Chris Evans raves about t he Ibiza
Spain’s stylish and spacious new supermini leaves our man dancing with delight... mostly
Ihave been surrounded by a wave of car crushes this week (as opposed to a wave of car crushers, which I have never been surrounded by). Leading the charge was Vassos Alexander, my good friend and colleague from the wireless, who found himself cunningly hoodwinked by his 11-year-old son, Matthew, into putting down some hard cash as a deposit for a car that doesn’t actually exist yet.
‘I don’t really know how it happened,’ he told me. ‘Matthew and his mum went on a covert mission to the local Jaguar dealer on Saturday morning, became intoxicated with something called the I-Pace and duly summoned me to the showroom.’
‘So what do you know about it now? ‘Very little.’ ‘When might you know more about it?’ ‘Not very soon.’ ‘Is there anything you know for sure?’
‘Only that the salesman promised to call me every four weeks to reconfirm how little he also knows about it.’
Next, there was my old boss Lesley, who became equally bewitched following an interview I conducted with a man talking about a Motorhome and Caravan Exhibition this weekend.
‘I’ve always wanted a camper van. It’s my dream,’ she texted me.
‘In which case,’ I replied, ‘as far as I’m aware, it remains extremely difficult to buy anything after one is dead. So you might want to get round to realising your campervan dream while you’re still alive.’ Which I suspect she will now do.
Then there’s my hugely talented nephew Mark, who, after launching his mobile catering business earlier this year (Man With A Pan) now needs a bigger van as business is booming. New wheels already sorted, he is currently in the process of hypnotising his lovely partner Tanya into upgrading her daily drive to a VW Tiguan.
‘What do you reckon?’ he asked me. ‘Mu,’ I said. ‘Mu?’ ‘Yes, that’s right, mu.’ ‘I’m sorry I don’t understand, what the heck is mu?’
Mu, my friends, is one of the greatest words ever invented. The second-most useful behind ‘no’. It’s an ancient oriental word meaning ‘please un-ask the question’. How fantastic is that? What a master stroke of blue-sky thinking circa 1,000BC. Why, just because someone asks us something, should we forever feel duty bound to reply? It’s nonsense. Mu the world, I want to get off.
Not that there’s anything wrong with the Tiguan (apart from its ridiculous name, which means half tiger, half iguana – neither of which it resembles), it’s just that it’s a car I would never consider in real life. Largely down to the fact that if there’s a Skoda equivalent (there is, the Kodiaq), I would always buy that instead.
Volkswagen would still end up getting paid, of course, as it owns almost all the car companies in the world anyway, including Skoda.
Oh, and Spanish firm Seat, which brings us neatly on to this week’s car, the Seat Ibiza FR.
‘Please don’t bang on about the fact that it’s your fifth hatchback on the bounce,’ requested my More boss. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t,’ I assured him. And truly, I won’t.
(Is this purely down to the fact that next month he has managed to acquire not only the brand new Mercedes AMG GT-R coupé for us to play with, but also the brandnew AMG GT C convertible in the same week? Maybe...)
Back on planet Earth then, and this 1.0-litre, three-cylinder
‘THE 115HP ENGINE WAS SPINNING LIKE A TOP IN NO TIME’
Ibiza. Once again, VW is offering the same internal organs, vertebrae and gene pool under several different sacks of skin, as in Skoda’s new Fabia, its own new Polo and Audi’s new A1. It’s what happens next that forces you to pay your money and make a choice.
The FR’s clean, sharp and crisp styling makes it appear more compact and balanced than before, which is ironic because it’s actually bigger. Lower, longer and wider, with its wheels positioned further away from the centre, it has that often elusive look of something prowling through the tundra, as opposed to trundling up the motorway.
I was surprised at how much I liked its overall form. I didn’t even mind the faux chrome exhaust trims that are completely fake, or that the wholly unappealing grey radiator is needlessly visible through the lower grille.
Inside, this is the roomiest Ibiza to date, especially when it comes to the rear seats and boot. It also boasts (slightly) better finishes and much better tech, including the new norm of Apple CarPlay and wider touch-screen infotainment system. This is undermined, however, by prehistoric ignition via a physical key as opposed to a keyless push-start button system (surely a no-no in any aspirational vehicle approaching €20k nowadays). And what, no driver’s central armrest? Not cool at all. Almost as uncool as the climate control, which is verging on tropical with its four parts red (heat) to one part blue (cool).
As far as driving is concerned, when I first attempted to pull out of Evans Towers, things seemed somewhat laboured, to the extent I thought I may have left the handbrake on. I hadn’t, but this obviously had me worried.
However, false alarm. It was 5am and it was me that was half asleep as opposed to the car. I’d failed to realise this is one of those pesky little tykes that need to be treated mean to keep them keen. After which, the 115hp engine was spinning like a top in no time. It’s more spunky, in fact, than its lowly horsepower suggests. However, at no point did I witness anything like Seat’s claimed economy of 60.1mpg. Mid-30s is all I could muster.
The brakes are the polar opposite of the accelerator. In other words, whatever you do, don’t jump off the gas and straight onto the anchors with equal vigour. This will not end well. Any subtlety has to come from the driver. The brakes are pretty much fullon from the off. Of course, it’s extremely reassuring to know you are able to stop the car safely, but equally reassuring to know oneself is going to stop in it rather than 50 metres further down the road out of it.
To finish, again, because the car is lower, longer and wider, enhanced by what is an excellent driving position, the overall feel is one of ‘dancing with’ as opposed ‘barking instructions at’. That said, if only the steering was a little less flighty and more informative, the whole experience would be even better.
Still, and I really didn’t expect to be saying this a fortnight ago, I much prefer this Ibiza FR to the class best-selling Fiesta STLine. Both for its show and go, notwithstanding the Ford’s superior and more sumptuous interior. But that’s mostly down to that confounded missing driver’s armrest.