Ford Focus RS

Some of my fondest driving memories have involved hot hatches. Affordable to the masses and yet more focused as a driving machine than they had any right to be, they've always been a compelling proposition to me. Cars like the nonsense-free, steel-wheeled 106 Rallye with their signatory tricolour stickers lit up my early years on the road and taught the basics of driving by having minimal weight and no stability programmes, ABS or even power steering. All it had was beautiful feel and a ballsy engine which craved revs, revs and even more revs. It wasn't even particularly quick, but that's just not the point. It was about one thing and one thing only: fun.

They've come such a long way since then - even in the last ten years their development has been rather exceptional. Rewind back to 2005 and a somewhat primitive Clio with a now modest 182bhp, trick suspension and another rev-hungry engine was dominating the headlines, chasing cars worth five times as much in motoring's very own David versus multiple Goliaths tale on challenging roads. Fast forward back to the present day and 300bhp is seemingly the benchmark for the latest ultra breed of steroid-munching hatchbacks. It wasn't too long ago that travelling from 0-60mph in under five seconds was the reserve of six-figure Ferraris. Now it's a commonality and available for a fraction of the cost.

Cars like the Audi RS3, BMW M135i, Mercedes A45 AMG and Volkswagen Golf R have given the hot hatch moniker an all-new meaning. They're no longer anti-social boy-racer specials, infamous for tearing up and down city centre dual carriageways on a Sunday evening 'cruise' near a McDonald's. They've come of age and are a genuine, more practical alternative to full-on performance cars.

But they should still retain a modicum of innocence, be free from contrivance and offer the purest form of driver involvement. What ever happened to a harmless bit of lift-off oversteer like you got in Peugeots of old? If you had a change of heart and backed off the throttle mid-corner the rear would spring into action at the flick of a switch. You had to be ready to correct it too because there were no electronic aids hiding below to get you out of trouble. Intrinsic acts such as that have wistfully been lost.

While today's bunch are extraordinarily capable things, unquestionably better built and devastatingly fast, they simply aren't as fun as traditional hot hatches. There's just no arguing with that. That comes at the enthusiasts' chagrin as there are still people who crave feeling a car wriggle in protest, slide and eventually win its touch-and-go battle for traction instead of having to rely on a dispassionate differential to pull it round a bend. Driver and hot hatch should be an inveterate twosome; if the feeling of detachment is there it's simply failed its most simple of tasks.

However, there's one modern-day hot hatch that has all the full-blooded, turbocharged grunt of new and the charming, quaint and hilariously simple attributes of old - the second generation Ford Focus RS.

First released in all its green glory in 2009 (it was available in wallflower white and boring blue, too), never before has a hot hatch stood out quite like it. Even six years on you're left ever so slightly gobsmacked when one drives by, especially when it's painted in the dazzling, almost indecorous tint that's spookily similar to Lamborghini's vibrant Verde Ithaca hue. It's just as shocking now as it was back then: pumped-up, squat, imposing and hugely impressive to behold. Your eyes trip up over themselves as they struggle to take everything in. 

Get inside the green monster and its interior is rather subdued. Most things would be after the drama of the exterior, but it's actually a nice place to sit. You're clasped in by a great pair of RS-badged Recaros, the steering wheel is of a lovely size and the instruments, design and overall feel is typical Ford fare so it's easy to use and totally inoffensive to anyone this side of a Pagani owner. Start it up and there's an immediate burble - those large, twin pipes out back make the most of the 2.5-litre five-cylinder engine's vocals. It sounds proper, true and thunderous when you so much as brush against its throttle.

It doesn't take long for its key traits - engine, gearbox and steering - to come to light once you're moving. They vie for your attention, each hoping to be lauded as the key aspect of the Focus RS experience. The occasion in a way is dominated by that engine. For something that's actually quite an archaic plant, from a Volvo of all places, it manages to feel sensationally exotic. Its five-cylinder tone, which throbs when stationary and positively blares its resonance aloud once it's above 4,000rpm grows and grows into arguably one of the all-time great soundtracks.

