Chris Evans on a belting BMW
THAT most profound of Greek philosophers, Socrates, famously once said the only thing he knew for sure was that he knew nothing. A cute line, but in reality bunkum, faux modesty to impress the ladies – or the gentlemen. He clearly knew a lot more than most about almost everything. However, had he said ‘The only thing I know is that I know nothing about… mouth ulcers’, I may have believed him.
After being attacked by a particularly troublesome carbuncle/gumboil/pustule/furuncle/canker over the half-term break, I discovered that no one really knows anything about these painful little blighters. This, despite dozens of online chat rooms filled with the howls of countless serial sufferers, some currently coping with more than 50 at a time.
Sure, there are palliative sticking plasters out there, such as gels and various home-made concoctions, but when it comes to cause and prevention it’s very much a case of the blind leading the blind – or the blistered leading the blistered.
‘Some people get them and some don’t,’ said one expert.
Not unlike this week’s car, the latest BMW M3. Take one for a drive and you’ll see what I mean. I guarantee you’ll be met by a 50-50 split of full-on lust and abject loathing. Smiles and scowls in equal measure. Driving a BMW M Series is akin to speed-dating. You will know within seconds who wants to take it to the next level and who never wants to see you again.
My mate loves M3s and he drove this one a lot. He loves it especially when M3-haters flip him the bird while simultaneously rolling their eyes in sympathy for his friends and family. ‘At least you know where you are with Philistines,’ he said. ‘People who don’t get M3s, don’t get cars. End of.’
And what a car this is. Just when we all thought the M3 was all but slain by its upstart sibling the M4, here it is, back with a bang. And with a newly chiselled chin, flat-top bonnet bulge, boxer’s nose and extra-wide rear arches, it’s more menacing than ever before. That said, it’s not all gym-bunny bulges and zero sophistication, thank God. Underneath that signature bum, the seriously meaty quad pipes have been deliberately ‘absorbed’ and colour-matched to become part of the valance. From an aesthetic point of view, the M3 has achieved mean-machine status while remaining refreshingly gimmick-free.
Inside, there’s the odd bit of superfluous bling, like the fast-becoming-passé flashes of carbon fibre, but generally it’s all standard M3 fare, just more classy than before. The leather sports racing seats, for example, are accessorised with sharp, red-and-blue-pinstripe seat belts. Suit you, sir (or madam). For rear passengers, there’s not an awful lot to shout about, other than it is bigger back there than it looks, plus there are a couple of privacy blinds. They’re £200 extra, but the least of your worries when it comes to the options list…
The on-board intel? As good as it gets, the best in the world. The only minor fly in the ointment is the lack of a Park button, which at first is a little confusing. Even though there is a manual handbrake, you still have to double-press the start/ stop button, with your foot off the brake, for the car to lock. Otherwise it’s primed to roar into life should you so much as breathe on the accelerator.
So what’s it like to drive? In your face, is the short answer. In your ears, too. The 3.0-litre straight-six starts as it means to go on – waking the dead. A glorious but not over-manufactured noise. Still silly, of course, but not completely brainless. Select Drive and feel a preda- tor come to life. Then, foot down and whoosh. Everything is just so taut and aggressive from the get-go. Somewhat unrefined compared to other £60k heavyweight sports saloons, but remember – this is a highly tuned piece of kit.
Of the three drive modes, Sport+ is where it’s at, where the reins slacken most, where it becomes exhilarating yet surprisingly easy to get on with at the same time. Heaps of power is available, but it’s delivered so precisely there’s a predictability to proceedings that inspires confidence – as long as one doesn’t become too zealous. Tyres will smoke at the merest hint of an over-excited right foot (and not only in first gear), especially if you’ve been brave/bonkers enough to deselect traction control. How much fun do you really want? Be careful what you wish for.
Ride quality never reaches anything approaching truly comfortable and the cabin isn’t the world’s quietest, but that’s not what M3s are about. Into London on the M25 early in the morning was one thing, but later that afternoon, fizzing through the Surrey hills, then across country towards the South Downs, the M3 was a tough act to beat. More feral than a Merc, more sophisticated than almost everything else in its class. A car that can play grown-ups in the week and loony tunes at the weekend.
But there’s something left to discuss. It’s not actually £60k – with options our model came in at almost EIGHTY THOUSAND POUNDS!
Even my pal, Mr M3, winced at that. ‘That’s just too much money,’ he lamented, genuinely saddened. But do you really need £6,250 ceramic brakes? Or a £3,600 special paint job? Or the £825 head-up display? Get rid of all that flotsam and jetsam and the price starts to come closer to the Earth’s orbit.
‘What if you won the lottery,’ I said. ‘Would you buy one then?’
‘Over £1 million and I might think about it.’
And that from a salivating disciple.
PS. I did eventually find an ulcer guru. The same lovely man who sorts my mum’s prescriptions. Hydrocortisone is the answer. Little soluble tablets that sting like hell but work miracles. Stay well all.