As a rule, I don't much care for abroad. But it does have its moments...

Baby-blue day, deserted colour-sergeant-straight road, and a twin turbocharged V12 good for 500bhp at 5,000rpm and 590lb ft of torque at 3,600rpm muttering gently in the bows. Out with the stopwatch, then.

Stamp on the throttle as if bursting an errant party balloon and, to the briefest protest of hapless rodents trampled under massive, 285/35 R18 rear rubber, the assault on the senses begins. Inner ear and eyes only, mind: absent with leave is the outraged bellow of the roadster's AMG-honed 55 counterpart; a mellifluous thrum overlaid with a patina of sotto voce profanities the only aural accompaniment as the SL steps off the line like an anvil dropped off a parapet. 60mph comes up in around 4.5 seconds. More impressively, 100 in a whisker over 8.0. Oh... Sorry... Sounds like a job application for the Autocar Road Test Department.

It's just days this rapid don't come along all that often, and usually involve helming something with a name ending in 'i' to a backing track of passers-by suggesting you are a solo practitioner of the priapic arts.

Happily, the SL is far more discreet than most Italian exotica, the rib-caged bonnet and front wing vents the only overt boast of performance potential on display. Further-more, unless a Power Ranger's backpack is your particular bag, nor does lifting the bonnet ruffle the ocular feathers overmuch.

Beneath that artfully folding roof, all is standard Stuttgart fare; almost entirely A Good Thing, with the possible exception of air-conditioning temperature dials that feel a mite flimsy and an instrument binnacle that isn't as pleasing or clear as dials of yore. Unusually for a Mercedes, the SL comes fully loaded with all imaginable toys fitted as standard, and something called 'ruffled leather' (call yourself leather...).

The driving position is excellent and, being hewn from the traditional lump of solid hyperbole, the bodyshell seems to suffer no loss of stiffness whatsoever with the roof removed. Active Body Control keeps the car flat no matter how mercilessly you mash the contents of the picnic hamper. Whilst turning off the traction control doesn't dismiss the regiment of electronic nannies entirely, so even the clumsy can have fun without bothering the bodyshop. The fly-by-wire brakes, though lacking ultimate finesse, are superb.

On the downside, I don't like the fiddly operation of the manual override or the Touchshift buttons on the back of the steering wheel spokes and, though accurate and weighty, the steering itself is somewhat inert.

No matter, this is a fabulous, hilariously fast motorcar which cannot fail to appeal to anyone with taste, discrimination and 90 grand to spare. So that's David Beckham out of the frame, for starters.

Anthony ffrench-Constant



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