Lamborghini Aventador. The Italian Nutjob

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It’s entirely new, as well. Not a single component has been carried over from the outgoing Murcielago, who’s V12 could trace its roots back as far as 1963. And Lamborghini’s current fetish for carbonfibre means the Aventador is made using a CF monocoque, meaning it’s extremely rigid and there’s F1-style pushrod suspension, too. No Lamborghini in history has been this advanced. And then there’s the engine: twelve cylinders in vee formation is a given, as is four-wheel drive, but there’s no fewer than 700 horsepower waiting, with pent-up frustration, to be liberated. So we do what you would do, given half the chance. We take it to the open roads that nestle within the jagged mountains surrounding Hatta, so we can see just how bad-ass this bad boy really is.

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The urban crawl is a pain because the Aventador is always trying to break free of its constraints. The clutchless, seven-speed manual tranny feels jerky and recalcitrant at low speeds and the entire car feels extremely heavy and cumbersome. But once we’re clear of the moronic masses, this thoroughbred monster takes our preconceptions and smashes them into a million dusty fragments. Getting onto an arrow-straight stretch of road that’s free of cameras, cars and camels, with seemingly endless visibility, we select Sport mode, knock it into second, flatten the loud pedal and hope we remembered to pack a spare pair of shorts.

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The revs shoot for the sky, the soundtrack becomes an opera of epic violence, filling the cabin with a deafening roar, like it’s a lion that’s just slammed a drawer shut on his danglies. The LED speedo piles on numbers so rapidly it isn’t worth looking at, as each upshift results in a vicious thump in the back before the Aventador tears toward the horizon. Can’t see anything through the rear window because the spoiler has long since raised itself to keep the car’s huge bottom planted on the road and what’s ahead has become a total blur.

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Fortunately, even at speeds that threaten to cause our licence to spontaneously combust, the Lambo feels totally keyed in to the hot tarmac and is sending information aplenty through our palms and buttocks, which are firmly clenched as you might imagine. But then, when the fun seems like it might never end, we hit a bend and the sheer physical mass of this mentalist cannot be disguised. We know the power is being put down through all four tyres but it’s not enough to give us the confidence to keep the throttle nailed. Lifting off the gas, just a tad, causes weight to shift and pulses to sharply rise. Suddenly it feels nervous, jittery and quite deadly. We need to lie down for a bit.