Not that long ago, so many people had Ford Sierras that they formed an army large enough to shape the outcome of general elections. And now? They’re gone. All of them. You’re more likely to see a Model T.

It is the same with all cars. They come. They provide a frisson of excitement for the new owner, they get sold to a minicab driver and when they are so full of hen-night sick that their wheels stop going round properly, they are dismantled and turned into toasters.

The speed at which this process happens is astonishing. In fact, I’ve just worked out that it takes longer to design and engineer a new car than it does for that car to go from being someone’s pride and joy to being the handle on a Morphy Richards kettle.

Just last week I sold my Volvo XC90 because it was getting a bit tired. There was a sense that soon it would start to cost money and that we’d be better off handing that problem onto a minicab driver and getting a shiny new one instead. It was sad to see the old girl go, but hey, within a couple of years, I’ll be drinking some fizzy pop from its rear wing and keeping my vegetables crisp and fresh in what used to be its bonnet.

I think, however, that soon this is going to have to stop. In the good times, it’s all very well replacing your car because it’s got a bit of asthma but when a burly man from Northern Rock is outside with a removals lorry and an eviction notice, people are going to keep their cars for years after the “best before” date has expired.

The question is: how long can you reasonably keep a car before it oxidises, explodes, disintegrates or kills you and everyone within a 30-mile radius? And the answer is: pretty much for ever.

When the trade embargo slammed shut on Cuba in 1962, it became impossible to get spare parts. So if the windscreen wiper motor packed up on your Buick, you couldn’t go to a dealer and get a new one. Nor could you replace the car. You had to fix it as best you could.

They even worked out that when brake fluid became manky and useless, it could be replaced with a concoction made from shampoo, sugar and alcohol. And to invigorate a dead battery, they simply shinned up a telegraph pole and attached it to the overhead power lines. Only some people were killed doing this.

I saw similar feats in Vietnam back in the early 1990s. One chap had cleverly replaced the suspension on his ancient Chevrolet with scaffolding poles. It wasn’t a desperately elegant, or comfortable, solution but it did mean he had a car. Which, as we discovered last week, is infinitely better than the alternative. A stupid motorcycle.

Poverty is the mother of ingenuity . . . unless you were born like me with fists of ham, fingers of butter and a complete inability to fathom how anything that is broken can be repaired. If I’d been living in Cuba in 1962 and my washing machine had broken down, I’d still be wearing the same underpants today.

And if the suspension had collapsed on my 1971 Chevrolet, I would have sat down at the side of the road and wept solidly until communism went away. So I fear the hard times that lie ahead because when my new Volvo starts to make a knocking noise I will have absolutely no clue what is causing it and no chance of making it go away.

The underside of a car to me is a strange and frightening place full of limitless possibilities for ending up with a dire need for a blood transfusion. None of the bolts can be worked loose and even if you do have the muscles of Samson, there is still an overwhelming fear that what you are about to undo will cause the entire car to collapse in such a way that no man will ever be able to put it back together again.

Once I did take the engine in my old Ford Cortina to pieces in a bold but ultimately unrewarding attempt to see how it worked. And I was never able to enjoy the car again because I knew that I’d rebuilt its beating heart and that there had been one important-looking nut and bolt left over when I’d finished.

I dare say many of you are in the same boat. Which means that you will not be able to mend your car in the hard times. So you will have to replace it. And because money is tight, and you’ve already eaten all the family pets, your new car is going to have to be much smaller and much more economical than anything you’ve driven since you were a student.

There are many small cars from which you could choose but most have got “cheapskate” written all over them. No. You’ll be wanting something with a bit of style, a bit of pizzazz. And that will lead you inexorably to the door of the Fiat 500 Abarth, a turbocharged shoe of a thing that looks good, goes extremely quickly and has just as many seats as a Range Rover Vogue.

In many ways, it reminds me of the original Golf GTI. A car you would buy even if you could afford a Maserati Quattroporte. It really is extremely appealing with just the right blend of cuddly cutesiness and naked growling aggression. A sabre-toothed labradoodle, if you will.

It is excellent. But before you sign on the dotted line, I thought it might be a good idea to check out the Fiat’s only real competitor: Renault’s equally tiny Twingo Renaultsport 133.

At first glance, it looks like a normal run-of-the-mill micro-hatchback. The sort of thing your geography teacher might drive. That’s bad. But look again. Note the big wheels, the wider track, the get-out-my-way frontal styling: hints that if it were to get into a fight with Alien and Predator it might just emerge victorious. And you can buy it with the cross of St George painted on the wings, which is eye-catching, if not very French.

Under the bonnet, there’s a 1.6 litre engine that delivers 133bhp to the sole of your right foot. That sounds rather mouth-watering in a car that weighs about the same as a Lotus Elise. And it is. It’ll do 0-60mph in 8.5sec and hit 125mph, and that’s lovely. But the Fiat is considerably faster, and more economical and it produces less carbon dioxide, which the government thinks is relevant in some way to the amount of tax you pay.

That said, with the Fiat expected to cost £13,500 when it goes on sale, the Renault is cheaper to buy. In theory. The list price is £11,550 but if you want any luxuries at all – and you will if you are downsizing from a Range Rover – you’d better break out the Treasury bonds because just about everything is an optional extra. You even have to pay extra if you want it to drive well.

The standard car comes with a relatively soft chassis, which is fine if you want a shopping trolley. But if that’s what you want, why bother with the Twingosport? Why not just go down to Asda one night with some bolt-cutters?

To make the car really fly, you need the £650 Cup chassis, which is lower and firmer. With this, the little Renault is tremendous. Better, in fact, than the Fiat. But the price you pay, apart from the £650, is a ride that would drive you absolutely mad.

It’s hard, then, to recommend the Renault. It’s got clever rear seats that move about and the dashboard is deliciously mad. But then the Fiat is a joyous place to sit as well. And you can buy it with an SS pack that takes it up to 160bhp.

It’s a bit of a one-horse race, if I’m honest. The Renault might be in tune with the times. But the Fiat sings the same song more loudly and better. And, of course, being Italian it’ll have become a household appliance by the time the economy is back to normal. So you can get back to your Range Rover.

THE CLARKSOMETER

Clarkson’s Verdict: I’d rather have a Fiat 500

ENGINE 1598cc, four cylinders

POWER 133bhp @ 6750rpm

TRANSMISSON Five-speed manual

TORQUE 118 lb ft @ 4400rpm

FUEL 40.4mpg (combined cycle)

CO2 165g/km

PERFORMANCE 0-62mph: 8.7sec

TOP SPEED 125mph

PRICE £11,550

TAX BAND D (£145 for 12 months)

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