Boy racer

Flicking through the various glossy Ford brochures one peaceful afternoon (yup, it’s that quiet) I was struck by a performance enhancing optional extra available on just one specific model within the range. The brochure reads thus:

Eibach suspension-lowering kit: The Eibach suspension-lowering kit enhances driving performance and handling as well as giving a more sporty appearance. Lowers the car by approximately 30mm.

See if you can guess which shining example of Ford’s dynamic range of motorcars might attract the sort of buyer who would be particularly interested in enhancing the looks and dynamics of his vehicle, so interested in fact that Ford deem it worth offering such an option as this?

Wrong, it’s the Ford Fusion!

I’m just off to replace the needle of my Bizarrometer, it seems to have got bent when it went off the scale…

Kicking aRSe

It was in the car park when I arrived at work, all hunkered down, fat wheels barely contained by swollen arches., exaggerated wings, scoops, vents and spoilers leaving no question as to the seriousness of its intent. The intent to cover ground absolutely as fast as anything this side of a Porsche 911. The Ford Focus RS is no shrinking violet, it’s unashamedly a wolf in wolf’s clothing. I walked around it twice before making my way into the showroom.

Turns out the sales manager had got it in for a customer, we had it for a couple of days, “want to give it a run up the road” he enquired airily? Are bears Catholic? The only thing potentially faster than an RS that morning was the whilrwind of me scooping the keys from his desk and making a beeline for the Performance Blue beast outside.

I plipped it unlocked and swung open the door to be greeted by a full race style Recaro bucket seat, the sort of thing that’s actually painful if you don’t quite land squarely in the middle of it. I lowered myself gingerly in, this thing was properly serious. Taking in my surroundings, the first thing that struck me was just how incongruous the slightly cheap grey Focus dash looked in such weapons grade machinery, almost as though something amazing had been built, A Team style, out of bits of an ordinary car. Which I suppose wasn’t that far from the truth. I dropped the keys into the cup holder in the centre console (you don’t need them for starting, one of them just has to be in the car), racheted the all embracing seat into a position that suited, dipped the clutch and thumbed the Power Button that kicks the motor into life.

A few stats for you, dear reader. The Polite Hatchback produces a healthy and more than adiquete 105hp from its 1.9 litre turbo diesel. My lean, lithe, and really rather rapid little MX5 roadster punts out about 160hp. This most focussed of all Foci offers up over 300 horsepowers. That’s The Blonde’s car, my Mazda, oh, and half a Ford Fiesta worth. All in one medium sized hatchback. Which is why it’ll pass sixty miles an hour from a standing start in five and a bit seconds, on it’s way to a horizon headbutting 163mph. Twice the UK speed limit. Plus a bonus 23mph for good measure.

Which is why I wasn’t too sure what to expect from the two up-swept large bore tailpipes that jutt aggressively from the rear diffuser of the car. Probably a noise that might indicate (or maybe cause) seismic activity, Norse Gods gargling nails, that kind of thing. What I got was something rather polite, yet with a distantly menacing undertone, kind of like an SAS soldier in top hat and tails at a wedding, unassuming, but potentially deadly. I pointed the nose out past the showroom and down to the main road, turned right and headed out of town.

Second impressions were pretty much what you might expect from a shopping trolley turned interstellar hot rod. Direct steering, hard ride, grumbly tires, and a feeling of serious potential under the right foot. I picked my way out toward the dual carriageway feeling my way about the car, noticing the fluids were already warm from its recent delivery to our garage. Good.

Turning onto the beginning of the ring road I found myself on a long uphill straight melding into dual carriageway in the far distance, no junctions, dry clear conditions, couple of cars half a mile up the slope ahead of me. I did the only right and proper thing I could do in the circumstances, I short shifted into second, gripped the steering wheel firmly, and floored it. It’d have been rude not to.

