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.

Still, you can't dispute the inherent interest of a courtroom drama. Why should Ford buyers—watching the progress of the Explorer tyre debacle and looking forward to the Crown Victoria police car conflagration—have all the fun? I can't wait to find out whether an American actor famous for saving the crew of Apollo 13 from a one-way ticket into the infinite blackness of space can accomplish the same feat for GM's European marketing executives.

Meanwhile, I'm a little confused about the campaign's tag line: "New Vectra. New rules." A supporting ad in The Sunday Times explains that the Vectra's Interactive Driving System sets "new rules for ride and handling". While I'm glad that Vauxhall has finally recognized the need for a car to interact with the driver, I'm wondering why they used the word "rules" instead of "standards". Is the new rule for ride and handling "Should the driver wish to corner quickly, the Vectra will do its level best to prevent nausea"?

I wouldn't know. I haven't driven the "new" car. Nor have I drive the old. I'd like to— if only to keep the mileage down on my M5. But I don't think it's going to happen. I did everything I could to convince Vauxhall to lend me a VX220 sports car (leaving 20 messages over a month and a half) and only to be bitch slapped by their Press Department. Anyway, it's hard to imagine that a GM family four-door is going to re-write the rulebook for what a car should and should not do.

Which is a shame. Despite the fact that I spend most of my day lusting after, ligging, driving and slating high-speed niche exotica; I have nothing but admiration for the engineers charged with building innovative cars for the mass market. The Big Boys may have enormous budgets and vast resources, but I reckon it's more of a challenge to make a Ford Focus handle than a Ferrari. Given the major manufacturer's audience, it's also more important when they create something truly revolutionary.

Which the Vectra clearly is not. Sure, the car offers some lovely kit as standard: rain sensitive wipers (Ouch! You're hurting me!), cruise control, eight-way adjustable seats, a stereo with genuine bass response, full size curtain air bags, etc. The performance and economy of the available engines is, um, admirable. The boot offers between 36 and 51 litres more capacity than the previous iteration of Vauxhall's well-established automotive ode to sales reppery. But c'mon Ed, there's nothing really "new" here.

What about a telemetric system that 'phones the dealership when your car needs servicing? Or a hydrogen-powered Vectra that doesn't weight as much as double-decker bus? I'm sorry Mr. Harris, but turn indicators that get louder as you drive faster on "noisy motorways" doesn't qualify as innovative engineering. (New Rule: Treat All Drivers like Old Age Pensioners.) Hello? Shouldn't the Vectra's interior be quiet enough to hear the indicators at any speed? I don't recall Mercedes' owners complaining about IIV (insufficient indicator volume).

Back to prestige blue then. After all, if the Lads from Luton went to all the trouble to invent a new shade of paint for their car, and Ed risked apoplexy by trying to pronounce the word "prestigious" in front of a film crew, it must be important. It might even be the key to understanding the Vectra's new "rulebook".

Laura from the Vectra toll-free line transferred me to Customer Care. After a bit of saxophone, a warning that my call would be monitored, a plea not to abandon my call, and an opportunity to leave a message (doesn't that classify as "abandonment"?), Jeanette told me that prestige blue is prestigious because "it looks expensive."

And there you have it: The New Rule. Make a mass-market car that seems exclusive. Wait a minute, isn't that the old rule? Isn't the Vectra the same old thing, only a bit better here and there? We the jury find the defendant… guilty as charged.

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.

And then… what? The E-Type died of obesity. The Mk2 marked start of Jaguar's foray into mechanically dubious "fat blokes" cars, culminating in the 1970's era XJ12 luxobarge. Fortunately, when the big Jags weren't languishing in the repair shop, they managed to live up to their founder's ideal of "grace and pace". Unfortunately, the company's attempts to make a credible sports car weren't. Browns Lane had turned its back on high performance motoring. The factory-sponsored racing programme, an effort that had sealed the XK and E-Type's reputation, was a distant memory. The leaping cat had become a lounge lizard.

Thanks to years of mismanagement, poor build quality, crap dealers and a dull product range; Jaguar found itself unable to fend off Ford's attentions. Under the Blue Oval, the XJ saloon lost its digital dash, regained its sensuous curves and added reliability. Die-hard fans of the marque eagerly awaited the first all-new, Ford-sponsored Jag: the XK8. Would Jaguar finally be true to its pedigree and build a genuine sports car? No. The XK8 was big, bold and beautiful. It was also expensive, overweight and ungainly.

Then we had the S-Type, a less than aesthetically delightful move sideways from the XJ. Next up: the X-Type, a timid, cynical move downwards ("Premium" Automotive Group indeed). But there was still hope that Ford-owned Jaguar hadn't lost sight of its roots: the F-Type.

