Amidst the desolation yet further illicit relief.. - Page 1 - Porsche General - PistonHeads UK

Glad you had a nice blast, mate. Can anyone hear the National Anthem playing softly in the background....?

Is that what they play to calm the patients down these days? Pure genius or pure madness. Simon eloquently treads the line

Definitely the former Mr C, without doubt Sir...

Full Points! :whohasathecrowdgoeswildsmiley?:

Bwahahahaha!!!!! Nice one, but not wanting to be too picky. "a somewhat warm radiator" Oil,I hope, or have you aquired a 996??? Melv

I picked up on that. I presumed it was the intercooler...

Derestrictor - you are unique. always makes me smile, dunno what half the words mean but makes me smile !

Whoops; sorry chaps. As well as inhabiting the forest unique to northern primates, it appears that I have also stumbled upon a purple patch of gross technical incompetence too. My most profuse apologies to the Porsche cognescenti. To borrow from 'Bladder III, "cars are like trousers to me; I'm perfectly happy to use either but have little idea how they're made or how they work." (Well, sort of.) Back to me mud pit!

" gross technical incompetence too. My most profuse apologies to the Porsche cognescenti. " So, you recognize you are among Porsche gods. With such sweet English prose one can only forgive...we are not worthy... Melv

Derestrictor, how come I do not spot a Pistonfest thingy on your name. Are we to be denied your company at our little gathering. This will cause me no small inconvenience, as I have only this morrow sent the Butler to clean the Purdy's in preperation that after the feast and fine ale, we could do some late evening shooting of local peasants and undesireables, before retireing to consume some particaually fine Port I have had saved from I belive the era of Gladstone.

What a disgraceful fortnight. On the one hand, we have the dim witted think tankians from some socialist Islington puddle screaming for punitive taxation against those profiting from captial gains in the property market and on the other, well documented hereabouts, the frankly horrendous prospect of mass criminalisation facing parents for the simple act of roundly thrashing their cherubs for the odd, errant misdemeanor. Listening to the protagonists from the old 'deux cheveaux' camp was enough to prompt a dusting orf of the covers, firing up of the jelly mould and head, quite animatedly, for the hills. This was quite a challenge, not least for the fact of my attempted reversion to contact lenses which, after a two year sabbatical, were back in the running on the orders of she who must and indeed, my own desire to look like the complete Luffwaffian git and face down the marauding orcs of Cosseh-dom without giving away the ridiculous tears of agony that these infernal retina-scratching instruments of the Holy Inquisition were, rather unfortunately, inducing. Still, it was a gloriuous evening; the rush hour was but a distant grumble and the moor roads were primed and ready to meet the grinding of chin and sqwuaking of roober. Windows down, roof open, plodtronics activated and the juices nicely heated: I was already entering the piglet zone and the distractions of the preventative gibbons seemed to be fading marvellously into oblivion... There's something in the latest Autocar about the fastest cross country cars and how the 996TT does it with what amounts to disdianful aplomb. I'm sure it does but for the luddite scum comme moi, still stuck in the mechanical vice of air cooled rapture, there exists still, a realm of automotive sensationalism across back road blats for the 993 pilot which never fails to impress nor compel one to appraise and then reappraise. I mean, really, really leaning on the bugger, even at relatively low speeds, genuinely feeling the forces at work; grip, grip, grip and maybe a fraction of relinquishment - followed by some kind of untrained yet intuitive correction and hoofing out the other side, clipping apii and tearing up the lines, devouring stretch after stretch of sticky black track, wheel writhing and twittering with great protest; utterly, comprehensively, the essence of that stuff the late, great Bulgin would have referred to as EVOness. With bike like reflexes, Ferdy's blob screamed for blood and bucked and writhed as the mounts bottomed and compressed under the assault of one impossible jolt after another. Oh God, let this never stop, please: right there, right then, all my anguish was torn and stamped away. Pulling over, a million dead gnats adorned the battle scarred face, acompanied by a few new chips and scratches. Letting things calm down, I stood a while on Albion's mound, surveying the greenery and longing for the return of Pendragon, with only the pinking tingery of a somewhat warm radiator nearby breaking the moment of sublime serenity. Unberfrigginglievable. And then, with the T.Makk session over, it was Fuglestrasse central along the m-way and an unwelcome return to depressing reality as the rate of progress suggested the presecence of one S.Berlisconi incumbent at numero dix might just be a little more likely to introduce a state of affairs where such thoroughly hedonistic indulgences were encouraged rather than villified by our Carribineric counterparts. And of course, due to the continued realisation that one can never really have too much power. God save the Emperess Queen. Let's invade Rhodesia. >>> Edited by derestrictor on Wednesday 25th June 14:32