The Week in a T...
Discussion
Had these cars been available in 1854, Britain would surely have unleashed them upon the Russians at Sevastopol.
Nick Hall, in his current piece on the uprated Cayenne Turbo, describes the uber SUV as "the pure epitome of first class, long distance transport."
Er, no mate - this is.
Sitting high, with about 2500 dialled in, volcanic vunderlunge is only an anvil feather away: one twitch, one cog down and the Cossack guns fall silent - a second laze of the heel, twin cogulation and getting on for twice the engine speed, you will observe Mother Russia herself submit where Napolean and Hitler both died on the muddy steppe.
It's not so much crushing torque as Queen Victoria, on tour, in a Zeppelin, sipping sherry whilst taking in The Empire.
Labour simply moves aside.
Petrol is a never ending freebie and the NSL something that happens to other people. In Katmandu.
One of those faux VW jobs was keeping pace at one point and it might have been more powerful but it understood the way of things, making way and then providing tugboat support.
A maritime analogy of no little significance or indeed comparison with the aforementioned Porquine SUV issue of retardation: for just as any ocean going liner requires several miles before it heaves to a controllable docking knot count, so too does this road bourne leviathan require it's shell shocked captain to make supreme judgements when it comes to slip road peel offs or other such affronts to the basic job of voracious quoffage (like braking), existing stubbornly, somewhere in the vicinity of 5mpg.
Whilst the anchors themselves are hugely impressive with great resistance to actual fade and no susceptibility to the dread of judder, whereas almost any other car will obey the will of the helmsman, here, as in a Phantom, the beast itself develops a momentum which involves little or no interest in doing a great deal besides charging ever more forward and preferably, faster.
And all the while, there is this rousing throb of Supermarine Elgar from somewhere beneath the deck: a quite unique, haunting warble which rises and falls as the mighty tide.
The very fact of Livingston's rejection of this way, this manifestation of glory, is the defining essence of what is wrong with the nation, the automtotive battle line, resolutely carved in 3 tons of rolling majesty.
Oh, The Rapture...
Nick Hall, in his current piece on the uprated Cayenne Turbo, describes the uber SUV as "the pure epitome of first class, long distance transport."
Er, no mate - this is.
Sitting high, with about 2500 dialled in, volcanic vunderlunge is only an anvil feather away: one twitch, one cog down and the Cossack guns fall silent - a second laze of the heel, twin cogulation and getting on for twice the engine speed, you will observe Mother Russia herself submit where Napolean and Hitler both died on the muddy steppe.
It's not so much crushing torque as Queen Victoria, on tour, in a Zeppelin, sipping sherry whilst taking in The Empire.
Labour simply moves aside.
Petrol is a never ending freebie and the NSL something that happens to other people. In Katmandu.
One of those faux VW jobs was keeping pace at one point and it might have been more powerful but it understood the way of things, making way and then providing tugboat support.
A maritime analogy of no little significance or indeed comparison with the aforementioned Porquine SUV issue of retardation: for just as any ocean going liner requires several miles before it heaves to a controllable docking knot count, so too does this road bourne leviathan require it's shell shocked captain to make supreme judgements when it comes to slip road peel offs or other such affronts to the basic job of voracious quoffage (like braking), existing stubbornly, somewhere in the vicinity of 5mpg.
Whilst the anchors themselves are hugely impressive with great resistance to actual fade and no susceptibility to the dread of judder, whereas almost any other car will obey the will of the helmsman, here, as in a Phantom, the beast itself develops a momentum which involves little or no interest in doing a great deal besides charging ever more forward and preferably, faster.
And all the while, there is this rousing throb of Supermarine Elgar from somewhere beneath the deck: a quite unique, haunting warble which rises and falls as the mighty tide.
The very fact of Livingston's rejection of this way, this manifestation of glory, is the defining essence of what is wrong with the nation, the automtotive battle line, resolutely carved in 3 tons of rolling majesty.
Oh, The Rapture...
Stand on a Cornish penninsula and walk into the sea during a choppy swell, ideally suited in the garb of an armoured, Elizabethan dragoon.
As you are swept hopelesly away, clattering and flailing, you will be unfeasibly close to the experience of plunge charging the 6.75 in anger.
Fashion is for the masses, style for the few.*
{* Chuck Norris, from 'Contemplations of The Inner Rectum,' 1984.}
As you are swept hopelesly away, clattering and flailing, you will be unfeasibly close to the experience of plunge charging the 6.75 in anger.
Fashion is for the masses, style for the few.*
{* Chuck Norris, from 'Contemplations of The Inner Rectum,' 1984.}
Fellow appreciators of the 6.75 block may be moved to learn that in the latter stages of yesterday, I found myself with the opportunity to let loose the Kraken, as it were, along the Bottrop Pass, Vaterland.
At around 145 there appears to be a sounding of reveille as the Agitant General to the second blower storms into the barracks and demands immediate muster:
Get a move on, you lazy swine and be quicker about it than you were answering the door!
The third wave (as opposed to Bliar's way, the dog) suddenly dragsterises proceedings even more and the pointer slowly but surely edges like a volley of Whitworth 9lber canonnette into a line of gallic bombadieres: 150, of course, 160, we're on, 165, lumme and as the guage is breached, you find yourself on the acceptable side of 170.
And the solidity! My God, the plantedness is something wholly unexpected for a beast so figidty at camp velocities, that weight combined with finely honed damping seem to yield a confidence inspiring track which allows cruise to be engaged at 150 for minutes at a time, the perfectly weighted steering just encouraging greater and greater conquest.
If only we suffered less from so profound a communism on UK roads.
Nevertheless - undiluted bliss.
At around 145 there appears to be a sounding of reveille as the Agitant General to the second blower storms into the barracks and demands immediate muster:
Get a move on, you lazy swine and be quicker about it than you were answering the door! The third wave (as opposed to Bliar's way, the dog) suddenly dragsterises proceedings even more and the pointer slowly but surely edges like a volley of Whitworth 9lber canonnette into a line of gallic bombadieres: 150, of course, 160, we're on, 165, lumme and as the guage is breached, you find yourself on the acceptable side of 170.
And the solidity! My God, the plantedness is something wholly unexpected for a beast so figidty at camp velocities, that weight combined with finely honed damping seem to yield a confidence inspiring track which allows cruise to be engaged at 150 for minutes at a time, the perfectly weighted steering just encouraging greater and greater conquest.
If only we suffered less from so profound a communism on UK roads.
Nevertheless - undiluted bliss.
gmaclean said:
derestrictor said:
Now the RT, that, that is the one...
How about my Conti T? 650lb/ft of torque...
I'm looking for a career in low lying sycophancy, perhaps I might till your lower fields?
The Continental T?
Very nice, very nice indeed.
All this talk of torque inclines me in the direction of my learned colleague's automotive hibernation chamber wherein something blue of similar Black Labelling but of the genus Arnagian lurks.
I feel the overwhelming desire to splurt octane juice at a rate comensurate with the retaking of the asian subcontinent.
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