Clarkson: Maserati Quattroporte 4.2 V8
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Clarkson: Maserati Quattroporte 4.2 V8
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/t...5.ece
In the past six weeks the only driving I’ve done is indoors, in first gear, sideways. This is the problem with the Top Gear Live world tour. We are supposed to be spreading the gospel of speed around the globe but the only driving we ever do is waiting for the voice of God to announce our names and then bursting into the arena at full chat, covering 50 yards in a trail of tyre smoke, before leaping out of our cars to shout: “Hello, Cape Town.” Which doesn’t go down that well when you’re actually in Auckland.
At the end of the show, we always left the arena in whatever means of transport seemed the most appropriate. Helicopters usually, or, in Sydney, a 120ft superyacht. It was all abnormal and stupid and excessive and, at the same time, utterly wonderful.
Of course, we would sometimes have to go on a road, but since we never knew where we were going, and usually we were far too drunk to care, we always had drivers. Except, because they were employed by rock tour promoters and were more used to Madonna, they were actually meat machines whose job was to carry bags, put things in the boot, rip pesky photographers in half and occasionally drive a car.
In South Africa we had Denzel, who carried a 9mm semi-automatic pistol in his belt and who could magically summon up a police escort if the traffic was sticky. It should also be noted that on one occasion, late at night, when I accidentally got married to the tour’s PR girl, Denzel was called upon to decorate our going-away car with cans, tissue paper and all the usual wedding paraphernalia.
In Oz we had Scott, who spent the night sitting on a chair outside my hotel room, ready to practise his cage-fighting skills on anyone who looked like they might be a bother. Scott could make 14 people go away with one raised eyebrow.
And then, in New Zealand, there was a professional rugby player called Nigel. Nigel could be in two places at the same time: on the beach, making sure I didn’t come to any grief on the swings, and simultaneously in a nearby bar where James May was dancing on the tables. Nigel could do this because he was 18ft tall. His legs were so long that he could jump between New Zealand’s north and south islands. This was great, of course, until he got into a car.
Nigel could drive a car with ease from the back seat. Actually, Nigel could drive a car that was three in front of the one he was in. And this meant he had to have the seat all the way back. This is no good for a professional driver, really. Not unless he’s employed by Douglas Bader.
And that brings me on to the problem of space in the back of most modern four-door executive cars. There isn’t any.Can we be honest here? If you are wealthy enough to pay for a large car and a driver, it stands to reason that you are also wealthy enough to afford many long and interesting lunches. And because you will be too busy generating money to spend much time in the gym, it therefore stands to reason that you will be quite fat.
There’s more. Small people tend to be stupid and therefore incapable of creating wealth. So the upshot is that the people who need space in the back of a car will be fat and tall. And that limits their choices rather.
Sure, they could have a long-wheelbase Mercedes S-class or a Rolls-Royce Phantom, which are bigger in the back than Fingal’s Cave. But what if they want a bit of flair, a bit of pizzazz, a bit of get-up-and-go?
As we know, Aston Martin recently unveiled its new four-door saloon, the Rapide. In theory, this fits the bill well. Doubtless, it will be lovely to drive, it will make all the right noises, it will be trimmed tastefully and it will have a cool Aston Martin badge, and we already know it looks tremendous. But there is a drawback. The back is not a place for lounging — unless you were brought up as a pea. And if you have a Nigel for a driver, you will be able to get inside only if you remove a section of your spine.
It’s the same story with the Porsche Panamera. They’ve even gone to the trouble of ruining the styling by fitting an absurdly shaped roof designed to create more headroom, but it hasn’t worked. You don’t slide out of this car when you reach your steel-and-glass cathedral to capitalism every morning. When the door is opened, you pop out like a burst zit.
Lamborghini — I think wisely — ditched its plans to build a four-door version of the Gallardo. I saw the concept design and it was stunning, but honestly, the back was only really suitable for children. And then only if you and your wife were mice.
I find this all rather annoying. If you are going to fit seats in the back of a car, then it’s important to remember that there should be enough space to sit on them. I mean, you can get 500 chairs in the back of a removal truck but it doesn’t make it a 500-seater, does it? For an extreme example, look at the seating in the back of a Ferrari California or an Aston Martin DBS.
