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Clarkson Reviews the Z4 M Coupe
A funny read from Jeremy Clarkson on BMWs newest M Coupe, and he is not too impressed either.
Jeremy Clarkson: I’ve had more fun in a road digger
Many years ago I was approached by a television executive whose name I can’t remember. Anyway, he’d been to stay with Griff Rhys Jones, or maybe it was Vic Reeves. Or it could have been someone else.
That’s not the snappiest intro of all time, I admit, but stick with me. You see, whoever it was had rented a JCB for the weekend and was so busy moving piles of soil around his garden that he’d refused to come inside for meals or drinks.
“It gave me an idea for a show which I’d like you to host,” said the television exec. “Pro-celebrity digger driving! We could get teams to pick stuff up and put it down again. BBC1 7 o’clock. How about that!” I nodded sagely to show that I was listening, but what I was actually doing was eating the inside of my own mouth to stop myself laughing. And as the pitch unfurled I had to swallow great lumps of flesh to keep my face straight.
No, really. I’d have ended up with Keith Chegwin on one team and some bird from a Flake advert on another, moving mud under the supervision of two fat Irishmen with bum cracks like the San Andreas Fault.
So, having listened for a while, I promised the executive that I’d give the matter some thought, went outside and, despite the pain from two lacerated cheeks, fell to my knees and wept with convulsive, life-threatening hysteria. The sort that you think won’t stop until every blood vessel in both your eyes has burst and you’re blind.
Last week, though, it did stop because I had to rent a digger to clear away a dead seal and now I know exactly why Griff Rhys Jones, or Vic Reeves or whoever it was, had been so captivated. And why pro-celebrity digger driving is undoubtedly the next Big Thing for television.
The best thing about diggers is that, to begin with, they appear so daunting. I have sat on the flight deck of the space shuttle and in the pilot’s seat of the Blackbird SR-71 spy plane, both of which are straightforward compared with the dash of an earth-moving machine. There are so many levers, so many opportunities for making a terrible hash of it.
Viewers would love it; the sense that at any moment Keith Chegwin is going to get his head cut off.
And to make matters worse, the Volvo I rented sits on two tank-type tracks that are tiny. It therefore looks like an elephant balancing on one leg. There’s a feeling that if you go down any sort of gradient, or load the bucket with anything heavier than a pillow, it will topple over.
And when you’re inside, getting to grips with what does what, you really do feel like you’re attempting keyhole surgery while riding a unicycle.
To begin with things went badly. With a cry of “Watch this”, which is the international precursor to all big disasters, I swung the bucket through a 180-degree arc, straight into the shin of my 10-year-old son. The impact was so enormous he actually flew for a greater distance than was achieved by Orville and Wilbur Wright.
Plainly the digger was more powerful than its small and ungainly dimensions would have onlookers believe. And so it turned out.
My initial plan was to fill in a pond of stagnant water. With spades and elbow grease this would have taken a couple of men eight hours. The digger had it done in 20 minutes.
So then I thought I’d level an awkward piece of garden. This was done in half an hour. And I was left with a pile of mud that needed to be moved.
I cannot fully explain the joy of picking up a full shovel load of soil and then, by teasing the levers this way and that, swinging it to the chosen dump spot without spilling a single pebble. It sends a shiver down my spine just thinking about it. You might say that the earth really did move.
What I loved most of all, though, was that after just a few minutes, and a few accidents involving your children (or Keith Chegwin), you quickly get the hang of it. Of course you do. It’s designed for road workers to use, and mostly they’re not that bright.
And to keep the adrenaline flowing, you never lose the sense that it’s always on the verge of falling over, crushing whatever part of your body has flopped out of the window. Two or three times it lurched alarmingly, causing my head to smash into various nuts and bolts that poke from the bodywork. Plainly, Volvo’s obsession with safety in its cars does not extend to its plant.
However, you soon learn to predict when these lurches might happen and how you might use the hydraulics to keep you upright. I became so fascinated by the process that after I’d moved all the soil I picked it all up and put it somewhere else. Lunch passed. Supper passed. Night fell and I was still out there, playing landscape chess with a semi-tamed, desperately unstable wild animal.
I urge you with all of my heart to rent a digger. And to spend a weekend picking up your entire garden and putting it back again.
