Darkness has fallen on Dubai’s decade of decadence, so it would appear, with the extravagant emirate on the brink of drowning in it’s own sand; taking with it a debt of billions, broken dreams and the golden era of glitz, glamour and gluttony.
Those days of jollying around Dubai eating money, drinking oil and bathing in fuel now seems such a distant memory.
Yet with all that money growing on those palm trees littering the platinum sidewalks of the UAE, not a bean was spent on proper drainage. Add a deluge and many deaths followed.
So akin to Angelina Jolie I did my bit for humanity back in 2008 by selflessly embarking on a demonstration to showcase the dangers of driving in the rain – summoning a band of merry men who shared my quest for education (including the ex-Lotus odd-job lad James Burnett) and headed to a duly drenched Dubai race circuit, fighting tooth and nail to complete a full lap of the track (by any means necessary) in the lashing rain, safely.
The results being far less of an illustration and somewhat more of a giggle; three soldiers of fortune, an Audi RS4, an inflated bed, flippers and goggles all around, some spankingly fresh Speedos and a jet ski.
I like doing my bit for charity – and this I do best by digging for records at high street charity stores, especially when I have friends and family in tow to annoy.
But every now and then you have that generosity thrown back in your face…
My most recent snubbing was at a local Oxfam, where I gleefully handed over £5 for a Best of the Sixties and Seventies vinyl box set only to find out the albums were warped and distorted beyond play.
More fool me for not checking them properly at the time, but sometimes you do feel an idiot for surveying charitable donations as if a Ming vase or potential Rembrandt. It was a grossly infuriating experience nevertheless: And £5 after all!
But not all was lost, I’m proud to proclaim, as the Ortofon needle finally rode the rollercoaster of vinyl – steadfast – without leaping out of the groove by the second bar and off the platter like an autumnal salmon.
It was a joyous occasion, indeed defined by my dad swinging both his vocal cords and mobility around Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich’s 1967 top-10 classic ‘Okay’ – chopping red onions as he did.
Admittedly it was no more than 5-centremetres-worth of song – and the only one out of 100 that should and could be played – but hell what a track; worth every one of those five-hundred pennies I’d say.
We are constantly encouraged to think outside of the box. Sometimes though we should worry less of the unknown and concern ourselves more with the box itself and (in this particular case) whether or not the box constructed behind my friend Captain Toby’s villa would fit through the narrow gap leading to the car port.
It needed thought too, because this custom-built box housed the remains of my Caterham CSR 260.
A carpenter had been enlisted; arrived armed with a tape measure, pen and paper. He later showed up at my apartment, needing money and to showcase his 19-year old daughter. I was not entirely happy to be foraging around for £700 at 4.45am, for some wood and nails, but more annoyed that I wasn’t 10 years younger.
Funny thing is, I never saw the box being built, assuming that the box had been built at the front of the villa, or off-site then had the car loaded in. But on arrival I soon calculated there was an awful situation waiting to rear its ugly head.
There have been many reported tales of how people built their kit-cars on the kitchen floor then wonder why the product of six months blood sweat and tears wouldn’t fit through the kitchen door. The same situation was now staring me in the face. What to do?
Put it all in the hands of a forklift operator I say. But how he managed to get the boxed car out from behind the villa and squeeze it through such an impossibly tight spot is beyond me. As always – the pictures tell only half of the story!
For the sane among us 300bhp is perhaps 100 horses too many for a front-wheel drive car to manage. Clearly Ford thinks not – by producing thus, the outstandingly bullish 301bhp Ford Focus RS Mk2. But then there’s Leicester based Ford RS specialist Graham Goode Racing, who with 33-years of under-bonnet experience, decided the 2.5-litre, five-cylinder turbocharged Focus could do with a touch more in the pony department: creating the independently validated 368bhp upgrade, complete with 339lb.ft. The GGR RS370FR Focus RS upgrade is available now priced at a rather fitting £3750.00 plus VAT, including fitting and warranty – including:
GGR carbon fibre Cold Air Induction System (CAIS)
GGR large capacity air to air intercooler with alloy air diverter plates
GGR large volume fuel injectors
GGR silicone boost hoses
GGR large bore exhaust turbo front pipe and sports catalyst section
GGR specification ECU remap using Superchip’s Bluefin and firmware upgrade
“In our opinion, this is the optimum power and torque output for the car,” says GGR’s Technical Manager Alastair Mayne, “because even with the sophisticated Revoknuckle front suspension and Quaife ATB differential, gaining sufficient traction can be a problem. Bearing that in mind, we’ve made a conscious policy decision to limit the engine’s torque, although there’s certainly more to come from the motor if we wanted it because the RS370FR package is running relatively low levels of boost.”
