SIX OF THE BEST.
Sensible of Socrates to guzzle hemlock, it transpires; the alternative exit route in 399BC Athens being almost too grizzly to contemplate…
Those found guilty of treason were force fed a muscle relaxant and strapped to something uncomfortable in a public square. The executioner would then insert his hand in the victim’s, um, back passage and, turning left at the spleen and going straight on past the liver, make for the heart. Upon arrival, he would slowly squeeze it to a standstill. Not just once, however; a skilled artiste is rumoured to have been able to repeat the process for a good half hour… Nasty.
Now, I mention this not merely to expound my theory on the earliest appearance of stage acts involving a ventriloquist’s dummy, but also because it puts me in mind of the ever increasing number of cars I find myself aboard these days boasting steering systems clearly designed by John Keats cognoscenti: “My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.”
Worse, this creeping, hemlock helm malaise has now advanced so far through manufacturer’s portfolios that evidence of poisoning is becoming apparent even in cars expressly marketed on enthusiastic driver appeal. Socrates may well have approved. But those of us who consider consummately communicative steering allied to an unburstably enthusiastic power plant a fundamental of the hottest hatchery should beware. For even in the rarefied, horsepower rich air of six of the most belligerent hatches on the block, such basics are no longer necessarily a given…
Enraging, then, Welsh sheep farmers by their very presence in a lay-by high in the Brecon Beacons, our six of the best offer a veritable Bassetts of engine and drivetrain allsorts -rear wheel drive being the only noticeable absentee: V6 power lurks under the sharp end of both Volkswagen’s £19,540, part-time 4-wheel drive Golf 4motion and the £16,395 MG ZS 180. Conventionally aspirated 4-cylinder blocks enthuse the front wheels of the £15,495 Clio Renaultsport 172 and Honda’s spanking £15,995 Civic Type R, whilst 4 turbocharged cylinders arm Seat’s £14,995 Leon Cupra. Finally, and before you ask, the Audi S3 always seems to get its knees so badly grazed in the tougher playgrounds that we’ve sent it home with a chit and, by way of a yardstick, substituted Subaru’s wholesome, £21,995 Impreza WRX 4-wheel drive Sport Wagon.
Universal curiosity summons the new MG first. And -though we’ll come to its performance prowess later- it’s worth noting straight away what a shame it is that a car which handles so tidily and sounds so great should suffer such a glib, day-time TV quality costume make-over. Minimal budget albeit, it just goes to show that even the designer of the McLaren F1 can have a bad day at the office… For even painting the ZS black fails to dispel the nagging impression that this is a Rover 45 badly accessorised from the back pages of Max Power via a wet weekend lock-up. That clumsy hooter may boast an evocative, diamond mesh grille, but the body coloured surround -obviously the realisation of a toddler’s wax crayon drawing of MG offerings past- is so painfully swollen that I’d recommend a prompt visit to matron to have it lanced.
Furthermore, in these days of insurance premium savvy Q cars, that humorously large wing on the back constitutes little more than a hopelessly naff constabulary eye-catcher we could all do without. Perhaps stylist Peter Stevens might push his bed up against the wall so that he can only get out of one side in the morning…
On board, however, the ZS is a distinct improvement on matters Rover, largely due to the absence of wood-you-believe-it. A minimal make-over offers dull grey instruments, an annoying, retro-fit stereo, and a ‘Rhodium’ silver fascia finish that glisters hundreds and thousands hues in the sunlight like the nails and, er, chests of young ladies on a night out in Basildon.
As in the MGF, you sit far too high in a seat finished in fabrics reminiscent of your auntie’s parlour. But the seat itself is quite comfortable thanks to acceptable lumbar support and stout, blood red kidney huggers. Despite rake only steering adjustment that merely swings in a vicious little arc from the sensible to the in-your-lap idiotic, the driving position is only a fraction over-upright. It may well be that the seat base is adjustable, but the big plastic knurled knob lurking suggestively under the seat front steadfastly refused to do anything except come off in my hand. Rear seat accommodation is only hampered by a tonsure tousling lack of headroom, and the boot is huge.
Time was when, hot or not, all Seat’s came disguised as radioactive bogeys. So you might be tempted to dismiss this Leon as mutton dressed as a banana. Fear not though, the Cupra is almost as quick as its couture suggests. It is, however, something of a cheat nonetheless: The marketing boys have been mucking about again and, though badged in honour of Seat’s erstwhile forays into Cup Racing, this is merely a standard Leon 20v T with the word Cupra glued on the boot to celebrate the appearance of two candles on its birthday cake. So we await the arrival of the encouragingly daft 210bhp Cupra R with baited breath and a fistful of fifties for funding fresh rubber every 5000 miles.