The gearbox's action is next up. Fast Fords always seem to have good 'boxes but the RS's feels beautiful to use and has a short throw, ultra-precise way to it; it celebrates the simplistic and now rare joy of merely using a manual. It's made even more exceptional by the fact that the majority of its newer rivals are being sold with semi-auto alternatives - it's a real strike in the heart of the twin-clutch brigade.

There's also something which I didn't quite expect: body control. When I say that I don't just mean it's good for a performance car, it's good full stop. The trick 'RevoKnuckle' suspension plays a major role in this, ironing out hellish ruts once you're attacking bends, allowing none of those heart-in-mouth moments to creep in where a car's front wheels skip along and scrabble to conjure up enough purchase when they're needed the most. It's a hugely tractable, faithful package.

All paths return to its engine, though. The sheer mid-range of the thing is quite surreal. It's properly brisk throughout its rev range but that monumental middle part when it's flexing its muscles results in an astonishing lunge towards the upper reaches when its peak power of 297bhp is delivered in all its might. It feels more than just a shade under the 300 mark in truth and you'd be unsurprised if Ford's figure is indeed a conservative one.

It just doesn't feel big, either. You're aware it's a full-sized hatch but once it's moving it's alert, on its toes and supreme when the road starts to twist. That body control remains, the gearbox wants to be worked and there's constant power on tap, emanating in a deep wail whenever you ask for it. The brakes require warmth but soon become a trustworthy ally to have. Lean on them and try your best to diminish their power reserves but they're evidently free from any real signs of fade on the road.

Sure, it lacks the polish and point-to-point fluidity of its biggest rival - the Renaultsport Megane - but it more than makes up for it with its sheer character and the feel it exudes. The Megane is that composed it almost robs you of some form of involvement, but the RS is rough around the edges and its grip levels aren't as high so you feel like you're more a part of the experience. It's better, more loveable for being a little worse - does that make sense? I highly doubt it does but I think Ford got it right when they made this iteration of its magnificent Focus RS. It is what it is. It's a genuine mini exotic with massively admirable traits and what's more it doesn't take itself too seriously - it knows where it loses out to its rivals but makes no excuses for it. It's just there, in all its green glory, basking in its own brilliance. It's a laugh, it's fun and its character shines. Given that there's seemingly a severe deficiency of that trait in a lot of cars in 2015, I absolutely adore the RS for just how unpretentious it is. It's not the last word in dynamic supremacy, but there's just something absolutely extraordinary about its entire package.

Icons: Renaultsport Clio 182 Trophy

The early spring sun is doing its best to peek through the sullen skies. It's most definitely fighting a losing battle, but each time it momentarily finds a cloud-free pocket its tepid rays dazzle off the shimmering Capsicum Red paintwork, warming the atmosphere by way of an effervescent dazzle.

But then its determined fight is lost for the day, finally being encompassed in a morose gloom as the elements shroud the Holme Valley's best roads in a murky mood. It's only 10am, headlights are still required and although the roads are thankfully dry, the ominous clouds are threatening an iniquitous downpour at any given time.

I'm being hugged by a Recaro seat. Its positively sexy shape emanates a no-nonsense look to it on first glance but it's actually rather friendly - it clasps in all the right places and never gives any discomfort. There's a simple view forward - nothing inspiring - and the cabin's swathed in cheap, scratchy plastic. Run fingernails over them and it's second only to doing the same on a blackboard. The carpets have an itchy feel to them and the material on the door is a fashionista's worst nightmare; a continuation of those ultra-cheap plastics and an awful man-made cloth vie for one's derision.

But there's an infallible brilliance lurking underneath. Concentrate on driving and there's a meticulous feel to its approach in how it delivers its drive to its now re-interested driver. Key things - damping, steering and body control - work harmoniously to conjure up point-to-point fluidity. It's assured, controlled. It's a little compromised, forsaking ride comfort for feel, but its old-fashioned foibles are unquestionably forgivable. It is a Clio 182 Trophy after all, one of Renaultsport's all-time greats.