The year was 1986, within a record month for RubberDuck staff snapper Gav and I to bunk school. We were having a damn good run too, until we were approached by fellow schooler Rob who wanted in on our school-skip soiree.
After much debate and threats from his side (that if we said no he would tell tale to the headmaster) we welcomed him with open arms. That day we frolicked in fresh fields of barley, splashed about in the river, set fire to anything that stood still long enough and flicked through magazines unfit for our teenage eyes.. We harassed adults from behind hedges, fell over lots, got our feet stuck in rabbit holes and barged our way into any barn and garden shed we could – taking whatever we could fit in our pockets.
Then came lunchtime. But the thing was, our lunch-boxes couldn’t hold a candle to Rob’s – which was brimming with luscious delights, such as Wagonwheels, an assortment of sweets, ham sandwiches made with (shock horror) white bread, a can of fizzy pop and, a packet of Smiths ‘Salt N Shake’ crisps. Looking back at our wilted brown bread sarnies and fresh fruit Gav and I hatched a plan.
‘Ah gay salt, I didn’t know you did gay salt,’ says Gav as Rob prized open his packet of crisps. Rob is confused, but Gav goes on to explain that the nondescript blue sachet of salt enclosed in the crisp packet was the ingredients of homosexuality: ‘If you eat the salt on its own you become gay for a while’. Rob drops the packet to the floor, but – Gav is quick to pick it up – tearing it open to pour out a few salt grains into his palm. He tips an equal measure into mine. We take the grains and lie back, waiting for the rush!
Seconds later and Gav has a firm hand on Rob’s knee. Not a millisecond later and Rob is running his heart out down the field away from the raging homos, who just so happened to be tucking into his ham butties and dessert – soon to be washed down with good ole Coco Cola. Thing is though, he ran all the way home without his treasured lunch-box, way before the school bus had even left school (which was ten miles away) and told his mum everything of the two gays that had eaten his lunch. From that day on Rob has been referred to as ‘Gay Salt’.
My Nan is up in arms, once again, this time writing to the local MP about her TV. For this week – both Channel 4 and fellow Channel 5 have vanished: leaving nothing but fuzz and flicker.
Knowing my Nan though, they probably snuck out at dawn break – a satchel apiece over one’s shoulder – careful not to wake light-sleeper Margaret, as they skilfully slipped the chain from the door – avoiding the creaky floorboards – and bolted for freedom, one would presume without setting off the touch-sensitive security light.
They’ll have no doubt regretted the decision, in some respect, for the loss of Viennese Whirls, cut crystal and Strictly Come Dancing – as they live out their remaining years huddled up on a park bench somewhere – cold, hungry and overlooked…. Yet miss they will not – those week-old soft Digestives, watery gravy and Benson & Hedges; sixty-a-day.
It’s hard to dissect the decade of Eighties decadence without reference to Freddy Kruger, neon leg warmers, The Cold War and spinning on your head. And then of course there was the music; Adam and the Ants, New order and Billy idol – alongside the TV airing of The A-Team, Knightrider, Miami Vice and Magnum, P.I. The latter of which happened to feature a Ferrari 308 GTS, a car I desired off of the TV set and onto my parent’s drive. But like most things, it was superseded – and in the case of Magnum’s 308 it was by the 3.2-litre mid-Eighties V8 known as the 328 GTS.
Costing £71,000 when new, the Ferrari 328 was out of reach for most – including me, aged just 14-years – tumbling to a more accessible £25,000 some 20-years on. And in those 20-years I have lost most of my hair, some sense of dignity and my favourite pair of bowling shoes. I’ve lost many more things in fact, including the love of a fair few maidens, a partiality for fizzy pop and a prerequisite for a classic V8 Ferrari. I’ve moved with the times, and in doing so I’ve found something way better to spend £25K on. A Ford Focus!
