This means war. Diplomatic ties have been severed, snap-counts initiated and battle lines drawn. The rules of engagement went out the window faster than a Tesla Plaid hits 60 mph and the Geneva Convention is null and void here.

It’s already no secret we adore a good hot hatch at RUSH, so much so four of us have put our money where our mouth is and purchased one. It all happened within just seven days - compliments quickly descended into jibes about who’d chosen best the moment the final V5 had been signed. John drew first blood by taking aim at Craig. Craig began questioning Kotto’s sanity more frequently than usual. Mark, clearly a student of Sun Tzu, quietly went about his business pulling strings, keeping the spotlight off his new wheels - which was covertly being fettled into rude health. The only thing we could all agree on is this could only be settled on the blacktop.

In what’s fast developing into a RUSH theme, this won’t be a strict comparison group test. There is far too much pride at stake. Each car chosen will have its own unique purpose depending upon its owner and there will likely be modifications to suit. Each owner will pick a discipline which is likely to favour their steed, with an independent adjudicator present each time to tread the minefield of skulduggery and repair broken friendships. Maybe we will crown a winner, or perhaps we’ll just give in to chaos theory and revel in the inevitable curveballs. There is no strict budget, only a desire to find the best drivers’ car and hopefully have some good old fashioned fun along the way. First things first, we’ll all introduce our cars before they meet for the first time in the Scottish Borders in the next issue. Let the games begin.

Craig's hot hatch choice - Renault Clio 200

"Back once again with the Renault-gade master..."

A confession. Since I started this magazine there has been a nagging, but persistent headache occurring within my motoring sphere. An internal argument raging that’s akin to the frog that sits in the pan of water, blissfully unaware that the heat is gradually being cranked up as he’s merrily boiling to death.

My conundrum is I simply don’t enjoy driving as much as I used to. At least on the public road. Where previously it was a carefree pursuit of pleasure that cleared the mind and stoked the adrenaline, presently it’s becoming one of the factors that increases cortisol.

Whether it’s the fret of avaricious ‘safety awareness’ vans, the perpetually surly cyclist or the dash cam vigilante, I’m spending more time worrying about the “what if’s” than getting on with the job at hand. And that’s before we discuss how being a car enthusiast these days is a social faux pas on par with casually dropping a fascist salute at a dinner party populated by Guardian readers. Then there is the high percentage that if you work hard and have the keys to something nice, someone will come along to boost it, and I don’t mean increase the BHP.

The bottom line is this - the amount of time I spend driving vs the expenditure for that one moment feels like less value for money than ever. With house prices spiking faster than I can save and my commute dropping to three miles, suddenly my needs no longer align with the GR Yaris. Yes, track days provide a clear conscience environment, but they are hugely expensive on top of a chunky PCP and after each one, I still come away with a long list of desired modifications.

This is how I found myself at a Cazoo appointment, reluctantly handing over the keys to the GR. It’s not a decision I took lightly - this was meant to be my forever car, my 40th birthday present to myself. It's truly been a fantastic car, and one day I will very likely have another. I’ve covered just shy of 4,000 miles and I’ve made a slim profit of £1,300. Not bad for six months of motoring. The next port of call is Manchester Piccadilly train station and a seven-hour trip to Aberdeen to purchase a 2010 Renaultsport Clio 200 on 70,000 miles. It has the all-important Recaro seats, a recent cambelt change, replaced manifold flexi, refreshed Perfohubs and a new gearbox under warranty at 30,000 miles. It needs some cosmetic love, but it's mechanically on point.

It helps massively that the Clio and I had the chance to bond by taking the long way home through the Cairngorms, allowing me to get stuck straight into the Clio’s dynamics. Sadly it wasn’t quite the epiphany I’d hoped for - the temperature in Aberdeen was a bonnie 2 degrees celsius, so the Clio was wearing its winter set of tyres. They provided admirable traction but appalling lateral grip, and any attempts to enjoy the Old Military Road quickly pushed the nose wide and the tyres out of their comfort zone. It was like having Jelly for treadblocks.

Not to worry, the six-hour slog back home passed without incident, save for the truly woeful headlights and Renault’s obscure positioning of the cruise control next to the handbrake - which I didn't locate until the next day. Now that it’s on some proper rubber (Bridgestone Potenza Sport - 225/45/R17, £301 from National Tyres) and I’ve addressed the perched driving position by fitting a Wheeler Motorsport seat mount - which lowers the Recaro by up to 50mm - it's time to start enjoying the car.

Yes, the dashboard looks like it’s been made from melted down, recycled Coke bottles and the build quality has all the resistance of the Maginot Line, but I couldn’t care less. The 200 feels like freedom. It’s a weight off my shoulders. Holding back on a particularly tasty but dangerous corner on a track day because of the value of the car? No problem. Worrying about where to park the car? History. Fretting over carrying so much speed down a country lane that I might end up on the front page of the Lancashire Evening Telegraph? Evaporated. I’m revelling in the little Clio’s truly exceptional chassis, it's ridiculous front end bite, keen