I have never driven a Porsche so slowly in my life. Of course, it was broken. Please note: it wasn't the company's fault. When the nice man from Porsche handed me the key to the Cayenne S, the box fresh SUV looked more than ready to show the world that the Sultans of Stuttgart can build a damn fast, fine-handling truck.

At first, the aesthetically challenged Cayenne S motored down the Spanish pavement with reasonable aplomb. That said, the coil spring suspension reminded me of a tightly sprung trampoline. But hey, not even the Germans can tie down an SUV to the point where it can blast around corners, without falling over or ploughing straight ahead, while providing Jaguar ride quality. The best thing that can be said about the Cayenne S' on-road comfort is that the BMW X5 4.6 Sport is a lot worse.

My last review of a Porsche was more of a love letter than a critique. For that, I make no apologies. The warp speed 911 Turbo is the best thing to come out of Germany since apple strudel. However, in the interests of perceived objectivity, I will resist the urge to shower the 'new' Boxster S with praise. Suffice it to say, the Boxster S is one of the finest driver's cars in the world, at any price.

Kirk Stingle, my favourite Porsche salesman, describes the 911 as the 'Swiss Army knife of sports cars'. It can cruise, thrash, potter, pose, park and ferry in all weathers, with equal aplomb. Get jiggy with the options list, and you'll enjoy all the latest luxury car toys and creature comforts. At the end of the financial year, a fully specced, top-of-the-range 911 is still cheaper than an 'entry level' Ferrari. Other than a winning lottery ticket, what more could you want?

Power. And so, on the seventh day, the zealots of Zuffenhausen created the 911 Turbo. And on the eighth day, they created the Power Pack. These factory enhancements increase the engine's peak output from a not inconsiderable 420bhp, to a monumental 450bhp. The zero to sixty time sinks to 3.79 seconds. Porsche calls the extra oomph an 'option', but c'mon, you know it isn't. Put it this way…

When you fire-up the Audi RS6, its twin-turbo V8 engine produces the perfectly modulated burble of a modern day muscle car. Then something odd happens. A low whine fills the cabin, quickly and steadily ascending in pitch. It's the same noise you hear in a jet before the engines start, as the Auxiliary Power Unit spools up.

In reality, the RS6' air conditioning pump creates the whine. Or does it? If you so much as breathe on the go pedal, the RS6 accelerates with all the seamless, relentless resolve of a jet fighter. Give the accelerator a hard shove, and the afterburners kick in. The RS6 shifts down a cog, growls in the time-honoured V8 tradition, and blasts forwards like a Tomcat off an aircraft carrier.

Pity the German companies who make their living 'tuning' mainstream motors. All the big German manufacturers (save Porsche) now have their own in-house performance divisions. Audi has its S, BMW has its M, Volkswagen has its R, and Mercedes has its AMG. Your local dealer will sell you an extra hot version of any basic model, complete with warranty and a choice of body mods. It's hard to see what an independent tuner can bring to the party.

Case in point: the Mercedes Benz AMG SL55. Why would anyone would want more muscle in a car that pumps out a colossal 500bhp @ 6100rpms? The SL55's V8 Kompressor also generates an epic 516lb.ft. of torque at 2650 – 4500rpms. In other words, Mercedes' uber-SL is fully capable of hurling its occupants from any speed, to any speed, without hesitation, deviation or repetition. In fact, the svelte-looking SL55 is one of those rare machines that can turn forward thrust into physical pain.

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.

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.

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.

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.

There's an absurd scene in Goldeneye, where agent 007 races a hottie through the winding roads above Monte Carlo. Bond is behind the wheel of a DB5. The girl is driving a Ferrari 355. Guess who wins? Preposterous. That said, if you're not the type of person to take an informed view on the relative merits of Aston's straight six vs. Ferrari's 32-valve 8-cylinder power plant, or the handling implications of conventional vs. electronically damped suspension, the scene made perfect sense. Handsome Bond in beautiful car duels beautiful girl in gorgeous car. That's more than enough information for the average moviegoer.

