Every stratum of our lives generates its own prejudices, not least the motor car. Envy obviously plays a big role here, along with preconceived ideas that we may have about owners of any given car. I too am guilty - if that’s the right word - of this. The object of my automotive sectarianism is the Nissan Micra or, specifically, its driver.

When the last of the abysmal Mini Metros died to forever rust in peace, the old shape Micra proffered itself to all present and future imbeciles of the wheel - the myopic and thoughtless driver that somehow avoids accidents yet sees hundreds.

BMW owners/drivers have been getting it in the neck since Margaret Thatcher gave birth to yuppies, red braces and hair gel. Unfairly, many continue to vilify the Bavarian marque to this day, unless of course their ire is now aimed at Audi, the brand that for many has taken over BMW’s unwanted reputation. I subscribe to neither of these intolerances, but that’s the whole point of prejudice. It grabs us all in different ways.

And talking of Audis, I have spent the last few weeks irritating fellow road users in a brace of their coupé-bodied cars.

The A7 is another example of Audi’s skill at slotting into niche markets. It’s essentially an A8 with a sloping "sportback". Given its underpinnings it’s a big hector that manages to look almost as good as the once revolutionary Mercedes-Benz CLS. I drove the 3.0 TDi Quattro, which given all its extra fruit rocketed the price from £49K to £75K. This is what happens if you need just about everything from the spec sheet. It’s a luxobarge and the aforementioned diesel lump is as quick as the equivalent petrol and considerably cheaper to run.

The A5 is an A4 that has also been given the hacksaw treatment. It comes with a huge range of engines and, of course, potentially wallet-busting extras. Mine was without doubt the one to bring out the eco-beast in many - the 444bhp 4.2 V8, limited to, erm, 175mph. Quattro 4WD, of course. This thing eats asphalt and excretes flames.

The standard A5 is a lesson in artful design and cool understatement. Not only the cognocenti will spot the squat straining-at-the-leash menace of the RS. Step inside, wrap yourself into the huggy-snuggy race seats, fire it up and hear what God sounds like when he clears his throat. This is Porsche 911 territory, just a very different delivery.

Who was it that said the Germans lack a sense of humour?

Ceramics discs anybody? Seven thousand of your English pounds...yeah, need those for my hot laps at Silverstone.