WestfieldSeight. The name and number of the new beast.

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Bearing in mind our inclement weather systems, yet perfectly tempered by the fact that we're a nation of borderline eccentrics with maniacal tendencies, loons with baggier trousers that a circus full of clowns in high season, it shouldn't really surprise you to discover that the open top sportster is nearly always up there with Joely Richardson as the one thing we'd all like to see in close proximity to our festive sacks come the 25 th day of December. It's a love affair us British have that flouts the inherent convention instilled upon our tender minds from an early age. One that states 'thou shalt not purchase something as foolhardy as a jalopy without adequate overhead cover', the gospel according to the wisdoms of our fathers. Who chose to sing from a different hymn book in their youth too. Hypocrites.

The market continues to be awash with the genre today, everyone is slicing the roof off the otherwise bland, turning it instantly into something not quite as bland - all the major manufacturers are at it. But then there's one in this country who's never stopped. Building proper British sports cars. Minus something to stop the rain dampening your bald spot.

Which leads us nicely to the sanctuary of the 'best of breed' so to speak. The only canine metaphor to be used in conjunction with the Westfield Seight. As quintessentially English as Chubby Brown on the end of Blackpool Prom and just about as offensive on the eardrums courtesy of a colossus of a V8 lurking menacingly beneath the highly buffed exterior bonnet space, and when I say bonnet space, I mean just that. Spanning 2 postal districts and requiring a garage space akin to many of us northerners entire living quarters if oozes intent. This indeed bodes well for those of us already of inane grins bordering on the circumference of the 'Joker' in Batman movies, who appreciate the need for speed. However, there is speed, and then there's raucous, nauseating and urgent speed, never better illustrated than by this piece of kit. A mode of transportation that would be safer on a drag strip complete with an industrial size parachute to stop it in its tracks. This beast of a sports car consumes at the black twisty stuff that welcomingly interferes with our crop-rotation system like no other, leaving only simmering exhaust fumes at its now vacant table. If you've never been behind the wheel of something like this road-going missile, then it would be nothing less than a culture shock if you ever did. For starter, you don't so much get into the cockpit as opposed to fall in. the doors are made of paper-thin fabric, no place here for cumbersome entrance portals in a car that tips the scales no more so than a doughnut. The structure combines the low of a space frame construction with independent wishbones and adjustable shocks at each corner. With regards to actual road-holding the Westfield effortlessly competes with so called super cars. The chassis is wonderfully adjustable on the throttle, with the added, and very much signposted possibility of tail sliding, if the devil gets the better of you. If like me, you enjoy pushing your motor to the limits you won't be disappointed with the infinite definitions of pleasure you'll get from sampling the Seight.

The engine is right at the very heart of all that's good and proper about this screamer, turning a quick, nimble sports car into a fully-fledged and paid up member of the lunatic brigade. Awesome isn't a word I use often, mainly because I have difficulty finding things worthy of its contextual application, yet for once I can't be accused of over-acting as a 0-60 time of 4.3 seconds would surely make anyone with a pulse sit up and take note. And then warrant your immediate return to the place where your bowels were last seen. A lump of 200bhp strapped into a 15 year olds G.C.S.E design and technology project isn't in everyone's best interests, and something which in turn produces it at 2600 revs might be considered plain obscene to many of inhibition, but, that's what the clock stated, and I'll go with that great British romance. Arguably though, the most important part of any combustion engined dart's makeup, is the noise quotient. At idle, a strange turn of phrase considering that this is anything but, the v8 block throbs and vibrates the scared highway beneath. Under feverish acceleration the engine comes into its own, in as much as it holds you captive, and heralds its rakish intent by screeching like a banshee enduring 'that time of month' when revving beyond the 5000rpm mark. The noise and movement thrown into the equation at this juncture is lurid. Absurd even.

Now TVR may have borrowed this engine, but its note is something of a murmur when compared to the Seight, making me suggest that they should have perhaps employed a more impressive manifold and system to unleash its potential through. The controls in the dash are what best can be described as functional, if not a tad Spartan in aesthetical appeal. Yet who really gives a monkeys when you have that much blistering pace under your right foot. The gear change is both direct and close-ratio. This isn't necessarily important as it's the weight at the front that powers the wheels at your rear which is the aspect to be applauded most. I can't imagine any owner would ever tire of the noise and pure adrenaline surge that the Seight affords the amply rewarded incumbent, so the underlying fact that it's not as comfortable as a Toyota Corolla or as protective as a Volvo V70 doesn't matter one iota. And if it does, you're reading the wrong article. This is, as if a reminder is ever needed, just why the English love their true sports cars. And the Westfield remains, as always, at the pinnacle of that affection.

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