Tiny city boi with 1.0 TSI heart, pretending it's a GTI. Matrix LEDs so it looks smarter than it drives. 85 kW of pure "I'll get there eventually," but at least it's comfy af.

Diesel warrior from '06, comfy enough for a road trip, cranky enough to make you respect it. Runs on stubbornness, soot, and questionable wiring — but somehow still gets the job done.

Corporate diesel daddy. Drives smoother than your excuses, sips fuel like fine wine, and never misses a meeting. Always on time, always judging your car choices.

Three cylinders, zero mercy. Doesn't go fast, doesn't die either. Makes weird noises but always gets you home — eventually.

Owned by vibes only. Has zero horsepower but infinite flex. Zero maintenance required.

Tiny chaos gremlin with a death rattle. Thinks she’s a rally car, sounds like a blender full of bolts, and somehow still starts every morning out of pure spite. The definition of “held together by vibes and zip ties.”

Tiny turbo French menace with more attitude than power. Lives off boost, caffeine, and denial. It’s small, loud, and occasionally violent — but you’ll still defend it with your life.

Hot hatch royalty with a DSG diploma. It’s refined enough to drop your mom at the airport but still spits flames when you tell it to behave. A front-wheel-drive lunatic in a business suit.

Corporate cruiser turned anxiety simulator. Built for motorway dominance, but now spends more time flashing warning lights than doing actual driving. Smells faintly of despair and diesel fumes.

Family car? Technically. In practice, it’s a turbocharged ballistic missile disguised as a grocery getter. Makes 250+ hp, sounds like thunder, and probably scares small children at every traffic light.

The last of the true M cars. Naturally aspirated V8, revs to the moon, and financially ruins anyone brave enough to daily it. Every cold start was a gamble, every drive a religious experience. Sold — but never forgotten.

Once a luxury sedan, now remembered as the loudest resignation letter in automotive history. 6.2 liters of handcrafted fury, wrapped in E-Class respectability. It’s gone, but the smell of burnt rubber and 98 octane still lingers.

Tiny Italian legend with 34 hp of pure stubbornness. Slow enough to enjoy life and chaotic enough to make every drive an adventure.

Nature’s loudest apology. 52 screaming hamsters strapped to a tin lunchbox, powered by fear and bad decisions. It doesn’t go fast, but it goes… eventually. Every drive feels like an achievement and a cry for help at the same time.

Pure performance. Zero emissions. Infinite leg day. Handles like a dream until the sidewalk ends. The only vehicle that’s faster when you’re late for dinner.