Leaving Las Vegas in an Aston Martin Rapide S

We began our quite-literally epic test of Aston's newest take on the four-door Rapide in Las Vegas and quickly came to the conclusion that Sin City is not Aston Martin country. Where the Aston feels confidently 21st-century traditional, crafted from an ingot of pure, timeless brand identity, Vegas is a turbocharged anomaly that spurts up through the red Nevada desert like a septic neon fountain. It abuses decorum and attacks restraint until your sense of taste becomes sore and tattered from constant attack. Inside, the Aston is a leathery microclimate of calm, a bubble of warmly aristocratic serenity.

Outside, Vegas on a weekend is like being trapped inside MTV, saturation set to maximum, eye-watering contrast and volume plus. Doesn't stop people liking it, though: there are proper crowds, the sidewalks thick and crushed with flows of polyester-clad humanity, a fleshy rip tide so rich in man-made fibre that if someone could only make them move in specific directions and harness the static, Vegas might be able to power its own lights.