Having trodden firmly on the lion’s tail I hung on grimly, half a widening eye on the rev counter, the rest scanning the road ahead. The lion roared, the Recaro seat made a determined effort to pass straight through me, the steering wheel made less effort to escape my grasp than I had expected, and what felt like half a second later I was grabbing third and doing it again. The cars ahead reversed sharply toward me and I discovered the middle pedal fortunately echoed the kind of performance the right-hand one had. My speed fell swiftly back below three figures (kilometres an hour, obviously. Ahem…) cars ahead stopped reversing and hung a sensible gap ahead, and the road fed us smoothly onto dual carriageway. I moved out and pressed the hyperspace pedal again and the cars in lane one reversed smartly past my passenger door and disappeared over the horizon behind me. The car was fast. Properly, radically, insanely fast.

At the top of the hill I turned off and punted it round a couple of roundabouts before zig zagging off down a B road or two, the car performing fairground ride sensations, physics suspended for the moment. That experiment over, I brought the car back up to the dual carriageway further along and hyper-spaced back toward the dealership, arriving possibly slightly before I left. It’s timewarpingly fast the RS.

Back at base I sat in the now inert vehicle, silent save for the ticking of cooling metals, trying to make sense of the previous half hour, make sense of this ultimate hot rod of a car. But I couldn’t. The problem is that, hugely deeply impressive though the performance is, the car asks for too many compromises to be made. It costs nearly thirty thousand pounds but you’re surrounded by the interior of a car half that price. I’m not sure the seats would be comfortable over long distances, the ride is way too fidgety, and it’s too overt, it’s an idiot magnet for every pre pubescent Kev’d up Saxo driver within a five mile radius. Yes it’s face re-shapingly fast, but how often can you, dare you use that level of performance? As an every day car, is it worth the cost, both financially and practically? So as a car to cover all the angles it fails. As a fairly spectacular Boy’s Toy, on the other hand, it’s epic. But if that’s all you want from it, why buy a hatchback, why not a TVR or a Lotus Exige or a Vauxhall VX220 Turbo or a Mitsubishi Turbo Nutter IV, all serious performance machines but without the compromises of being a front wheel drive Ford Focus hatchback?

Ultimately this ultimate Ford makes a great halo product, a great showcase of what Uncle Henry is capable of building, but as a purchase proposition it misses the mark as clearly as the lesser ST version I reviewed in March hits the bullseye. If you’re paying as well as playing, that’s the real steal of a deal.

Zoom Zoom

“Feel the difference” is Ford’s current strapline, the marketing banner under which all advertising media is placed. Peugeot sail under the flag “Emotion in Motion”, Mazda weave “Zoom Zoom” through their promotion and BMW brand themselves “Joy Machines”.

The thing is, it’s not obvious what exactly we’re supposed to be feeling when we’re searching for the difference, there doesn’t seem to be much emotion in a 207, a Mazda CX-7 is more “screaming kids” than “Zoom Zoom” and I can’t imagine your average sales rep finding much joy in his base model 318i stuck in another ten mile tailback on the M6 on a wet and miserable Monday.

All of which leads us to the obvious and hardly revolutionary conclusion that most marketing buzzwords and power phrases are just bollox really, a nonsense dreamt up by an overpaid advertising exec to convince his client that he is “on message” with their product and can create a new and exciting Zeitgeist for the entire product range with one catchy slogan.

Which brings us spiralling in the general direction of the Mazda MX5, perhaps the one car that could actually live up to its marketing tag, the exception, perhaps, that proves the rule. I’d fleetingly considered one during my varied and random thoughts toward a fun toy for the summer, an idea quickly discarded due to vague prejudices about Japanese blandness, an Oriental attempt at a faux British roadster. Trouble is, there’s no discounting the logical argument that they are (comparatively) cheap to buy, (comparatively) cheap to run, reasonably quick and with a terrific reputation. So when a tidy low mileage three year old MK3 example came in at a sister dealership in part exchange, and since The Blonde and I were passing on our way to Southampton anyway, it seemed worth giving it a quick punt up the road just to dismiss it once and for all.

