Having my photograph taken has always been like having extensive root-canal work done on my soul. I hate it with an unbridled passion. A photograph of me serves as a permanent reminder of the simple fact that I am just a stomach and a very large chin with a small piece of wire wool growing out of the top.
Unfortunately these days everyone has a camera phone, so everyone has become an amateur paparazzo. And that means I have my photograph taken about four hundred million times a day.
I understand why, of course. If you could get a snap of Cliff Richard mowing his lawn, then ? ker-ching! ? I bet it?d be worth a grand. If you could get a Formula One boss having his hair checked for lice by a girl dressed up as a Belsen inmate, you might even be able to afford a new car.
Of course there are drawbacks. First of all you have to have the morals of a woodlouse, and second you might drive your prey to crash into a tunnel. But that doesn?t seem to be stopping anyone.
Background
Just recently I was snapped by a member of the public while driving along the M40. He claimed the snap showed I was using my mobile. My phone records prove that I wasn?t but, no matter, he sold the picture to the Mirror. It ran it on the front page and as a result the young man probably earned enough to buy himself and his girlfriend a slap-up meal at the local Harvester.
On holiday this year someone took a picture of me going snorkelling. And because it showed a chin and a stomach in a face mask the Mirror bought this one too, paying the lensman enough for him to buy himself a jolly nice pi?a colada.
Now it?s open season. Some kid took a picture of me while I was asleep, and when I told him to eff off his dad went immediately, you?ve guessed it, to the Mirror. It?s got to the point where my wife never actually bothers to ring and ask where I am. She just looks in the redtops.
I?m thinking of cashing in myself; maybe I?ll sell them a picture of me checking my prostate.
It?s at its worst, though, when I?m imprisoned by a flash and noticeable car. Recently I drove my Lamborghini from Guildford to Chipping Norton. It?s about 90 miles and I had my picture taken 107 times. I counted. This meant I couldn?t use the phone or pick my nose or break the speed limit or sing along to the radio or even, on the straight bits, catch forty winks. It was so wearisome that when I got home I sold the car.
And I can assure you that I most definitely will not replace it with a Mitsubishi Lancer Evo X FQ-360. Because, I swear to God, you couldn?t get more attention even if you were Jade Goody and you stood on a bridge over the M1 motorway and had full sex with a cow.
Now if you?re looking at the picture above, wondering why such a vulgar little thing could possibly cause anyone to look twice, then you know nothing about cars and frankly you?d be better off reading about something else.
If on the other hand you do know about cars, then you will also not be very interested to hear what the Evo is like. Because when it comes to four-wheel-drive turbo cars for the PlayStation generation, all eyes are currently on the Nissan GT-R ? the most eagerly anticipated new arrival since God stuck a pin in a map and decided on Bethlehem.
The fact is, though, that the Nissan is going to be upwards of ?50,000, about 15 grand more than the little Itchypussy. And I?m sorry but I cannot see, with the current laws of physics in place, how it can possibly be that much better.
The previous nine Evos were always exquisite to drive, nicer even than their great rivals from Subaru. But they were also woefully flimsy, stylistically challenged and hard to the point of hopelessness. For one lap of the N?rburgring, you?d use an Evo every time. For the journey home, you?d take the Scooby-Doo.
Now, though, everything has changed. The new Subaru is about as much fun as a church service. And it doesn?t look good in photographs because, like me, it doesn?t look good at all. I?ve seen more attractive things in medical books.
The Evo X, on the other hand, looks fab. Peel away the bulges and all that carbon fibre flotsam and jetsam ? all of which gives other road users an impression that for you driving may be a hobby, like trainspotting ? and the basic shape is very good. And then . . . Oh. My. God. There?s the way it drives.
I fear I may have to get a bit technical here. When you turned into a corner in an old Evo, initially there?d be a dribble of dreary understeer. In a normal car this is a speed-scrubbing health and safety warning that soon there will be ambulances and fire but in the Mitsubishi it was simply a portal through which you had to pass to get at the car?s heart and soul.
The heart and soul in question was its ability to remain composed and absolutely controllable in a lairy, tyre-smoking four-wheel drift. No other car I?d driven was able to do this, even slightly. It was exquisite.
The new car is even better because when you turn into a corner it?s the back that steps out of line. This means that even the portal through which you must pass to get at the meat and veg is full of hair-tingling joy.
Of course there are lots of buttons you can press to make the handling different but those are for geeks and bores. All I can report is that the basics of this car ? the core ? are monumentally, toweringly, eye-wateringly brilliant.
Then there?s the speed. Yes, a Ferrari 430 is full of brio and passion but get an Evo X on your tail and I guarantee that, unless it?s being driven by a complete spanner, you will not be able to shake it off.
And now comes the really good news. When you have finished at the track, the ride home is not bad either. Certainly it is way softer than the Evos of old, much more comfortable. Also, the X doesn?t require a service every 300 yards. And it?s garnished with higher-quality plastics as well. Oh, and I nearly forgot. It has the single best touchscreen central command sat nav system I?ve found in any car. It?ll even give you the average speed, in a graph, of each of your past 20 journeys.
And of course it?s got four doors, seating for five and a boot, which despite the fitting of a Grateful Dead bass speaker was still large enough last night to accommodate my daughter?s back-to-school requirements.
There are, however, some drawbacks that you might like to consider before signing your name on the dotted line in dribble.
First of all, it has only a five-speed gearbox. This means that on the motorway the all-new super-light 2.0 litre turbo engine becomes awfully drony. It?s like listening to Alistair Darling make a speech. And, worse, because there?s no cruising gear the fuel consumption is dreadful.
That?s bad in any car but when the tank is only the size of a Zippo, you will struggle to do 200 miles between fill-ups.
Almost certainly, then, you?d be better off with the less powerful but more economical FQ-300. I tried this too and missed the savage acceleration. But I liked the twin-clutch six-speed flappy-paddle gearbox, which is not available on the 360. Furthermore it has the same top speed and it?s at least ?6,000 cheaper. Of the two, this is the one I?d buy.
Unfortunately, however, I can?t. I?d become fed up with the flotilla of camera-toting rats more quickly than I became fed up with the never-ending trips to the pumps.
Happily, my wife has come to the rescue. She?s going to buy one and, being an organised soul, will keep it topped up with fuel. This means that when it?s dark and all the Mirror readers are in the pub fighting, I can take it out for a little drive. It?ll serve as a constant reminder of what cars can, and should, be like.
