One Vs One: how a 3,295-piece model slowly drove a man insane

Well this should be fun. Before me sits a 1:8 scale model of the AMG One, boxed up and waiting for its 3,295 individual pieces to be assembled in what I’m absolutely certain will be the epitome of one of those ASMR-based YouTube channels: relaxation, mental agility, tingles. Spread delicately over the course of a few evenings. I foresee no problems.

Before we get started, it is not Lego. No, this is the work of CaDA, a Chinese firm that has enlisted the help of designer Bruno Jenson (whom the internet informs me is renowned for this sort of stuff) to bring the AMG One to life under licence from Mercedes. So this is a legit… thing. Whether or not it’s worthy of the £230.09 (yes, and nine pence) price tag, we’re about to find out.

I’ve unboxed the boxes. Everything’s numbered for different stages of the build. Handy.

And don’t the wheels look like a sick speaker. Now there’s another Mercedes money-spinner… #MercMerch

Quick scan of the instructions. No words, just diagrams. Looks simple enough. Apart from the remote control bumf, which is all in Chinese. I’ll Google it.

I spoke too soon. For the life of me I can’t make heads nor tails of page one. Why is the top panel worthy of a sad face and the bottom one a happy one? Is Mr not-a-Lego-man just pleased to have more long holey bits? After a good 20 minutes – terrified of making a mistake at the first opportunity – I realise it just means the instructions… are to scale. I am an idiot.

Having never done one of these big builds before I dive straight in, and it only takes a few pages to discover that this is a mistake. Each panel displays which pieces you’ll need for that specific instruction. Cue several minutes of scratching around hunting for the right bits. Like a big jigsaw without the edge pieces set aside. This is an inefficient use of time. I must organise. I am very clearly… still an idiot.

Right, I have organised. And used some of the longer bits to stop the smaller bits from jostling around. Now all I have to do is memorise where every little piece sits (and not touch or nudge the box in any way) and I’ll have ripped through Phase One in no time. Easy.

I’m a couple of nights in and peculiar things are going on in my brain. With the rest of the house in bed I have filled the late evening silence by naming the most commonly used parts. Of which there are hundreds. The black connectors are stubbies; the long ones hammers; the short grey ones simply tubes. Yes, the monotony has also robbed me of my imagination.

The rear is coming along nicely. I’ve built the first section of the chassis and on top goes the engine block, some of the driveshaft, suspension arms and brake discs. Pressing in all the fiddly pieces is doing a number on my fingers though.

Look! Working cylinder heads!

Look! Working gearbox! You don’t want to know how many goes it took to align the cogs in that thing.

On go the spring dampers. Deeply satisfying moment.

Right, we’re onto Chapter B. The middle section of the chassis, mostly structural. And then everything gets pressed together.

The floor is mostly made up of rectangular pieces, formed of two L-shaped bits that need an almighty push to get them to click together. Some are easy, some cause actual sweat. I am longing to see the back of them.

On goes the exhaust. It’s only secured loosely, so if I’m not careful how I put the thing down, it falls off. Which happens several times of course. Oops.

Ooh, time for a motor. There are a few in the box and some of them are subtly different to the others. I take great care to make sure I don’t bolt on the wrong one. Prevention is the best form of medicine, etc.

Helpfully, included are some stickers for colour-coding the cables. That’ll make plugging everything into the right holes easier later on.

Coming along nicely. This must be what it’d be like watching Optimus Prime growing as a foetus under the microscope. We’re on course for a Christmas finish.

Oh dear. I’ve set up camp on the kitchen table but little hands are beginning to wander and with each passing hour the owner of them seems to be able to reach a little bit further up. Hmm, a box load of easily swallowable parts within touching distance seems like the kind of thing that will be frowned upon in a social services investigation. Time to relocate.

Right, I am outside. Well inside. But outside. Meanwhile, these instructions are… definitely making no sense in some places. Only every now and again, but just enough to make you doubt the previous four hours’ of work. Phantom parts, diagrams that don’t line up; that sort of thing. I muddle on and hope for the best.

I’ve hit a wall. Big time. There’s a lot of anonymous structural stuff in this section and there’s only so much of a dopamine hit you can get from ‘Oh it’s a segment of the transmission tunnel!’ I think I need a break.

A break has been had. I missed the target of Christmas and it is now… springtime. No matter. It can be a slow burn. Why rush when you can savour the moment?

I have reached a critical juncture. You can choose between two- and four-wheel drive, but once you’ve settled on a path, that’s it. No going back. The sense of pressure is tangible. As the real AMG One is all-wheel drive, I go for that. Gotta be as accurate as possible, right?

Bodywork, we are beginning to see bodywork. On go the diffuser fairings at the back, followed by the makings of the grille and front apron. For the first time I start to believe that I’m building An Actual AMG, and not the intestines of Sir Killalot from Robot Wars.

In goes the battery. It’s a single block with ports for the cables joining it up to the lights and motors. Trouble is, it’s going to be right in the bowels of the thing. Good for lowering the centre of gravity, but how on earth are you meant to reach the On button?