We rolled up at the dealership mid morning and my colleague showed us to the car, gave us a quick demo of the hood (prod a release button, flick the catch back and drop the whole lot back behind the seats, five seconds flat), passed me the trade plates and left us to it. There was no denying it was a pretty little thing, more so still with the top down and we climbed in (well, fell in, MX5′s are a long way down the first time you get into one) to be greeted by a minimalist and stylish interior, comfortable supportive seats, and a proper sportscar driving position, all low slung, stubby gearshift and sporty wheel. It had a feeling of rightness to it, a feeling of, well, a feeling of Zoom Zoom.

We got comfortable (we’re tall people and the MX5 is a small car, we fitted, but only just) and I twisted the key, the 2.0 litre twin cam engine firing into life with a throaty bark. Palming the short little lever into reverse I backed it out of the line of cars on display and wound it out of the sales lot. We bimbled down the road getting used to a car quite different in character to either my company Fiesta or The Polite Hatchback.

Out of town I gently increased the pace, feeling the wheels pattering along the road surface telegraphing the topography straight through to us through firm (but never harsh) suspension, steering almost telepathic in its accuracy and directness, seeming to turn the car almost before I moved the steering wheel, placing me easily and eagerly on trajectory. Slotting up and down the gearbox was a joy, the short shift having an almost military precision to it. My prejudices melted into the roof down open air breeze. Snick snick, Zoom Zoom.

Warming more and more to the happy little car I pointed it at the dual carriageway and gave it some revs. As the gutsy engine barked some more and the speed piled on disaster struck. Even with the windows up, once we passed 45mph it just got too windy, buffeting us from all sides, The Blonde in particular suffering from a strange sensation of being beaten firmly over the head by some weird aerodymamic force, severe enough that despite slowing down and pulling off at the next exit she suffered a headache from it that lasted the rest of the day.

Deflated, we turned and soft pedalled the car back to the dealership at low speed, nice try but a non starter, if we couldn’t travel any distance with the top down it was simply a no go. Unaware of the fail, the little car continued to zoom zoom, but more quietly now as we crept back and reluctantly raised the hood and returned the keys.

And that was that.

In theory.

The trouble is that Zoom Zoom is infectious, it gets under your skin and into your blood. The desire to Zoom Zoom again stays long after the car has gone. And after our holiday and after returning to work and normality, the Zoom Zoom continued to gently but persistently itch. Along with a memory of what a huge difference the wind deflector (a large mesh grille that fits directly behind the front seats and kills the backdraft vortex effect of air whipping over the screen and straight to the back of you head) made in my old Audi Convertible of a few years ago. I hit the Internet and the MX5 sites, had anyone fitted a larger deflector, and did they have much effect? A few replies, mainly positive. Maybe it would work. Was it worth the risk?

I thought about it a while more, and a couple of weeks later, since I happened to be in the area with friend James on the way back from another adventure, we swung by for another drive. My colleague tossed me the keys and went to find the trade plates, he didn’t seem surprised to see me back. We punted back out along the same roads and James tried holding the price board up between the seats as an experimental makeshift deflector, did it help? A little, it was hard to tell. I swung off the dual carriageway and took a B road detour back to the garage. The Blonde likes to travel the way she seems to glide through life, serenely and gracefully, and I mollify my driving to suit. James on the other hand has a fire breathing chest beating rolling thunder of a TVR, he clearly has no such reservations. I snick snicked down from fourth to second and gave the gutsy little car it’s head.

Zoom Zoooooooooooooooooooooooommmm!!

Now the car is causing me mild discomfort around my head, my face aches from grinning. I no longer just want this car, I need it.

That night I talk with The Blonde some more. I look at different wind deflectors, read more reviews, get insurance quotes, everything stacks up and I’m sure we can overcome this turbulence issue. Hopefully.

The next day I talk to the dealer and a deposit is placed, the day after that I visit the bank and raid my savings. I arrange a service and for a proper Mazda full sized clear perspex wind deflector to be fitted and we sort out the paperwork. But they can’t get the job done for a week, dammit!

The following day sweet nothings are whispered in the ear of the service advisor, strings are pulled, queues are jumped and two days after that my gorgeous little gunmetal grey sportscar is delivered to my dealership. It’s beautiful and it sits in the carpark winking amiably at me whenever I look out of the window at it. Which happens a lot. “Zoom Zoom” it winks, “come on, zoom zoom”. I leave early, I take the long way home, I grin, a lot.

