Though the exterior does all it can to help the Gallardo slip beneath the radar (as much as any Lamborghini can), the V10 engine, which clatters into raucous life behind my head, would give the game away if you tried to creep up on anything.
You hear and feel every valve open, every drive shaft’s revolution.
Yet it’s still a friendly car in which to potter around at low speed. Things only start to go horribly wrong when you press the accelerator – ever so gently – and the thing careers up the road like a spitball from a rubber band.
The brakes and steering are just as brutal. I soon learn that it is best just to let it calm down on its own, from a distance, as with a wild animal that has trodden on a wasp.
Whether things are more brutal than the standard Gallardo is rather like comparing going over Niagara Falls in a barrel to doing a bobsleigh run in a plastic bag. Unless you do one straight after the other, the memory of the first will instantly be supplanted by the terror of the other.