I know that Americans won’t buy two-seaters, but really, fitting seats that could not possibly house a human being is just daft. In the Aston — and I mean this — there isn’t even enough space for your shoes, leave alone the body that renders them necessary. Whereas in the Ferrari all you get is a glorified parcel shelf.
Happily, however, there remains one car that really does bridge that gap between the bargematic Rollers and S-classes and the rather more swooping coupés that force you to drive yourself — the car that Nigel was using in New Zealand: the Maserati Quattroporte.
Normally, when we are on tour, we like to use Range Rovers, partly because a British TV show should turn up in British cars but mostly because, when a fleet of those pulls up at the side of the road, it’s funny to watch everyone within a hundred yards diving for cover, assuming they are about to be shot. But truth be told, the back seats in a Rangie are too hard and legroom is quite tight.
In the Maserati, however, there was space behind Nigel for our green-room director, Philippa, who’s so tall she’s actually measured in hands. And in the passenger seat there was hours of fun to be had fiddling with the almost completely incomprehensible sat nav system and trying to make the typically Italian air-conditioning system deliver something more refreshing than a locust’s sneeze.
I know from past experience that no Quattroporte is much cop to drive. The auto we had felt loose and disjointed, and the manuals are far too harsh and unforgiving, especially in the pointless “sport” mode. But this is not a problem when you are drunk and you have a Nigel.
All that matters is that you are comfortable and that, when you arrive, you are stepping out of one of the coolest cars ever made. Don’t believe me? Well, try saying this and see how it sounds: “Shall we take the Maserati tonight, darling?” Has a ring, doesn’t it?
My advice, then, is simple. If you want to drive yourself, then, sure, go for a Rapide or, if you are impervious to design abomination, a Panamera. But if you want to be driven, then the Maserati Quattroporte ticks all the boxes that matter. And several that don’t.
Quattroporte, remember, means four-door. This, then, is a car that does, quite literally, what it says on the tin.
In the past six weeks the only driving I’ve done is indoors, in first gear, sideways. This is the problem with the Top Gear Live world tour. We are supposed to be spreading the gospel of speed around the globe but the only driving we ever do is waiting for the voice of God to announce our names and then bursting into the arena at full chat, covering 50 yards in a trail of tyre smoke, before leaping out of our cars to shout: “Hello, Cape Town.” Which doesn’t go down that well when you’re actually in Auckland.
At the end of the show, we always left the arena in whatever means of transport seemed the most appropriate. Helicopters usually, or, in Sydney, a 120ft superyacht. It was all abnormal and stupid and excessive and, at the same time, utterly wonderful.
Of course, we would sometimes have to go on a road, but since we never knew where we were going, and usually we were far too drunk to care, we always had drivers. Except, because they were employed by rock tour promoters and were more used to Madonna, they were actually meat machines whose job was to carry bags, put things in the boot, rip pesky photographers in half and occasionally drive a car.
In South Africa we had Denzel, who carried a 9mm semi-automatic pistol in his belt and who could magically summon up a police escort if the traffic was sticky. It should also be noted that on one occasion, late at night, when I accidentally got married to the tour’s PR girl, Denzel was called upon to decorate our going-away car with cans, tissue paper and all the usual wedding paraphernalia.
In Oz we had Scott, who spent the night sitting on a chair outside my hotel room, ready to practise his cage-fighting skills on anyone who looked like they might be a bother. Scott could make 14 people go away with one raised eyebrow.
And then, in New Zealand, there was a professional rugby player called Nigel. Nigel could be in two places at the same time: on the beach, making sure I didn’t come to any grief on the swings, and simultaneously in a nearby bar where James May was dancing on the tables. Nigel could do this because he was 18ft tall. His legs were so long that he could jump between New Zealand’s north and south islands. This was great, of course, until he got into a car.
Nigel could drive a car with ease from the back seat. Actually, Nigel could drive a car that was three in front of the one he was in. And this meant he had to have the seat all the way back. This is no good for a professional driver, really. Not unless he’s employed by Douglas Bader.
And that brings me on to the problem of space in the back of most modern four-door executive cars. There isn’t any.Can we be honest here? If you are wealthy enough to pay for a large car and a driver, it stands to reason that you are also wealthy enough to afford many long and interesting lunches. And because you will be too busy generating money to spend much time in the gym, it therefore stands to reason that you will be quite fat.
There’s more. Small people tend to be stupid and therefore incapable of creating wealth. So the upshot is that the people who need space in the back of a car will be fat and tall. And that limits their choices rather.
