I want one.

Yes. I want one. What? you ask. This!

Or this.

Please note the following, though. I can't drive. I can  get a car from point A to B, but beyond that I am a motorist, not a driver. Much to many of my friends' amusement, I don't seem to care one way or the other that I am not the spiritual successor to Juan Manuel Fangio, Richard Burns and Colin McRae all rolled into one. Instead I seem to be channelling Takuma Sato, and his sad stay with the Honda F1 Team.

That being so, I still love me  nice motor. What comes almost as close to being properly nice as the Rangey or the 911? Rollers just arouse the envy of your neighbours and invite Probox assassins to come after your ass. Benzes just have a whiff of Me-Too-ness about them. Beemers? Jeremy Clarkson and the worldwide community of TopGear-heads have a less than charitable image of their owners. Ferraris, Jags, Bugattis, Lambos, Astons...all over-the-top Jesus-Christ-Expensive.

But Rangeys, despite that Hazina Estate asshole, are to be admired, wheels to aspire to once your bid for the uji tender comes through. 911s, on the other hand, are the epitome of German Engineering, aren't they. The Benz-Beemer-Audi triumvirate may have cornered the market on plutocrat's rides, but not even their AMGs, Ms or RSs can conjure up the image of speed-and-handling that the 911 has been conjuring up since 1964.

So I want one. I can't help myself. You wouldn't if you knew what was good - and bad - for you. You really wouldn't.