What is it?
The first and best thing to know about the Mercedes-AMG GT is that the UK at least seems big enough to accommodate it. Its predecessor, the SLS, a car which the GT still resembles from some angles, couldn’t be parked in this country without haemorrhaging bodywork in the space. We ran one as a long-termer, and when dirty, it resembled a great rusting hulk moored to the corner of some forgotten dock.
From the same distance, it’s readily apparent that no one would leave the GT in the corner of anything. Those rear haunches may be lifted wholesale from a 911, but the savagely pretty, low, lean and mean huskiness is all Mercedes. In the snapper’s words, “It couldn’t be made to look bad." Not in the past 10 years has the three-pointed star been plastered to something so overtly testosteronic; from the back the badge looks like it’s been tattooed onto a bouncer’s neck.
What's it like?
Like the best European muscle cars posing as two-seaters, the GT comes prewrapped in an unmistakable aura of big money and ozone-high desirability.
That effect solidifies inside where the designers, apparently unbounded by compromise, have swept a chin-high grandstand of a spectacle-dashboard around the driver.
The centre console is something else: a virtual rampart, wider than a cavity wall and shot-bar sleek, its expanse is festooned with buttons and dials - one each for all the typical dynamic functions, and practically every one as superfluous as Batman’s nipples because Mercedes’ usual shortcut of C, S, S+ and Race is also present and, on the road at least, you’ll spend 95% of your time in either of the first two settings.
But that hardly matters. While an adult might acknowledge the hackneyed ergonomics - including the under-elbow placement of the gear lever- the child inside would have to be stone cold for you not to rejoice at the assertive, Fantasia-style flair of it all.
Nowhere is the unapologetic swagger more in evidence than in the guttural waffle being emitted from the rear. Given the nature of the turbocharged V8, it’s hard to believe that the air-disturbing gurgle of a Normandy landing craft is its organic state - yet this too is difficult to care about when the pitch goes supersonic from a quarter-mile away.