Brilliant Ferrari - but it's a sheep in wolf's clothing. About 20 miles south of Rome, Bridgestone are being very kind to me. At the sort of jaw-droppingly beautiful villa regularly see in terracotta-hued homages to Tuscany such as Stealing Beauty, a man is sawing a pig into pieces for me, another is handing me a lump of cheese large enough to constitute a Speedy Gonzalez food mountain and a third is pouring me a glass of perfectly chilled wine.
And, wait for it, a fourth, the man from Bridgestone itself, is telling me that tomorrow morning I can have a go in a Ferrari 612 Scaglietti.
Well, gee, awfully nice of you. But hold on, I'm no mug, I know the score. There's no such things as a free five-course dinner accompanied by a rather nice Brunello de Montalcino for free. I ain't dumb mister, what's the skinny here? You want the keys to my house? My kidneys? My first-born child?
Actually, they'd like me to say something nice about their new test facility. Is that it? Yes. Really, no children, internal organs? No, just have a look round and see what you think. Top man. Job done. Bridgestone's European test HQ, which, in a title that sounds remarkably like some kind of gladiatorial reality TV show, they call the Ultimate Proving Ground is pretty cool. Now where's that damn Ferrari?
The answer, revealed some hours and less sleep later, is that the 612 is resting comfortably under a large canopy to protect its little head from the sort of Roman morning Bertolucci would paint in colours of tangerine and limoncello, picking out motes of pollen in the sparkling sunshine of a new day in paradise. Me, I just call it bloody hot and I'm feeling a bit gyppy this morning too - must have been that last brick of cheese.
Nevertheless, I'm here for a shufty and a drive so let's get to it. The (lowers voice to movie trailer basso profundo) Ul-ti-mate Puh -roving Grrouuund is a place to test tyres. Fundamentally that's pretty boring and hard to get genuinely excited about. Sure Bridgestone's Run Flat Tyres are pretty cool, the cut-out sections of their big wide Greatec truck tyres are interesting for a nanosecond and the presentations on how the company intends to kick the backsides of every other manufacturer.
But we all know why we're here. If you want people to be do anything about tyres you have to give them a little incentive and we're not talking about a novelty key ring. No, you must promise them something exotic and fruity, like a willing native girl. Doh! I meant a Ferrari.
And there she is, the 612, resting under the tent, being pampered and fed grapes by chaps from Ferrari, who all look a bit glum and serious.
And it's then that the man from Bridgestone explains that well, actually, we, the gentleman of the fourth estate, won't, in fact, ahem, be allowed to drive the Ferrari. Ah flippin' hell. Conned. Duped. Scammed. Flim-flammed. I feel so used, cheap. . . Oh, what the hell, I'll go for a spin anyway. Like, you'd turn down a ride in a quarter of a million euro supercar.
Who's driving? Ah Marco. I'll call him that, having instantly forgotten his name as I approached a car I can only ever dream about owning. Let's face it, at this rate and given Ferrari's nervousness, it's also a car I can only ever dream about driving. And as I scooch myself into the passenger seat of the 612, all hand-stitched tan leather and prancing horses, Marco says "ciao" in the kind of voice that would get him the part of saying Ul-ti-mate Puh-roving Grrrrrooound forever.
Marco's what you expect a Ferrari test driver to be - he's the most Italian man I've ever met. Perfectly coiffed ebony hair, a tan so deep that his face is the perfect companion shade for the interior hide, and so hairy that I feel sure he probably shaves his tongue in the morning.
There's so much testosterone in the air that I feel positively genderless beside him. "Uhh, ciao," I smile. "Nice car." "I no speak so much English," he growls, regarding me with barely disguised contempt through gold-frame aviator sunglasses. "I just drive car."
Bang! He flips the paddle into first and the 612 leaps forward urgently, prowling down the pit exit lane towards the facility's 4km oval track for a bit of a "look how feckin' good I am" tour. And that's exactly what it feels like. Feckin' Good.
I had a drive round in a Nissan 350Z after the Ferarri and while the Nissan was more involving in a lary kind of way and kept you on your toes, the Scaglietti was, it felt, just about near perfect. Powering up to 120mph in the middle of the straight was like being propelled forward by very gentle shove in the back. The increase in momentum was definite and insistent but never violent or out of control. Lurching the car across the straight to test lateral movement from the tyres, its poise was effortless, its balance impeccable, the power sure a swift. And at 140mph into the 37 degree banking, it moved not an inch.
The 612 just sat down and as the compression pushed my stomach low and made my head momentarily light, the car just ploughed on, the speed climbing all the time, never out of shape, nervous or complaining. It seemed and almost perfect match of pace, power, handling and ride. Then why the hell don't I like it?
Why would I never have one? Why do I think it's just not that great? I think it's the price tag. It's a quarter of a million euro or more, though nobody's quite sure cause nobody's tested the VRT on these things yet. A quarter of a million euro. You can buy a house for that. You could have a mint Lamborghini Miura, an Iso Grifo and an Aston Martin DB5 for that amount.
But it's about more than the money. The 612 is crazy. It's outrageous. But it isn't even special inside. Sure the leather's nice but I've seen nice leather on family saloons. It's also got lots of brushed steel, which just looks cheap and a bit naff in a kind of I'm a racing car don't you know way. It's just a bit bland inside.
And out. There it was under the canopy, sitting beside a 575 Maranello and boy did the 612 look plump. The 575 looks like a shark, it's slim, clean, sculpted for efficient destruction. The 612 looks like it's been at the eclairs, whilst watching a furious episode of Antiques Roadshow. It is too wide-hipped, too tall, and has a glandular, pop-eyed look that robs it of any threat or danger. It's a sports car in twin set and pearls. I had always thought the 360 had a little Barbie Sportscar Fun femininity about its plastic lines, but the 612 looks a bit like its maiden aunt. Over-done, over-priced, ostentatious and not particularly pretty, of the two cars, I'd side with the 350Z - cheap, cheerful and simple.