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