The fine art of too much

It's actually far too late for a ride, but for a device like the Defender OCTA, you make an exception. It's the kind of night when the city is so empty that you can almost hear your own euphoria. Although: in the OCTA, you mainly want to hear the V8 (it could be louder), and that's a good thing.

In recent years, we have been told that "less is more". That the centre is the place to be. The OCTA sees things differently. It stands there like a massive sculpture of metaphysical stubbornness and whispers to you as you board: "Forget moderation. We're going all out."

Of course, the Defender OCTA can be measured: Length, width, weight - all there and thoroughly impressive. But the true power of this vehicle lies not in its technical data, but in its charisma. It steadfastly refuses to embody the socially expected mediocrity. It does not transcend physical boundaries, but cultural expectations.

At the wheel, the whole thing feels surprisingly relaxed. Despite the 635 hp lurking under the bonnet like a pack of impatient greyhounds, the OCTA has an almost provocative calm. The 6D Dynamics suspension simply smooths out the potholes of the big city as if they were just bad rumours.

Normally, a vehicle of this stature would nod like an ageing rock star during every braking manoeuvre. But here? Nothing. The car is so stable that you almost forget how high you are actually towering above the tarmac. It's a feeling of invulnerability that you can only really buy with a very expensive insurance policy or this very car.

So while the rest of the world is debating CO₂ fleet values and the shortage of parking space, here you're rolling through the dark in leather. It's crossing the line with an announcement, but without a guilty conscience. Is it sensible? Certainly not. Is it the right size for modern city traffic? That depends on who you ask. If you look at the OCTA for what it is - a wonderfully unreasonable commentary on current mobility morals - then it suddenly makes sense. The OCTA is like the guest at a party who arrives far too late, orders the most expensive drink and yet is the only one everyone wants to talk to.

Of course, you could now spend hours debating transgression and the morality of the centre, as some feature writers like to do. You could ask whether the world "needs" a vehicle like this. But those sitting in the OCTA don't ask such questions. Up here, the world suddenly becomes very simple. You watch the algorithm-controlled reality through the thick windows like an interesting nature film.

The OCTA is not a car that begs to be excused. It is a two-and-a-half tonne answer to a question that no one dares to ask out loud these days: "Can I have a little more?"

At the end of the journey, we park the car again. It cracks quietly as the metal cools down. We leave it there, in the middle of the city, which is actually far too small for it. But that's the beauty of it: you don't have to explain everything. Sometimes it's enough for something to just be there, taking its rightful place and looking damn good at the same time. The OCTA is not a benchmark for others. It is its own world.