I reckon if Magnum, P.I. was ever revived I can indeed imagine the TV execs choosing the fat and flared, front-wheel drive 2009-spec Focus RS with a big blue oval badge stuck to the grille, for a new-age Thomas Magnum to swoon around on screen in; his tight stonewash jeans, a short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt tucked in, and bright white sneakers suiting this scalding-hot hot hatch down to the ground.
It’s oh so Selleck… with its bulging wheel arches, a big black boot spoiler, daring rear diffuser, many attributed vents, gorges and spoilers, four low-profile licks of rubber over monster alloys, two towering tubes for an exhaust, firm suspension and specific seats to hold you with utmost conviction.
Yep this thrilling German-built RS is quite rightly the quickest (and the fastest) practical Ford ever: A fast Ford that was developed by a team toking high on big bold shoulder pads, Super Mario Bros and episodes of Chips and T.J. Hooker I imagine… and thankfully so.
Taking a girl home to meet the folks is always a testing time… Over the years I have marched my fair share of women over the threshold to meet the Saxon Seniors: The most painful aspect, every single time, is when mother and father shower the latest flame with the tales of my tomfoolery, as the Devil’s-own child.
I have given up protesting my innocence, in most cases to get the somewhat inflated accounts of my mischievous manner over and done with. Inaccurate, as I’ve not a clue what they are rattling on about – and I have a darn good memory I’ll have you know; too spruce for its own good.
I mean if Phil and Margo brought up the chaotic chip pan fiasco of 1986, or the grandfather clock calamity a year later, I’d hold my hands up high in admission. Reference to the time I locked the keys in the back of the family car, while grabbing the picnic basket, known as the Croft Castle catastrophe, lobbing another one (car and keys as it happens) over a hedge and into a tree many years later; even the frantic moment when I flooded the kitchen with bath water; surely they’re all worth mentioning?
The list goes on, seemingly three piles deep. But instead of embellishing these gems of reality they seem stuck on excavating the most elaborate of events.
If – however – they really are truthful tales from the golden age of Saxon shenanigans then I do wish I could remember them, as they are truly magnificent moments that any individual would be proud of. The best yarn of them all, is that in times of old (t0o far back to remember) I once had a mountain’s wealth of brown hair parked where sheen and stray fair strands now reside…
I have been suffering from rather ridiculous back pain for a considerable amount of time now; a combination of endless car crashes, a broken bed, being a frequent flyer, hideously bad posture and – of course – the inheritance of my Gran’s shoulder’s. It’s all to blame.
I have subsequently taken to a weekly dose of treatment at the hands of a gentleman called Peter Kaye – my chiropractor. It didn’t warrant worry; stripping down to my underwear to the tune of another man’s order, nor did his over-zealous (some could say inappropriate) massage after an hour’s treatment of clicks and turns.
It made me laugh in fact, indeed heartily, that being butt-naked bar a pair of pants, thus being touched by an older man bothered me nil. I even paid for the privilege of this personal touch. But I soon became queasy once Peter grabbed my coat; waiting patiently for me to feed an arm into each jacket hole. It’s just not the done thing!
Which I find peculiar, as moments earlier I was partially dressed at best, lay face down in a pillow of silk; near-naked in a posh pair of pants, dreaming of a G&T on the veranda, while lavender oil was earnestly polished into to my torso by a bloke.
Indeed the Corvette is a fine car, but this hasn’t always been the case.
Back in the day engineers would sweep up the wishbones, springs, dampers, and overall build quality off of the shop floor and then brush it all under the front floor mats. Fingers crossed, the marketing department then prayed you’d forget that the brake discs and pads were still in a box on a shelf somewhere in a warehouse in Detroit – and not attached to a car you’d just spent your life savings on.
In the 1970s, so it happens, Chevrolet even forgot about the power… Which is probably why they saw fit to double-size the engine capacity of its latter-day Corvettes, more than likely to make up for lost time and poor workmanship all those decades ago.
