I can remember exactly one other time when I was snowed under an even bigger avalanche of white-hot fury than I was over the past week. After my column suggesting certain things about South Africa’s funny men. It wasn’t pretty. One oke even called me a “coconut fuck”. That one was refreshingly poisonous – people put so little effort into their insults these days.

Which is all very well. However, I must warn the few readers who complained that I’m too angry. “You’re not living the vibe, bru”, and all that. Well chaps, if you don’t mind ducking out at this point – this is another indulgently furious column. I’m sure Seth has kindly put some tits up on the home page for the mellower of us to enjoy.

Every person’s first car must be utterly terrible and must visit all manner of misfortunes and financially painful incidents. This is the way of things. How life should be. I wouldn’t go as far as saying that “thus sayeth the Lord”, because they finished that particular book some 1500 years before Gottlieb Daimler’s horseless carriages.

This is the reason why rich young people who are given a BMW 1 Series as their first car by their fawning parents turn out to be a bit odd later on. They didn’t have to suffer with their first car, which would have infused them with much-needed respect for the automobile and life in general.

I’m happy then to say that my first car is utterly woeful.

Um, I should explain at this point that I never intended to own a VW Tenaciti. Despite what I’ve said about muscle cars, I am also a fan of well-made, basic, underpowered hatchbacks (I never promised not to be conflicted and complicated). I love proper city run-arounds. Which is why I wanted a Suzuki Swift, possibly the best little hatchback since Herr Cooper turned Deutsch. I even test drove the 1.5 VVT version, which I found to be tight, compact, self-assured and fun on the road. Aside from the rather unflattering dashboard, it was the perfect car.

But then I decided I was too poor to get it, and went for the Tenaciti instead. They say that you get what you pay for, and by the uncircumcised johnson of Jesse James, my car is crap.

It isn’t the distinct lack of response whenever I tap on the accelerator or brake pedals that shocked me – I expected that. It’s a bloody 1.4, with a paltry 73 horses in the engine. Nor was it the harsh shape. I’ve seen thousands of these beasts on the road and I knew that I was buying a complete minger.

No, what offends me is this car’s clutch and gearbox. The clutch is vague and anaemic; the gearbox struggles to make out the difference between first and third. You have no idea how many times I’ve been in traffic, changing angrily from second to third, only to feel the gears slide lazily back into second with a disappointing crunch. It’s an agonising sound and the only way I can prevent it from happening is to hold the gear knob in third for a few seconds, gingerly disengage the clutch and then exhale out my stomach very gently. Also, the gearbox only begrudgingly moves into fifth gear when I’m rattling along on the M1 and need to overtake a truck. It is all very trying on my nerves.

It’s no wonder Volkswagen discontinued these misery wagons.

I bought mine second-hand from a VW dealership up there in the northern wilds of Bryanston. When I first got it, it smelled of industrial-grade carpet cleaner and resentment. I was eventually forced to strategically deploy a refill packet of fabric softener under the driver’s seat to counter the truly obnoxious pong in the car. Now it smells like someone drowned a freshly-washed baby in a vat of potassium hydroxide and fag ends. The smell, at least to my troubled nostrils, remains deeply unpleasant.

The only condolence that I take away from my white, effete piece of German engineering laziness is that at least it isn’t a VW Beetle. Or an Opel Corsa Lite. Or a Chevy Spark. Or, shudder, a Fiat Uno.