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Straight out of the gate and I've stalled the Apollo because it has a clutch that's as progressive as someone snatching their hand from a Bunsen burner.

I fumble for the start button among the shotgun-blast of toggle switches on the dash, before firing the Audi 4.2 V8 back up and piling on the revs to pull away.

With all the bare carbon and utility-biased functionality, I'm thinking Group C racer crossed with Le Mans prototype - and the full FIA crash structure that caused me to scrape both hips on the way in is not dissuading me from that notion.

We make it to second before the traffic lights, one short and firm pull on the sequential 'box. The clutch, it turns out, isn't so bad on the move.

Actually, no. Stalled it. Again. I now have to three-point turn at a normal road junction because the Apollo has the elbow-to-elbow lock of an arthritic ex-tennis pro, and at every change of direction I stall at least once.

Reverse is push lever to position 'A' and depress button 'C' while dealing with psycho clutch and trying to remember which way to push the gearlever. It's not easy. The traffic is building up, the car is heating up and I'm close to getting up and leaving.

The front spoiler is much longer than the nose of the car and about two fingers off the deck, and I really, really don't want to beach this £190k supercar on the kerb outside the showroom.