Jeremy Clarkson also wrote a most favorable article on the Panda
The thing is, though, that you don’t want a Perodua Kelisa because it sounds like a disease, only has three cylinders and takes a fortnight or so to accelerate from nought to sixty. You know that you can’t have a real car, not a new one anyway, for much less than £9,000.
I would have concurred, but then, for reasons that aren’t exactly clear, someone brought a new Fiat Panda round to my house to test. The cheapest version costs £6,295 and I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that Elton John spent more than that on his hair.
I therefore wasn’t expecting much. And to reinforce this view, I remember the old Fiat Panda well. Styled by someone who only had access to a ruler, it came with hammocks instead of seats, no interior trim and the top speed of a Galapagos turtle. It was fine for the walnut-faced peasantry of Italy but not really on for anywhere else.
I was therefore a little surprised to find that the cheapest new Panda comes as standard with electric windows, an adjustable steering column, remote central locking, pre-tensioning seatbelts, two airbags, a stereo and power steering that can be made super-light in the city.
Much more is available. Air-conditioning, for instance, as well as a sunroof, a CD player, parking sensors and airbags for your testicles. But even if you go mad with the options list, it’s still nowhere near the second most expensive thing you’ll ever buy. I bet Barry Manilow spent more on his new nose. I bet Danniella Westbrook spent more powdering hers.
Hell, I bet you co"uldn’t even buy a real panda for £6,300.
The first time I went out in it, it was raining. After half a mile the rain had turned to a sort of icy hail and five minutes later it felt like I’d gone to another planet. Or maybe Canada. There was thunder, lightning and a blizzard of such ferocity that within moments the road was invisible under its new white blanket.
In front of me a Range Rover slithered to a halt, bumping into the kerb, then sliding back down the hill. Ordinary cars had had it, their fat, sporty tyres utterly lost in the Arctic chill.
Yet my little Panda soldiered on, its skinny little rubber tyres cutting through the snow like four Stanley knives. Not once did it even give the impression of being in difficulty.
The next time I went out in it was Saturday night and it had an even bigger surprise up its sleeve. The back was so roomy that it not only swallowed all three children but even gave them enough space in which to fight.
And then it was Sunday morning and time for mini-rugby. Now since Jonny Wilkinson punted that last-minute drop-goal between the posts in Sydney, the number of people turning up with their offspring for training has swelled to the point where the car park looks like Bangkok at rush hour.
But this was no problem with the Panda, which slotted neatly between the posts of a croquet hoop on the bowling green. “What the hell’s that?” cried the dads, mocking my car’s unusual appearance. “Handy,” I replied, mocking the four-mile walk they’d had from the field where they’d parked their BMW X5s.