7-litres of V8 is what you get these days – in terms of the Z06 – catapulting you, two seats, a shopping net and 505 horses to 320kph in no time at all. And all for the price of two peanuts!
Previously I’d rather of joined a cult; actually anything but surrender my senses to anything built for the road by Americans, but so it seems Hooters, Hummers and Harvard have taken a back seat, for at last there seems something that America can truly be proud of.
My travels have taken in many sights of the North American variety but, until a recent Mercedes press trip to LA, never California. And may I say, what a lovely place it is.
With a glass of champagne in one hand and caviar in the other I gazed from my 50-million star hotel window – the day I arrived – at the long stretch of sandy beach; lapping waves, ladies limbering, busty bronzed broads playing beach volley ball and a gaggle of BMXers cherry-picking along the promenade.
The following morning I bathed to gentle jazz – only to be brought back to the reality of my surroundings once the TV was turned on…
The morning news stated that a woman brought up on drug smuggling charges in Colorado had been found dead in a freezer, in the hotel adjacent to mine. An off-duty police officer had skillfully shot dead three Mexicans before the stroke of midnight with an unregistered firearm outside a nightclub a block away and, while walking to harvest lemons, an 11-year old boy had sadly been caught up in a drive-by shooting, found dead at the scene half a mile from where I bathed in ass’s milk; supping pink grapefruit from a gold goblet.
But before these traumatic trimmings took hold, along came two life-affirming gifts from LA: La Preciosa 1440 (the finest in Hispanic AM radio) and a curious travel companion – back from LAX to Charles de Gaulle Paris – in the sizzling shape of Sara the Persian Princess; spoon-fed mango sorbet, talk of water facets, the sexuality of green sweaters and the history of peaches ensued.
So it seems with every supercar comes a suitably splendid dog. And none come finer than the guardian of the Ferrari F40 my friend Duke and I had the pleasure of reviewing a couple of years ago.
Actually what a weekend: collect a Caterham CSR 260 Superlight from Dartford, drive up to Worcestershire and pick up Duke – then drive to Cheltenham to meet car snapper Paul Bryant and the likely lads from Brooke, who had brought along their Brooke 260 R for a head-to-head shootout – in the pouring rain.
The following day we drove to Malvern in the bright orange windscreenless Caterham to collect a Morgan Aero8 – raced back down to Dartford, dropped off the Super Seven and then headed to Hook before lunch to test an ultra-rare right-hand drive Ferrari F40 that once belonged to the Sultan of Brunei.
And when the day’s light subtly filtered away we drove the gnarly Aero8 back to its birthplace, full bore, in the lashing rain. Weekends don’t get much better, that’s for sure.
It was my mini adventure, deep into 2002, as I trekked 3-months across the pastures of North America, armed alone with a Millets backpack, sleeping bag, second-hand Pentax camera, oodles of Fuji slide film and a craving for crumpet.
The result; a 150,000-word memoir of moose avoidance, learning left-foot braking from five-time North American rally champion Tim O’Neil, talking tiny vaginas with bar-bound Plymouth State College girl Kat, illegal street racing in a Mk1 Golf GTI and a near-death experience in a not-so-trusted Triumph TR6 – and all for $480.
It’ll all be written up soon enough, under the working title of $480 Jon – a ¼-mile and then some.
The reason this hasn’t be done to date is the endless reams of napkins, notepads, drink’s coasters and scraps of paper used to jot it all down on were left in the basement belonging to my friend Frank, along with hundreds of vinyl records, books, pictures and tape cassettes, acquired within my extended North American stay of two years.
So last weekend I decided to pop back over to Ontario and say hello once again to Frank; now a married man, with a tidy living room, a clean fridge, two dogs, some horses and even more Audi quattros.
For old time’s sake Frank gave me the keys to the white ur-quattro – the very same Audi I drove back in 2002 – then headed to Tim Hortons for coffee, bagels and an iced Dutchie.
At long last my fairly fiesty (very dusty) fibreglass VW Golf is floating merrily away somewhere between the UAE and the UK.
It finally set sail (after much hullabaloo I can tell you) a Sunday or so ago, with a 21-day sea-bound adventure ahead of it.
