As you read this a ship called the Terrier is forging a path across the bitter
north Atlantic on its way from the eastern seaboard of America to the north
coast of Germany. I hope she has a smooth and unruffled passage because in
her bowels is something very precious. My brand new Ford GT.
I first drove this 212mph monster about two years ago in Detroit and pretty
much knew as I flew home that I simply had to have one. I mean, it was a
modern-day incarnation of my childhood dream machine, the GT40, the car that
had been built to take a working-class sledgehammer to Ferrari’s
aristocratic dominance of European motor sport. And a car that had done just
that by winning Le Mans four times on the trot.
Unfortunately, by the time I got round to ringing Ford it had already had
2,000 serious inquiries about the 28 GTs that would be coming to Britain. It
seemed bleak, but I was at journalism college with Ford’s head of PR so
guess what? I was squeezed onto the list of accepted customers between Damon
Hill, Martin Brundle, Eddie Jordan and Ron Dennis.
This was certainly the first time I’d ordered anything without having a clue
about how much it would cost. But in hushed whispers Ford was saying I
should think along the lines of the Ferrari 360. So that meant a whisker
under £100,000. And that seemed all right, for the realisation of a dream.
What’s more, as the months rolled by the dollar weakened until we were
teetering on a two-to-one exchange rate. I even started to think it might be
under £4.50. I was happy.
And then everything started to go wrong.
First of all, the cars went on sale in America but there was no sign of any
coming to Europe. “Ah,” said my friend at Ford, “that’s because we have to
change the lights and the exhaust system before it can be sold here.”
Now look: the BBC was recently asked to make 18 episodes of Top Gear for the
American market in which all references to petrol, bonnets, pounds, boots,
motorways, footpaths and bumpers were altered.
On top of this, all mentions of Bolton Wanderers and wellington boots had to
be expunged. And we did that in a week. So how come it had taken the world’s
third biggest car firm six months to fit its flagship with a new exhaust
pipe? Then I was sent a recall notice saying the front suspension was likely
to crumble and that the car must not be driven under any circumstances.
Well, that was unlikely since the parts for mine were still being dug out of
the ground.
Then the delivery date slipped from Christmas to Easter, I suspect because
Ford in America had lost its atlas and couldn’t remember where Britain was.
And then they announced the price. Despite the whispers and the exchange rate,
the car was going to cost £120,677 plus £2,790 for stripes, £1,600 for the
fancy wheels, £160 for the road fund licence, £38 for the first registration
fee, £25 for numberplates and £75 for the first tank of petrol. Which at
4mpg wouldn’t even get me home from the dealership. Gulp.
People kept telling me not to worry because GTs imported privately from the US
were being sold in Britain for £180,000 and I was still in profit.
But I hadn’t ordered this car to turn a buck. I’d ordered this car because I
have the mental age of a seven-year-old, and I wanted a 5.4 litre
supercharged monster to play with.
I know of course that it won’t fit in any parking space and that every penny I
earn will be used to feed its fuel injectors. I also know that people will
point as I rumble by and say, “Ooh look. There goes someone who can’t afford
a Ferrari Enzo.”
I know too that it has no satellite navigation, no hands-free phone, no
traction control and that the exhaust system, the very thing that has
delayed the car for so long, will have to be replaced with the louder,
squirrel-killing American set-up.
But I don’t care. I don’t care about the wait, the price or what anyone will
think. Because I’m going to be travelling at 3½ miles a minute in the best
looking, most evocative, most exciting muscle-bound meat machine the world
has seen.
And now it’s time to talk about Porsche. Yes, I know I talked about the
Boxster last week, and there was a review of the new convertible the week
before that, but I haven’t finished yet. Because I’ve just been driving the
bog standard two-wheel-drive 3.6 litre 911.
As you may know, I’ve never really liked the 911 because over the years it’s
adhered to a flawed basic premise. That the engine should be in the back.
Yes, as the car squats under fierce acceleration this layout gives you better
traction. But in the bends it becomes a giant pendulum, using the laws of
physics to swing you clean off the road. So as you scream along your
favourite bit of black top there’s always been a worry that you’re messing
with the forces of nature.
It’s like being an anti-terrorist policeman. You get it right for year after
year and nothing happens. But if you get it wrong just once everyone in
London ends up with 14 ears and lungs like walnuts. This makes the job a bit
unrewarding somehow.
Now, though, after 40 years of constant development, the rear is held in place
as firmly as Lake Mead. Which means the latest models are sculptured proof
that in a battle for supremacy between God and German engineering, beardy is
always going to finish second. A modern 911 shouldn’t work but it does.
Brilliantly.
There’s a lightness to the steering that you just don’t get in any other car.
It whispers information to your fingertips about what the front wheels are
doing and how they’re feeling. Driving a 911 is like making love to someone
you care for in the bridal suite of the George V hotel in Paris. It makes my
GT feel like a knee trembler among the empties outside a Rotherham
nightclub.
And on top of this a 911 is beautifully made and small, so you can use it
every day. Also, it has two small seats in the back, a useable boot and
prices start at under £60,000.
This, then, is a 177mph car that you can choose with your head and your heart.
It’ll make love to your fingertips and stir your soul. There is no part of
your body that it will not stimulate and caress. But don’t, whatever you do,
buy the convertible, because this won’t stroke your penis. It’ll make you
look like one.
You can’t, when you’ve got a hair hole, and a gut the size of one of Saturn’s
moons, drive through the middle of a populated area with the roof off any
car. Trundling along with the sun on your face and a breeze in your hair may
feel nice, but it’s as stupid as walking into the Ivy with a 12-year-old
Russian hooker. People are going to snigger.
And it’s especially sniggersome in a 911. Because this makes you look like a
prize vegetable even when the roof is up.
You see, all convertibles are engineering and dynamic compromises. They are
heavier and less stiff than their hard-top brothers. That makes them slower
and less wieldy, which doesn’t matter if you’re talking about a cut-down
version of a car that wasn’t much good anyway. But it does matter with a
911.
This is a purist’s driving machine, an adrenaline pump. Every last detail was
designed to maximise the score on the driver-o-meter. So removing the roof
is like removing the laces from your training shoes. It’s only a small
change but it ruins everything.
And don’t try to tell me that a convertible Porsche is more finely honed and
more delicate than my big Ford because, while this may be true, I have an
answer already prepared. In my GT I shall look like Steve McQueen. In your
drop-top 911 you’ll look like Robert Kilroy-Silk.
Vital statistics
Model Porsche 911
Engine type Flat six, 3596cc
Power 325bhp @ 6800rpm
Torque 273 lb ft @ 4250rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual, rear-wheel drive
Fuel 25.7mpg (combined cycle)
CO2 266g/km
Acceleration 0-62mph: 5.5sec
Top speed 177mph
Price £58,380
Rating 4/5
Verdict A triumph of engineering over the laws of physics
