could do a lot worse than one of the Troy Queef immortalising DAB OF OPPO shirts, made by the splendid people at Slick Attire.

There are now three colours to choose from, and all for the bargain price of just £16.

Get your T-shirt today. You could always do what all da kool kidz iz doin and wear it under some sort of shirt or jacket until the weather warms up a bit. See, Sniff Petrol isn’t just about lame car gags. We do fashion advice now too.

Searing lumps of lazy light pierce the moist melancholy of an angsty Autumn as all at once the sonamulent sun deigns to radiate beyond the clumps of cloud that hang like pregnant party balloons forming an almost seamless ceiling across the badlands of the East Midlands. Yet the celestial fireball is not alone in attempting to illuminate this landscape for at mere mortal level are two fast moving orbs of Halogen, lightly searing this grey and grizzled Tuesday afternoon.

Headlamps on in the daytime? Yes. For that simple stalk twist action has a meaning far more symbolic than simply to spark into action the glimmering glower on the front of this machine. It says ‘I am on a mission’. I am kissing apexes, hugging kerbs, touching the limit. If I was any more intimate with this bold and brazen blacktop pretty soon one of us would be pregnant.

And my steed for this no-holds-barred brawl with the finest playground the Kettering area has to offer? The road gets more than it deserves for I am pedalling nothing less than the brand new Suzuki SX4 saloon. And yes, you read that right. The ‘saloon’ suffix is no tedious typo. The Big S really has given its sensational SX4 soft roader a right good booting. As soon as I saw the details of this beauty I could feel that it packed more promises than a shopping centre Santa. That longer rear overhang and firmly stamped slab of metal aft of the back wheels smelt strongly of enhanced balance. And now, as I spear across the scenery, I will discover if that initial suspicion can slap me with fact.

First impressions are strong like cheese. Engine feels as willing as a Japanese lap dancer, running to the redline like it’s sprinting from a storm. But the only storm here is grunt, and plenty of it, punting the Super-zuki along at will. The gearchange goes glove-in-fist with these four pots of power, slick as an oil salesman, smooth as a single malt sucked through a sax.

But in this class act, it’s the chassis that really brings the apple for teacher. Turn in is crisper than the Egyptian cotton sheets I slid from this morning, steering gives chat that would make one J. Ross sound Cistercian, and there’s BBC humbling levels of balance. Piling in hot to a particularly damp switchback I lifted off smartly, felt the back end go light, enjoyed the fertile budding of a full on slide. I simply gave it a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Suzuki SX4 1.6 SLX saloon is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

If you like Troy Queef but wish you had something appropriate to wear whilst reading his terrible reviews, worry no more because thanks to our friends at Slick Attire the official Troy Queef Dab Of Oppo T-shirts are here, and now available in three colour options.

And if you’ve already got a Troy T and wish you had something else to read whilst wearing it, why not clickerage on the following words to buy the brand new Big Book of Top Gear 2010 which was written by Sniff Petrol and contains gags of a lameness that readers of this website may find annoyingly familiar.

Silent shafts of spearing sunshine shoot shimmering stains of summer across this somnambulant scene in front of me. It’s 33 miles to Corby, I’ve got a full tank of petrol, half a pack of Extra Strong Mints, it’s light and I’m wearing Serengeti Firenze driving glasses with polarizing lenses and satin gunmetal frames. Let’s hit it.

But before Dunlop gets cosy with blacktop, just one question sticks in the mind like a quizzical arrow. Will I actually need that full tank of juice? This is not the corpulent conundrum it might as first seem for today I am helming a Honda hydra, a beast not with two heads but with two engines, one that sups from the lead-less cup we all know whilst an electric motor sits bang next to it, snuggled up tight like an incestuous sister. As I prepare to get pedalling on some of the Peterborough area’s finest twisties I will be doing so asking if, motive power-wise, two is better than one. So let’s Tango.