Sure, they could have a long-wheelbase Mercedes S-class or a Rolls-Royce Phantom, which are bigger in the back than Fingal’s Cave. But what if they want a bit of flair, a bit of pizzazz, a bit of get-up-and-go?
As we know, Aston Martin recently unveiled its new four-door saloon, the Rapide. In theory, this fits the bill well. Doubtless, it will be lovely to drive, it will make all the right noises, it will be trimmed tastefully and it will have a cool Aston Martin badge, and we already know it looks tremendous. But there is a drawback. The back is not a place for lounging — unless you were brought up as a pea. And if you have a Nigel for a driver, you will be able to get inside only if you remove a section of your spine.
It’s the same story with the Porsche Panamera. They’ve even gone to the trouble of ruining the styling by fitting an absurdly shaped roof designed to create more headroom, but it hasn’t worked. You don’t slide out of this car when you reach your steel-and-glass cathedral to capitalism every morning. When the door is opened, you pop out like a burst zit.
Lamborghini — I think wisely — ditched its plans to build a four-door version of the Gallardo. I saw the concept design and it was stunning, but honestly, the back was only really suitable for children. And then only if you and your wife were mice.
I find this all rather annoying. If you are going to fit seats in the back of a car, then it’s important to remember that there should be enough space to sit on them. I mean, you can get 500 chairs in the back of a removal truck but it doesn’t make it a 500-seater, does it? For an extreme example, look at the seating in the back of a Ferrari California or an Aston Martin DBS.
I know that Americans won’t buy two-seaters, but really, fitting seats that could not possibly house a human being is just daft. In the Aston — and I mean this — there isn’t even enough space for your shoes, leave alone the body that renders them necessary. Whereas in the Ferrari all you get is a glorified parcel shelf.
Happily, however, there remains one car that really does bridge that gap between the bargematic Rollers and S-classes and the rather more swooping coupés that force you to drive yourself — the car that Nigel was using in New Zealand: the Maserati Quattroporte.
Normally, when we are on tour, we like to use Range Rovers, partly because a British TV show should turn up in British cars but mostly because, when a fleet of those pulls up at the side of the road, it’s funny to watch everyone within a hundred yards diving for cover, assuming they are about to be shot. But truth be told, the back seats in a Rangie are too hard and legroom is quite tight.
In the Maserati, however, there was space behind Nigel for our green-room director, Philippa, who’s so tall she’s actually measured in hands. And in the passenger seat there was hours of fun to be had fiddling with the almost completely incomprehensible sat nav system and trying to make the typically Italian air-conditioning system deliver something more refreshing than a locust’s sneeze.
I know from past experience that no Quattroporte is much cop to drive. The auto we had felt loose and disjointed, and the manuals are far too harsh and unforgiving, especially in the pointless “sport” mode. But this is not a problem when you are drunk and you have a Nigel.
All that matters is that you are comfortable and that, when you arrive, you are stepping out of one of the coolest cars ever made. Don’t believe me? Well, try saying this and see how it sounds: “Shall we take the Maserati tonight, darling?” Has a ring, doesn’t it?
My advice, then, is simple. If you want to drive yourself, then, sure, go for a Rapide or, if you are impervious to design abomination, a Panamera. But if you want to be driven, then the Maserati Quattroporte ticks all the boxes that matter. And several that don’t.
Quattroporte, remember, means four-door. This, then, is a car that does, quite literally, what it says on the tin.
Lexus Fanatic
Joined: Sep 2007
Posts: 22,608
Likes: 105
From: Waiting for next track day
Clarkson!!! you will always be Jeremy Clarkson. Its the humor and banter that makes the show so funny and entertaining. I will stick to road & track for my written reviews because he is much more entertaining to watch on TV as he critiques car while doing 100 mph sideways
Lexus Fanatic
Joined: Aug 2006
Posts: 7,468
Likes: 0
From: Vancouver, BC
Well, I'm amused.
Points to get from the 'review'
- it has 4 doors
- it has a big back seat
- both the auto and manual version are kinda sucky in different ways
In his defence, this does seem to have come from a (few?) drunken experiences.
Points to get from the 'review'
- it has 4 doors
- it has a big back seat
- both the auto and manual version are kinda sucky in different ways
In his defence, this does seem to have come from a (few?) drunken experiences.
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