With news of the all-new Clio Trophy trickling in from the Geneva Motor Show, the original is celebrating its tenth birthday in 2015 so there's no better time to take what's been continually labelled as one of the best hot hatches ever created for a commemorative blast up on the moors high above Holmfirth.

The first thing that stands out is its size. It's absolutely tiny compared to today's crop of bloaters; its 16-inch Speedline Turini wheels look dinky in the Trophy's wheel arches, but the fronts hide the car's party piece - Sachs adjustable dampers. Those items, straight off a mid-noughties touring car no less, were reportedly ten times more expensive than the ones fitted to a 182 Cup, the lightweight chevalier on which the Trophy is based.

A continuation of the Cup's theme has been continued over on the 500-off Trophy so there's a cheapened rear bench, no xenon headlights and less equipment. No options were offered, so what you're given is what you get. How refreshing is that in today's climate? It wouldn't surprise me if Audi start charging an extra few quid for windscreen wipers soon.

Twist its key - it fires up with a frenetic burst of hyperactive revs - and it's got a distinctly over-engined feel for its minuscule size. Take hold of the vibrating, Poundland-spec gearstick and it's almost like the 182 French thoroughbreds are voicing their angry discontent right through to your hand. If you're used to supercars from yesteryear, you'll feel right at home using the Trophy's hefty clutch. Once up and moving it's no more inordinate than anything else, but it does take a little time to acclimatise to.

It takes about 50 yards to tap into its outrageous talent. Its steering's delicacy is other-worldly and feels absolutely wonderful: it's hooked up, informative and absolutely connected to what's going on below. One corner - taken at high or low speed - is all it takes to see why it's eulogised about. Sure, the Trophy's trick dampers don't particularly like jutted surfaces at ordinary speeds as the car becomes crashy, a tad dishevelled and massively uncomfortable, but then most things do this side of an S-Class on poor surfaces. However, they have a preternatural knack of getting more amenable as the pace gets higher.

It's such a primitive experience behind its rather large steering wheel. You grasp hold of the perfectly situated thumb grips, feel the Recaro clasp your sides and feel immediately at one with the car. You have to remove your pre-conceived ideas about outright grip levels as we're in a time of almost inexplicably gifted hot hatches in 2015. They're too adept for their own good, robbing the driver of a hot hatch's key aspect: involvement. What's great about the Trophy is that you are a part of the process. You're controlling things, you're adjusting your commands and not relying on an impassive differential to do all the work for you. Make a mistake and there's not much to catch you; there is traction control but its system is so lax you're left wondering if Renaultsport's engineers were actually telling porkies to the health and safety bores. If lap times are your thing, buy a car with a diff. They exude a formidable feel and generally are foolproof, even to the most ham-fisted of drivers. However, if bonding with a car and being connected trumps that, the Trophy's ten-year-old reputation has yet to be wrestled away from it. I don't think it's ever been eclipsed.

Push on and the nose is acquiescent, sharp and alert to your every input. You feel what's going on. The brakes absorb an absolutely absurd amount of punishment, there's feel through the pedal and the steering - oh, the beautiful steering - makes a mockery of electrically-assisted systems of new. Try and deploy full power on defective surfaces and the world's most lenient ESP system does show it's there by way of an orangey dance, but let's not forget that initial 'over-engined' feel is because it's a very quick car. Weighing a smidge of 1,000kg and having 182bhp means 0-60mph in just 6.3 seconds - fast in anyone's book. Up on snaking roads, high above civilisation, it feels monumentally expeditious, charging down straights and maintaining its speed through corners. On a typical countryside road not much could keep with a well-driven Trophy. Your trust grows as you can carry more speed than you'd ever think was possible, but it can bite if you're too insolent. Keep it in its sweet spot above 3,500rpm and there's an appreciable lunge for its 7,200rpm limiter as it starts to sing in the higher reaches. It's an infectious process, pure, free from contrivance, innate and wonderfully honest. 

