It's hard to miss this car, despite being parked neatly away in a dark corner of the multi-storey car park at the Intel plant in Leixlip where its owner works. For a start, it's painted in bright orange and has a body shaped like an egg.
Up close, it's so small it makes the Nissan Micra next to it look like a people carrier. It's like a 2/3 scale toy car, an impression reinforced by the tiny 10-inch wheels, so I'm half expecting Noddy to climb out of it.
It's also very low. At 1.1 metres, its roof is just about level with my belt - so low in fact that it could probably sneak under car park barriers without paying.
"The two most common questions I get are, 'What the hell is it?' and 'How do you fit into it?'" says owner of this orange blob, Tomas Curley.
Well, to answer the first question, it's a 1967 MiniMarcos, a neat little sports/racing car based on Mini mechanicals and bolted onto a low, aerodynamic glassfibre body. It was made by the British firm which makes the famous Marcos sports cars and was supplied either fully built or in a kit form, to which you added the bits from a donor Mini, preferably an estate or a van.
These cars have a remarkable racing pedigree. A very early version competed against Porsche, Ford and Ferrari at Le Mans in 1966 and finished 15th, the only British car to do so. A year later, a more streamlined car was clocked at 146 mph on the Mulsanne Straight before retiring with an oil pump failure.
Another car set a number British land speed class records in the late 1960s which survive to this day.
Many MiniMarcos are still regularly campaigned in historic motorsports, and they enjoy a strong cult following among Mini enthusiasts around Britain and Europe. Like the Mini, it had a long production life but was built in very small numbers. The last ever version was put together in 1995.
Curley's car can claim to be a genuine remnant of the brief history of the Irish motor manufacturing industry, as it was one of around 40 built under licence at a garage on Dublin's Longmile Road in the late 1960s. To the best of his knowledge, it's the only one still driving on Irish roads.
Anecdotal evidence suggests that only three of the cars exist in Ireland, including the very first Irish-built car, which now lives in Northern Ireland, and a British built car in Newcastle, Co Dublin. A third car, in Crumlin, Dublin, is actually a battery-powered version built by TCD engineering students in the early 1970s.
Tomas Curley bought his car four years ago from Kildare-based mechanic Richard Gledhill who restored it in 1997. The car, which can take almost any variety of Mini or Metro mechanics, features a MG Metro 1275 A-series engine, a Metro radiator and Mini Cooper S disc brakes.
Part of the reason for the bulbous bonnet on these cars was to make room for the Mini's side-mounted radiator. The Metro radiator works better because it's mounted at the front of the engine, although it can still get a little hot and bothered, says Curley.
As for fitting into the car, Noddy could no doubt climb inside more easily than myself or its six-foot owner, who, unluckily for him, has a bad back.
Inside, it feels quite claustrophic thanks to the small windows (Irish Triplex, no less) and an interior that's completely black, very tatty and totally functional. The dash looks as if it's been fashioned out of papier mâché, and there few concessions to luxury.
The only interior parts not finished in black are the neat little drilled-hole metal pedals, closely spaced for heeling and toeing.
Curley flicks the ignition switch, presses a starter button, and the car quickly wakes from its slumber with a jump, snorting angrily through its twin SU carbs.
There's little in the way of sound-proofing. In a cacophany of farts, barks and rattles, we trundle out of the car park and onto the country roads. Come to think of it, dear old Noddy wouldn't like this at all.
Hard, bouncy suspension and razor-sharp steering quickly give away its Mini roots, but there the similarities end. Granted, any Mini has fantastic roadholding, but this MiniMarcos takes it a step further, with literally no roll or understeer, just unbelievably direct turn-in. The familiar cliché about go-kart handling just doesn't do justice to the way this car dispenses with corners.
The combination of light weight, zero sound-proofing, hard ride and meaty acceleration makes travelling at 30mph in this car feel like 60. Thankfully, we're not going to attempt any land speed records today as this car has no seat belts. It has a roll cage, but even Curley concedes that, with a body made entirely of fibre glass, you wouldn't want to have an accident in one.
Heads turn every time he floors the throttle and baaarps away from the traffic lights around Leixlip, usually with a grin on his face.
"I've thought about selling it a few times," he says, "but then I get in and go for a run and I think, how can I get rid of this?"
However, there's an air of resignation in his voice as, after four years of ownership, new mortgage and marriage responsibilities are weighing in.
It will be a shame if he has to. OK, the car is totally impractical and not very comfortable, but it's a total hoot and glorious in its imperfections. To some it might need a bit of tidying but to me its tattiness is completely in keeping with the car's huge character. Even the egg shape starts to grow on me. It's like an energetic, cheeky little puppy -always wanting to play, misbehaving a bit and leaking regularly.
"Oh yeah," Curley shouts above the din. "The rain leaks in like a sieve. In fact, add a little rain, followed by a dark night and you'll get an idea of what it might have been like to drive Le Mans in the 1960s".
Less than 10 minutes later, the heavens opened and within five minutes droplets of water were seeping into the cabin via the tops of the doors, the windows and a variety of other places. Drips even find their way onto Curley's left foot and my right arm. The windows quickly mist up and the one speed wipers struggle. In these situations, there's nothing you can do but laugh - and slow down.
