Cars are important to us men. Especially as we get older. Even more so if still single. We feel that our car defines us. And, in many ways, it does.
A married friend of mine was not ashamed to admit that he shed a silent tear when his child was born, but he wept like a Arab woman at a funeral when he subsequently had to replace his 1972 British racing green convertible Triumph TR6 with something that looked not unlike a milk float to accommodate the wife and child.
The few friends of mine who remain single think of their car the same way I’d imagine peacocks think of their tail. It is their primary means of attracting the opposite sex. They love nothing more than picking up a girl for a date in their Porsche 911 or Maserati convertible. If it weren’t for their car, they’d probably just meet the girl at the restaurant.
I hate to break it to them, but they’ve got it all wrong. Personally, I drive a second hand BMW 535i. A drophead coupe Morgan-driving friend mocked me for having just about the least sexy car in the world. More fool him, I say. Besides the fact that it has a huge engine and drives an absolute treat, I have a 5-series BMW because of what it says about me. As a four door German-engineered family saloon, it says, ‘The owner of this car is responsible and ready to settle down.’ You know what a Morgan says? ‘The owner of this car is rapidly approaching middle age, is dangerously in denial, and wants to fuck you.’ Now which message do you think women will be more responsive to? (Even worse is my friend who bought a Porsche Boxter which says, ‘The owner of this car is rapidly approaching middle age, is dangerously in denial, and wants to fuck you… on the cheap.)
I went to a Porsche dealership to do research for this article. Except for the large number of cars, I thought I was in a trichologist’s waiting room. If you ever wonder where bald men go on a Saturday afternoon, you now know.
Driving around London in a Porsche, I paid special attention to see who was checking me out in what is supposed to be an absolute panty-wetter of a vehicle. Even if they weren’t checking out me personally, surely leggy, blonde women with Scandanavian bone structure would look longingly at the car and bite their lower (pouting) lip at the thought of being wisked away in the snug leather passenger seat.
After an extended test drive (during which the only thing I really tested was the salesman’s patience as I kept insisting on an extra few minutes), I confirmed my hypothesis that women could not give a shit about cars. I did discover something though. You know who checks out sportscars? Fourteen year old boys. If you want to attract fourteen year old boys, then the first thing you should do is buy a sportscar. (Just buy one with a glove compartment large enough for an extensive selection of sweets.) If you want to pique the interest of adult women, forget it. They’re difficult to get in and out of (the cars, not the women), they make too much noise and they destroy carefully coiffed hair.
My friends with flash cars protest that they don’t buy the cars for women, they buy the cars solely for their own enjoyment. This is bollocks. Besides masturbation, my single male friends don’t do anything solely for their own enjoyement. Everything they do, every action, every thought is calculated towards the goal of getting laid. Besides, how much can they enjoy a high performance car when the only driving they do is from Notting Hill to Chelsea and back again? Last I checked, Mayor Johnson had no plans to build an autobahn through central London.
There’s only one city where it is logical to have a grossly expensive sports car. Los Angeles. My brother lives there and drives £125,000 worth of Aston Martin DB9. This makes perfect sense. In LA, you spend half your day in your car. You drive everywhere on straight wide streets. And, there, one’s car impresses those who really count. Not women, but other men who you might do business with. And, at night, in Los Angeles, they park their cars in garages.
I have friends in London who blow north of £100k on something that they park outside every night. Then they’re surprised when it gets scratched or stolen. It’s like leaving a suitcase full of cash on the street and expecting it to be there, untouched, in the morning. It really makes one wonder how they made enough money to buy such cars when they are clearly so lacking common sense.
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