When BMW unveiled its 750hL earlier this year, the media response was muted. This despite the fact that the 750hL is the world's first production-ready hydrogen powered passenger car. Well, hydrogen and petrol, and, um, it's actually super-cooled hydrogen, but hey, we are talking about a luxury car that can steam from zero to sixty in 9.6 seconds and drive 300 kilometres between fill-ups, without a single harmful emission.

Sure, a few "challenges" remain before the 750hL will replace the semi-electric Toyota Prius as the tree hugger's favourite. At the moment, only two specialist filling stations offer super-cooled hydrogen (LA and Munich). There are "safety issues" surrounding the use of a fuel that can freeze your fingers right off. Even so, BMW's self-confessed "transitional vehicle" marks the global automotive industry's path towards a hydrogen-powered future.

OK, so GM's Vice Chairman, Bob Lutz, takes a tour of his fiefdom. His entourage sweeps into the top-secret room where the design department has hidden GM's future models from prying eyes. The Car Czar takes a look at a sleek machine. "What's that?" he demands. "It's the new Corvette," a minion reveals. "No it's not," Lutz snaps. At a stroke, the former Marine fighter pilot has served notice to his new troops: must do better. A legend is born. Nice story. Not true.

The SUV backlash starts here. So proclaims an American billboard advertising the new MINI. It's the company's low-cost attempt to entice Yanks out of cars so damn big they can strap a MINI into the rear seats and still have room for the in-laws. Sure the MINI is a great car. But if MINI's masters thinks their pocket rocket has what it takes to extract Americans from their beloved SUV's, I've got news: it ain't gonna happen.

Get real guys. If an SUV backlash will start anywhere, it will probably start in Iraq— if and when American military action provokes another oil crisis. Should the price of gas ascend like a cruise missile off a battleship, or availability falter like a British machine gun in the sands of Afghanistan, then and only then, will American consumers abandon their SUV's. Maybe.

According to Hans-Gerd Bode, VW's top marketing man, any luxury car that wants to make it in the German market must have 'uberholprestige'. 'Autobahn drivers who see a new car's nose looming in their rear view mirror must rate the machine highly enough to pull over and let it pass.' Thanks for that. Now give me the keys and show me that autobahn…

Approaching the Phaeton, you'd be forgiven for thinking you're about to get behind the wheel of an over-sized Passat. The Phaeton is huge: 16.5' long, and 6' wide. Despite these luxo-barge dimensions, the Phaeton is elegant, in a stealth wealth, 'I'm not a Mercedes' kind of way. Understated. But not under-equipped. The Phaeton comes equipped with all the must-have luxury car toys: sat nav, on-board computer, built-in and hands-free phones, cruise control, adjustable suspension, rain sensitive wipers, five ways to change gears (automatic, sport automatic, Tiptronic, paddle shift and wheel-mounted buttons), seats that heat, cool and massage; the lot. A Golf driver wouldn't know where to start.

For those of you on the English side of the pond, a "Hummer" is a large, wide, low-slung 4X4 built in the US of A. The off-roader first invaded American consciousness during the feature-length TV series known as The Gulf War. An Austrian immigrant (who parlayed his ability to lift heavy weights into something not unlike an acting career) led the civilian rush to transfer the H1 to the suburban theatre. GM's marketing radar detected the trend and annexed Hummer. This year, the General finally spat out a "civilian" Hummer: the H2.

Mechanically, the H2 is fundamentally similar to the military-spec H1. Both vehicles have astounding off-road capabilities. Both vehicles have been beaten with an ugly stick. Repeatedly. But what sets Hummer apart from all other American SUVs—aide from the fact that the Hummer was originally designed to help kill people—is the way GM has set out to sell the beast.

In their pursuit of world domination, The Artist Formerly Known as Mercedes Benz has lost its ability to make chronically over-engineered automobiles. In fact, Mercedes' build quality has sunk almost as fast their model range—and corporate portfolio— has risen. Where once owners delighted in a glove box lid's well-oiled precision, they're now happy when the damn thing stays closed, and doesn't fall off. Even the new SL betrays the rot; the sun visors adjusts with violent imprecision, threatening to remove owners' perfectly groomed nails. To a greater or lesser extent, every car rolling off current Mercedes assembly lines is a betrayal of their corporate heritage.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that Mercedes' standards are low, exactly. It's just that their cars aren't built nearly as well as they once were, both in absolute and relative terms. In other words, there isn't a single Mercedes that can lay a claim to their old motto "The best engineered car in the world". Taken as a whole, Mercedes models are often as good as, but never unassailably better than, the competition. Truth be told, if you want to buy a car with robust engineering that delights in both conception and operation, you're just as likely to find it in a Lexus or Audi showroom.

