Are utilitarian cars the most fun to drive?

Curry hooks and getting two six-footers behind each other. Popular buzzwords in adenoidal practicality tests but definitely not what this exercise is about.

Even though I can confirm 1,260 litres of Discovery boot is more than enough to happily drift a Crazy Cart while moving at 30mph, I’m not here to be a fun sponge. What I’ve brought along are bastions of utilitarianism, intravenous lines to fun and go-anywhere giggles.

See, a truly utilitarian car – one that dispenses with styling flimflam and overwrought luxury in favour of proper function – can be as, if not more, joyous than trying to rip your face off with downforce.

Photography: John Wycherley

This feature was originally published in issue 285 of Top Gear magazine.

But, if you want to take your smiles further afield, the Discovery is what you need. Like the Dacia, it’s magnanimous. Not as ostentatious as a Range Rover, but capable of providing comfort in inhospitable parts of the world while never looking out of place.

Mechanicals designed to cross the Darién Gap provide complete reassurance. Plus, for little ones, the Disco’s capacious cabin is a portal for their imagination to run wild.

Yet, there are some vehicles that can magically warp your age, shrinking you into being a kid again. Things like the Universal-Motor-Gerät, or Unimog to you and me.

It’s a tractor-cum-pickup-cum-sports-lorry. A four-wheeled, ladder-framed mannequin that can be dressed up in all kinds of pragmatic clobber. From firefighters to the Special Forces, for the last 60 years, Merc’s Unimog has been modified in every which way to turn even the most restrained adult into a giddy child. You can even option it to be a train, for pity’s sake.

The proportions alone make you feel infantile. As it’s nearly 10 feet tall, you have to climb hand over hand into the cabin before hopping into the overly sprung seat. It’s a simple cabin, primarily because it can be changed from left- to right-hand drive on a whim. But – most excitingly – has a ball knob steering wheel to wind in and out monstrous amounts of steering lock.

Firing the 286bhp straight-six diesel into life, you worry that it’s not enough grunt to get the goliath rolling. But with the release of the satisfyingly stubby nub of a handbrake, a prod of the accelerator (coughing a hefty black plume out of the vertical stack exhaust), the masses of torque (811lb ft) shunt, hop and jiggle the ’Mog into movement before munching through the gears. All 16 of them.

And, with a wading depth of 1.2 metres, onboard tyre pressurisation and enough ground clearance to avoid any airfield furniture; you can maraud around with utter indestructibility. But that gearing – perfect for scaling some sort of wall or wilderness – is too short for our big, flat circuit, topping out at just over 50mph.

Enter the Ariel Nomad. A bright orange “Honey I Blew Up The Tamiya Truck” for the streets. It’s a concept that might have come from a brain overly lubricated with Somerset cider, but executed so well it tugs at both your head and heart in equal measure.

Practical, it is not. To get into the driver’s seat requires crawling through a lattice. Yet there are so many different ways to do so it simply becomes a climbing frame. This, like the Unimog, rekindles childlike touchpoints of enjoyment. Plus, it drives over the landscape with wanton abandonment just like the toy car you pushed around the kitchen and Euro NCAP tested against the skirting board.

With a supercharged 2.4-litre Honda four-cylinder, it can hang with Mr Marriage’s lightweights. But with Öhlins dampers and different flavours of tyres on offer, you can do that anywhere. But it’s certainly not Baja or bust, as the Nomad behaves hilariously well on track.

With soft suspension, each extremity protrudes and splays out – reaching for grip while providing visual entertainment. However, it’s not wayward. Once you get used to the initial roll, it’s perfectly controllable, and, with plenty of power available, adjustable on the throttle.

Unlike lots of cars that have to be driven at a gazillion miles an hour to evoke emotion, the Nomad differs – especially off-road. In a decision that is simultaneously a brilliant idea and horrendous mistake, I decide to test the Nomad’s off-roadness in the muddy Badlands of Dunsfold. Problem is, they’re waterlogged. With one turn of the wheel, half of Surrey’s claggy, wet and stony base layer is seemingly stuffed into a BF Goodrich musket and fired straight into my face. But I don’t care. My teeth, ears and eyes are full of gloopy brown mud while the plastic seat is brimmed with so much water it may as well be a bidet.

Five minutes later – when happiness normally subsides – I still don’t care. The ability to attack corners, jumps, holes and water splashes taps into driving pleasures rarely seen on tarmac.

I quickly realise the Nomad has so many tasty ingredients all compressed into one object. A great manual gearbox, the ability to skid, perfect pedal weights… the list goes on and on and on.

There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s the most entertaining four-wheeled driving instrument on the planet. It’s an utterly mad gem that moves you in a way other cars simply can’t. But with sludgy sediment cementing my tear ducts shut, I couldn’t cry if I wanted to. But if I could, they would be tears of joy.