Noble M12 GTO 3R. Bit of a mouthful for a heartbreaker - normally they are called Giacomo or Roberto or something sexy. But driving the Noble will break your heart if you are a car lover - you can't buy one as they're out of production. The sound of that hollow, spiteful roar, the slow-rev gurgle and its subtle-as-a-train-crash looks break the hearts of all who recognise it as the very best of British automotive engineering. It makes you a bit of a spiteful brute, too, driving it like you're in the cockpit of a Spitfire.

But most of all, it breaks the hearts of Porsche drivers. Since it is the dream of most young petrolheads one day to own a Porsche, it is also the reluctant duty of the Noble driver to show them the folly of their puny childhood fantasy. I gave a mustard-keen Carrera 4 driver a 60-yard head-start, (I won't say where on the grounds that I might incriminate myself), slipped the snarling beast into second and then ripped past the impudent fool like a hungry cheetah impatient for his first soothing bite of antelope. Then I whacked it in third and waved him bye-bye. I could hear the sobbing from the next exit ramp. I can only assume Porsche drivers have some self-destructive mechanism since it is exclusively them among car drivers who are keen to take the Noble on. Motorbikes do too. The one who undertook me on the A3 was very, very alarmed to see me happily keeping pace with him in his wing mirrors, eventually giving up and pulling over to let me past.

I searched the net quite hard to find some fuel consumption statistics, but gave up after a while, almost ashamed of myself. A voice in my head said, if you drive a car like that why do you give the faintest whiff of a toss how much fuel it uses - surely the more the merrier. All I can tell you is that about 90 miles of motoring cost me £37 to replace. A carbon footprint like Sasquatch had stomped in your barbecue. Stuff the tree-huggers - they've never driven a Noble.

There are some fairly impressive statistics surrounding this stripped-to-the-waist athlete of a motor car though. Like 0-60 in 3.8 seconds and less than ten seconds for 0-100. I tried it. I guarantee you it's great fun just having a go at that. A word of warning though - even for reasonably experienced drivers of performance cars - you'd better pack a change of underwear. It's that quick. In fact, since it has absolutely no luggage space whatsoever - no, not even a glove compartment - that's about all you will be able to pack. Fortunately, the strong smell of fuel, oil and the velocity of in-rushing air will remove the whiff of your involuntary sphincteral salute. It's utterly, joyously, heart-stoppingly insane. Oh, all right then, 352 bhp at 6,200 revs, since you ask.

Just to start this car is a treat. It's like an orchestra going straight to the fat lady and missing out the entire opera on the way. The Ford three-litre, V6 engine fitted with twin turbo chargers gives you a thrill. There is some turbo lag, but hover the rev needle at just below 3,000 rpm, hit the floor with your right foot, and the turbos kick hard - you are grabbed by the crotch of your trousers and propelled as fast as your synapses are able to register it. At this stage - trust me on this - you are not really driving at all, you are just hanging on. Get it into the fourth of six gears (no paddle, just a good old-fashioned stick) in this state and you can play 'scream if you want to go faster' with your own brain.

Other people's reactions to the Noble are fascinating. Women don't seem to register it - you wonder whether you have subconsciously been doing some deep excavation in your nostril from the way they studiously ignore you. Men on the other hand, don't view it as though it were a flash Italian, or a square (though superbly engineered) German motor. No, they have the respect for it that is due to eccentric and completely unnecessary British sports cars, ones designed in a conservatory in Godalming on a flattened-out Alpen box. Ones whose roar makes them stand and nod with a low whistle, double-taking like Sylvester the cat in a budgie breeding shed.

So the question in your minds is - I can tell - how does Steve, square mile's resident dissolute low life - get his hands on a performance sports car. Marque II: that's how. Bless their grooving little socks. Marque II, which is currently extending its membership, is not a supercar club. If it was, I doubt it would be based beneath a railway line in south London. It is a performance car club. It works in the standard way. You pay an annual fee ranging up to £8,000 for full membership (plus a joining fee of £1,000) and in return you get points redeemable against certain cars. The menu and price varies according to what you want to do and when you want to do it. For example, there's a Range Rover Sport, Mini Cooper S (Works model), Ferrari F360 Spider (Italian good-looks but not as quick as the Noble), Audi R8 (again, looks lovely but guess what?), a Mercedes SL 55 AMG but no sign of any Porsches. Hah.

All the cars are valued at under £100K and are not hypercars. Part-owner Graham Beswick explains: "Our members want peace of mind - they want a car when they want one and not when they don't. Also, they don't necessarily want a £350k, 250mph beast that is practically undrivable and totally impractical but they might want a car to look good at Ascot, or do a bit of shopping in the Mini or for a bit of excitement on country roads..."

I give a broad grin. So does he. "Oh, yeah - you took the Noble out, didn't you?"

By Steve McDowell

www.marque2.com 020 7582 2223