The X Factor, a brash and shiny show on commercial television, is designed primarily to make Simon Cowell very rich. In essence, a number of wannabe pop stars turn up every week and perform a well known song. Then you, the audience, pay Simon some money by voting on the telephone for which act you like the best. The fate of the two polling the fewest number of votes is then in the hands of the judges, who decide which one must return to a life of serving chips.

It is, of course, extremely uncool to admit that you tune in, but I’m not a cool man, so I love it, especially now the voting public have helped to finally get rid of the Conway Sisters. Oh they could sing a bit and with enough makeup they didn’t look completely like a dead heat in a donkey derby but they had no magic. They were like the Nolans, only a bit fatter.

My favourite is Journey South. These are two brothers, one of whom always walks onto the stage carrying a guitar that doesn’t appear to be plugged in to anything. They’ve been touring clubs and pubs for a decade or so, with no success, which makes you feel sorry for them. Although if they haven’t cracked the nut after such a long time, it could also mean they’re rubbish. Maybe they should plug that guitar in.

I think, though, that the competition will be won by a dustman called Andy. I don’t know why. There’s nothing I can put my finger on. I don’t like the songs he sings and I don’t care much for his suits, either, but there’s something about his face and the way he moves. He has it. He has what the show is looking for. Something Simon Cowell can convert into good hard cash. He has an X factor.

We see this kind of thing with machines, too. When your vacuum cleaner goes wrong, you lob it in the nearest skip, cross only that you’ll have to fork out for another. But when your Aga blows up, the whole family is cast into a state of perpetual mourning.

I wrote a book about this phenomenon recently. I would have called it The X Factor but Simon Cowell would have wanted royalties. So actually it’s called I Know You Got Soul and it charts some of the machines that are rather more than a collection of wires and sheet metal.

It’s easy to explain. If an Airbus were to crash, you’d grieve for the inevitable loss of life. But when Concorde crashed you grieved for the loss of the machine. Why? Concorde was just a few tons of aluminium, like an Airbus. And yet of course it wasn’t like an Airbus at all.

I could go on in this vein for ages, so I will. If I were to lose my Motorola mobile I’d be cross about losing all the numbers in its memory. But if I were to lose my old Nokia I’d go out into the locale and stick reward notices on telegraph poles. How can that be? How can one phone be a phone and another a kitten? It’s the same story with battleships. When I think of the Hood I think of the 1,415 men who drowned when it sank. When I think of the Yamato I spare not even a moment’s thought for the 2,478 who died in the hailstorm of American bombs. I’m bothered only by the destruction of the machine itself.

To sink the biggest battleship ever made the US sent nearly 400 planes and six battleships of their own and, for a while, even that looked like sending a fly swat to knock out an asteroid. Because even after she had been hit with 10 torpedoes and several bombs, the Yamato kept on going at 27 knots. Faster than most modern jet skis. She only sank when she capsized to port and blew up, sending a mushroom cloud 1,000ft into the Pacific sky.

The Japanese have just made a film about her and it’s raised all sorts of questions about whether they should be glorifying a war in which their behaviour was so poor. Pah. The movie’s about the Yamato and I’ll be going. Because this was a ship that had an X factor so enormous you could land the space shuttle on it.

And so, with the scene set, we arrive at the big heavy barn door of Bentley’s new car. It’s called the Continental Flying Spur and, in essence, it’s a four-door version of the Continental GT.

So you get a twin-turbocharged 6 litre W12 engine that develops 14m horsepower and enough torque to drain a lake. This means it has a top speed of 200mph and that makes it the fastest four-door saloon on the market today.

Of course you could argue that the Mercedes S 65 and BMW M5 would be faster were they not electronically limited to 155. True enough, but permit me to let you in on a little secret here.

BMW, Mercedes, and Audi for that matter, limit their cars to 155 because, they say, it would be dangerous and environmentally unsound to let them go any faster. This sounds very noble. But there’s another reason, too. It costs a lot, lot more to make a car with a 200mph top speed than it does to make one that will only ever reach 155.

Take the brakes. If the Flying Spur had been limited to 155 it would only have needed four milk-bottle tops. But because its power is unfettered it is fitted with discs the size of Saturn’s rings. They’re the biggest you’ll find on any production car.

This, then, is not just a car that can reach 200mph. It is also, more importantly, a car that can stop from 200mph, handle the bumps at 200mph and steer at 200mph.

You wouldn’t think so from behind the wheel. The air suspension is adjustable, of course, but in the automatic setting it is sublime, gliding over even the most vicious speed bumps. It’s quiet, too, really quiet. And spacious, and blessed with every conceivable gizmo and toy.

I put two nine-year-old boys in the back and even after an hour they were still completely silent, totally engrossed in the voyage of never ending electronic discovery. Me? I was much more impressed with the chromed ventilation knobs on the dash, each of which felt different. This shows they were put there by hand, not by a robot. I liked that.

There was a lot to like in fact. It accelerates with a force that’s genuinely surprising, it can maintain very high speed without being uncomfortable or unduly noisy and it is exceptional value for money. It looks, feels and goes like a £180,000 car. And yet it’s just £115,000. The same as its two-door brother.

And yet, despite all this, there’s something missing. I thought at first it might be the styling, which just isn’t bonkers enough somehow. And then I thought it might be the volume of Volkswagen equipment that shines through the timbered, handmade veneer.

Yes, you find Ford stuff in an Aston Martin and BMW DNA in a Rolls-Royce but whereas they are bespoke cars with mass market jewellery, the Bentley is the other way around. It feels like a Volkswagen in a posh frock.

That wasn’t it, though. I mean the Volkswagen it feels like is the Phaeton, which is one of my favouritest cars in the world. That, garnished with two turbos, handmade ventilation knobs and enough toys to keep two small boys happy for an hour ought to be, and is, enough. The Flying Spur is an excellent car.

But it lacks sparkle, stardust. It doesn’t make you go “Wow”. It would give a polished, pitch-perfect performance on The X Factor. But for reasons no one could explain, it would be beaten by the creaking old Arnage.

VITAL STATISTICS

Model Bentley Continental Flying Spur
Engine 5998cc W12
Power 552bhp @ 6100rpm
Torque 479 lb ft @ 1600rpm
Transmission Six-speed automatic
Fuel 16mpg (combined cycle)
CO2 423g/km
Acceleration 0-60mph: 4.9sec
Top speed 200mph
Price £115,000
Rating 3/5
Verdict Has everything except a certain something

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