My Cars: Citroën Saxo

Okay, let’s get a couple of things straight. Not once have I referred to anyone as ‘Bruv’, I don’t spend my evenings loitering in McDonalds’ car parks and my CD collection doesn’t contain a single hard house or drum-and-bass compilation. And so, with that out the way, I feel free to confess a dark secret: I absolutely adore the Citroën Saxo. Its popularity the big stereo brigade may have robbed the car of some of its credibility, but underneath lies a very honest and surprisingly capable little car.

My connection with the Saxo, and W169 OFJ in particular, goes almost as far back as my driving. It was bought for my mum around the time I was learning to drive and when, sometime later, I finally passed my test it became my first 4-wheeled transport. Buzzing round the lanes of Devon, this little Gallic tin box proved an ideal introduction to the basics of car control. Its nimble (and surprisingly tail-happy) handling was a joy to experience. Skinny tyres meant it was possible to indulge in lift-off antics at manageable speeds, while the steering provided a gloriously detailed stream of communication to your fingertips. I’m going to stick my neck out here and claim that this poverty-spec supermini had the best steering, and one of the best overall handling packages, of any front wheel drive car I’ve encountered. This may sound far-fetched, but it does actually make sense.

There’s an old adage that they don’t make ‘em like they used to, and in this case that was probably true. The Saxo felt like a car from another era. The 1.1-litre model belonged to a time before air conditioning, electric windows or multiple airbags (it was also built with all the structural integrity of a cheese and onion crisp, hence crash regulations eventually killed it off, but that’s by-the-by). The end result was that it weighed in at a scarcely credible 790kg (less than a Series 2 Elise). To put that into perspective, many modern superminis weigh a third of a ton more.

The Saxo’s anaemic build meant it didn’t need feedback-zapping power steering. It also meant that the meagre 60bhp engine would punt it along very respectably, despite never producing enough grunt to induce torque steer. Add to that the stiff sidewalls and high-profile of its Michelin Energy tyres and suddenly the Citroën’s dynamics didn’t seem so unlikely. It’s also worth bearing in mind that PSA wasn’t averse to having a little fun back then. Believe it or not, the humble Saxo bore a striking family resemblance to the Peuegot 205 GTi behind the wheel. I do wonder if more of the mighty Pug’s aggressive setup was carried over to the 106 and Saxo than the health and safety people would these days allow.

It wasn’t just a one-trick pony either. Its brilliantly judged damping managed to combine lively handling with a surprisingly supple ride, while the Saxo consistently returned mid 40s to the gallon, seemingly irrespective of how it was driven. True, the cabin was more than a little plasticy and it did feature some rather unusual aesthetic choices, like odd-coloured seatbelts and a bright yellow gear knob, but it was a comfortable and airy place to be. What's more, folding seats and a generous hatch gave it excellent luggage capacity for a small car. It would swallow two mountain bikes (minus wheels) with ease and thought nothing of taking four people and a week’s worth of camping gear.

It wasn’t long before these exploits prompted me to invest in my own car, but that wasn’t the last I would see of the Saxo. Five years later I was looking to change cars at the same time as my mum spied a newer runaround. A deal was struck and ‘OFJ once again came to join me, this time half a decade and 200 miles away from those first steps in the West Country. By that point I’d owned and driven a far wider variety of cars and you know what? It still felt good. In fact, around that time I ended up chatting to a very well known magazine road tester who confided that one of the best drives he’d ever had was spent nipping along coastal roads in Greece behind the wheel of a hired Saxo. That was some statement from a man who drives Astons and Ferraris on a daily basis.

Alas, all good things come to an end. And in the case of ‘OFJ it was quite an abrupt end. On the way to work one morning a driver in one of those 'lardy modern hatchbacks' I spoke of earlier drove into the side of me. There was barely a scratch on the offending Vauxhall, but the twisted remains of the Saxo were about to embark on a one-way trip to the great dealership in the sky. It seems the car’s featherweight build was ultimately to prove its downfall. The fact remains, however, that I walked away unscathed and all those years of use simply wouldn’t have been as much fun in any of its contemporaries.