This is a tale of two Carreras. The first one is Muhammad Ali. This Porsche floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee; it can motor at extra-legal velocities with no apparent effort, then carve-up a twisting road and leave it for dead. Muhammad is flash, a smug symbol that its driver is a Heavyweight. But it's no bum. Oh no. Press the loud pedal and the 3.6 litre engine proclaims, 'I am the greatest!' As the roar increases and the scenery begins to blur, the car gains control rather than loses it. The footwork is dazzling. Class. Pure class.

The second Carrera is Clint Eastwood. This Porsche upholds The Law of The Jungle, with scant regard for legal niceties like speed limits and other road users. In fact, there's nothing nice about it. Clint sticks your nose into the tarmac and makes you feel every bump, ridge and rut. As far as speed is concerned, the bullet chamber is always loaded, the hammer cocked. Pull the trigger and Clint explodes into forward motion. Cornering is equally brutal, and effective. Calling this Carrera 'soft' or 'not as good as the old one' only reveals your ignorance.

Just what's so prestigious about prestige blue? That's the question actor Ed Harris asks his fictional legal team in a recent ad for Vauxhall's new Vectra. Did I say new? Hmmm. That's the whole point of the campaign: to establish that the Vectra is a brand new car, rather than a mild revamp of an established model. Ed's character is charged with proving the point to a jury.

Why, I have no idea. Vauxhall don't sell the Vectra in the lawsuit-crazed US of A. The car's UK customers—a curious amalgam of fleet buyers, Griffin worshippers and die-hard Pringle wearers— are not the litigious type. Should their new Vectra fail to exceed the low standards set by the previous model, they're more likely to have a quiet word with their dealer or, worst case, write a strongly worded letter to the Area Manager. Mustn't grumble you know.

The ultimate pie-eater's car? You're walking down the street, minding your own business. For once, you're not thinking about cars. Suddenly, you hear it: a low frequency, menacing rumble. The sound bounces off nearby buildings and hits your synapses like a football drilled into the back of the net. It's the burble. For a red-blooded pistonhead, the thrill created by a proper barrel-chested burble is irresistible. Involuntarily, your head swivels to identify the machine producing this mechanical siren song. It's a… BMW?

C'mon. TVRs burble. Old-fashioned muscle cars with engines that burst from their bonnets like biceps through The Incredible Hulk's shirt, burble. Well, so does the BMW M5. From the moment you turn the key, the 400 horsepower M-power plant burbles with as much conviction as a Shelby Cobra. The M5 may look like a mildly tweaked version of BMW's bread and butter barge, but it isn't. Anyone with ears knows this car is a serious piece of kit.

Here's a message for Great Britain's new Transport Minister: the car has won. Deal with it.

For decades, the UK government and "Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition" have accepted, promoted and adhered to the view that cars create unacceptable levels of pollution. Cars are, therefore, a bad thing. Driving should be actively discouraged like, say, child molesting. The vast majority of the electorate demonstrate their unequivocal disagreement by, wait for it, buying a car.

Britain entered WWII an economic powerhouse, a major player on the world stage, the master of a vast colonial empire. She emerged bloodied, battered and broke. The Empire was going, going, gone. Industry struggled with the transition from a war to a peacetime economy. Rationing continued. In 1948, into this fug of austerity, Jaguar launched the XK120. The impossibly glamorous two-seater combined world-beating performance with everyday practicality and sublime comfort. The XK120 marked the end of one era, and the beginning of another. It made Jaguar rich, and millions of people proud to be British.

In the early sixties, Britain was on its uppers. The Winter of Discontent was no more than a chill breeze. The turgid class system was alive and well, but cracks were beginning to appear. Teenage culture was in first flower. One year into this new decade, Jaguar launched another car that tapped into and distilled the national gestalt: the E-Type Series I. The E-Type was a sensationally sexy, supremely capable automobile that a great many "average" enthusiasts could afford. As the Austin Powers movies demonstrate (ad nauseum), the E-Type embodied all that was fun and funky about the era. The car re-invigorated Jaguar, and made millions of people proud to be British.