Spring has become summer. Progress has slowed to a crawl. The longer evenings free up more time for a segment here, and page or two there. But it’s pointed out to me that a novelty jigsaw puzzle might not be the best way to spend the few months of useful daylight hours that we actually get over the course of the year. I concur, but promise myself that if I ever finish this thing, I’m going full Andy Defresne in The Shawshank Redemption. No matter what the neighbours think.

Ooh, interior time. The steering assembly and dashboard require a surprising amount of effort. And the wheel itself needs brain surgeon levels of precision. But once the screens go on, it’s starting to look the part in here.

We’ve got lights. Not AMG One lights, but you can’t expect them to be an exact replica can you?

The rear’s looking pretty sharp as well.

Definitely looking more car-like…

Go on then, cheeky look at the underbelly.

Fiddlesticks. I get to a bit of assembly that needs a proper shove to get it to sit properly, but my hand slips and a jut of plastic takes off a few layers of skin off my finger (image redacted on grounds of taste and decency). Ouch! First aid kit to the rescue. After much colourful language, I realise that the blame lies entirely with me. So I resolve to file a lawsuit against myself and move on.

I’m growing more and more concerned with the number of spares piling up the deeper I get into the project. Are they actually spares, or just pieces that I’ve missed from the build? There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the leftovers… maybe I shouldn’t think about it too much. No, I definitely won't think about it too much (proceeds to have sleepless nights).

I’VE MISSED A PAGE. YOU NUMPTY, JOE, THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU TOLD YOURSELF YOU MUSTN'T DO. Argh. In all seriousness I’d been warned about the dangers of having to backtrack: some poor souls have lost days to have to retrace their steps. But luckily there’s a simple fix, and the missing piece on the bonnet slides in with some jiggling. Thank heavens.

Update on the instructions: a friend just so happens to run a Lego-based website and his office (and loft and garage and house) is filled to the rafters with these things. Apparently it’s unheard of for Lego instructions to be iffy in the slightest. Which may be why they charge that much more. Having said that, he says CaDA is definitely no copycat brand, with designs aplenty of its own making. Reassuring intel.

Sheesh, this wiring… there’s more cabling than you strictly need and there’s not much space to stuff it all in. Say what you like about the AMG One, but it doesn’t have wires poking out from every orifice.

Oh heck. I’ve brought the model inside to do a bit of work on the sofa, and I’ve only gone and dropped a tiny but crucial piece down the cushions. Off comes the model, the tray for all the pieces and everything else that just happened to be on the sofa at the time. Obviously that escapee made it all the way to the floor. Sigh. At least it’s not gone forever.

These doors are a pain in the backside. There’s a ball joint (imagine a shoulder socket, but, er made of plastic) that connects them to the main body of the model, but it’s almost impossible to actually push them together. Fingers? No good. Screwdriver? Keeps slipping. What I need is another pair of hands. Sod it, if we’re asking for things lets request the power of telekinesis. Madeline would’ve done this in the blink of an eye.

Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger. The model slips off the table and there’s a loud crunch. The news isn’t good: a universal joint has snapped – literally just a nubbin sheared off – and it won’t attach back on. When the motor starts turning, that’s just going to fall off. And there’s no spare in the box. I’m either going to have to order in a replacement, or resign myself to three-wheel drive.

It’s autumn, but we’re nearly there now. There’s light at the end of the tunnel. And obviously I've worn the same jumper this entire time for continuity reasons. After the best part of 12 months. The roof’s done, the tailfin is on; the brakes are the last piece of the puzzle, and of course they’re putting up a fight. They’re not secured very well so when the tyre goes on over the top – which is tricky enough to align in itself – the alloy knocks the brake off. And repeat, and repeat, and…

It’s finished! It’s finally finished! Just in time for Christmas. Albeit the wrong Christmas. And doesn’t it look good? Say what you like about the build, but the finished article looks mightily impressive in the flesh, and there’s detail everywhere you look.

Can’t work out which is my favourite angle. Profile?

Rear three-quarter?

Overhead?

Flat rear?

Head on? (Yes I know the AMG badge is wonky, please can we all agree to just overlook that?)

Time to power it up and see if it works. That means breaking out the remote control, which also needs some assembly. And there I was thinking I was done…

So the lights work. That’s a relief: all that sweating over the wiring was worth it. And the doors! They’re the real highlight, raising and dropping like a pheasant with its plumage. I feel 10 years old again. Certainly makes up for the doors themselves being a bit loose upon the frame.

Oh dear. Looks like this is forever destined to be a centrepiece, not a toy. I engage forward drive and within a car-length (well, one-eighth of a car length) the rear brakes come off and jam the system. As expected. Back in the box they go, where they shall remain until they’re ready to apologise. Ironically, this makes it about as reliable as the real thing. Uncanny really.

As for the car, I need to work out how to screw it to the wall, full hunter’s trophy style. As a reminder of perseverance and also not biting off more than you can chew. It might’ve been a slog at times, but I can look back on it with a mild sense of achievement. And the wisdom to never, ever contemplate doing one ever again.

“Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”