That night I collect The Blonde. Roof down, wind deflector firmly in place, we sidle through the quiet evening out of town, heading for the dual carriageway. We’ve pressed the gamble button and the reels are spinning, will they land all cherries? Only one way to find out, I point the nose up the sliproad and ease on the power, snicking through the gears, fingers tightly crossed on the short stubby lever.

Thirty, forty, fifty, I glance across, we’re at discomfort speed but The Blonde squeezes my hand “it’s ok” she says, “so much better”. I press on, sixty, sixty five, hardly daring to go on. I hold my breath and ease it up to seventy, if it’s working now we’ve cracked it. I look across and she smiles, “no problem” she says, “it’s breezy but it’s absolutely fine, I can’t believe how different it feels”. I breath out, my relief is palpable and just briefly I gun the cheery car up to seventy one. Ish. We’ve cracked it! Phew!

I back off and slide off down the next slip road, pulling into a quiet turning and switching off the engine. I kiss The Blonde and hand her the keys before climbing out and swapping seats. It’s her turn to go Zoom Zoom. She runs the car smoothly and with ever increasing confidence down to the next town and we stop for some photos for the album. Then back to Blonde Towers where I give The Two Non Blondes (her sons) a ride out each. They approve. I run the car home late that night, roof down in the cool dark air, park it and pull the hood back into place before standing briefly and looking at it. It winks at me again, “good choice” it says. I have to agree.

Next day it’s back to reality and back to the Fiesta for the short commute to work. I can’t really take the Mazda in I’ve decided, we’re a Ford dealership, and anyway I’m saving it for high days and holidays, the Fiesta is for mundanities, commuting, shopping and general running about.

Five minutes later I’m halfway to work, the hood is down and the engine is growling happily to the tune of my right foot, a big silly grin plastered across my face.

Zoom Zoom!!

A happy anniversary

I sat in the cool quiet reception area of the spa and healthclub in a contemplative mood. The Blonde was still getting changed after our early morning swim to work up an appetite for a big cooked breakfast after a night of unmitigated luxury at the Devere Grand Harbour Hotel in Southampton. We’d escaped for a couple of days break, well earned after a frankly manic March of car sales (March being the first month of the new registrations, this year 10 plate). The Blonde, on the other hand, is always flat out busy so deserves a break any time of year. I reclined slightly in the comfy chair as I considered the fact that, coincidently, our five star getaway came almost exactly a year after I was made redundant.

Those that have been with The Blog from the very beginning will appreciate the gulf between job centres and job seeking that began at that time, and the sumptuous surroundings I now found myself in. It’s funny how life twists and turns, and it feels very much to me that one enjoys the up’s far more as a result of experiencing the downs.

The previous evening had been spent in the exemplary company of good friends at the Jolly Sailor, scene of the eighties-tastic Howards Way, and we had a clear day ahead of us before joining more good friends that night in Dorset. A tour of nearby Ikea beckoned, before we headed off to Portsmouth and Port Solent, a wonderful complex of shops, restaurants and houses set around a large marina. A sad reminder of the economic times awaited us however, as probably a third or more of the units of this once bustling oasis of leisure and retail stand silent and empty. We’re a long way from the edge of the financial woods yet, despite politicians and estate agents desperate efforts to talk up the market. All the talk in the world doesn’t create hard cash or financial liquidity, the lifeblood of the world of commerce.

Leaving Port Silent behind us we headed back along the M27 and up into the beautiful picture postcard countryside of Dorset, complete with achingly pretty villages and chocolate box cottages. Another evening of good food and great company, a comfortable night in their wonderful old farmhouse, and we were off again the following morning, stopping off at Shaftesbury to walk down Gold Hill, scene of the famous Hovis “Bike” advert, “T’was like taking bread to the top of the world, t’was a grand ride back though”.

Clarks retail outlet village in Somerset was the next stop, where I made out like the proverbial bandit, The Blonde finding it somewhat less fruitful unfortunately, coming away only with an admittedly fetching summer hat.

Then it was the long run home and a quiet night in before back to the reality of work and the real world the following day.