I know an American editor with access to the world's best automobiles. When Aston Martin loaned him a DB7 for a California rally, he said the British car made him long for his Porsche. Aston should have given him a Vanquish.

The Vanquish's appearance is the most obvious advantage. The car has enough visual drama to make a DB7 look mundane, or a Carrera look like a suppository. The enormous rear wheel haunches are the aesthetic departure point. Ian Callum has done a remarkable job blending this bulky cliché into the DB7's svelte shape. Combined with a perfectly proportioned reiteration of the classic Aston nose, the result is the first Aston since Bond's DB5 to combine aggression with elegance. The design's only weakness– the elliptical boot line– will be remedied by the forthcoming Zagato version.

Even though Bracknell's perfectly prepared X5 4.6is dosed me with the usual 'new car narcotic', it didn't take me long to notice the difference between my regular set of wheels and BMW's top-of-the-range off-roader. Compared to an M5, the X5 4.6is' ride is like surfing down an endless mountain of irregular sized rocks on a tea tray. The X5's rock-hard suspension and 20' wheels transformed the smallest road imperfections-slight dips, tiny ruts, minor repairs and fractional changes in the paving surfaces-into 'events'. My partner called the resulting sensation 'road turbulence'. As her barely legible notes reveal, the incessant bone shaking was a major distraction.

Don't get me wrong. I know the value of a rock-hard suspension. I've driven a Nissan Skyline GTR V-Spec at speed. But c'mon, we're talking about an X5. A 'normal' (i.e. non-Sport) X5 is one of the world's most comfortable cruising machines. Perched imperiously above traffic and/or vegetation, nestled into its spacious, serene, superbly appointed cabin, owners waft along without a care in the world. There's enough metal and mod cons to cosset all who nestle within. Sure, the beast wallows a bit in the corners. And yes, even the 4.4 litre petrol-powered model could use a tad more power, but don't be churlish. If you're in no great hurry, an X5 is a perfect place to wile away the hours spent going from here to there.

OK, so you want a fast car. A really fast car. A car so absurdly rapid that you'd stop for the police because you're a law-abiding citizen-not because you have to. The only trouble is money. To buy anything monstrously quick with enough finesse to keep you on the road, you're going to have to pay mortgage money to the Germans or Italians. Sure, you could modify a Rice Burner, but that ain't cheap either, and a bit too Fast and Furious for style conscious Brits. Then check out the Ultima Can Am.

You want fast? In all my Ferrari-owning, Lambo-loving, Pagani pestering life, I have never driven a road car as searingly quick as the Ultima Can Am. Pop in the light but solid clutch, press the starter button, give her some revs, release the clutch and objects in front of you are suddenly closer than they appear. Wind it up to the 6000 rpm redline and you're issuing a direct challenge to your brain to compute information as fast as it's being received. This at the same time that the G-force is throwing you back into your seat, the wind is trying to tear your head off, and the engine is screaming, 'Look at me! I'm a RACE CAR!' Luckily, the Can Am's 18' tyres maintain a death grip on the tarmac- giving drivers freedom to pick bugs out of their teeth while recovering from endorphin overload.

Celebrity road traffic lawyer Nick Freeman owns a Lexus SC430, so I can't be too rude about it. Suffice it to say, the Japanese convertible is a strikingly unoriginal design. The shape morphs an Audi TT with a Mercedes SL, retaining none of the modernism of the former, or the elegance of the latter. The SC430 also adheres to Lexus' well-established tradition of total brand anonymity: ensuring that no model looks even vaguely similar to any other model. As for the coupe's road manners, reviewers unanimously agree that the SC's suspension is harder than trigonometry— to no appreciable sporting effect. But I like the TV ad.

A man cruises deserted streets in a silver SC430. Denying British customers a chance to identify the strange-looking car's ethnicity, he motors into an empty Italian piazza. When he gets out of his £50,850 import to buy some flowers, swirling crowds appear. When re-enters his automotive sanctuary, the crowd disappears. With startling honesty, the tag line informs us "It's How it Makes You Feel Inside". Translation: We know this thing looks weird. Forgeddaboutit-san. See it from the driver's perspective. When you get behind the wheel of a meticulously crafted Lexus SC430, you'll feel safe, secure and, yes, happy. We build this car for you, not "them".