The F-Type had a real shot at putting Jaguar back on top. The car was due to feature a mid-mounted V6. In supercharged form, the engine would have pumped out 330bhp. An aluminium chassis clad with steel panels would have delivered a devastating power-to-weight ratio. Independent coil-sprung suspension on all four corners would have given the F-Type sufficient poise for a bit of Boxster-bashing. Throw in a gorgeous shape, reliability, a decent boot and a decent sticker price, and the F-Type could have been the car of the noughts. It certainly would have made enthusiasts proud to be British.

Alas, no. Ford spiked the F-Type. The bean counters decided that shovelling diesel engines into the XJ, S-Type and X-Type, and transforming the X-Type into a Labrador lugger, is a better investment than building a new, affordable sports car. Porsche, the world's most profitable carmaker (per vehicle), sells some 28,000 Boxsters per year. Yet Ford couldn't see the "business case" for building a car that would sell in similar volumes. Are these the same accountants who decided it's OK for Jaguar to piss-away the equivalent of Belize's GNP on Formula One?

Killing the F-Type is a shocking miscalculation. The X-Type's raison d'etre— reflected by their "new generation" ads— was to bring younger customers to the marque. In reality, the X-Type is a scaled down replica of the XJ that appeals to middle-aged customers who can't afford the real thing. Compared to the F-Type, the X-Type has about as much youthful appeal as a Hollywood star on her fourth facelift. In the battle for the hearts and dimes of tomorrow's drivers, well, let's put it this way: you won't see a poster of an X-Type on the bedroom walls of a teenage enthusiast. The F-Type would have had pride of place next to Britney, Jordan and David.

When Ford gobbled-up Jaguar, both companies dismissed claims that Jaguar had lost its independence. Executives swore on their expense accounts that Ford would simply extend Jaguar's ability to follow its own, uniquely British automotive destiny. Ford would respect Jaguar's traditions of craftsmanship, engineering innovation and pedal-to-the-metal excitement. Now we know the truth. And it makes me ashamed to be American.

Cocaine is God's way of saying you're making too much money. "Niche" cars serve the same divine purpose for automobile manufacturers. Porsche's foray into the SUV market is only the most topical example. Volkswagen, renowned makers of the "people's car", are preparing to pit their £60k Phaeton against Mercedes' S-Class. On the other end of the scale, once exclusive BMW will soon offer runabouts to badge-aspiring plebs (1 Series). Audi is messing about with bullshit, I mean, Lamborghini. And Ford is still fiddling with Wilton-clad off-roaders (Range Rover).

You know things are getting out of control when The Big Boys start dabbling in the manufacturing equivalent of freebasing: reviving an old marque. Bringing back the old sub-brands may look like a noble attempt to recapture lost heritage, but it's actually a reflection of boardroom boredom, designed to give bored boffins and their marketing chums a challenge. Bugatti: can a passenger car have as much horsepower as a Spitfire? MG: can a staid Rover sedan be tuned to Fast and the Furious standards? MINI: how do you get new money for old engines, Brazilian style?

As the [Not So] SMART [Mr. Bond] demonstrates, Mercedes has been snorting niche for a while now. A visit to any major motor show confirms that Mercedes is on a real bender, making more and varied examples of cars that no one asked for, and even fewer understand. How about the world's fastest crossover thingy, blending estate, sedan and MPV? Or a SUV with 450bhp? Oh wait, that's the Cayenne. You might have thought that merging with Chrysler— a company with more debt than a Latin American dictatorship— would have curbed Mercedes' appetite for bizarre brand experiments. But no, they've gone and built the Maybach.

Given the Maybach's stupendous length (5.77 metres long), it's surprising MB didn't launch the limo in a dry dock, smashing its snout with a Magnum of Moet. In these post 911 times, the idea of creating a gi-normous luxury barge for Gulfstream plutocrats indicates nothing less than impending niche overdose. How many of the world's movers and shakers are stupid enough to be driven around in a machine that instantly identifies its occupants as suitable candidates for kidnapping or assassination? The Maybach is a dubiously profitable car that's no less an example of wretched excess than a stretch Lincoln Town Car with a Jacuzzi full of strippers.

When manufacturers indulge in such obvious niche busting, it's usually explained away as "image building". In that sense, Mercedes' SLR makes some kind of sense. It's an SL on steroids, a recognizable extension of an existing Mercedes theme. But the Maybach? There's only one connection with Mercedes' corporate identity, and it ain't pretty: Nazi staff cars. Like the Maybach, they were enormous chariots built to flatter egomaniacal owners, impress gullible underlings, and intimidate everyone. Not to put too fine a point on it, the Maybach is the wrong car at the wrong time, for the wrong people. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that Mercedes built it simply because the head of the world's largest car company wanted one.

