I am longer be a style magnet, no longer adopting the cool repose and casual sang froid of a person who drives a Holden Statesman. I an ordinary driver again.
It was Arctic white, and looked clean even when it wasn't. It was so big you could accommodate a family of refugees in the boot, and I felt like I was piloting the Starship Enterprise when I was up front. It had so much torque I could pull out into tight traffic despite its size. It probably cost me $20 just to start it. It had leather seats and a Blaupunkt stereo and under the hood was .... well, who knows? It was all encased in boxes and big and clean and techy looking. And big. Like, big.
On the open road it was a dream. It was so elegant and so understated and yet so powerful it was like Coco Chanel meets Godz Fucking Zilla. It would do 130 without even noticing. Actually at 115 a little bell would ring, and tell me I was over speed, but very politely, in the manner of a butler calling me to dinner. That was easily dealt with by turning the music up. It barely condescended to take corners at all, it just made the road in front of it as it travelled along, out of the wastes of nothingness, like God. It levelled hills and raised up valleys just as it pleased.
The only problem on the open road was the grinding frustration of everybody else. Why was everyone going so slowly? What the hell was wrong with them? Were they new? Were they stoned? Were they carrying the eggs of the incredibly rare short tailed bat, and therefor must not travel over 87 kms an hour or the eggs would explode? Were they trying to piss me off? It's only a bit of snow, for fuck's sake! Whaddya mean road works? Why do they call them road works when the road doesn't work? Ridiculous! The speed limit is 100. That means you have to do 100. Slow driving is not a virtue, it's just annoying. I will pass you. I will so pass you and you will not even notice until I totally own you. And so on and so on.
Meanwhile the Statesman would just calmly drive over them all, and leave them sweating, while I fulminated needlessly and played Deathcrush at full noise.
Mind you, for such a civilised car, the Statesman had one fault. It hated sports cars. Especially red ones and yellow ones with number plates like SAURON. When it saw one, a red film of fury would cloud its headlights and it would want to feel veins between its teeth. Once I parked it next to a little red convertible and when I got back it was snarling and frothing and I had to speak firmly to it. And one night, I pulled up a the lights beside a red Mazda thingie, and I was playing Finntroll loud of course, and I looked at him and he looked at me and I was like, I can so take you. We took off and were doing I don't know some mad speed and I really was all over him and then the lanes converged and I chickened out. But I could have had him. I could have! He was more agile but I had so much more POWER.
Driving the Statesman was like having sex wearing nothing but a fur coat. Yes, it was wildly indulgent and bad for the environment and a bit out of character, but OHHHHH!!!! Now I am back to the driving equivalent of a flannelette nightie. I miss it of course. I say things like, if I was driving the Statesman I would have been all over that bastard in that Land Rover sort of thing that cut me off, just because he drives a Land Rover, I would have so been all over him! ALL OVER HIM! Yes, says my passenger, soothingly, it's all right, I completely believe you.
Anyway, although my driving has not improved, I was probably more lethal behind the wheel of the Statesman than anything else I have driven. So the world is now a little safer, and has me to thank for it. You're welcome!