The Range Rover Sport SVR grabs you by the feels every time, thanks to one brutal addition: it has an exhaust note that sounds like Brian Blessed stepped on a piece of Lego.
It’s this noise, allied to the sheer size of the Range Rover Sport SVR that means driving it is such an emotive experience. The lofty driving position makes me feel as if I’m perched on the very roof of the thing, like I’ve climbed atop my own mobile Everest and proclaimed whatever road I’m on as my own. I wrestle with its heavy steering wheel, feeling as though I’m merely along for the ride. I feel – and this is no exaggeration – as if I’m riding on the back of a particularly ill-tempered T-Rex.
Push the throttle and, sure, the SVR shows a staggering turn of pace – enough to see off many a sports car. But it’s a different party trick that stimulates me. I’m loathe to admit it, but cruising past a group of pedestrians in first or second gear, lifting off the throttle and causing an almighty bang from the exhaust gets me off. Watching pensioners, children and pets jump six feet in the air on the whim of my right foot is a temptation often too great to resist. The SVR, it would seem, makes it all too easy to channel your inner douchebag.