A few months ago, I had the dubious pleasure of picking up a car for a film production I was helping with. I was excited as I set off for the garage in my Saab. My Saab was jealous, and decided to eject one of its wing mirrors as we approached the garage, and I arrived with a tinkling of glass and less peripheral awareness than usual.
The car I picked up made my pulse race. It was a ’98 Oldsmobile. Immortalised in the Public Enemy song, “You gonna get yours“, in which Chuck, Flava and the boys wax lyrical about the speed and power of their ’98. Ever since I first heard the song, I have been prone to shouting, “Suckers to the side, I know ya hate, my ’98. You gonna get yours.” The last time I did it, I was paddling a canoe, overtaking some innocent lake users, dressed as a pirate with half a flask of rum in my belly.
I got into the vast ’98, and carefully reversed from the garage forecourt, and eased the steering column gear selector into drive. After a discrete distance, I prepared myself for the g-force, and floored the accelerator of the outsized iron crate. I looked expectantly at the speedo, thinking the sheer luxury of the vehicle was masking the sensation of speed and acceleration that must surely be happening all around it. I watched the needle crawl up to indicate 45 miles per hour, and felt totally robbed. The car didn’t “blows ’em all away.” It sucked. I delivered the pimp-mobile to the set of the film, and later returned it to the garage to pick up my trusty Saab, all the time thinking of re-writing the lyrics to reflect my true love – the Saab. Not many words rhyme with Saab, it turned out. So I left the song.
Lately, I have been covering many miles in my car – appointments to help build giant six-armed monkey gods and the flamethrowers associated with such a project, going to watch women with broken necks balance on top of each other, and to build hitching posts for hobby horse tethering – you know the kind of thing. Two strange developments have surprised me. The first is that I now drive with the reckless carelessness of a Texan – I think nothing of swerving across three lanes inches away from other automobiles to make an exit from the freeway. The second is that my boost gauge, after a little tweaking, is indicating that there is positive boost, allbeit small, at the intake to my engine. Which means my turbo is almost thinking about working. There is hope for the widow’s son – I shall go the ball. By jingo, that turbo will work. So watch it, suckas to the side – plenty of words rhyme with Saab Turbo. My ’85 Saab Turbo. You gonna get yours.