Sadly, I’m unable to be quite so enthusiastic about the limited edition BMW Z4 M coupé — a hard-top, hardcore version of the Z4 M convertible. The idea’s good enough. I reviewed the soft-top car a few weeks ago and thought it quite comfy, more a rival for the Jaguar XK than a Honda Fireblade. So the notion of beefing up the suspension and adding a roof to create a stiff road-going racer — yes, that sounds grand.
Hmmm. The first problem is that its back end appears to have been styled by someone who wasn’t concentrating. The old Z3 M coupé was deliberately ugly, like the bastard son of Gérard Depardieu and a bread van, whereas this new one’s just plain, like a supermarket checkout girl.
The second, bigger problem is one of expectation. It’s a long-nosed, short-tailed, two seater in the mould of, say, the old Austin Healey. You know it’s been stiffened up and you know it has the engine from an M3. You can see the fat tyres and the four exhaust pipes, and as you sit there gripping the almost absurdly thick rimmed steering wheel, you are expecting greatness.
And it doesn’t come. Drive it normally, on reasonably smooth roads, and it feels like a normal Z4 M, only with a hard roof and an ugly backside. And you can’t see why you might want to spend nearly £42,000 on such a thing.
Then you find the sort of twisting, bumpy back road that the Ramblers’ Association would like to see governed with a 3mph speed limit and you think: “Yes. Here we go.”
But it won’t. Oh sure, the engine’s a masterpiece but the traction control light flickers constantly, suggesting that the suspension is so stiff the rear wheels are actually airborne half the time. So it lurches and pitches and is generally pretty horrid. Couple this to brakes that are too sharp, a clutch that requires practice and a steering system that’s been toughened up — but not enough — and you’re left with something rather underwhelming.
It’s probably the first disappointing BMW M car I’ve ever driven.
If you want this sort of car, the Porsche Gayman is an obvious rival. It goes harder but is deeply embarrassing to be seen in. So what I’d do is buy the soft-top Z4 M instead. Or if you want something really fun for the weekend, buy a digger.
Vital statistics
Model BMW Z4 M coupé
Engine 3246cc, six cylinders
Power 343bhp @ 7900rpm
Torque 269 lb ft @ 4900rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual
Fuel 23.3mpg
CO2 292g/km
Acceleration 0-62mph: 5sec
Top speed 155mph (limited)
Price £41,285
Rating 2/5
Verdict Unheard of — a BMW that disappoints
Jeremy Clarkson: I’ve had more fun in a road digger
Many years ago I was approached by a television executive whose name I can’t remember. Anyway, he’d been to stay with Griff Rhys Jones, or maybe it was Vic Reeves. Or it could have been someone else.
That’s not the snappiest intro of all time, I admit, but stick with me. You see, whoever it was had rented a JCB for the weekend and was so busy moving piles of soil around his garden that he’d refused to come inside for meals or drinks.
“It gave me an idea for a show which I’d like you to host,” said the television exec. “Pro-celebrity digger driving! We could get teams to pick stuff up and put it down again. BBC1 7 o’clock. How about that!” I nodded sagely to show that I was listening, but what I was actually doing was eating the inside of my own mouth to stop myself laughing. And as the pitch unfurled I had to swallow great lumps of flesh to keep my face straight.
No, really. I’d have ended up with Keith Chegwin on one team and some bird from a Flake advert on another, moving mud under the supervision of two fat Irishmen with bum cracks like the San Andreas Fault.
So, having listened for a while, I promised the executive that I’d give the matter some thought, went outside and, despite the pain from two lacerated cheeks, fell to my knees and wept with convulsive, life-threatening hysteria. The sort that you think won’t stop until every blood vessel in both your eyes has burst and you’re blind.
Last week, though, it did stop because I had to rent a digger to clear away a dead seal and now I know exactly why Griff Rhys Jones, or Vic Reeves or whoever it was, had been so captivated. And why pro-celebrity digger driving is undoubtedly the next Big Thing for television.
The best thing about diggers is that, to begin with, they appear so daunting. I have sat on the flight deck of the space shuttle and in the pilot’s seat of the Blackbird SR-71 spy plane, both of which are straightforward compared with the dash of an earth-moving machine. There are so many levers, so many opportunities for making a terrible hash of it.
Viewers would love it; the sense that at any moment Keith Chegwin is going to get his head cut off.
And to make matters worse, the Volvo I rented sits on two tank-type tracks that are tiny. It therefore looks like an elephant balancing on one leg. There’s a feeling that if you go down any sort of gradient, or load the bucket with anything heavier than a pillow, it will topple over.