T’was a grand break though, and a world and a half away from life just twelve short months ago.

Managing expectations

My new manager has pulled a bit of a blinder on my company car front. Well aware of my displeasure in recent Fusion motoring he was gently “encouraged” to steer acquisition of my new steed firmly in the direction of a Fiesta, ideally with a decent (read Zetec) spec, bigger engine if poss, and the Bluetooth handsfree phone connection would be a bonus. Wrap it up in a nice shade and he can colour me happy.

It took a few weeks but he did it. It sat outside, dark smokey metallic grey, the more powerful (that’s more powerful, not actually powerful) 1.4 engine, Zetec spec giving air con, alloys, computer thingummy, interior lighting pack (footwells, submarine lighting and so forth), bits of chrome trim and whatnot. And it came fitted with the all important Bluetooth, which automatically adds a much nicer central dash display, rear stereo speakers, and voice activation and dialling (touch the button on the indicator stalk and say “phone”, “dial number”, “Blonde” and I’m talking to herself in moments). Seems recent sales success hasn’t gone unnoticed, or unrewarded (quite apart from the increased commission payments).

The irony of it all is that barely two years ago I was cruising a beautiful Audi A4 convertible, midnight blue, Bose hi fi, heated seats, the works. Had anyone suggested then that a Ford Mondeo would be the order of the day I’d have been distraught. Now I’m eying up my new Fiesta and it feels ok.

Partly it’s down to changed circumstances. Back then I was using my car to go places for work, and had to look the part when I got there. Now I use the Fiesta to drive ten minutes to work in the morning and it sits round the back till it’s time to drive ten minutes home again, or fifteen minutes to Blonde Towers.

But it’s more than that, it’s all to do with expectations. Back then I was dealing with some financial heavyweights, most of those customers drove cars four times the price of that Audi, and often had something even more expensive tucked away for high days and holidays. It’s funny how the cars of those around you go toward setting levels of aspiration. Now I’m surrounded by new and used Fords and have customers rolling up in £200 scrappers in the forlorn hope of cashing in on the end of the scrappage scheme (now ended). Against that backdrop a new mid range Fiesta feels a perfectly reasonable steer.

It’s not just a matter of prestige however. That Audi was a seriously high quality piece of kit and, all questions of value, worth, or prestige aside, it was something I took great pleasure in running. It was a car I’d drive when I had no where to go just for the sake of enjoying the drive, and trips became as much about the journey as the destination.

But times have changed as have, for the moment, aspirations and expectations. And to that end the Fiesta is fine. It’s a looker (far nicer than any mainstream shopping trolley has any right to be), it’s a decent drive, goes ok, and has just about enough toys to keep my interest. In these new times of austerity it more than does the job, and to my own surprise I’m happier with it that I ever thought I could be.

Da Management

The big news at the dealership is a change of management! The previous manager decided he’d had enough of targets and paperwork and quit quite suddenly. A minor company game of management musical chairs ensued, and the manager of a smaller provincial dealership arrived a few days later to take the reins.

Young, keen, earnest and professional, this guy is chalk and cheddar to the outgoing manager, like-able chap though he was. Suddenly we’ve got someone who’s always there, always helping, always supportive. He’s taken some of the admin workload weight and he’s very much there to help us do business. And the difference is immediately apparent, my personal sales are up a good fifty percent, this last four weeks being my busiest ever by some margin on used cars (which, oddly, seems to be where the money is to be made rather than new).

I’m also starting to see some decent money from this, always a strong motivator.

As to the job itself, well I’m half a year in at the end of this month, remarkably. The paper-trial doesn’t get any easier (albeit helped slightly by the new boss) but I feel on top of it as regards used cars, and definitely getting there with the new stuff. However the ease that knowledge and ability bring is offset by the quantity brought on by increased sales. And Motability sales remain a black art of form filling, computer inputting and organisation that I’d rather steer well clear of for the moment.

So the overview halfway through my first year is one of a continued building of success, very much aided and abetted by the change of boss. The mechanics of the job are not too difficult once grasped, there’s just so very much of it and the skill seems to be in the juggling of it all and making everything happen on time which can get a little stressful. All in all though, it’s a positive vibe and we’ll see how the summer pans out.

