Why achieving a life goal comes with more issues than you'd expect.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with Porsche. It started with my dad’s model 1/18 993 Turbo that I would stare at everyday from three years old, and thanks to a lifetime of nurturing this obsession, I’m now fully down the rabbit hole and halfway to Stuttgart. I had to have one.
Being able to purchase one was an entirely different challenge. But thanks to post-covid used car prices, the damnation of the internal combustion engine and a Russian despot invading Ukraine , a Citroen Ami outfitted with rocket launchers was looking inevitable.
But nevertheless, you have to have something to aim for in life and as Ferris Bueller said “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” So, realistically, I should do whatever I can to get one, before life, the world or a small Russian man stops me.
After months of wandering aimlessly through Porsche’s back catalogue - because the research, intel gathering and spec comparisons are often more fun than the actual buying - I couldn’t settle on the right car until I fell upon the 981 Cayman. This can be blamed on a dealer just 2 miles away who had one on their forecourt. It wasn’t the right spec and it was too expensive, but none of those technicalities should stop me from going have a look should they?
I went for a look and asked for the keys, playing the part of the very Interested Buyer. I was unequivocally told to go for a drive on my own and “have some fun”. I couldn’t quite believe my luck and to quote more of Mr Bueller “They bought it. Incredible. One of the worst performances of my career, and they never doubted it for a second”. The test drive was well worth the amateur acting performance, the whole car was exactly what I wanted. A sweet revvy engine, a tight balanced chassis and a cockpit that felt “right”. Handing the keys back and making my excuses about wanting to try a manual car, I went on my merry way with the sound of that flat 6 whoofle firmly in my brain.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t immediately go home and start crunching numbers to see just how many kidneys I’d need to sell to get into a decent 981. Turns out that all organs could remain inside my body, but I’d need sell my daily driver, and my fun car, going down to just one, slightly less sensible, car. A Porsche as my only car? Who the hell did I think I was, and what would the neighbours think?!
Ah yes, the most British of traits. Social anguish. Not wanting to stand out for fear of curtain twitching, back handed compliments and thinly veiled loathing from someone channeling their inner Hyacinth Bucket. I’m blaming those young professionals of the 1980s, who worked hard and partied harder, those “yuppies” became a symbol of everything wrong with society. A column in the Wall Street Journal described them as “a class of people who put off having families so they can make payments on SAABs, to be a yuppie is to be a loathsome undesirable creature”. Substitute the SAAB with a Porsche and that’s me right there, who wants a baby when you can have nice holidays and drive sports cars? God I’m loathsome and undesirable aren’t i?
So here I am, with my “new” car. I’m braced for the duality of comments ranging from the “could you not afford a 911” to the “oh where did you nick that from”. But who the hell cares? I’m a yuppie 35 years too late, who spent his hard earned cash on an impractical 2 seat sports car. Sure, no one will let me out of junctions, and I’m sure I’ll get called a tosser a few times, but I’ll live with that for the perineum tickling whoofle you get downshifting from 4th to 3rd.