Archive for the ‘Troy Queef’ Category

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.

The insistent urgency of the alarm shatters my shallow sleep like so many rocks thrown through the window of a fresh morning. Yet in truth my sleep’s fitful unrest has given me precious little perchance to dream. After all, how could I truly take a business class return to the Land of Nod when I knew what was awaiting as soon as the sun made its sneaky creep over the horizon’s lazy threshold. Clothes are thrown on with a careless speed that would make Gok Wan gasp. A breakfast is ingested with a vainglorious velocity that would cause a wolf blush. All functional actions seem to happen at the breathless and breakneck of a Buster Keaton DVD jammed on four times fast forward. At last I leave the house with the urgency of a diarrhea wracked cheetah and there in front of me is the reason for all this early a.m. hurrying and harrying: a perfect shape draped in ravishing red paintwork sits four square on the driveway. Oasis said Dig Out Your Soul. No need for digging Noel, my Soul is right here before me.

That’s right, the sensuous steed that stirred my slumbers is Kia’s new family friendly funkster, a tantalising take on the age old question of how to make a B/C-segment five door sing with a little more zing. The Soul’s style certainly takes that eternal question mark and drop kicks it into a week on Thursday; you won’t mistake this kid karting, dog dropping, teenager toting, bicycle barracking , windsurfer whisking multi-tasking marvel for a feebly fenestrated van. This Kia sits loud and proud, comfortable in its own artfully blocky skin.

The question is, does the Soul stir the soul where it matters, out on the toughest set of twisties the East Midlands can serve up? The answer is an emphatic, let’s find out. With the oils warmed through I set vectors for the heart of the red line and feel the motor spin as smooth as Liberace’s bathrobe. Grab another gear, change as precise as a brain surgeon’s Breitling, already this funk Soul brother is playing wah-wah with my heart. The road starts to buck and weave like a bronco playing basketball and Kia begins to serve up the meat of its Soul food. Each bump is soaked up like an oily Korean sponge as the chassis keys into the road and clings on like a Velcro cat in glue factory. Hard inputs through the transparent and tenacious steering elicit swift and decisive actions that let you know for sure that this Soul train corners like it’s on rails. I am a Soul singer, coming in hot and heavy. All at once I lift off, feel the tail step wide, give it a dab of oppo and I’m away.

The Kia Soul 2 1.6 is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

So Crazy Dave Coulthard, the preposterously ‘street’ Sniff Petrol character rather than the agreeable F1 driver-turned-pundit, has largely gone away. But the good news is that you can still buy one of the last few Crazy Dave T-shirts, now for the bargain price of just £12.

Never let it be said, however, that Sniff Petrol isn’t one to milk its more popular fictional columnists. That’s why we’re thinking of doing a new line of T-shirts modelled on the ludicrous wheelsmithery stylings of Troy Queef. Our chums at Slick Attire – the clothing artists formerly known as N138 – have already come up with some possible designs which you can see below but before we push the big button marked MAKE T-SHIRTS NOW! we’d like to know if you’d be interested in buying a fine piece of 100% cotton Queefery. If you fancy increasing your visual helmsmanship for about 15 quid then send us an e-mail and if we get enough of a response we’ll have something on sale by the summer. Bitch spankery.

The rev counter nestles in the upper quadrant of its range, harmlessly headbutting red paint with ever sturdy shove of my shoe upon the business pedal. Occasionally it slinks away from its new friends at the top end of the register, momentarily recoiling on the cue of another upshift then all at once making a lunge for the line as brake meets toe and the throttle again feels heel, another downchange timed to perfection and slotted home like a searingly hot scalpel slung into a butter factory.

To the outside world, the shape of this car may slip like a subdued symphony down the languid lanes, but inside I can tell you that I am having more fun than a boisterous bull in the world’s biggest china shop, spearing and swooping across sinew and scallop as I pedal post haste towards Corby. The fit and focussed carriage for this all-out assault on the East face of England is a rare and unusual treat best summed up by three preened but potent syllables – Magentis.

Yes, my sword for this slice through challenging blacktop is the facelifted version of Kia’s capable mid-ranger, re-nosed, re-honed and reacting well to all I am demanding of it. The 2-litre diesel engine pulls like a train full of carthorses, allowing me to work the six-speed gearbox like a Victorian orphan, knowing that I have a belt ‘n’ braces set of brakes taking care of business at the other end of the G-force spectrum.

Better yet, this often overlooked product of a glittering Korea has a classy chassis that loves to dance. Pile into corners hard and feel it key into the road, tyres biting, suspension soft yet taut like the breasts of a lapdancer. I stared this car in the face and not once did it flinch. Only as I crossed its ample limits did the tail step out. All at once I gave it a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Kia Magentis 2.0 CRDi is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

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 grey and perfectly pregnant cloud reflects in the sheeny paintwork like an ethereal marshmallow smeared on a mirror, bulging with the silent threat of rain. Yet I fear not the imminent aqueous attack from above for I am about to seek shelter in a small but perfectly formed raincoat. And the good news is, it’s a raincoat packed with 1.2 litres of pure motive power.

You may pause for a moment to reflect on that number yet its true weight and meaning may slip by like the slow scudding clouds of this oleaginously Autumnal day until you discover the name of the frame in which they sit. i10.

Yes, we’ve already seen Hyundai’s bella bambino and supped upon its cup of excellence but those first ‘10s were a mere 1.1-litre and if they lacked for one thing it was a full set of petrol testicles. Now that question has been solved. As Mr Marks & Spencer might say, this isn’t just any i10. This is an i10 that’s 0.1 better. Let’s do this thing.

First impressions are of a bucket more grunt in the guts right where you need, it deep on the peak of the power band. The even better news is that the hard points of the heart of the baby Hyundai remain as smooth and fruity as they always did. Gearchange as slick as a puddle of oil poured onto a silk eel. Ride as compliant as a pile of pillows stuffed full of a North Korean leader’s assistants. Handling that is both safe as houses with condoms on top yet entertaining enough to make you believe the spring settings were signed off by Tommy Cooper. I snowballed into a corner, lifted hard off the gas and felt the tail step out. I simply caught it with a dab of oppo and I was away.

The Hyundai i10 1.2 Comfort is a bitch. And I spanked it.

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

A lion spears across the flatland badlands just outside Corby, its skin a glisten with mystery and poise. But there is no need for local residents to shut their windows and lock their doors for this particular beast is no mere skin and sinew but rex made metal by the finest French lion tamers in the land – Peugeot.

Inside the 308 all is calm. I am cool as school and focussed like the lens on one of David Attenborough’s cameras during the making of a programme about ants, the wheel pulled tight to my chest in a way that lets my wrists do the TOCA-ing.  As the road sweeps and swoops like some taut Tarmac eagle I keep the throttle clamped to the carpet. There is no diesel rattle to battle here, just a hum that is smoother than a silk snooker table and a band of torque fatter than a lazy opera singer set up shop in a doughnut factory. Each gearchange is nailed tighter than a clingfilm codpiece as the chassis soaks up all that this electric eel of a road can throw at it, like some crazed steel and rubber sponge. The tail steps out, I catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.  

I arrive at my destination relaxed yet excited, as if I have I have been massaged by a raptor. The Peugeot 308 SW 1.6 HDi 110 Sport is a bitch. And I spanked it. 

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

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