There is a great deal in the news these days about the forthcoming election in America, in which an incoherent man with eyes that are suspiciously close together is up against a man with an enormous chin. Why? We aren’t treated to daily updates from the elections in Lesser Micronesia, or Holland, so why are we inundated with every last utterance from these super-buffoons?

A cynic might say that the newspapers and television stations maintain permanent offices in America and need to keep the staff employed with something. A more rational person would explain that this is more than a national election. It’s a plebiscite to decide who becomes leader of the free world.

Okay, well if this is the case: if he really will be my leader, why can’t I have a vote? Why should I leave the choice to a bunch of tobacco-chewing backwoodsmen who aren’t even bright enough to mark the voting papers properly?

I mean it. If the president of the United States really does think he’s the leader of the free world, then the free world should have a say in who gets the job. That’s me, you, every Indian, every Russian, every German. And yes, every Iraqi too. All of us.

But no; our fate is in the hands of a people whose IQ is generally smaller than their waistbands. A people who’ve trawled their 263m citizens and come up with Bush and super-chin as the alternatives. A people whose soldiers wear sunglasses while trying to defuse trouble on the streets of Baghdad. You’re not Jean-Claude Van Damme, you idiots. Take them off. Let them see your eyes. Or are you like the president? Do you only have one?

As a sort of protest about everything, but the sunglasses thing most of all, my wife recently decided to purge everything American from the house.

At first, I suspected this would be a long and painful task that would send us back to the Dark Ages, but do you know what? Most of the electrical equipment is from Japan, or Germany. The furniture is largely Italian or British. And pretty well everything else was made in China.

All I could find that bore the legend “Made in America” was my toothbrush, which makes you wonder what they’re all doing over there, apart from cleaning their teeth.

Computer software seems to be the answer. Because so far as I can tell, my laptop’s brain is just about the only American-made household product that I simply couldn’t do without.

Out in the drive, however, it’s a different story. We have a Ford Focus, which is American, a Volvo XC90, which is American, and next March I will take delivery of a Ford GT, which has a British steering rack, a British gearbox and Italian brakes. But I know I’m fooling myself. That’s American too. And so is the subject of this week’s column. The new Corvette C6.

It’s billed, like all previous Vettes, as a sports car to rival the best from Europe, and I hope you don’t mind if I snigger politely at this point.

America has never really made a sports car, because while we were hanging it out to dry on Welsh moorland roads, or Alpine passes, they were racing between the lights on Telegraph Road. And for that, you don’t need a pin-sharp turn-in. You need muscle.

And that, contrary to what you may have been told, is what the Vette’s always been about: it’s a car so pumped up on steroids, it would be unable to make a drugs test without falling off its motorcycle. It’s a car with arms like Schwarzenegger but a penis like a shrivelled-up little acorn.

I once span an early incarnation of the previous Corvette off the road while charging round the only bend in Arizona. But no ticket was forthcoming from the attending police officer because, in his words, “these things spin so damn easy, you could park one outside a store, and when you came out it’d be facing the other way”.

People were, nevertheless, fooled into thinking the Vette was a sports car because it’s made from plastic in Kentucky, far from the powerhouse muscle pumping station that is Detroit. And what’s more, because it has always been fitted with massive tyres and no discernable suspension, it has always had a surfeit of grip. I think I’m right in saying the late 1980s Vette was the first road car ever to generate 1g in a bend.

But really, the car’s major appeal has always been respectable go from its massive V8 engine, and jaw-dropping looks. The 1960s Stingray is one of the world’s truly ground-breaking pieces of car design. As much of a jaw-dropper as the Lamborghini Countach.

And so we arrive at the C6, expecting more of the same. It’s still plastic. It’s still made in Kentucky. It still has the big V8. And — stop laughing at the back — it still comes with exactly the same sort of suspension that you get on a Silvercross pram. Yup. It has leaf springs, which means it still rides like it’s running on wooden tyres.

Of course, 14th-century suspension has no bearing in the way the car goes. What does have a bearing is the gearbox.

Put your foot down and after a hint of wheelspin — and with tyres the width of a tennis court, it is only a hint — the bruiser launches off the line with what might fairly be termed much gusto. And then, at around 30, everything goes horribly wrong because you have to select second.

There are levers at the National Coal Mining Museum that move with more smoothness than the gearshifter in a C6 Vette. To get second from third, you really need a second elbow.

Happily, you’re distracted from this most of the time by the HUD. I’m not joking. This car has a head-up display, just like you get in an F-16 fighter.

It’s fantastic. Whole bus queues are hidden behind the digital speed read-out, which is going to make for some wonderful insurance claims. “The old lady was behind my rev counter so I never saw here until she’d already bounced over the roof.”

There is lots of other good stuff too. It is very, very fast, it makes a wonderful muted roar when you floor it and even I have to admit that it’s eye-poppingly pretty.

So, you might be thinking, it’s just the same as all the other Vettes. But hang on a minute because it’s 5in shorter than the previous model, and thanks to lots of aluminium under the plastic body, it’s lighter too. Can you believe that? As European cars, which are supposed to be sporty, get heavier and heavier, the car from the Land of the Stomach, is actually losing weight.

In fact, the new Corvette weighs 128kg less than a BMW M3, and this shows. I had a few laps of the Top Gear test track in an example with tyres that had been modelled on Kojak’s head and, whisper this, I loved it. Yes, the gearbox was a serious nuisance and it didn’t have quite the subtlety of a Porsche or a Beemer. It squirmed quite a bit under braking, for instance. But the steering was sharp, the grip was mighty and the speed was always intoxicating.

This gave me a problem when I climbed out and gave the keys back to the man from Chevrolet.

“What did you think?” he asked. “Oh,” I scoffed. “Left-hand drive, vulgar plastic rubbish.”

But actually it isn’t. It is an extremely likeable car and you can easily forget the railway junction gearbox and the jiggly ride and the cigarette-paper quality when you examine the price tag. It’s likely to be about £45,000.

So there we are. The only thing that would stop me buying one is my wife. But since you’re not married to her, I’d go right ahead.

VITAL STATISTICS

Model: Corvette C6 Engine type: V8, 5970cc
Power: 400bhp @ 6000rpm
Torque: 400 lb ft @ 4400rpm
Transmission: Six-speed manual
Fuel economy: 23mpg (combined)
Acceleration: 0-60mph: 4.1sec
Top speed: 180mph
Tyres: (Front) 245/40 ZR18 (Rear) 285/35 ZR19
Price: Chevrolet is expected to import left-hand-drive versions into Britain at around £45,000 but this has yet to be officially confirmed. US price $44,000 (pre-tax)
Verdict: Nineteenth-century gearbox aside, Kentucky can be proud

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