First impressions are of a firm push in the back that would make an osteopath envious. Within mere seconds you know that this baby loves to torque, but can she dance? The first set of apexes will soon set it some questions it needs to answer. And there is no phone a friend. Turn in, the steering as searing as stepping on a Lego brick, feel the tyres tread shuffling their way into the attack position as the Gs reach a mighty crescendo of literal lateral gravity, their rubber souls clinging on for dear life as the sweet suspension commands them to do its benign bidding. All inputs and outputs are telegraphed in crisp digital real time. This is Chassis 3G, a broadband link to the road and all its secrets.

What insight have I got into the Insight? A game of two halves, and they both love to play hard. It’s only right and proper that I up the ante, piling in harder, coming on stronger, revelling in the heat that beats from its hybrid heart. As the road snakes onwards I press on like a panty liner, stringing the sinews together in sweet succession. At one moment I lifted off mid-bend and felt the cheeky tail shuffle sideways. I just caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Honda Insight 1.3 SE is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

Don’t you just hate it when you’re a fan of a ludicrous fictional car journalist from a silly and often late website and there’s simply no way of demonstrating your appreciation for this character via the medium of high quality cotton clothing? Well that’s not a problem you’ll find with Sniff Petrol’s Troy Queef because, thanks to the nice people at Slick Attire, you can proudly display your Queefian allegiance on a lovely T-shirt providing the perfect upper body cover for those balmy summer evenings that the weather people are once again telling us are about to go away for ever.

And as if that wasn’t enough, the Dab Of Oppo shirt is now available in a choice of three colours. Why not buy all three?*

To get your Troy T-shirt simply make with the clickiness upon these words. Yes.

* Apart from the fact that you could end up wearing them one after the other and thereby look a little bit deranged. Might be best to come up with some sort of rota system that involves your other clothes, just to be on the safe side.

This is it. This is The Road. This is seven miles of soaring, serpentine sensuousness that will scorch me from my slumber, censure my senses and shakedown my steed with a smooth and semi-sexual series of esses. It will also take me to Kettering. This will be distilled driving pleasure boiled down to its basics as if it were the key Tarmac ingredient in Heston Blumenthal’s kitchen. Let’s do this thing.

To give this delicious ribbon of main course its just desserts I’m here in a small but perfectly formed piece of weaponry. As it tears a tiny hole in the bumptious belly of the East Midlands’ afternoon there are no stray pixels on this picture. Only a Pixo. That’s right; I’m pedalling the Pixo, Nissan’s newly minted baby that’s got its laser sights trained on the Aygo and is about to give it a bloody nose.

As The Road unfolds before me the little Nissan seems to take on a sense of animal urgency, all three cylinders singing the same sweet song, and that song says “You are in control”. Performance is metered out like whiskey at an Irish wedding; smooth but punchy and in intoxicating quantities. And that’s a party the gearchange wants to be at, dancing across the gate like a petrified snake.

But the real happy couple here is the ride & handling. When the twisted Tarmac asks yet more questions of them, the answer is always ‘I do’. Bumps are soaked up by the mechanical thirst pockets atop each wheel whilst grip is so plentiful you could sell the excess to a leech factory. Power in to each corner, trim your tack with the telepathic steering and then let loafer unleash lovely justice upon the throttle and power on to the next date with destiny and an old friend we call Mr Corner.

As car and helmsman forge a deeper bond I delve further into the box of tricks marked ‘dynamic excellence’, lifting off the throttle mid-bend to see what secrets this will reveal. All at once the tail stepped wide, I caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Nissan Pixo 1.0 Tekna is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

So last month Sniff Petrol suggested the idea of some Troy Queef T-shirts and the response was, quite frankly, reasonably massive. In fact we had more e-mails about this than almost anything since the whole James Allen campaign. And the good news is, the Troy Ts are here. Many people seemed a little uncomfortable about the idea of having the word ‘bitch’ emblazoned on their chest, presumably in case they were at the British Grand Prix and accidentally found themselves having to make polite conversation with their grandmother or the Archbishop of Canterbury, so that bit has been ditched and the final design is a kind of hybrid of some of the proposals you saw last month. Make with the clicky here to order one from the nice people at Slick Attire. Yes.