My cars: Sylva Leader 400

Intoxicating and uncompromsing, the Sylva Leader provided a tantalising taste of extreme sports


My girlfriend has a uniquely feminine way of describing cars. It revolves solely around colour, and it’s usually a hugely incomplete method of description, but in the case of my old Sylva Leader she may have been on to something. If you asked anyone to describe the car - even a bonefide petrolhead - the one word that usually came up was yellow. And it was indeed very, very yellow. And fast - as if Noddy and Big Ears had consumed way too much fairy dust one night and decided to try their hand at street racing with a homemade hotrod.

The Sylva certainly was homemade, and boy did it look it. The kit car industry has produced some staggering designs in recent years, but even in 1987 the Leader wasn’t one of its better offerings. The whole thing looked like a giant, slightly misshapen jelly mould, and yet - with it’s low stance and (yellow) roll bar - also strangely purposeful. This combination of the sublime and the ridiculous found many fans in the vicinity, and it never failed to raise a smile, even with typically disapproving audiences such as old ladies and the local constabulary.

The driving experience was always an event. It took several pumps of the throttle to prime the two huge Delhorto carburettors used to feed its 1800cc Lancia heart, but it was worth it. If you were lucky the push button starter on the left hand side of the dash would overcome the engine’s Latin temperament and it would fire with a delicious bark. Prod the throttle and the big carbs would let out a snort, while the side exit exhaust, barely two feet beneath your right ear, emitted a fiery rasp. To this day it remains the best four cylinder soundtrack I’ve ever heard.


On the road its performance was electric. The 150bhp produced by the Italian twin cam might not sound like much, but, with only 650kg to propel, it equated to around 230bhp/ton, which is 911 turbo territory. The brick-like aerodynamics may have blunted its potency at higher speeds, but this was a bit irrelevant for a speccy four eyes like myself, because at around 60mph (with next to no windscreen) my glasses began to take off. Factor in the lack of doors, a hood of any type, any security or anything remotely resembling a boot and the Leader’s everyday credentials began to look shaky.

As a general rule all Sylvas, and most Leaders included, are very fine handling cars, but some DIY suspension mods carried out by a previous owner had left mine with a few unwanted traits. The rock hard rear suspension made the car skittish to say the least, and loss of traction on bumpy roads was a sudden and frequently violent experience. The direct, but surprisingly numb steering, meanwhile, gave little indication of impending doom through its overly weighty helm. It made any of the TVRs I’ve since driven seem a bit, well, safe, but it was undoubtedly exciting and every journey bore a sense of occasion.

Another idiosyncrasy was the car’s braking system. Not only was it un-servoed, which takes some getting used to in this day and age, but it was well overdue for an overhaul. Even if you could summon the gargantuan force needed to operate the hydraulics I’m not convinced they would have done much good. To compound matters, the previous owners’ home engineering periodically reared its ugly head. One hot day the outer part of the throttle cable melted (later discovered to be a bicycle gear cable run perilously close to the exhaust manifold); only to solidify at the extreme end of its travel. Cue a flurry of screaming revs and wheel spin that sent me snaking down a narrow (but mercifully straight) country lane for a few seconds before I brought the clutch in. And, if experiences like that weren’t enough, an unidentified misfire would routinely kick in at high revs, and on occasions the car would simply fail to start altogether.


So does this mean the Leader was a bad car? Well, no, not in the slightest actually. It wasn’t even a particularly bad example. The body and chassis were pristine (if somewhat yellow), the engine performed spectacularly when niggling faults weren’t hampering it, and a damper change and some new rubber would have gone a long way to sorting out the handling. It was a few weekends work away from being a superb track day toy. Sadly, in truth, it was another car that succumbed to my learning curve. At the time I had no garage to work on it and little in the way of tools or practical experience.

The Leader was also a victim of its own appeal. The experience of blasting down country lanes with the glorious twin cam on full song, the hedges accelerating past your ear and the sheer force pulling you back into the seat was intoxicating. I wanted more, but even in pristine condition the Leader would have been a little extreme. What I needed was a car that could deliver the same hit, but also justify itself with fair weather trips to the office and the occasional weekend away. So I did what any sensible young man would do; I bought a TVR.