Features

You're thirsty. You go to the pub. The barman greets you with a nod. You ask for a pint. He nods again, gets a glass, quietly pours. You drink it. That, in supercar terms, is the Porsche 911 turbo: minimum fuss.

But maybe you want more. You get dressed up. You go out to a 'style bar'. You squeeze through the crowds, posing a little, checking out the opposite sex as you go. You attract the barman's attention through the darkness. Over the pounding music you shout your order. The barman looks quizzical.

You shout again. At length he lip-reads, grabs a glass, then a bottle. Spins the bottle behind his back, catching it in the other hand. Pops the cap, pours the fizzing fluid into a glass then adds various supplementaries to it. You pick up your order, someone knocks your elbow and you spill an inch. This is getting a drink the Murciélago way. More effort and more intimidation, but if you're in the mood, a huge degree of extra drama.

Remember all that macho toreador posturing (I'd call it bullshit but it's too bad a pun) that surrounds the name. Murciélago. Even the word is an effort: five syllables I can barely navigate my Anglo-saxon tongue around. It's difficult, dramatic. So's the car, even when static.

Look at the shape: nothing but wheels and engine really. You, the poor driver, are shoved any-old-how into whatever tiny space remains. You open that charmingly potty upwards-hinging door, wriggle over the sill and plop into the deep, hard hammock of a seat. Just getting in is part drama, part farce.

Unable to see back over your shoulders, feet cramped, head chafing on the side rail of the roof, you attempt to get oriented.

The Murciélago bear-hugs you, bends you to its will. And for the LP640 facelift, the design is even more sinister, the nose more angular, the wheel spokes sharp like scimitars, and there are new tail-lamps with reflectors the shape of radioactive hazchem stickers.

The mighty engine, showcased under glass slats, doesn't look like it'll take any prisoners. Even the starter motor makes a slightly scary, grinding whirr, followed by the moment when the V12 roars like a tiger awoken by a jab with a sharp stick.

It's now 6.5-litres, and revs to 8,000 to get the stunning 640bhp. It sounds higher, edgier, more frantic than the deep-chested roar of old, but it's still one of the most sonically bombastic production engines made on this planet. A marvel.