So far, so good then, and with the support I’m now getting I believe it can only get better.

Hidden talents.

You may recall my mention of a Focus ST on a track in the hands of a professional racing driver recently, an experience that left me stirred, but not shaken.

So when a bright red second-hand (used Fords are always second-hand, it’s only Bentley’s that are “previously cherished”) example rocked up at the dealership for a customer to try I had to borrow the keys and take it for a sprint up the road.

Now the Focus generally is a perfectly reasonable car. It does what it does, is comfortable, handles neatly, is reasonably equipped and looks nice enough. It may lack the obsessional surprise and delight tactility of some of its German rivals, but it inevitably sells for a bit less used or new (ignore the list price, there are deals) so everyone is happy. It’s not the second-best selling car in Britain (behind the Ford Fiesta) for nothing. I’ve been running one for a few days whilst I wait for my new company car to be delivered (ordered but not yet arrived) and it’s a pleasant and comfortable if unremarkable way of getting around. But it’s not the sort of thing you can obsess over, it doesn’t impart a warm glow (unlike the Polite Hatchback, especially with those heated seats), it simply does the job neatly and efficiently.

The ST, however, is something else. Driving the ST is like watching an old lady break dance well, there’s a delicious unfeasibility to it, a sense that it just shouldn’t be possible.

On the outside the car is a fairly standard if slightly Barry’d Focus. There’s some wings and big wheels and whatnot, but nothing Baz and Daz wouldn’t buy from Halfords and bolt to their 1.6 base model. Inside the only giveaways are a pair of deeply bolstered and supremely comfortable Recaro seats and a set of auxiliary gauges atop the dash (just like Ford used to fit on hot Cortina MK2′s back in the seventies, albeit there were no turbo boost guages in them days). Under the bonnet is where the big news lies, in the shape of a five cylinder two and a half litre turbo charged petrol engine imported from Volvo. This is the Red Bull that gives the Focus ST its wings, this is the hub, the powerhouse, the heart and soul.

Slip into the Recaro and you’re in a world of ordinariness. Sure, the seats are fab (and orange in the car I drove) but you’re sat on them so you can’t see ‘em. The extra dials give a nod to the performance cred, but that’s about all. Fire it up and it’s smoother than a normal Focus, but it doesn’t shout, you can barely hear the engine. Slot into gear and toddle off down the road and if you’ve driven a lot of Foci you’ll notice a slightly firmer ride bit it’s not hard, and never crashy. All in all it feels like a nice normal Focus with better seats, a bit smoother engine, and a fractionally firmer ride.

Right up until the point where you hit a fast road and nail it!

Big engines give you torque. Turbochargers give you torque. And torque is twist action, pull, grunt. It’s what gives you that unrelenting neck straining never ending catapult of acceleration that you feel in a fast jet aircraft on takeoff. The ST has a big engine and a turbo charger, hence there’s 236lb/ft of the stuff available from just 1,600rpm, giving great big velvety unburstable effortless wallop, any gear, any speed. Drop the hammer and the car just lunges, no lag, no waiting for the revs to build, floor it and the car charges like Ocean Finance. And all to the accompaniment of a fabulous sonorous warble that segues into a hard edged yowl as the tacho sweeps round the dial as smoothly as the second hand of a Rolex watch. It’s just epic! We’re talking proper junior supercar performance here, sixty miles an hour from a standing start takes just over six seconds (think about that, each 10mph increment takes about a second), and it’s a full fat 150mph flat out.

And the good news doesn’t end there. The Focus has always been best in class for ride and handling and the ST is no exception. The ride quality at speed is excellent, smooth and planted, steering precise and accurate, and cornering without wallow or roll.

It’s a car that urges you on, each snick snick gearchange bringing a fresh double cream slug of noise and power. It’s addictive.

But best of all is the sheer unlikeliness of what lies beneath the surface. It’s like buying an Amstrad hi fi and discovering the innards are Bang and Olufsen, like buying a ticket with Ryan Air and finding yourself in First Class, like ordering a Maccie D and finding a Goucho Grill steak between the buns. It just shouldn’t be this good.