Encountering a fully restored DB5 39-years after its screen debut (in Goldfinger) it's easy to understand the filmmakers' choice. The Aston still looks fast enough to take on a Ferrari – any Ferrari. Although Touring of Milan sculpted the shape, the DB5 is nothing like the delicately proportioned Ferraris and Maseratis of its day. Examined in detail, the Aston appears to be an automotive farrago, combining a 'smiling bulldog' front grille, muscle car front air scoop, mini-Cadillac tapered wings and Volvo-esque rear window. Taken as a whole, it's the automotive equivalent of a Saville Row suit: butch, yet infinitely elegant. Like Bond himself, the DB5's design somehow manages to combine infinite sophistication with unbridled aggression.

You're a braver man than I, Jeremy Clarkson. There I was, sitting behind the wheel of your 'Car of the Century', shitting myself. Henry Pearman, the man responsible for the Eagle E-Type Sport, was urging me on. 'I've seen this car beat a Porsche 'round a race track,' he hinted. Yes Henry, but I know how to drive a Porsche. I challenge an average driver to cane this E-Type. Even below the legal limit, the car was all over the place. I felt like a novice skier barrelling down a black run. Towards a tree. Without airbags. Or a crumple zone. Sorry, Henry. Sorry, Jeremy. I guess I'm not man enough for your machine.

It's a shame. The E-Type is the most visually stunning car ever made. Allegedly. Forty-one years after its Geneva debut, the nose-heavy styling still stirs debate. Some consider the Series One E-Type Roadster a timeless classic, blending feminine curves with sporting intent. Others see it as the original 'sports car as phallic symbol', embodying the embarrassing hyper-sexuality of a severe mid-life crisis. Love it or mock it, you can't ignore it. Jaguar's first E-Type still has enormous presence, and perfectly judged detailing. From wire wheels to aircraft style toggle switches to the clearly labelled 'cigar' lighter, you wouldn't want to change a thing.

Driving a go-kart is something of an acquired taste. You sit on a dinner tray, a few inches off the ground. You get a steering wheel, an engine, four tiny tyres, rudimentary suspension and… that's it. At speed, the forces of acceleration, de-acceleration and lateral G's are unfiltered, and vicious. Nannies have been jailed for shaking babies less violently. But if you love to drive, a go-kart unleashes a flood of adrenalin-crazed endorphins that makes it hurt so good. After haring around in a go-kart, driving a 'normal' car feels like, um, nothing.

I'm sorry, did I say go-kart? I meant to say 'Lotus Elise'. Read the above paragraph again, substituting the word 'Elise' for 'go-kart'. The differences between the two are both obvious and unimportant: size, doors, roof, gearbox and top end. The similarities are startling. Ride height low enough to scare a limbo dancer. A tiny engine with a narrow but brutally effective power band. Steering and suspension so direct you wonder where the machine ends and your nervous system begins. Put it all together, and you've got a road car that you can drive like a go-kart, using your entire body to aim the machine with zero-delay, laser-guided precision.

As I lowered myself into the new BMW 7-Series' micro-perforated, climate-controlled, buttock massaging passenger seat, I noticed that my diminutive driver seemed a bit, well, lethargic. He had the half-lidded laid-back look of the seriously pampered. Not what you'd expect from a professional race driver about to hurl 1945kg's of somebody else's luxury car around a racetrack. One chicane later and I shared his complacency. The new 7-Series can be driven at maximum velocity with no more drama than an episode of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. Which is to say none at all, then a bit, then not at all. Hell, you could phone it in.

Or perhaps not. That depends on whether or not you know how to remove the sim card from your mobile phone. To use the 7's on-board telephony, you have to extract your sim card, open the phone drawer, take out a tiny plastic holder, fit your sim card into the holder and insert the holder into a small slot. Then, and only then, you can you use BMW's detachable 'portable' phone, or the new iDrive controller, or wheel-mounted buttons, or a separate (and miniscule) keypad, to phone a friend. I don't think the police would call the process 'hands free'.