As if in recognition of Seat’s admission that the company has had a troubled history fitting into the VW group and identifying a substantial customer base outside the Spanish border, the Leon -but for that grabber colour- looks apologetically inoffensive. Seat’s new, monobox identity under ex Alfa design guru Walter de Silva still lurks in the wings. Hence, whilst we await a car of truly Iberian identity boasting giant horns as a bonnet mascot, running on paella and steadfastly refusing to start between the hours of noon and 3.00pm each day, price rather than image must do the talking: The 20vT cost £17,500 at launch two years ago. Now, minus full leather and a trip computer, you can buy the Cupra for a bad haircut under £15,000.
It’s hard to equate Seat’s ‘Enjoy Yourself’ strapline with the Cupra’s chthonic interior, but, when forced to rifle a VW parts bin so firmly committed to Henry Ford’s fabled dictat, agonising over colour schemes is about as pointless as a 2000 piece jigsaw in the hands of a halibut. Nonetheless, rake and reach steering adjustment affords a fine, well supported driving position abetted, as in the MG, by suitably electric staples and air conditioning.
Badging and alloys alone distinguish VW’s 4motion from its Golf stablemates. Oh, and that eye-watering red. Indeed, why not stand the V6 next to the Leon and take a trip down memory lane to the strawberries and custard section of the Woolworth’s pick ‘n’ mix counter…?
After ownership of a Mk 2 boasting a dash made of compressed rhino spore that rattled like Mothercare on a Saturday morning after only 3000 miles, I’ve always been a little cagey about legendary Golf build quality. But this Mk 4 interior seems stoutly enough screwed together. Sadly, however, VW have opted to celebrate the 4motion’s hefty price tag by decking these long established, ergonomically sound halls with fake wood. But at least that’s free. Despite skimp-free levels of standard equipment, our specimen still required an additional outlay of £5,560 to cram it with unwanted options such as sat’ nav’ and a sunroof. And, though admirably comfortable yet a little lean on lateral support, I’d happily forgo full leather Recaros for a saving of £1900.
I don’t propose to dwell on Subaru’s now familiar Impreza overmuch as this stage. Suffice it to say that I still miss the more aggressive, please-replace-your-divot styling of the previous model. And, though the cabin overhaul represents a considerable visual improvement, a thirty second dabble with a cup holder flimsier than a My Little Pony accessory leaves me with strong, skin-deep only suspicions. Here’s another driving position that would benefit from reach adjustment to the steering. And am I alone in abhorring ‘sports’ seats that insist on hugging your shoulders like a worryingly over-familiar uncle?
Similar, shoulder movement hampering seats aside, the Civic Type R’s Tardis humbling interior is little short of remarkable. Limo-like rear legroom compliments an interior that’s so clean, crisp and fuss-free I immediately hunted down all the requisite knob and knockery just to reassure myself that anticipated specification levels had indeed been met. Shiny centre console finishes, a smattering of ‘R’ badging and a milled aluminium knob atop the dash mounted gearstub differentiate this Civic interior from that of lesser siblings. All of which adds up the same sensible driving position allied to outrageously urgent access to the road ahead through a windscreen that offers not so much as a screenwash blip glimpse of bonnet intrusion on the ocular radar.
Looking best by far in black, the Type R squats 15mm lower on the road than the rest of the Civic range, on the most spidery 17″ alloys imaginable. The blatantly bolt-on bodykit does its best to look discreet, but fails. Worst offender being a tastelessly overworked roof level rear spoiler that comes fresh from the armoury of a Klingon spaceship.
But at least the Civic sports stern and bows from the same factory… Despite a recent facelift Renault’s Clio, by contrast, still looks like two different cars subjected to under-the-arches, cut-and-shut humiliations. Nor, I’m afraid, can I find much merit in a restyling exercise that awards the car the idiot grin of an extra in a Digimon cartoon allied to an interior every bit as drab -gentle bright metal 172 bolsterings aside- as before, when all the hugely successful Clio range has ever really cried out for is extensive revisions to the driving position.
Folks a plenty don’t enjoy this car. The chief reason being that they simply can’t get comfortable behind the wheel. The Clio is not by any means alone here in its ergonomic transgressions, but it is the most acutely handicapped by the exclusion of reach adjustment (and not just a token inch, please) to the wheel. It matters not a jot how ‘sporty’ and supportive the seat may be; no one enjoys trying to drive quickly whilst wearing knees for earrings.
