Jason Barlow: And the best car in the world is...

When I was a lad, car magazines were obsessed with finding out which was the "best car in the world". It was one of those pseudo-intellectual, quasi-philosophical debates that you could run over 25 pages and several continents, gloriously incorrect escapism in an era when most people were wondering if anybody was ever going to take away the mounting pile of bin-bags at the front of their house.

Some things never change. But the identity of the best car in the world might have. The rules used to be simple enough. The key players were always large saloons, their proprietors usually city types. But now, as with so many other important things in life, we have to look to our celebrity A-list for who is driving what, and what it is that we, the little people, should aspire to.

The other weekend, I went to the Baftas, an event that turns the West End into a giant "best car in the world" group test. Clever product placement by Audi ensures that many of the attendees are disgorged onto the red carpet from its A8 flagship, if not the BCITW then certainly the one with the best ventilation system illumination.

I prefer it to the Mercedes S-class, the commonly accepted global gold standard A-list transport, of which many were to be seen inching with glacial haste along Piccadilly. An all-new S-class arrives in September to replace the ageing current model, so expect the status quo to be restored (Status Quo, on the other hand, prefer Porsches).

The Jaguar XJ? It has honestly never been better in its 37-year career than in its current aluminium incarnation. But it has an image problem, rather like the politicians who are the only A-listers you ever see getting out of them. Back in Leicester Square, I found myself with Martin Scorsese. I didn't see what he arrived in, but, with his Italian connections, it surely has to be the Maserati Quattroporte. Jodie Kidd turned up in hers, though the car was upstaged by her diamonds.

The next night I found myself at a Premier model agency party. As this was the Brompton Road, we're talking a different genre of BCITW - Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Bentleys and so on. Double-parked directly by the front door, however, was a Mercedes SLR McLaren, a £313,000, 200mph-plus, all-carbon-fibre monster; it's a traffic-stopping silver arrow for the sort of chap about town who might conceivably own the town. Or the country. As I watched its owner climb into the cockpit, I had to ask a paparazzo who it was. "The Crown Prince of Brunei," he said. Damn. I grew up reading about BCITWs. He grew up driving them. On his own private racing circuit.

Later this week, I drove home in the new BMW 320d. You won' t see it on a red carpet anytime soon, but one might well end up on your driveway before long. Be happy if it does: in the real world, this is the new king.

The writer is editor of 'Car' magazine