Lines of beauty
Alan Judd
Perhaps we need the occasional humiliation to remind us that we are human, though for some of us daily life provides more than sufficient evidence. Turning right off the high street into a narrow yard, I stalled the unfamiliar car, blocking the road. Other motorists tolerated my first half-dozen attempts to reignite the beast, mainly I suspect out of curiosity. After another half-dozen goes interest turned to derision and exasperation. Horns were thumped, comments offered. I couldn’t blame them: what was such an obvious incompetent doing at the wheel of a machine like this, something they’d have given their eye teeth to drive? Eventually the engine roared and I shot into the yard, just missing the stone bollards. They’d have loved it if I hadn’t.
A silver Aston Martin DBS with the registration number V12 AML is a far from inconspicuous car. During the next few days I felt I was the Beckhams on wheels: almost everyone stared, many smiled, some waved. It is of course the James Bond car, prefigured by the two prototypes (one of which was written off) they used in the filming of Casino Royale. It is also one of the most beautiful of contemporary two-seaters, its sleek aluminium and carbon-fibre bodywork shrink-wrapped around flowing muscles, suggestive haunches and 20-inch wheels. Many cars look good from the front or in profile — this one’s profile is particu larly fetching, with its seductive eyelid windows — but few get the rear quite right. The DBS does, with just the perfect combination of svelte tapering and unashamed power.
It was also noticed for the sound it makes, which is like the outbreak of war. Its cheaper sibling, the V8 Vantage, is tuned to make an intoxicating whine and roar at high revs; the DBS does it automatically on ignition, a crackling explosion that blows bystanders away like autumn leaves, hands clasped over ringing ears. It’s impossible to start it discreetly but you can arrive almost silently, with those fat, low-profile tyres deliciously crunching gravel. You can also arrive like a Tornado-strike on a bunker (I saw one once). Just remember to pick your hosts off the floor.
It’s powered by Aston Martin’s race-bred six-litre 510bhp V12, as used in their successful GT racers, the DBR9 and DBRS9. This makes it a road version of the former, with carbon-fibre brakes, the same bonded VH underframe and 85 per cent of the weight within the wheelbase. Combine those with a wide track, low centre of gravity, torque of 420lb ft and precise rack and pinion steering and you have a car in which you can seriously frighten yourself. A top speed of 191mph and 0–62mph in 4.3 seconds may not sound exceptional in the supercar league, but give it just half a head and it will, I promise, nail you to your seat and cover the road in rubber. You need those non-fade carbon-fibre brakes.
The V12 is so well mated with the sixspeed manual gearbox that you get flexibility and manners as remarkable as the performance. I have it on good authority that one minute you can hop along happily at 130mph, with plenty to spare, and the next cruise comfortably on the level at 1,000rpm and 30mph and 31mpg in sixth (test average was 15.6mpg). You could use it as an everyday car when most of the supercar competition would be coughing and fouling their plugs. There’s no spare wheel; instead, you get something called the TPM — Tyre Pressure Monitoring System.
The roads of East Sussex are among the worst in the country and give a hard ride in a pram, let alone a car like this. Nothing wobbled, rattled or fell off, but narrow lanes do remind you that at over 15 feet by just under seven the DBS is wider and longer than it looks. The doors open with magical ease, the leather and alloy interior is uncluttered and attractive, and the racing seats grip you snugly (they need to, given the performance). They are, however, exquisitely uncomfortable for the back sufferer, so it’s as well you can order whatever seats suit. Given the high sills, ladies in short skirts would also need to choose their moments for ingress and egress.
As for the humiliation of stalling £160,000worth of automotive excellence, I wasn’t the only incompetent. Others did too. Maybe Aston Martin needs to dial in a little more torque for manoeuvring at very low revs. And it certainly needs to do something about the stainless-steel and sapphire ‘key’ (the so-called ECU — Emotion Control Unit) so that it works every time you press to start. That apart, if you want a thing of beauty, an aural thrill, something to frighten yourself with and to annoy Ken Livingstone, then go for it. But don’t be impatient — there’s a year’s waiting list already — and don’t imagine no one will notice.
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