In the whole of human history it has been impossible to buy a Lamborghini unless you are Rod Stewart. They’ve always been just too silly, strutting around in their leopardskin underpants asking all and sundry if we thought they were sexy.

The company began making industrial heaters but quickly the proprietor realised that this was a waste of his name. If you’re called Stan Arkwright you can make industrial heaters, but if you are called Ferruccio Lamborghini you need to start making cars with guns on them, for Rod Stewart.

As cars go they were pretty hopeless. The Miura took off if you asked it to go faster than 80, and the Countach was as wieldy as a meat locker. The clutch was set in concrete, the steering wheel was nailed to the dash, and the air-conditioning had all the vim and vigour of an arthritic punkawallah.

But there’s no getting away from the fact that it went grrrrrr a lot, and looked spectacular. Did we think it was sexy? As a car, no. But as a poster on a wall it rang rings round even that tennis girl scratching her bottom.

Porsche would sell you a precision instrument. A powerful cutting tool with zero flex and the unbreakability of carbon-granite.

Lambo, on the other hand, just painted its cars orange and fitted doors that opened upwards.

After the Countach went away we got the Diablo, which could get from 0 to 60 . . . once. And then you’d be covered in a thin film of what used to be the clutch. And after the Diablo came the Murciélago which, so far as I can tell, was designed specifically to appear at parties, backwards, in a cloud of tyre smoke shouting “Mine’s a tequila”.

But then, one sad day a few years ago, Lamborghini was bought by Audi.

All of a sudden the Lambo boys were coming to work with plans to make a car that had space rockets and torpedo tubes only to find their fierce new headmaster was saying: “No boys. No more flying before you can walk. You can’t fit gamma-ray rear lights until you’ve made the clutch work properly.”

The result was the Gallardo. The One Cal Lambo Lite. It looked like a Lamborghini with all the mad bits sanded off. But it went like no Lamborghini before. Because it actually went, even when it was raining.

Plainly the fierce new headmaster was pleased with their efforts because now he’s let his boys go a bit mad again, cutting the Gallardo’s roof off, squeezing a bit more power from the engine, and fitting orange seats. And I won’t beat about the bush. It’s my new favourite supercar.

Of course, there are several mistakes. The spoiler, for instance, rises from the tail when your speed climbs past 80mph. And unlike any other car with this feature there’s no override button. So if it’s up it’s a case of: “Hey, everyone, look at me. I’m speeding.”

There’s more. If you push the seat all the way back the leather rubs against the firewall and squeaks. And while it comes with the same central command unit that you find in an Audi A8, half the features aren’t available. Like a phone, for instance. Or iPod connectivity.

Then there’s the speed. Or rather the lack of it. Yes, you get a 5 litre V10 engine that produces 520bhp and 400 carbon dioxides, but even so, if you have the roof down the top speed’s a yawn-making 190. What’s more, despite the four-wheel-drive system it could only get round the Top Gear test track in 1.25.7. That’s three seconds slower than the old Ferrari 360 CS.

Partly this is down to the extra weight of the Spyder — it’s a bit of a porker — but mostly I blame the Pirelli tyres. They are stunningly good for the first two or three hard laps but afterwards — and I’ve noticed this on Astons and Ferraris as well — they lose their bite completely. And you end up in something with the handling characteristics of a Hillman Avenger.

You’re probably better off with the Bridgestones. Which don’t bother giving you much grip in the first place.

So why, you may be wondering, am I so fond of a squeaky car with no phone, no iPod connection, too much body fat, tyres that last less than three minutes, and the real world performance of a BMW Z4? I’ll tell you why. Because it’s got orange seats. And because it is so pretty. And because when you go above 3500rpm it makes a noise like a punctured sumo wrestler. And because you sit so far forwards, which makes it feel like you’re on the nose of some giant, snarling power-crazed animal.

But you’re not. You look at the pictures and you imagine it’s another whopping great supercar with hips like Marilyn Monroe. But actually it’s tiny, as near as makes no difference the same length as a Ford Focus.

Better still, it comes with a device for raising the nose when you get to a speed bump, and air-conditioning that actually works, and the roof’s electric, and after a little while you find yourself thinking crikey, it’s a supercar without the superstar tantrums. I could use this every day.

And then if you’re not very careful you’ll find yourself in the Lamborghini showroom deciding what colour goes best with those orange seats, and laughing at the price list. £400 for a “journey pack”. Which turns out to be a cupholder. Ho, ho, ho.

I couldn’t believe it. I am not Rod Stewart. I don’t wear leopardskin pants. And yet there I was wondering if I should have the “comfort pack”, which is soft suspension. Yes, probably, so long as there’s no way a passer-by could tell.

Some of you at this point will think I’ve gone mad. And that if I want a mid-engined supercar I should go for the Ferrari 430, which is faster and much better. True, but Ferrari these days are just a bit too up themselves for my liking.

I don’t like the way Jean Todt sits on the pit wall every other weekend looking like his dog just died. I want to shake him and say: “Look man, you’re running the Ferrari race team. Lighten up. Go and set a fire extinguisher off in Ron Dennis’s trousers or something.”

And I don’t like the way they won’t allow their cars to be featured in the Gran Turismo racing game. And did you notice how, at the end of the Pixar film Cars, a Ferrari appears flanked by two Maserati Quattroportes.

You just know that this was a scene dreamt up not in Hollywood but in the legal headquarters of Fiat SpA. “Si. You can use our image and our likeness, and we grant permission for Meester Schumacher to have a speaking part, but if you do not feature some Maseratis as well it would break our hearts — and your legs.”

Frankly, the producers should have used a Gallardo, because you get the impression no one at Lamborghini would have noticed. They’d have been round the back of the bike sheds, smoking and wondering if their next car could have breasts.

Ferraris are serious cars for serious people who drive around wearing a serious expression. The Gallardo can do serious, too. It has Audi electrics and Audi engineering. But as you career towards the next bend on a wave of extraordinary sound, half blinded by your own upholstery, you’ll be making the noise of a howler monkey and wishing you were naked.

Let me put it this way. I took the Gallardo backstage at a recent Who gig and it looked right, sitting there among the rock stars and the roadies. It looked as right, in fact, as a Ferrari looks on a windswept track day in Cheshire.

For the first time ever, then, you can buy a Lamborghini. And I think I might.

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