Shh… I know the best car in the world
‘The best car in the world’ is a bold statement. All sorts of people claim to know its culmination, with forums across the world alight with unbridled passion and opinion.
And I’m going to upset everyone by telling you that the best car in the world is one you’ve never heard of if you’re from the continent of North America, and if you’re British or European, you either love it or you hate it. You probably hate it. Let’s be honest.
I’ll cut the mild tension building and get to the point. The best car in the world is a Vauxhall Corsa C (2005 facelift) with a 1.2-litre naturally aspirated engine.
I know this because it was my first car, my most reliable car, my favourite car to drive, and the car I’ve owned since before I passed my test almost ten years ago.
The best car in the world is the worst car in the world
Now, in almost every measurable metric, my little Corsa is pretty terrible or, at best, mediocre. For example, I get about 40 mpg (UK; that’s about 33 mpg by the American gallon or 5.9 l/100km). 0–60 takes about 11 seconds. The hydraulic power steering works half the time and struggles a bit the other half. It can seat five if everyone cuddles up, is allergic to anyone over 6’ 3”, and has enough boot cargo space to carry three spanners and some washer fluid. When it was new, it had about 80 horsepower, and I suspect it’s about 70 by now — it is almost 20 years old, after all.
I could list off all sorts of other things wrong with it. Water vapour condenses on the clutch when it sits unmoving in a damp location (and it’s England, so it’s always wet). That makes the clutch slip slightly against the flywheel until you get moving and the vapour dissipates.
Once, while driving on the M42 (with no other cars on the road), I turned off the heated rear windscreen, which exploded in a shattering of glass. I later learnt it’s a common fault on Vauxhalls from this period, where the heated windscreen terminal corrodes and the electricity arcs through the glass. Not great.
The steel wheels came with plastic trims. Nothing fancy, but they did help it look less ‘stolen’. The problem I kept running into was that these pieces of plastic kept on coming off. I would arrive at my destination with only three silver wheels and one black one. I used cable ties (zip ties), but that didn’t really work either because I needed to take the wheels off all the time. Eventually, I gave in, and left the wheels as bare steel.
What else? Oh, the heater stopped working to any realistically functional level a few years ago, making all journeys chilly and forcing me to spend ten minutes manually de-icing and wiping away condensation in winter. At every MOT (annual safety test), I have a problem with suspension or bushes on at least one corner.
And to cap it all off, a Corsa — for those of you who don’t know — is traditionally owned by boy racers (18-year-olds who think a car should always be driven at its redline). I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why the vast majority of earlier Corsas are disappearing from the roads, their clutches or head gaskets blown far past the point of no return.
The character of a car you love
Not that impressive, right?
I absolutely agree. Statistically, this car is undoubtedly nothing even close to the average for British roads.
But where it blows the competition out of the water is when it comes to character and my personal relationship with it.
As mentioned, I’ve had this car since the end of 2014, when I first received my provisional driver’s license at the age of 17 (which is the minimum legal age in the UK for learning to drive a car). Since then, it’s been with me through a whole host of situations and circumstances.
First, it’s great fun to drive. Despite the clutch being occasionally (often) slippy when you start moving, it gets into its groove as soon as you get going. I love the weight and the bite height (which is a little higher than usual). The steering is hydraulically assisted instead of electric, meaning you can feel what the wheels are doing much more clearly. The brakes are incredible compared to the larger cars I now drive in Canada. Not the hardware itself, but when installed on a smaller, lighter vehicle, you naturally stop much quicker.
More importantly, I’ve driven that Corsa around the country. It fits through the tightest of gaps that hardly anyone else would make it through, like squeezing past a loaded-up tractor in the Lake District or manoeuvring through traffic at a busy roundabout. I’ve taken it camping (and slept in it with all the seats down), driven across boggy fields, and loaded five fully-grown men into its confined cabin. I’ve made five-minute trips to the shop or school, bombed down the motorways, and weaved through the steep and twisty lanes of Cornwall, Wales, Malvern, the Yorkshire Dales, and the Peak District.
It doesn’t owe me anything. Over nine years of ownership and regular driving (although relatively low mileage), almost all the problems it developed were easy, at-home fixes. In fact, its first-ever costly major surgery in my possession was a new alternator, a job that needed doing in January 2023. Not bad when you consider I’ve had it since November 2014!
(I’m also not counting that replacement rear windscreen that blew up because that was covered by my insurance. Yay.)
In the same period, I’ve had some friends who learnt to drive years after I did and have gone through 15 or more vehicles since. From that perspective, the Corsa is probably the most valuable and cost-effective car in the world, too. Wonders never cease.
To me, this car — and I mean my car, specifically — has so much character. No matter the situation, it’s always ready to go, and it always finds a way to overcome. Stuck in the Malvern Hills with a car full of heavy lads, and the handbrake cable snaps? Make them walk. Priorities. Wiper motor stops working on the A38 during a terrible rainstorm? Get your mate in the passenger seat to lean out the window with a sponge. Need to tow something? Ah, just throw a tow bar on there; it’ll be fine.
It’s not the most capable car in the world, but it’s always ready to have a go. I can visualise patting its steering wheel in delight right now, which I do a lot. “Good car!”
Some ‘good cars’ are washing machines
And that’s really what I’m driving at (ha!) here. The best car in the world is an entirely subjective title. Your ideas will be completely different to mine. Perhaps you think of your first car as the best in your world, too.
My point is that defining what makes a car ‘the best’ goes far, far beyond its statistics, specifications and data. When I come across a vehicle that is technically brilliant but lacks any soul or character, I call them ‘fridges’ or ‘washing machines’: excellent at what they’re supposed to do, but ultimately machines you don’t really care about and would happily switch out for a newer model.
The best car in the world is one that can never be replaced.
My Corsa is almost a mechanical dog to me; that’s honestly how I feel about it. It’s a joy to drive, and I hate letting anyone else get behind its wheel. You could almost say I love it. That’s why it’s the best car in the world.
