I love cars.
I spent parts of my best weekends watching Clarkson, May, hamster Hammond and the Stig, salivating over covers their zine version, feeling I could give myself a pity that I drive around a Proton just because it gets me from point A to point B cheaply.
Anyhoo (as NW liked to put it) that won't stop me from admiring, right?
Thing is, you'd expect after gawking at'em for so long, you would've thought I could name each car make, model and year perfectly.
To my defense, I would say I'm almost always confused with the Ferrari numbers which I cannot keep up except of course The Enzo (the front grill is always something to shout about) and F50.
I know FD can name all the Lambos when I can only point out Reventon perfectly (because it looks disturbingly like a jet).
Maybe its got something to do with the fact that I don't fancy the exotic Italianos, so I don't pay much attention to em.
Other cars, even the Oldsmobile, I can try my best to guess it.
Oooh especially muscle cars.
But not Aston Martins.
DBS, DB9, DB7 and V8.
Even the names are confusing enough.
Its not I don't like martins but why don't they just ditch their fanaticism over David Beckham and move to name their machines aptly?
I lost a car- guessing quiz because I can't tell them apart.
Hehe. Seems I'm sound like a sourgrape, but I'll let you be the judge.
(answers: DBS, DB9 and V8 vantage in such order)
So the best way to put a stop to my inability to name them correctly, is that I have to see and hear and breathe them more.
And to do that, it means the gomen will have to do away with the incredible taxes so people like you and I can alas own something decent and built passionately by their engineers.
Maybe then you'll stop seeing me in the cheap tin-can made, Mitsu-imitated designed, zero mark crash dummy test, dangerously engineered Proton.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
I love cars.