For sure, there will always be a whiff of Essex about any fast Ford, a touch of Burberry, a dab of Addidas. But you can buy these things at three years old with sensible mileage for about ten grand. That has to make it the performance bargain of the century.

I’d de-Barry mine and stick a 1.6 Zetec badge on the back. And go BMW hunting…

Fusgon

Text time: 15:32
Text recipient: The Blonde
Text content:

Hahaha, just sold the dreaded Fusion.
HAHAHAHA!!!
xxxxx

Message ends.

I disposed of the Fusion within 48 hours of being told that the only way out of it was to sell it. Its new owners a young couple with a new baby who just want simple cheap reliable transportation. Perfect. I even demonstrated the fold flat front seat as an ideal baby changing table. I have no shame when it comes to the politics of company cardom.

I drove off the forecourt that evening in a pale metallic blue Fiesta 1.4 Zetec with Bluetooth and voice activation. It felt like a result. My last comments to the sales manager were to the effect that I would be seriously unimpressed if its replacement was a similarly utilitarian box on wheels. He joked that he was going to find the car we’d had longest in stock and give me that from now on as clearly this was the secret weapon in terms of shifting undesirable metal. I laughed, nervously, and quickly changed the subject.

New company car Monday, fingers crossed…!

Fused.

Approaching the sales managers office I catch mention of my name, and enter to find him head bowed, talking softly into the phone. He looks up and motions me to a chair as the conversation continues. It’s bad news, I can hear it in the final few sentences, the set of his shoulders and the look in his eye. He replaces the receiver, looks at me sorrowfully and begins to unload his burden. “Look Charlie, you realise this is out of my hands don’t you, if it were up to me…” His voice tails off and I slump in my chair. “I’m sorry mate, it’s from on high, there’s no way of ducking it”.

They’ve discovered my surreptitious company car switch, I’m back in the diesel Fusion…

Now, let me make this absolutely clear, there is nothing, nothing at all actually wrong with the Ford Fusion. It’s not cramped, not uncomfortable, not ugly, starts and stops, steers left and right, does everything you could possibly want from a car. Provided you have no actual interest in cars. It is the white goods of the automotive world, the Bic Biro, the Casio digital watch. It works. And that’s all it does. It will get you from A to B with exactly the same anonymous anodyne functionality that your fridge displays whilst keeping your food cold. It does the job. But if you’ve any notion that a car should have a little chutzpa, a touch of soul, a smidgen of interest or intent, a hint of surprise or delight, steer well clear (unless that folding passenger chair/table arrangement does it for you).

I leave the office and kick the coffee machine, this is bad news. I try to cheer myself up with the thought that at least the 1.4 litre diesel engine will cut the fuel costs. And fail. I text The Blonde the news and receive a sympathetic reply. Even The Blonde, who operates on a slightly higher ethereal plane than my rather more materialistic approach to life, understands the blight of the Fusion (or perhaps is just being her usual kind and sympathetic self) and responds with condolences.

That evening I transfer my CD’s and bits and pieces out of the Fiesta and into the fusty Fusion. My sales manager has mentioned that the best way out of it is to simply try and sell it and I’ve already put a price board in the boot ready to hang in the windscreen the minute I arrive for work each morning. A colleague who’s also had his company car changed, rather more successfully, moves his gear across to his shiny new Fiesta Zetec. As I donka donka home in the OAPmobile I ruminate ruefully that I never thought I’d find myself mildly envious of someone getting a new company Fiesta..!

Fast learner.

We were doing well over 100mph in a dark blue Focus ST when we came across the brow and met the obstruction…

Yup, I’m back at the Henry Ford College for more Ford Motor Company indoctrination, I mean product knowledge, and after a classroom based morning learning about Ford finance, latest technology, Internet selling and showroom etiquette we’re onto the practical stuff, learning about Ford and their competition, plus a couple of items of entertainment, hot laps in a high performance Ford being one of them.

