Ok for those non members here is the article, I will type it, hope that is ok, as I don't know how to scan and paste it here [&:]
A Birds Eye View
Fiona Main still ponders on the significance of Bill Main's obsession.
The bright red Porsche 911 arrived almost two years ago. My non~technical and infinitely more practical female brain is still mulling over its purpose and role in our ordinary little family. Granted, my husband has always wanted one. In the early days of our marriage, when most men were envying the impressive size of Don Johnson's Ferrair Testarossa in Miami Vice - my hubby wanted a Porsche. Later on, Pierce Brosnan thrust onto our screens displaying the new, sleek Aston Martin - and he still wanted a Porsche. So he finally realised his dream and left me with a brain puzzle that would have Anne Robinson wickedly rubbing her hands on
Test the Nation.
Let's deal with the practicalities first. In order to raise enough cash to buy the Porsche, my husband sold my pride and joy! Our Saab 95 Aero HOT was, without a doubt, the perfect family vehicle, with an NCAP safety record beaten only by a Scorpion tank for protecting the little darlings on the school run. A large enough estate to cart both dogs off for vet appointmets and cope with the volumes of dog vomit on the return journey, and enough power to go to warp factor five when you put the pedal to the metal! There is so little room in the back of the Porsche that a nodding dog would need osteopathy to correct joint deformities.
Then there's teh problem of what to wear.My image of emerging from this sporty little red car looking glamorous and dressed to kill were dashed when I realised the damn thing was so low that it was absolutely impossible to "alight from the vehicle" in a skirt without showing your knickers. My friend was going to a school parent council meeting with my husband and when she jokingly asked what to wear I said, "your best pants". However, at a recent Porsche Club meeting, my husband met a lady who appeared to be attempting some sort of retail therapy experiment which involved cramming countless, flat pack, ikea boxes into the back of her porsche and not getting pulled over by the traffic cops on the way home. So, maybe it's OK for shopping but not for a night out with the girls.
Why is it men need to hear the roar of an engine? Every time I 'm invited for a run in the Porsche, the drivers's window is left down so he can "hear" the power. You see, we live in Scotland and have summer weather that would have an Inuit reaching for his long johns. Driving with cold air blasting through the vehicle is not my idea of a comfortable journey. Our neighbours look on incredulously as I don my polar fleece to get
into the car. We arrive at our destination with frozen grimaces on our faces, chronic hearing problems and a need for a St Bernard bearing brandy.
Then there are the running costs. I did not realise that all Porsches were fittied with a homing device that automatically slows down the vehicle, sets off the indicators and gently manoeuvres the car into every petrol station you pass. How clever! Trust the Germans to invent such a remarkable piece of technology. The servicing expenses apparently involve sending the registered Porsche mechanic to the Bahahas twice a year for, presumably, the annual Porsche Mechanics Conference and engineering updats. I think keeping abreast of new technology is very important for these guys. It also seems to be imperative to buy big, fat, expensive tyres to cope with the amount of rubber left on the road when moving off from traffic lights at teh same speed as teh boy racer in the next lane. However, we're getting a big fed up living off Spam and REd Cross parcels when the car goes in for a service.
The he joined Porsche Club, which is fine by me. it gets him out of my hair and for a couple of evenings a month I am not subjected to those awful construction programmes on the discovery channel which show the viewer how to make nuclear reactors from sticky-back plastic and the inside of a toilet roll. Acure for insomnia methinks! But I digress. . . We met some Porsche Club members for lunch in early January and I immediately noticed a spooky and rather disconcerting similarity between them; none have names! Whilst naughtily eavesdropping on some of the male conversation I heard people being referred to as, "bought a pre-owned yellow boxster in 2005 and added new alloys" or, "sold a black Carrera and got over the odds", Not a forename was mentioned and everyone is identified by the vehicle they drive. Perhaps it's a weird, secret society ritual to abandon your given name in favour of the make and model of your current set of wheels. In future I wil attend all Club social gatherings armed with garlic cloves, wooden stakes, holy water at the Haynes Porsche manual. I tmay prevent me from becoming another nameless soul destined to be forever inentified as "Mrs Silver Grey Honda Accord, absolute heap but cheap to run!"
On a positive note, my husband seems blissfully happy. He now spends his weekends polishing his shiny red car and is currently applying for a gun licence to prevent the local bird population from adding its seal of approval to his hard work. He used to spend his weekends watching endless re-runs of Top Gear on UKTV. I have to say I enjoyed Jeremy Clarksons self-opionated, politically incorrent humour, I still think Richard Hammond nees a cuddle and I sincerely hope someone pays for therapy James May needs to overcome his aversion to haircuts. But at least hubby is no longer vegetating in front of the box, although mountain biking would probably be a healthier and more economical option.
Back in the dawn of time, when we met, he woudl say to me "why is it always old geezers who drive porsches?" I strongly suspect insurance costs and mid-life drisis would be the answers to that one. When time nedessitates you spend more money on your teeth and eyesight than nights out with your chums, it's important to have achieved at least one of your lifelong goals. Imelda Marcos had her shoe collection, Rod Stewart has his harem of leggy ex-wives and Liz Taylor has her engagement rings. I intend to watch as many back-episodes of Start Trek as possible, so that in a few years I can recite the scripts ad nauseum to the other residents at the old folks' home. And of course, my husband has his porsche.
On a final note. our 10-year old daughter has, bizarrely, always shown an interest in cars. Barbie never held the same appeal as listening to the roar of an engine. One Saturday my husband had enlisted her as slave labour to help with the weekly ritual of "Porsche polishing" and with a smile said, "So, sweetheart, since you like cars so much, what would you like to drive when you're older?"
"A Ford Focus," came the reply. I rest my case.. .. ..
Bill Main is Assistant RO for Scotland South. whether he is aware of this article is unknown at the time of printing.
Phew Jane back again, that took alot of typing, I apologise for any mistakes in it, there were none in Fionas article. I hope that it was ok to share it on here [
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