As Melanie sang just before the Poseidon went belly up, there's got to be a morning after. I have no doubt manufacturers will return to their core values, once a few of their bold experiments in off-message engineering end up languishing on the showroom floor. On the upside, their niche-busting hangover will soon be your performance or luxury bargain. Have you seen the prices for a used BMW Z8 lately? Exactly. How fast do you reckon a £250,000 (base price) Maybach will depreciate? So sit back, enjoy the show and get ready to exploit corporate niche abuse. Me, I'm keeping my eye on that mid-engined VW W12. Vee-Dub rocks!

Would you buy a Land Rover sports car? What about a Porsche off-roader? Now think carefully. Sure, the Porsche Cayenne will be the worlds fastest and best handling 4X4. So what? The Sultans of Stuttgart will have answered a question no one asked: how do I get a truck to lap the Nurburgring faster than a Nissan Skyline GT-R? Here in the real world, the biggest question vexing MPV drivers is this: what time does Janie's football practice end? Considering the cataclysmic damage these lumbering behemoths inflict on lesser vehicles at a walking pace, the average MPV driver needs less speed, not more. Put Mum in a Porsche off-roader and it's only a matter of time before the entire soccer team is goading her to blow off the jerk in the Merc.

Safety aside (as always), the Cayenne will sell. Plenty of posh Porsche posers will love seeing their Cayenne and Carrera snuggling together in a darkened garage. I find the concept incestuous and redundant. Stick snow tires on a Carrera 4 and you've got a four-passenger car that makes normal sedans seem like Ice Capades rejects. The Cayenne adds elevation to the equation, but it also introduces mass. Drivers will be able to see into next week, but they'll constantly be out-handled by smaller, lighter machines. Still, as a capitalist cheerleader who once owned a TVR, I can hardly begrudge buyers a car they need like they need satellite-controlled headlights that swivel to follow the road. I'm more concerned about the Cayenne's effect on Porsche.

The Cayenne is a sign that Porsche is making too much money: £5385 per car. This phenomenal, seemingly unstoppable success has given Porsche Hitlerian hubris. OK, we've done Europe. Let's invade Russia! OK, we've done sports cars. Let's take on GM, Ford, Chrysler, Land Rover, Mercedes, BMW, Toyota and Mitsubishi! The fact that Porsche can't make enough Boxsters and Carreras to satisfy demand seems to have escaped the notice of their Bored of Directors. Lest they forget, the upcoming, V10-powered GT will put the company toe-to-toe with Ferrari's F60. With the Cayenne, Porsche doesn't blink so much as sneeze. Is this really the same company that agonised for years about making a four-door 928? It's as if they decided to apply their motor sport heritage to designing brief cases. Oh wait, they have.

The process of applying brand values to increasingly disparate products is called brand extension. Like hair extensions, you think you're getting something better. You're not. Mercedes, once proud producer of bank vaults on wheels, slaps its star on downmarket tat. The next thing you know they're making cars so nasty they're called Chryslers. And BMW's product range may lead the casual observer to believe that a carmaker can do it all, but I doubt they've ever tried to corner a Z3 on a greasy roundabout. Mercedes, BMW and Porsche will all learn that extending a brand damages your roots. Sooner or later, they'll all have the economic equivalent of a bad hair day.

A successful carmaker must have Focus. Just ask Ford. All their cars are sold on value for money. Maintaining this single-mindedness imposes natural limits on a brand's potential. Ford will never beat Bentley; value for money is not exactly the luxury car buyer's first concern. Similarly, you'll never see a fifty-acre field filled with pre-registered Bentleys. So what's the point of the Cayenne? It may add a zero Porsche's balance in the short term, but it's an evolutionary dead end. In the 4X4 market, Land Rover owns the high ground, where people still care whether a car can climb a tree (or at least looks as if it can). Ford and Chrysler own the low-road, where middle-class Moms have better things to spend their money on than an off-roader than can hurtle her brood down a highway at 155 miles per hour. The Cayenne will be smack bang in the middle, scrabbling for purchase in a tiny niche, forever fighting off Mercedes' ML and BMW X5.

Meanwhile, carmakers that focus all their efforts on creating machines that go like Hell will continue to thrive. As long as Peter Wheeler shovels massive grunt into lightweight bodies, there will be a TVR hovering around at the bottom of the J D Power survey. As long as Lotus makes cars that corner like roller coasters, TVR will have suitable company on that list. There will always be a hard core of wealthy enthusiasts who believe that driving "off-road" means one thing: they've lost control of their sports car. Every man-hour Porsche spends on the Cayenne—designing, marketing, servicing, etc.— is one man-hour less for maintaining and extending their dominance in the sports car market. In other words, the Cayenne is a waste of time.

