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The AMG E 63s is not really my kind of bag. The more my life advances, the more I become obsessed with two particular types of car: small and simple biffabouts, and mid-engined exotica.
But that’s not such a bad thing, because in the gradual extinction of the car those will be the last two types to go. The likes of the Sandero and the VW Up Exclamation Mark will hang on as the least unacceptable manifestations of the car as a conveyance, and Ferraris and McLarens will be preserved for dedicated driving perverts to use on circuits and perhaps one or two privatised roads, as a pure hobby.
One day, the requirement for simply getting about will be met by something other than the car, and I reckon cars like this AMG will be early casualties of the change. I’ve always hated people who say ‘A car is just something to get you from A to B’, because that’s a bit like me going into an art gallery, looking at a Jackson Pollock, and then saying to the curator , ‘A painting is just a splash of colour to relieve the monotony of a plain white wall’. But the fact is that the AMG is very much a conveyance, as is the escalator at an airport.
It perhaps feels this way because it has so many regular car-type attributes. It seats five and has a big boot. It has reconfigurable suspension and powertrain settings to make it comfortable at certain times, it has predictable luxury appointments, connectivity, and so on. This can make it seem banal and work-a-day next to the glorious pointlessness of, say, the McLaren, or the rank and idiotic incompleteness of, say, an Ariel Atom.
On the other hand, it’s very, very funny. This is the proper bad-assing of a car that exists elsewhere as a humdrum business express with a four-pot 150bhp diesel engine. Now it has over 600 horses, a 0-60 time of 3.4 seconds (it's the quickest-ever AMG), and a top speed, if unlimited, of 186mph. Is this actually allowed? It is.
I find this interesting. There has been, for decades, an ongoing debate about the legality and morality of recreational drugs, but that’s just as well, because while The Man is occupied with all that stuff, he hasn’t noticed that some of us have been getting whacked off our **** on things like AMG. It even sounds a bit Class A. But it’s perfectly legit. For God’s sake, don’t tell anyone.
It’s a bit of a quick fix, this. We’re not talking about the rather esoteric business of deciphering the feedback from a beautifully set-up lightweight sportscar. We’re talking about an E-class Mercedes, but one that goes like an absolute ******* and turns the A to B nonsense into a proper trip. It’s like the difference between a cheese sandwich and one of Laura Nyro’s picnics.
I am reminded – bear with me – of a famous experiment I once read about, in which boffins wired rats' brains to electrodes that could simulate something even more pleasurable than an orgasm, when the rat pressed a button. The rats did this continuously; thousands of times an hour, almost to the point of death.
But I get it, because the E 63s is a similar proposition. You just carpet the pedal and the world goes a bit squiffy. Does it feel good? Yes it does. It’s like being James Brown. Do you do it again? And then again, and again, whenever you can? Yes, you do, and it doesn’t stop being absolutely hilarious.
I’m sorry. I seem to have dismissed Mercedes’ new flagship as rat's ****. But there it is.
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