The racing driver sat next to me in the driving seat went from full throttle in fourth to hard braking with a delicious crackle from the twin pipes. A beautifully smooth shift into third, flick flack through the coned chicane and back onto the power to a hard warble from those twin exhausts. More firm braking and the car is tipped into a tightening right-hander at a frankly unfeasible speed, and I’m pressed hard into the left-hand bolster of the Recaro passenger seat, weight of my crash helmet pulled toward the window as the power goes back on and the car dances through the apex of the curve in a perfect four wheel slide. My very own personal Stig apologised that it wasn’t a Focus RS this session, but from where I sat, grimly hanging onto the grab handle, it felt plenty quick enough.

Two minutes later we’re back in the pits and I’m getting my breath back as the next victim climbs in. I stand and watch as the car moves gently out of the pit lane onto the track and the back end dips slightly as full throttle is applied once more. The car rockets off up the straight, banshee howl punctuated by a fast change into third at the red line and then fourth followed by a stab of brake light as it disappears over the crest toward that coned chicane. Awesome!

Prior to that I’d been driving the track myself in fast convoy with about twenty other cars, half of them Ford Fiesta’s, half VW Polos. The idea was to highlight to us the superb driving dynamics and superiority of the Fiesta over the competition, and the Polos had been drafted in to make the point. The Fiesta is a really great car on the road, and so it proved on the track, instructors at each end of the convoy were the racing drivers piloting the Focus ST’s that were to provide the hot laps later, and they weren’t hanging about. I drove a Fiesta first and just as on the road it sits on tip toe, steered by the fingertips and instantly responsive to input. It would be interesting to see how the Volkswagon compared. After a spirited lap we trailed back into the pits and all swapped cars, Fiesta drivers piloting Polo’s and vice versa.

But as I sat in the Polo waiting for the off I noticed something interesting. The Fiesta’s were all Zetec S’s, the sports model with the biggest engine (1.6 turbo diesels in the cars provided), bigger wheels with wide low profile tyres for enhanced grip, and lowered stiffened sport suspension for flatter keener cornering. Just the job for track work. But what were these Polos? Plastic wheel trims were the first clue, asthmatic engines the second, they’d pitched the sporty Fiestas against Billy Basic bottom of the range Polo’s, narrow of tyre, soft of suspension and three cylinder petrol of engine. Not that far off half the price of those top spec Fiesta’s then, so hardly a shock that they didn’t compare out on the track. Come on Uncle Henry, have the courage of your convictions, if you’re going to sell us on the Fiesta’s superiority at least go like for like. Would a base model Fiesta Studio with the equivalent 1.25 60hp petrol engine have put up quite as convincing a case? We’ll never know.

I did smile to myself as I spotted the ESP button in the little VW though, that much trumpeted safety feature of my last Ford experience, standard in the most basic of Polo’s, and, err, optional extra on even the top end performance Fiesta… (In fairness they are going to be bringing this in to the standard specification shortly, and rightly so).

Car football was a welcome and fun diversion. Intended to demonstrate the nippiness of a Ka we were given a target time of 40 seconds to punt a huge inflatable football down a course, 360 degrees around an inflatable Fiesta, and then punt it into an inflatable goal. My time of forty one seconds had to be unassailable. Three people got it in dead on forty…

Other highlights were a road drive comparison test of a Focus against key competition. I tried a Peugeot of some sort, pleasant enough car but fair enough, the Focus bests it. Then a similar set up with the Ka against small car competition. A Vauxhall Agila was my steed for this event, and the Ka does feel and drive better, but it’s hard to argue against the back doors and extra space in the Vaux. Tiny bit cheaper than our Ka too (and interesting, incidentally, to see that Vauxhall offer a “price guide” to download from their site, not a price list. Doesn’t smack of confidence).

All in all an interesting visit, albeit with a degree of overlap to my last course (which was intended purely for newcomers to the marque, this one an update for all Ford sales employees).

That should be about it for training in the short term, back to the showroom now to put into practice my newly generated enthusiasm for all that is Blue Oval.

Quite fancy a Focus ST though, wonder how many cars I’d need to sell before I could negotiate one of those as my company car..!