At the end of the fiscal year, the best thing a world-class sports car maker like Porsche can make is… wait for it… sports cars! Porsche ignores common sense at its peril. Which reminds me; didn't Lamborghini once build a four-wheel drive thingy? Oh yes, now I remember: the LM02. It was an awesome beast, powered by a 420bhp V12. That was 1986, just before Lamborghini lost their independence. Again.

The new Range Rover is Top Gear's magazine's Car of the Year. Car? I'm sorry, but my definition of a 'car' doesn't include vehicles taller than six feet that weigh nearly two and a half tons. The Range Rover is, according to US environmental and safety regulations, a truck. Truck by name, truck by nature. No amount of ABS, traction control and terrain sensing suspension can alter The Laws of Physics: mountainous mass X V8 acceleration + slippery surface = endless understeer oblivion. As Top Gear's own writer put it, the Range Rover's quest for soft-road world domination will ultimately end 'in a ditch'.

Don't get me wrong; I'm sure the new Range Rover is a damn fine truck. Isn't it? I've yet to pilot the beast, but the few British journos who weren't busy singing 'Land Rover of Hope and Glory' at the truck's launch noticed a few 'glitches'. One version's adjustable air suspension got stuck in mid-air- a problem not unknown to owners of the previous model. One or two reviewers also didn't fail to notice the Ranger's prodigious thirst (12mpg), sloth (0 – 62 in 9.2 seconds) and square-rigged susceptibility to side winds. But hey, what do you expect? It's a truck. A truck that still hasn't released its Euro NCAP crash worthiness rating.

Aside from semantics, build quality, global warming, performance, handling and safety, my biggest problem with Top Gear's selection is that I can't understand their criteria. The magazine avoided the thorny issue of how a Range Rover is superior to a Lamborghini Murcielago (aside from the obvious fact that you can say 'Range Rover' without sounding effeminate) by simply leaving out the bit that explains how they made their choice. Well, TG does say the Range Rover has more 'all round excellence' than the luggage aversive Lambo. OK guys, but what makes the Range Rover more of an all-rounder than a BMW Five Series? The fact that it can drive to places where the rescue service arrives in a Toyota Landcruiser? I don't think so.

It's probably more a case of wishful thinking. TG's post-Empire unconscious must instinctively yearn for an English car that's a world-beater, even if it is a truck. Someone should tell TG that even nostalgia ain't what it used to be. I once took out a small village in a barely controllable, formerly all-conquering Jaguar XK120 (which may have been the car's intention, but not mine). Anyway, like the Royal family oneself, the Range Rover is a murky collection of British and German genetics. Even overlooking its BMW engine, I wonder if TG would have given Ford's latest truck the gong if it had been built in Detroit. Like, say, the similarly inoffensive Cadillac Escalade. Again, methinks not.

TG's editors should take the time to define excellence before they publicly announce it. Otherwise, they open themselves up to charges of misguided patriotism-or worse. (I once saw a vicious pub fight that started over the relative handling merits of a Nova vs. a Saxo. A Black Maria won.) If excellence equals technological innovation, anoraks will remind you that the new Range Rover's monocoque construction and air suspension predate the Defender. If excellence means drop-dead style, only a Multipla owner could deny that Mercedes' new SL is a more elegant evolution of a familiar form. And if excellence means bang for the buck, Scooby Doo, Landie don't.

To be fair, TG did a lot better in the semis. They recognized the Civic Type-R as an engineering masterpiece that costs only slightly more than the VAT on a Ferrari 456. They admitted that the Subaru Impreza Turbo is still the best- if most insect-like- driver's car ever unleashed on English roads. The plastic fantastic Renault Avantine earned a justifiable nod as the boldest new mainstream, um, thing. And who can [be bothered to] argue with their choice of the Nissan Primera as the best 'medium car'? They're all sane, safe choices for Best in Class. Porsche owners may howl with high-octane indignation at TG's conclusion that an Audi TT is better than a 911, but it's hard to share their outrage. After all, they have a 911 with which to console themselves.

I wish TG's final choice had been a little less NHS, and a lot more Pop Idol. A 'chalk or cheese?' people's poll would have been a far more equitable way to select an overall winner from such disparate machines. Perhaps it's a bit much to ask for democracy from a magazine spawned by a TV program on a channel funded by a mandatory tax on people's TV sets. So let's do it ourselves, through that newfangled thing called the Internet! Simply press the comment button below and nominate your own Pistonheads Car of The Year. Don't forget to include your justification. I'll start by nominating the BMW M5. It's the best car in Britain because I bought one. So there.