I just hope my chosen vessel fares better than the 50,000 tonne Norwegian-registered car carrier, Tricolor, which sunk 30-miles off the English coast 7-years ago – taking with it £70million’s-worth of brand-spanking new BMWs, Saabs and Volvos.
Which reminds me… I’m thinking of acquiring an ex-armed response vehicle – in the shape of a white Volvo T5 estate once owned by the filth – to trailer my racecar Golf to and from race meetings… and you thought buying a badger (below) was odd enough!
I’ve been to see a man about a dog, a lady for her cat – but neither, until today, to bid for their badger.
£20 is all he finally cost at the Brightwells auction house, and for such a sum a most splendidly stuffed specimen; executed some time ago of course, accurately angled in a clawed embrace of a tree carcass – moulting ever so slightly, but as healthy as an animal packed to the gunwales with straw can be.
He is nameless, at the time of going to print, but a lovingly preserved muse all the same. Next on the agenda I think: two tits, an ass, a beaver and some land crabs.
Nothing too exciting has happened since my last update, to be honest, aside from remembering being sent half way around the world first class last year, five-star in order to review the latest car model from one of the world’s leading luxury brands; a continuous collage of champagne, caviar and call girls.
Three days of non-stop wining and dining, indulging and cavorting – surrounded by the most lordly opulence. I drove said super sports car for a short while, a fantastic machine it was too, but what I remember most (sadly) is that I don’t remember what we did and where we went! I therefore returned to base-camp armed with a hangover and no account of the automobile I had just driven: I had no notes, no notable driving impression either.
With a stroke of genius I did what any respectable journalist would do under such worrying circumstances – and made the whole thing up. I gave the two-thumbs up review a full-cream spread of six pages, injected with an elaborate driving impression, only to discover once the issue had hit the newsstands that I had actually written and pictured the completely wrong car…
My parents used to live nextdoor to a chap called Keith, who had three domesticated mice, a cat, a dog and a tortoise – all of which he allowed to roam free in-doors.
This rarely affected my regular visits for Earl Grey and Custard Creams, until one day the living room became the playpen for something a lot larger – as a horse thudded in through the open French doors. Yes a horse. And a big one at that – some 18 hands and 1000kg.
The gentle Shire horse, by the name of Aubrey, was clearly living the high life since her rescue from her former gypsy owners in London. But surely there is a line to be drawn at what is acceptable and what is not, in terms of animal ownership. I personally don’t think a dog, or a cat for that matter (never mind mice and a tortoise) should set a foot, paw, or claw near the bed sheets. But some think this is quite acceptable. But a cart horse, in the house – come on what’s all that about?
But then, as I cruised for yet another Cream I thought about all of those sorrowful SUVs used for school runs, chained to a life of highway tarmac, rather than sticking their heels into the land, or messing about in the mud. I desperately needed out of Dr Doolittle’s animal sanctuary, to see horses gaily galloping alongside one another for hectares upon hectares, birds nesting in trees instead of Keith’s airing cupboard – and while I was at it – if at all possible – I’d like to see an off-roader (designed to tackle the world’s worst) doing just that.
Luckily, a stone’s throw from my stomping ground is Eastnor Castle, set in 5000 acres of beautiful Herefordshire woodland and open countryside where a fleet of 150 red dear frolic and Land Rover set the stage for their Land Rover Experience. The only Land Rover owned experience centre, near to Ledbury, is no new gig for the company, as they have been using this facility for over forty years, so what better place to spend a day getting back to normality.
If you happen to have similar neighbour who entertains shire horses in the living room, maybe you should pop along – it’s the perfect antidote: www.landroverexperience.com
Lamborghini name their cars after famous fighting bulls, Rolls Royce after apparitions, while Porsche, in times of old, seem to have had an obsession with international dialing codes.
German car-maker Gumpert, on the other hand, decided to associate their preface to the supercar world with a Greek god, who among many other things was quite fond of cows.
He was also reported to have tied someone to a tree, skinning them alive, then turning them into a river, simply because they dared question his flute playing.
Further to our telephone conversation on Thursday the 24th of February, with regards to the disappointing service, please find enclosed the pre-booked tickets and the Supersaver tickets, the latter of which I was forced to purchase for the return journey after being unavoidably delayed.
