Alan Judd

The concept of cheap and cheerful appeals for the obvious reasons: the prospect of something-for-(nearly)-nothing; the assumption that it does exactly what it says on the tin; the lack of pretentiousness — suggesting that its owner is also virtuously free of that forgivable vice — and the freedom from burdensome excess. However, the assumption that cheap and cheerful go naturally together is about as accurate as the identification of poverty with virtue: occasionally yes, often no. It’s different with cars — at least, it is now. Hitherto cheap cars were often shoddily assembled from poor materials by workers who didn’t care and managers who failed to manage all but their pension funds. They were rusting before they left the factory.

In The Spectator of 27 August I reviewed the new Range Rover Evoque despite not having driven it; a narcissistic exercise to see how accurately I could predict my own impressions. Having now spent a week with it, I can proudly proclaim that I passed my self-set, self-assessed test handsomely, albeit not quite with an A*.    I predicted that, although no bigger or more powerful than a Ford Focus, the Evoque would perform like a proper 4X4 SUV but with car-like handling and an interior that makes you feel better about life as soon as you get in it. It would be neater and nippier than the usual Land Rover product, an engaging, socially acceptable Chelsea tractor that could do for Jaguar Land Rover what the Mini did for BMW.

One week, two convertibles. The first, a 40-year-old held together by rust, with doors so warped I’ve taken them off, the windscreen secured by baler twine to keep out the rain when it stands but removed when we go anywhere, no lights, free road tax, cheap insurance, and a first-time starter that does all you ask of it, eventually. Neither old enough to be interesting nor rare enough to be valuable, it is of course my tractor, a Universal, a Romanian Fiat built under licence. It belonged to my father and I paid the man who bought his farm £200 for it. It is massively overengineered and quite wonderfully slow.

I should have used the Discovery 3 to tow an ancient and heavy horse-trailer loaded with well over a ton of logs. Its V6 direct-injection diesel, with plenty of low-end torque, would have smiled; in low ratio first, on rough ground, it pulls it on tickover. But I felt it was time the 39-year-old Series 3 Land Rover — 2,286cc petrol, straight four — had a run-out. All went swimmingly — if snails can swim — until the last hill before home, half a mile of steeply ascending bends. I had hoped to do it in second — the queue behind already stretched out of sight — but by the last bend that valiant old engine was losing breath.

The imminence of paying for a 17-year-old to learn to drive brings with it the unwelcome question of insurance. Rather more welcome is recent publicity about insurance revealing yet another conspiracy against the consumer. Some premiums have jumped by up to 40 per cent. The reason usually given — uninsured drivers for whom we all end up paying — is only part of the story, and not the major one. That honour goes to the automotive ambulance-chasers, the scam whereby accident management companies and credit hire operators are in league with insurance brokers — all three sometimes owned by the same private equity company.

 Feel-good factor The sloping rear roof-line, especially in white, prompted comparisons with a squashed fag packet. It’s a profile that’s supposed to appeal to younger owners. When I first saw it, lowered from the heavens by a crane during a preview party at the Orangery in Kensington Gardens, I wasn’t convinced. But I’ve a poor record at predicting future taste — I thought the Mercedes 190/C Class would never catch on, that the Jaguar S-Type would — and early indications are that I’ve got it wrong again. The car has garnered more than 20,000 advance orders and when Autocar did a photo shoot in New York a passer-by crossed the street to say, ‘I don’t know what it is but I need to know where I can get one.

I recently met a gentleman of Dorset who kindly showed me his car collection. It included an Austin Champ, the Jeep look-alike in service with the military 1954–66. Originally intended as an alternative to the Land Rover, it couldn’t hack it alongside Solihull’s finest — less adaptable, less reliable, more complex, twice as expensive. Yet it is now something of a cult car. It’s a big butch bruiser, with a high bonnet like a shaven head about to butt you. Rigorously utilitarian, many examples were shorn of any comfort or convenience (roofs, windows, doors) but they sprouted plenty of extras, including mountings for your .303 Vickers or .30 Browning.