You’ll get all this within 300ft. And then you’ll put all your weight into that throttle pedal and your brain will be scrambled. Forget 911 Turbos, GT-Rs or even Enzos, Paganis and the like, the Veyron makes them feel puny, highly-strung and a little bit pathetic. This is performance on a vast, soaring, vomit-inducing scale: instant, relentless, illicit, addictive and genuinely hilarious. Nail one, two, three gears and the way you think about acceleration is changed forever. In fact it crosses your mind that this level of insanity is not just sane, but essential. If mankind can make this thing, isn’t it only fair that we all have a piece of it? That we all become superheroes with one binding superpower: speed.
Oh, there’s a white car in my mirrors. Quite close in my mirrors, actually. Ah, the Lamborghini: a car that usually warrants more attention than Jordan clubbing Kerry Katona to death with the severed head of Peter Andre. Not today, though. Today it’s the support act, the aftershock that has people tripping as if the pavement is crumbling beneath them. Still looks good, the SV. In fact, even when driving a Bugatti the sight of a Murciélago makes you feel slightly jealous. That may seem absurd, but there’s something about the Lambo that speaks to you on a primeval level. Is this what God created on the eighth day?
There’s such ceremony in driving a Murciélago. You approach it and poke your thumb into a little dimple on the top edge of the door, a handle flicks up and you grab it and heave upwards. The door arcs slowly, lethargically. Then you plonk your backside down into the seat, swing your legs under the steering wheel, reach up and grab the chunk of alcantara trim and pull down so hard you’re hoisted out of the seat, just to get the door shut. You’re in the belly of the beast.
It’s dark in here after the tan leather and open roof of the Bugatti. Everything is black, the side glass seems shallow and you feel like you’re at the pointy end of a large arrow, with acres of engine and body stretching out behind you. Everything is a little bit awkward. The seats are hard and uncomfortable and you have to grapple with a four-point harness before you dare twist the key. And once you’re strapped in the SV still feels determined to unsettle you – the seat is angled towards the offset pedals so your left arm has to reach further to grab the wheel than your right. Already you can feel how divergent these two cars really are.
Firing the 6.5-litre V12 seals the deal – a simple turn of the key, a shrill starter, then a cacophonous boom as it clears its throat. The whole car throbs and tingles to the bass of the engine. Flick the long paddle on the right and the e-gear ’box clunks into first and then you shudder away with a hop and a lurch. And with a huge smile on your face. The SV might have just 670PS and do only 341km/h but it feels so special, so bloody exciting. Besides, 670PS is quite a lot, especially when you consider it’s pushing 1565kg and not the 1968kg (dry!) of the Grand Sport. 
We’re in Al Khor, a bustling fishing port that’s never seen anything like these two. The bosses shout and gesticulate at the others as they swarm around the cars. Clearly, they won’t be going back to work until we leave. So the SV rumbles out ahead of the Bugatti and we continue north. The SV is a notch firmer than the Bugatti, its steering doesn’t seem so clear or detailed and the Veyron’s snorts and sighs are replaced by the thrum of road noise and the hard, frenzied howl of 12 cylinders. There’s no lag to deal with (the Bugatti has little, but it is there when you’re ambling and then call for the big noise) but the engine likes to be running at over 4500rpm before finding its knock-out punch. It’s a peculiarity of the SV’s variable valve timing system and the search for over
01PS -per-litre from a V12 that has its roots in the ’60s. It’s worth the wait, though. This is one mighty engine. A match for the Grand Sport? We’re about to find out.