It begins to wriggle, shows its traditional feel and you just appreciate that aspect even more as things have got too serious in the hot hatch world. It's now cluttered with monstrous turbos and they've lost their simplicity, chiefly because many marques don't appreciate the fundaments of the most simple of recipes because they're inexperienced in the market. Ten years ago an AMG or an M badge only appeared on a fire-breathing V8 or a sonorous flat-six, but now they're at the top end of the hot hatch spectrum, bringing their Bavarian power battle to a category once dominated by featherweights powered only by natural aspiration, a talented chassis and no bullshit. The German invasion is no doubt a good thing in many people's eyes, but I'm not too sure. Hot hatches are all about affordability, real-world pace and practicality. Something that costs £50,000 with a few options ticked doesn't necessarily boost this most loved of sectors for me. That's why, ten years on, the Clio Trophy - an honest, loveable, talented and fast ball of Capsicum Red joy - is raved about. It's unparalleled… still.

Grudge match approaches

Another war of words on a popular social networking site has stoked the fire for a forthcoming grudge match.

The tie, which features world number one Josh Timlin, sees the much-loved celebrity go up against a somewhat inferior player in the form of Adam Slater, who has a world ranking of 972, one below Ben Cadman and five below Timlin's 70-year-old grandmother.

Slater, whose record consists of five wins and 634 defeats, is reportedly looking for a way out of the match, referencing a five-year-old finger injury which sometimes forces him into playing shite.

Timlin, a well-respected journalist whose empire of influence stretches from Barnsley to Holmfirth, is hoping to set the record straight after a severe bout of man flu saw him narrowly lose out in a pre-Christmas clash.

That match, played on a sub-standard table at Xscape - a favourite haunt for Castleford's delinquents - ended 10-9 in the favour of Slater, who has recently had a change of career. 

A former president of The Tony Pulis Fan Club, he's now branched out and become a full-time tea boy at a 'government' building, thought to be a strip club.

"It's a great career," Slater said. "I often make up to 100 cups of hot beverages a day and I'm an invaluable part of the company. Without me, the country simply couldn't run." 

Slater, also known as Durham's go-to rent boy, made his name at the gloomy city's university befriending its notorious BDSM expert, Dr Taheri. Little else is known about the 25-year-old, who has been dubbed the 'Pollington Prick' by his ardent following of two fans. Only one of the duo, someone referred to as 'Plastic Josh', showed up to support Slater at the heated pre-match press conference.

"I'll admit it: Josh is by far the superior player," he added. "He owns the greatest hot hatch ever made and subsequently makes players feel like they're insignificant when he's on his usual form. I admire his journalism, too. He's achieved a lot for a young man and I only hope he signs an autograph for me on Friday so I can show it to David Cameron, who I help run the country on a daily basis."

Slater's mood then took a turn for the worse when a journalist brought up his infamous 2007 car accident, when he reversed into an elderly woman's wall and smashed it to pieces before having to be rescued by his three passengers. One of them, hit-and-hope merchant Mr Cadman, tried selling a story about the incident but the media refused due to Slater's lack of celebrity status.

Timlin, looking superlative in a pair of Paul Smith suedes, was nonplussed by his opponent's unquestionable mental breakdown.

"I pity Adam," he said. "He's deluded and appears to be quite disturbed - I think it stems from the time when I bowled him out in Mr Hudson's PE class in year nine. The lad's never recovered. To be fair it was an amazing bowl of about 95mph. Even Brett Lee would have struggled and he's Barnsley Cricket Club's best-ever batsman."

The five-time BBC Sports Personality of the Year winner, whose audience broke the 400,000 barrier for a fifth time last month, returns to TV screens on Friday at 7pm.

A spokesman from Xscape added: "Our tables are notoriously wank so Adam knows that he stands the best chance of keeping Josh close due to the pockets' size, which are 15 inches wide, meaning even Ben Cadman could pull off a seven-baller.

"It's a tough one. Josh is handsome, adored by the masses and his extraordinary car is ace so he's always welcome. It's one of just 500 made in the world and it's simply staggering to drive. There's always a legion of screaming birds outside when they know he's playing. Adam on the other hand has washed his car twice in several years. Quite frankly that's an embarrassment so we're reluctant to let him come in."