So to the tarmac and, in the best traditions of contests involving sashed-up lovelies in swimsuits who enjoy waterskiing and collecting gravel and want to make all the “piples” of the world happy, we’ll cut to the chase in some sort of reverse order…
And the longest-time-spent-loitering-in-the-lay-by award goes to Seat’s Leon 20vT Cupra. In the context of earlier protestations, I feel somewhat hypocritical consigning the Seat to the circular filing tray first. Because the Cupra by no means boasts the worst case of Socrates steering here. But an accurate, nicely weighted helm cannot compensate here for deficiencies in the engine and undercarriage departments…
Whilst turbocharging the Cupra’s 1781cc block does make it sound rather more like a gaggle of scaffolders when a pretty girl goes by than anything actually involving internal combustion, the engine still musters 180bhp at 5500rpm and 173lb/ft of torque at, allegedly, 1950-5000rpm. The latter I refute. Turbo lag is a real problem: Singe into a corner, lift off to bring all too prevalent understeer to heel, get back on the throttle and… nothing happens. All that torque has sneaked off on holiday with Maureen from the hairdressers the instant the revs fall away, and what initially felt like the right gear selection for the corner suddenly leaves you floundering mid-bend.
Nor is the arrival of understeer consigned to the realms of the tighter turn; even in faster sweeping bends the Cupra feels disconcertingly prone to plough straight on. Torque steer is most prevalent in the Seat too, adding to the awkwardness of power delivery. Lob in spongy brakes and traction trouble on damp roads and, though undeniably as quick as the company it keeps with a top speed of 142mph and a quoted 0-62mph time of 7.7 seconds, the Cupra reveals itself to be happiest showing off in straight lines whilst providing a surprisingly comfortable, long haul ride.
The Golf’s 2792cc, 204bhp V6 is, by contrast, its finest asset. With 199lb/ft of torque on tap at 3200rpm, this greased eel of an engine pulls like a hippo on a lead over a wider rev range than any other power plant here. Thus armed, the 4motion is good for 0-62mph in 7.1 seconds and a top speed of 146mph, and sounds absolutely glorious when going about it to boot.
It needs the power, though: For it’s a measure of just how far behind Golf development has left the Mk1 Gti ethos that the 4motion is a whopping 73% heavier than that ground breaking original.
But isn’t merely by dint of all that extra weight that what we have here is more of a supreme, hatch Gran Turismo than a GTi: Abetted by a sneaky Haldex coupling to shunt power aft in the event of an underachieving front end, the Golf remains nicely composed and corners remarkably quickly despite a
prevalence for understeer to emerge a tad too eagerly. Whether the car’s not inconsiderable abilities may be attributed to handling or mere grip is, however, anyone’s guess. Because the car suffers from almost the worst case of hemlock helm I’ve ever encountered.
Quite why VW should wish to install such a wonderful engine in a more than competent chassis and then anaesthetise the entire package by injecting the steering wheel rim with a massive overdose of Novocain is beyond me. But do it they have. The steering stays woefully light at all times and boasts all the feed back of a castaway flung, message in a bottle. “Pity” is an understatement.
With its 1994cc, turbocharged flat-4 gruffing out 215bhp at 5600rpm and an elegantly matching 215lb/ft of torque at just 3600rpm, the all-wheel-drive Impreza is as much of a blast as it ever was. Moreover, stacked against the costly Golf, it’s harder to dismiss the WRX on the grounds of price than I’d anticipated. But it doesn’t truly fit my definition of a hot hatchback so, reluctantly…
Even in this occasionally exalted company, the Subaru stands out for its sheer poise, power delivery and downright entertainment value. True, this latest iteration has been let out to play with disappointingly light steering which doesn’t communicate as well as its predecessor. But improvements in brakes, gear change and all round driveability make getting your collar felt even more elementary. Paradoxically, so easy is the WRX to fling across country that the car invariably feels slower than its quoted figures of 0-60mph in 5.9 seconds and 140mph flat out.
The Impreza’s abiding appeal remains an ability to flatter even the most ham fisted pilot. Though a hint of safety first understeer occasionally pokes its head above the parapet, keeping the foot dug in promotes nothing more than fast as you like cornering. Only an idiot will be using a WRX to fill News at Ten’s joke slot with mysterious crop spirals.
All of which brings us neatly to the surprise of the day; feeling encouragingly like a front wheel drive Impreza, the MG ZS. In truth, the 2497cc V6 isn’t actually good for the 180bhp boasted astern. But then I suppose badging it ZS 174.573 might look a trifle daft. The great sounding V6 feels smooth and just a shade lazy at all times, yet far from being hampered by a relatively modest torque output of 177lb/ft at 4000rpm, one of the largest cars here still manages respectable figures of 0-60mph in 7.3 seconds and 139mph.