As I mentioned to you on the telephone the journey to London was without fault, as is normally the case when I travel with Great Western. Unfortunately the return was a far cry from perfect – because my idiot of a son couldn’t find the pub I was in, so my other Son had to go find him. So, to cut a rather long story down to size – he made us late.
When we arrived at the station, some hours later, I tried an old cock and bull story about how there had been some ice on the tracks – which had delayed the underground train somewhat and that, if my memory had served me well – there had also been a dead cow on the line.
I later learned that the underground is called such a thing because it is in fact ‘underground’. It had therefore not been obvious to me that neither the weather element or a stray Friesian could have made their way onto the tracks.
I accept I should have not stayed for that ‘one-last-pint’ and in all fairness should have been honest from the outset instead of trying to pull the wool over the eyes of the gentleman at the Paddington ticket office. I know it is the lies that caused the additional expense, as the truth would have been heartfelt by any understanding human being.
I understand that rules are rules, but a reduction in my sentence would be greatly appreciated, as I now have no money to go to the pub.
It’s nonsensical that people opt for a dry run of their wedding day but wouldn’t think the same for their final resting. Your funeral is, at the end of the day, a celebration of the life you led, so you’d understandably expect a fair show of hands, well-wishes, weeping women and lots of cake. It’s your biggest of days after all, and you want it to run like clockwork.
You can already pick your casket, the suit you wear and the song that triumphs around the chapel as you’re carried out the door to your place of rest. You even decide between six-feet deep in an impenetrable steel coffin or a cardboard box; fired deep into space or up in a ball of flames and scattered wherever you like.
So how about a dummy run for the dead? You get to trial-test your coffin, ensuring it fits. The same goes for your chosen suit and shoes; imagine the drama if only one of the shoes you’ve elected could be located in time? It’s just not worth thinking about…
Then of course you have the worry of the pallbearers’ fitness! Are they really up to it? And will your remaining friends and family be less questioning of the meaning of life and the hope of heaven and more than likely chatting amongst themselves or texting? Worse still; the terrifying possibility that someone’s idle thumb could result in Michael Bolton’s ‘Can I Touch You… There?’ or ‘The Only Thing That Looks Good on Me is You’ by Bryan Adams resonating off the church walls, following the less than eloquent eulogy that was clearly lifted straight off the internet.
However, all this talk of worry, wreaths and tributes is fruitless, as it is the choice of hearse that should bothers most. Once deceased I want a wagon that – by a flip of the rear seats – can easily swallow my redundant flesh and bones, and then off to the chapel at breakneck speed, with enough room in the back for a couple of working dogs, some scrap metal, flower arrangements and a 6-foot cedar wood coffin.
I’m undecided on my final attire of course; boxed or cremation, or my burial theme – but hell I’ve nailed my meat wagon: The Audi RS6 Avant. This is a car that contests Audi’s stablemate R8 supercar to 100kph and then again to 200kph – regardless of its two-ton-plus mass. Making a car this big and this bulky, this fast and dynamically agile, is as believable as reincarnated cats! But true…
Sadly though, there are still some folks that won’t be seen dead in an estate; I declare the RS6 as the perfect thing…
192bhp + 149lb/ft of torque is what has been so far squeezed from our project Mk1 Golf's 16v engine: Thanks to Jenvey, Emerald, Jason, Alvin 6 days ago
Deputy's Dub, our Mk1 Golf project, gets 2010 show season prep: custom loom, Jenvey TBs, Emerald ecu and new injectors join 2ltr 16v today. 1 week ago
Ears still ringing from the U.S. Bombs/The Exploited gig last night. Tartan + ten-hole Doc Martins to the fullest, trouble to a min, oddly. 2 weeks ago
My parents used to live nextdoor to a chap called Keith, who had three domesticated mice, a cat, a dog and a tortoise – all of which he allowed to roam free in-doors.
It’s nonsensical that people opt for a dry run of their wedding day but wouldn’t think the same for their final resting. Your funeral is, at the end of the day, a celebration of the life you led, so you’d understandably expect a fair show of hands, well-wishes, weeping women and lots of cake. It’s your biggest of days after all, and you want it to run like clockwork.