Ive been a Mercedes nut for ever. At the age of six the greatest sound I ever heard was the supercharger screaming in my Dads straight eight Hitler-style Mercedes cabriolet as we howled through the tunnels between Amalfi and Sorrento on the Italian coast road.
Since then Ive owned at least ten Mercedes of different sizes, from an SL500 to my current favourite, a thumping great diesel G-Wagen.
Which is why I was so excited when Lusso suggested I test the new Blingmobile which Mercedes are calling the CLS. To the experts this is simply a sexed-up E Class with a low, swooping roofline and side windows which are so narrow Postman Pat would refuse to deliver letters through them.
And Im on Postman Pats side. I dont like the shape of this car. Its roof is out of proportion to the rest of the body. Its just too damned low and reminds me of a model car on a fairground roundabout. But its only fair to mention that the photographer found it dead cool.
Three different engines were on offer, a 3.5 litre V6 producing 272 horsepower enough to propel a reasonable wheelbarrow, a 306 horsepower V8 which is best suited to lugging luxobarges down Piccadilly and the lump of metal which I lusted after, the 5.5 litre supercharged V8 which was (so a small plaque announces) made personally by Herr Mirko Wald in the AMG goody shop. Its 476 horsepower is the stuff of wet dreams.
The same cannot be said for the inside of the car. When I had snuggled behind the steering wheel and started to inspect what oldies like me still call the dashboard, I thought I had stumbled into a Chevrolet, or maybe a Pontiac. An acre of what looked like cheap plastic laminate (but what was undoubtedly real wood) stretched as far as they eye could see. In front of me three naff white dials told me how fast I was going, how fast the engine was going and how fast Greenwich Mean Time was going. If I had paid almost eighty thousand smackers (which is what this car costs with all the extras slapped on) I would not have been a happy bunny.
But Nancy Sinatra reminded us that boots are made for walking, and Id almost forgotten that cars are made for driving. So I started up the powerplant, pulled the stubby gear lever back to the D mark and extended the muscles around my right ankle so that my toes moved fractionally forward
Holy shit.
Something had happened to my eyesight. The Hampshire countryside suddenly became blurred. And it wasnt just the optical department which registered a fault. My entire digestive system seized up as a force greater than gravity pressed everything and I mean everything into the back of the seat.
And it got even more exciting. Driving through the twisting roads of stockbroker Hampshire I found myself behind some normal member of the human race who was driving at a sensible speed. I was doing a snail-like 80mph and, seeing a small space ahead, I pushed the button on the left of the steering wheel and stamped on the accelerator. I can now understand why Mercedes fits traction control as standard. Without it I would probably have landed in the hedge. To get wheelspin at 80mph on a dry road is an, er, unusual experience. This is a machine which must be treated with respect.
The same machine treated me, however, with TLC. I pressed three buttons on my seat. The first cooled my bum, the second massaged my back and the third waited until I went round a corner before squeezing me gently on one side to counteract the g force I had generated.
Whether or not you like the low roof and letterbox windows, this is one hell of an automobile. Sensible (but boring) tycoons will buy the 3.5 litre. It is only fractionally slower than the 5 litre V8 and, with less weight over the front wheels, handles better too. But for maniacs like me it must be either the AMG or nothing. It is the most exciting car I have ever driven. Pity about the dashboard.
