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Bloody hell; where to begin?
I suppose there probably can only be one and at this moment in time it is red and imbued with such preposterous, er..integrity, all one can do is gasp and despair.
A car which reduces the mighty Kaiser Dazwichenbrau to a moment of open mouthed semi-disbelief must be doing something well.
The RUF R-Turbo: the best car in the world.
But before further moments of salutation, a brief moment to hail those without whom the event would have been but a fleeting notion of fantasy rather than the rotational, burnt rubber fest into which for some of us, it embarassingly descended!
One really must big it up for Ted & PH - as Greg has said - a deity withouit whom we would all be but human tumblweed; a loud & mighty 'hail' in your general direction, Sir.
Craig 'Gumball' W - the man, the myth and I dare wonder, now the legend. You command a respect not garnered since a lanky Minoan called Alexander woke up one morning, tired of theoretical tutelage at the hands of his mentors down the colosseum and mused, "hello, time to forge the greatest empire ever known by man." Immense gratitude for your paticular organisational efforts - we remain essentially unworthy.
Don & Lady Thomassino and their boundless generosity in providing quality cooked meat products in the cold light of an inclement Sunday morn. Phenomal sausage and a coffee waft that was nasal nectar whilst alighting upon the hallowed stairs of Thomas Towers. Immense thanks and quite frankly, Gawd bless 'ee, Emster.
It was also a rare honour to meet one or two luminaries, not least among them the irrepressable Mdme Fish who despite being 'sans Blackpool rock' certainly fought a valiant rear guard action by way of bags full of nicely apetising cake snackettes. (Jolly nice too, danker!)
Back to Thomaticism itself and The Gregbrau track fascist also: such implaccable mastery of the flag and iron grip of proceedings. To stand there thus, frankly exposing oneself, selflessly, to rain-borne chill burn not experienced since Shackleton went walkabout is a testament to your committment and the sterling job conducted worthy of not a small round of exceedingly polite yet simultaneously enthusiastic applause with the accent covered sufficiently in garlic but peppered with flecks of richly coated rapture. Hurrah!
Cars?
To a large extent, the Brabus SL was my surprise of the day: not that I managed to clamber into the ashtray and blag a ride, nor that it was reminiscent of Mt Etna following a particularly challenging vindaloo.
No, it surprised me because for the first time ever, I can honestly say I want a Merc. Unfortunately, I need to shift a bit more Charlie and develop an unhealthy interest in gold ware (must remember to speak to that awful little man Thomas about that particular passion).
Thence to the Dazmobile: duly pummelled into inert submission by the unshakeable ability of the thing, I was awarded the ultimate inter-model honour: custody of both driver's seat and significantly, key fob mit ring. Dear oh dear.
Quite simply, the automotive equivalent of having Bruce Lee explain the finer points of his fighting prowess to you, after one's inadvertent deflowerment of his youngest daughter at the Debs' Ball.
I took it to 186 down the straight and openly marvelled at it's superiority next to my steam powered predecessor: this is why The Marquiss of Bristol loves the Nordschleife so much...
Kevin's Stradale was an open invitation to perform lewd acts in public but fortunately, being the gent he truly is, the great man allowed yours truly the sublime honour of a brief dalliance in the driver's seat. Albeit a static moment, the seemingly contrary notion of luxurious minimalism was an obvious moment of revelation to myself and indeed, a seemingly approving Domsterinus Collbeciarum.
Of course the sound on take off...
Honourary mention too must go to my fellow Mancunian escapee, the right honourable C.Zee. Not only did his antics yield a goodly vat of tonnage from the loins of Beetle's blackest Spurter but the most unfeasible rate of progress along the back roads of Leicestershire from an otherwise modest 1.8 litre Nissan Primula.
I'm quite sure the charming Captain N.Eli will share my approbation in this regard as verily, the taming of the 'zee took more than a dose of frankly irresponsible anvil and trust in blind faith on the approach: remarkable wheel work from within the ranks of The Orders most introspective Knights Templar.
I must also thank Captain Manc for guiding me to Leicestershire's only pump with super unleaded and also highglighting to everyone that there's no need for sat nav when one has men standing idle.
Three cheers for the Murcielago, a truly stunning beast with a stance and roar to do it's Modenese lineage justice. A real honour to simply be in the same realm of existence: a phenomenon on wheels.
Moocho appreciation to the Copper King of Tuscany - Alf Essex - for a thrilling blat in his sensational Tuscan S - the combination of pulverising thrust and wonderful, unyielding mechanical cacophony took me right to the core of cerebral Cerberatic cognizance whilst the intoxicating blend of wailing six and high powered glue, a visceral reminder of my wasted years on the region's train tracks as a massively unsuccessful aerosol supplier/abuser.
But what a staggering sound on take off; those special cans are preposterous!
I also felt another great rush of privilege to be esconsed with the erstwhile Derek Bell of the PCGB's RS scene, Commedatore Melv of The Cup Car Experience: a wake up call to one version of purist 911 thinking and the best driver it has been my pleasure to 'whoop' alongside. Clipping apii is an art form and this guy wove a path like an old master - cheers Melv - you're a God.
The venerable Jutin von Joust - a cunning chap who says very little, precisely to allow his victim all the honour, capturing each expletive with merciless efficiency 'on cam' as it were; I'd forgotten just how mildly insane this chap is but thankfully, what a masterstroke the Noble M12 is/was. Like you said, Mr.F - it's a big Elise - which is really all one needs to know...
MOD500 - a fellow simian of the north and alas, from the side of The Penines that swore fielty to the House of York but Martin - huge thanks for a fabulous reminder of steroidally enhanced, classic Tiverdom - your 5.0 litre Chim is truly superb and it was great to trip the clock at what, 170? Some fantastic tail out shenanigans too and apologies for the outrageous diversion with Uncle 'Zee on the hunt for super green...
Paul of the sportiest club in 993 land, maybe next time we can benefit from a hoon without the trepidation that mass rainfall and your masterpiece inevitably warrants - your car still has the best 911 soundtrack for a production variant and next time I hope to fully exploit the promise of it's uninsulated repertiore.
Satan - I think the dark lord qualifies for special mention too by virtue of his precipitous vomitting forth as only he can: he scuppered Silverstone last September and he buggered things up a tad this time too, the pointy tailed tw@t.
For my own part, I learned an invaluable lesson or several.
First, I thought near 500 bhp was inadequate, now I know it. I've not quite rationalised the logic of this essential process but somehow, somewhere, I have to unlock an absolute minimum of an additional 50 gee gees although I'm quite sure something around 600 would be bloody hilarious too.
Second, das beetle is a fair weather car. There is only so much oomph and crumby driving a mechanical viscous differential can offer by way of physics defying balletics. In the dry, I am confident even 750 bhp would not be excessively problematical.
Third, something about taller gears and surplus appendage reprofiling.
Fourth, I need the brake system Adam's RUF has; vast great discs that can be brutalised repeatedly from velocities generally frowned upon by people who think 'tax is ok' or otherwise acceptable in any way, shape or form.
And to the ridiculous complaint of Brunter's noise violations, I refer the right honourable reader to my previous mentionings of the desirability of a neo-feudal system and the lack of chair sitting technique that characterises such folk.
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