Changing gear is like pushing a wooden spoon through week-old porridge, the clutch seems stuffed full of old tights and the brakes, though efficient, feel more wooden than a Swedish living room. Despite which, the accurate, chatty steering is a delight, the engine’s a bit of belter for both noise and power delivery, and the undercarriage has been extremely well sorted. This adds up to a wonderfully balanced car which, though it will ultimately succumb to understeer, makes the most of its longer wheel base to combine a pliant long haul ride with surprising cornering alacrity. Grown up fun. All this car really cries out for is a new suit.
And so it comes down to a face-off between two small, lightweight cars still most blatantly boasting the hot hatch badge of office on their sleeves; the Clio Renaultsport 172 in all new, gap-toothed crone guise, and Honda’s long awaited Type R Civic.
On paper, the Civic shades it. Both cars displace 1998cc, the Clio’s 4-cylinder unit delivering 172bhp at 6250rpm and 147lb/ft of torque at 5400rpm through a 5-speed manual stick, the Honda’s boasting a well hung 197bhp at 7400rpm and 144lb/ft of torque at 5900rpm via six speeds. Renault quote a 0-62mph time of 7.2 seconds and a 138mph maximum for the 172, Honda 0-62 in just 6.8 seconds and 146 for the Type R.
But there, sadly, the Honda’s superiority ends. Which is strange, because all the ingredients are in place; a razor sharp lightning quick 6-speed shift set so close to the wheel that you can straddle the gap with one hand, the latest generation i-VTEC engine which snarls the hairs on the nape of the neck vertical all the way to 7800rpm, beefed up brakes fore and aft, and uprated springs, dampers and anti-roll bars set in a bodyshell 23% stiffer than the standard car.
True, the Type R is nicely balanced, understeer hard to provoke and oversteer not even on the options list. Moreover, the Civic will certainly corner flatter than week-old road kill. But the steering, though accurate, offers inadequate weight and a galling hint of numbness for a car of these pretensions, the majority of road surface information arriving through trousers and soles of feet. Furthermore, such stiff suspension allied to a short wheelbase and light weight makes the car all to easily unsettled on anything but a perfect surface; hit a lumpy patch under heavy braking and the car squirms its rear end unnervingly about the road like a dog hosting an especially itchy tapeworm.
Worse still, despite the fact that Honda have gone to some lengths to eradicate the traditionally stepped nature of VTEC power delivery, the Civic never truly hoists up it petticoats until you cross the 6000rpm threshold. This gives you a scant 1800 rpm o enjoy full power before it’s time to snatch another cog. Invariably, that moment arrives mid-bend leaving you either wanting more whilst scaring sheep for miles around as you wait for the exit, or bogged down in a torque-free lesser gear waiting for the revs to climb back into real power. All of which, ultimately, leaves you in the frustrating position of searching for corners to suit the car, rather than vice versa. Or, indeed, a track day…
Bunged down the same byway, the Renault simply eclipses the Civic. It is, frankly, a hoot to boot. Driven hard -the only way to overlook the discomfort of the helming position- the 172 offers a far wider, more accessible power band in every gear, a wonderful balance allowing even the clumsy access to throttle from under to oversteer and back mid-bend, and a suppleness of ride which, though actually a lighter car than the Type R, keeps it all neatly gathered in over the same surfaces that sent the Civic into such a tizzy.
The Clio’s by no means perfect, however: The gearchange is a mile away from the Type R’s light, accurate snicker-snack but, the moment you stop thinking about it, still always contrives to come up with the requisite cog. The
steering to, though it no longer feels like winding the propeller of a large, rubber band powered model aeroplane, sports a weighting which, though suitably robust, still feels somewhat artificial; both cars systems loosing feel to the damping required to harness the threat of excessive torque steer. A challenge which, once again the Clio rises to more adroitly.
And it is worth pointing out that, with the exception of the Clio, none of these cars seem over keen on abetting simultaneous use of brake and throttle; bizarre for a bunch with such sporting pretensions. The brake and throttle pedal in the Type R, for instance, are spaced further apart than a couple in a divorce hearing.
With no threat of a knock out, the 172 Clio takes it on points from the beautifully engineered, technically elegant Honda. Yet, with none of these cars excelling in every hot hatch arena, I somehow can’t help feeling that the top slot is still vacant. Roll on, then, the RS Focus…