The brochure talks about ‘sporty acceleration’ and a ‘true racing driver experience’, but that’s like calling me slim and handsome. It’s b*ll*cks. This is one of the dreariest cars I’ve ever driven.
The Veloster does none of these things. The styling doesn’t work at all. It’s silly. And because of the split rear screen, you can’t see what’s behind you. Don’t get me started on the doors, either. No, actually, do get me started. What were they thinking of?
But it’s the drive that’s worse, because there is not a single thing that leaps out and holds your attention. The engine is an engine. The gearbox is a gearbox. The steering is electric, but not in a good way, and the touchscreen ‘media centre’ mentioned in the brochure is a radio.
Hyundai has made this car using all of the lessons it’s learned over the years about long warranties and good quality. But what the company doesn’t understand is that when you make a car that’s supposed to be interesting, it needs to be interesting.
It needs to make a sporty noise, or look good, or corner well. It needs to have a feel, a certain unquantifiable something that sets it apart from the herd. An invisible beckoning finger. A come-hither look in its headlights. It needs to feel like it was made by an enthusiast, someone who likes cars, someone who understands the mechanics of James’s sausage. Because, if it doesn’t, what you end up with is a Veloster. An accountant in a clown suit.