What Could Possibly Go Wrong...

It’s certainly cheap… but I can’t find cheerful ^{Skoda Octavia vRS}

I spent a few days up north recently. And, at the risk of provoking howls of protest, I came home wondering if the region’s love affair with value for money might be a bit overrated. In restaurants the waiter would not tell us what the food was, or how it had been cooked, or where the ingredients had come from – only how much it would cost. Up north, people like all they can eat for £2.99.

So let’s take this to its logical conclusion. If I were to open a restaurant serving nothing but horse manure and grass clippings, the prices would be very low indeed. But would people eat there? No. This means that at least some emphasis must be placed on quality. And that’s the problem. Quality costs. So, if dinner looks like it could be cheap, there’s a reason. It’s rubbish.

As I’ve said before, there is no such thing as cheap and cheerful. There is cheap and disgusting. Or expensive and cheerful. There is no third way.

We see this with everything. Near where I live a firm of developers recently built a row of terraced houses. They are for sale now at extremely low prices and there’s a very good reason for this. I watched them being built. So I know they are made from old cardboard boxes and dust. I suspect most of the structural integrity comes from the wallpaper.

In short, there is no such thing as a bargain. Something is cheap because it’s cracked, broken or hideous. If you buy cheap garden furniture, it will rot. If you buy cheap pots and pans, they will melt, and if you buy cheap antiques, you will get home to discover they were made yesterday in Korea.

However, where all of this gets blurry is when you introduce the concept of a badge. A pair of sunglasses made by Scrotum & Goldfish would sell for £14.99. Stick a Prada badge on exactly the same glasses, though, and all of a sudden the decimal point heads east.

This makes me froth with rage. I look sometimes at a T-shirt and I think, That cannot possibly cost more than 40p. But because it has a horse or a fox or some other knowing smudge on the left breast, the shopkeeper is allowed by law to charge me £40. Often I’m consumed by an uncontrollable urge to stab her.

All of which brings me neatly to the door of the swanky Audi A3. It costs more than a Volkswagen Golf and you are going to say, ‘Of course it does – it’s an Audi.’ But, actually, it isn’t. Underneath, it is virtually identical to the Golf. They just have different bodies.

You are paying more just so you can go down to the Harvester and tell your friends you have an Audi. And that in turn brings me on to the Skoda Octavia. That costs less than a Golf and you’re going to nod sagely and say, ‘Well, yes. Stands to reason. It’s a Skoda.’ But it isn’t. Underneath, it is also identical to a Golf.

So why would anyone buy a Golf, or an Audi A3, when they could buy exactly the same car for less? Simple answer: badges make people stupid.

In recent years every single Skoda I’ve ever tested has been enormously impressive. There was the Yeti, as good an all-rounder as I’ve ever driven, and the Roomster, which is a blend of practicality, VW engineering and some wondrous styling details. And there was also the Octavia Scout – a perfect farmer’s car with four-wheel drive, low running costs, a boot big enough for a sheep and a fine ride.

I was therefore very much looking forward to a drive last week in the Octavia vRS, because here we have a large five-door hatchback that costs £20,440. That makes it £5,210 less than the Golf GTI. Even though, at the risk of sounding like a stuck record, they’re the same car.

That means you get a 16-valve turbocharged direct-injection 2-litre engine, which equates to 0 to 62 mph in 7.2 seconds and a top speed of 150 mph. You also get big brakes, lowered suspension and a six-speed gearbox.

Apart from the big wheels, though, the Octavia doesn’t look especially racy. But neither does the Golf. However, it is extremely racy when you put your foot down. There’s an almost diesely clatter to the engine, and a hint of lag, and then you’re off in a blizzard of face ache and rush.

The ride is firm without being alarming, and the handling is neutral. There are no fireworks, just a solid, sure-footed ability to deal with any input even the most sabre-toothed driver cares to make. It put me in mind of the Golf GTI, weirdly. Only it’s bigger and more practical and, as I’ve said, £5,210 less.

Of course, you might imagine that a car made on the wrong side of what used to be the Iron Curtain will not be crafted with the same ruthless zeal as a car made in Germany. Well, sorry, but a robot doesn’t know what territory it’s in. Skodas? Volkswagens? Exactly the same Taiwanese robots help to build the two.

I was feeling particularly pleased with myself at this point, and was very much looking forward to giving yet another Skoda a tip-top review. But then I started to notice a few things.

I thought at first the brakes were a bit sharp but that I’d get used to them. I didn’t. Then I noticed that despite the many buttons, almost no toys – such as rear parking sensors or Bluetooth – are fitted as standard. You get cruise control, which is just about useless in Britain. And that’s more or less it.

Later, in traffic, I tried to rest my arm on the door, but it wasn’t possible because the seat, which is too high up, is mounted right next to the B pillar. Once I’d noticed this, it was hard to think about anything else. I began to feel as though I was sitting in the back.

Then there was a funny noise. And, as with all funny noises, once I’d heard it, I couldn’t think about or hear anything else. I even forgot after a while that I might be in the back. It sounded as if a fly was in its death throes in the air-conditioning system, so I decided to put it out of my misery by turning the fan up full. This made the noise stop. Then I turned it down low and it came back. The fan was broken. So I turned it off. And heard another funny noise. A jangling sound. A rattle. Two faults? In a Volkswagen? Not possible. And I was right.

It turned out to be an empty Red Bull can in the door pocket. A door pocket that I noticed was unlined. What’s the point of that? Door pockets are invariably full of stuff that rattles – coins, keys, lighters and so on. If they are made from hard plastic, the driver will quickly go mad. Buck your ideas up on that one, Skoda.

With all the noises sorted out, I started looking for other things and quickly I found one. The speedometer has no display for 90 mph. It jumps from 80 mph to 100 mph. Does this mean the car cannot do 90 mph? And if so, how does it miss it out? How would such a thing be possible? It’s madness.

The Octavia vRS, then, is the exception to the rule that Skodas are the exception to the rule that everything cheap is rubbish.