And when you’re inside, getting to grips with what does what, you really do feel like you’re attempting keyhole surgery while riding a unicycle.
To begin with things went badly. With a cry of “Watch this”, which is the international precursor to all big disasters, I swung the bucket through a 180-degree arc, straight into the shin of my 10-year-old son. The impact was so enormous he actually flew for a greater distance than was achieved by Orville and Wilbur Wright.
Plainly the digger was more powerful than its small and ungainly dimensions would have onlookers believe. And so it turned out.
My initial plan was to fill in a pond of stagnant water. With spades and elbow grease this would have taken a couple of men eight hours. The digger had it done in 20 minutes.
So then I thought I’d level an awkward piece of garden. This was done in half an hour. And I was left with a pile of mud that needed to be moved.
I cannot fully explain the joy of picking up a full shovel load of soil and then, by teasing the levers this way and that, swinging it to the chosen dump spot without spilling a single pebble. It sends a shiver down my spine just thinking about it. You might say that the earth really did move.
What I loved most of all, though, was that after just a few minutes, and a few accidents involving your children (or Keith Chegwin), you quickly get the hang of it. Of course you do. It’s designed for road workers to use, and mostly they’re not that bright.
And to keep the adrenaline flowing, you never lose the sense that it’s always on the verge of falling over, crushing whatever part of your body has flopped out of the window. Two or three times it lurched alarmingly, causing my head to smash into various nuts and bolts that poke from the bodywork. Plainly, Volvo’s obsession with safety in its cars does not extend to its plant.
However, you soon learn to predict when these lurches might happen and how you might use the hydraulics to keep you upright. I became so fascinated by the process that after I’d moved all the soil I picked it all up and put it somewhere else. Lunch passed. Supper passed. Night fell and I was still out there, playing landscape chess with a semi-tamed, desperately unstable wild animal.
I urge you with all of my heart to rent a digger. And to spend a weekend picking up your entire garden and putting it back again.
Sadly, I’m unable to be quite so enthusiastic about the limited edition BMW Z4 M coupé — a hard-top, hardcore version of the Z4 M convertible. The idea’s good enough. I reviewed the soft-top car a few weeks ago and thought it quite comfy, more a rival for the Jaguar XK than a Honda Fireblade. So the notion of beefing up the suspension and adding a roof to create a stiff road-going racer — yes, that sounds grand.
Hmmm. The first problem is that its back end appears to have been styled by someone who wasn’t concentrating. The old Z3 M coupé was deliberately ugly, like the bastard son of Gérard Depardieu and a bread van, whereas this new one’s just plain, like a supermarket checkout girl.
The second, bigger problem is one of expectation. It’s a long-nosed, short-tailed, two seater in the mould of, say, the old Austin Healey. You know it’s been stiffened up and you know it has the engine from an M3. You can see the fat tyres and the four exhaust pipes, and as you sit there gripping the almost absurdly thick rimmed steering wheel, you are expecting greatness.
And it doesn’t come. Drive it normally, on reasonably smooth roads, and it feels like a normal Z4 M, only with a hard roof and an ugly backside. And you can’t see why you might want to spend nearly £42,000 on such a thing.
Then you find the sort of twisting, bumpy back road that the Ramblers’ Association would like to see governed with a 3mph speed limit and you think: “Yes. Here we go.”
But it won’t. Oh sure, the engine’s a masterpiece but the traction control light flickers constantly, suggesting that the suspension is so stiff the rear wheels are actually airborne half the time. So it lurches and pitches and is generally pretty horrid. Couple this to brakes that are too sharp, a clutch that requires practice and a steering system that’s been toughened up — but not enough — and you’re left with something rather underwhelming.
It’s probably the first disappointing BMW M car I’ve ever driven.
If you want this sort of car, the Porsche Gayman is an obvious rival. It goes harder but is deeply embarrassing to be seen in. So what I’d do is buy the soft-top Z4 M instead. Or if you want something really fun for the weekend, buy a digger.
Vital statistics
Model BMW Z4 M coupé
Engine 3246cc, six cylinders
Power 343bhp @ 7900rpm
Torque 269 lb ft @ 4900rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual
Fuel 23.3mpg
CO2 292g/km
Acceleration 0-62mph: 5sec
Top speed 155mph (limited)
Price £41,285
Rating 2/5
Verdict Unheard of — a BMW that disappoints
As I read that I could hear clarksons voice in my head.
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