MAY 1 — Friends have been egging me to upgrade my current car into something more befitting of my status (whatever that means). They keep banging on about how I should consider buying a Mercedes because it is guaranteed to induce wide-eyes-and-goldfish-mouth reaction from the birds.
Perhaps a BMW for that extra dash of elegance, or maybe a Mini Cooper to make me look more interesting than I really am.
Whenever I disagree, they are pretty fond of giving me that look of disbelief on their faces, as if I had just urinated on their feet.
Talk about the completely unnecessary agony of having to handle peer pressure and conforming to stereotypes. It’s just like being at school all over again when the lads were conditioned to believe that women dig tall, well-built men with gobsmacking bank accounts and a posh car. A nice personality is optional, of course.
Apparently, men are suppose to love cars in a somewhat rabid kind of way because it is something which comes pre-downloaded onto our Y-chromosome [1] and embedded in our DNA code. After all, men are made of titanium, beryllium, roast turkeys and some other composite materials, and they are suppose to have semi-synthetic lubricant coursing in their veins. So, men are expected to like cars the same way women like shoes and handbags, and anything else is often considered unnatural.
I normally view cars as something functional, but I concede that cars could still be something of an acquired taste, like Cohiba™ cigars, fine arts and Catherine Zeta-Jones. The problem is, of course, there are always plonkers who turn the whole thing into a one-up-manship contest.
These are men with a penchant for turbo-charged gabfests about cars performance, speed, robustness, practicality, economy, and design aesthetics. And it’s always about ‘mine is bigger/better/more powerful than yours’.
They diligently debate on the merits of the different brands of the humble spark plug in minute, mind-boggling detail until everyone gets all red-faced and suitably cross with each other. Sometimes, this will be interspersed with mindless droning about how hybrid cars can save the polar bears.
That is perhaps their idea of fun but I personally think that this is precisely the kind of tedious exchanges that could cure even the most serious bout of insomnia. It is also a vicious form of physical torture. While not quite as savage as knee-capping, genital mutilation or flagellation, indulging in such a conversation would, I fear, make both cheeks of my bottom go numb and won’t wake up until next Ramadhan.
They [2] then just have to ruin things further by doing daft things like retrofitting their cars with big-ass exhaust pipes, even bigger-ass tyres and huge spoilers [3] as if they are trying to compensate for lack of size in some department.[4] This act of lunacy is complete when they festoon the cars with all sorts of stickers, hoping that they will somehow make the cars go faster. This is, of course, absurd because the only thing it does is to make the cars look like ice-cream vans and the owners look like a bunch of twits.
Some men take it even further by having a midlife crisis, possibly because for the first time in their lives, they have the money to do it. They end up buying cars which are too expensive and clearly they can’t afford, often in some ghastly colour like light purple, crimson and turquoise.[5] Admittedly, this is a better option to go mid-life crazy compared to say, a drug overdose or having an explosive sexual liaison with a transvestite who looks suspiciously like Mariah Carey. But still, it spoils the whole car thing.
Don’t get me wrong. I quite like cars. I love the sensation of movement, the delicious ease with which some cars attack a corner, and the magic of acceleration. And yes, The Stig is one of my heroes.
It’s just that I’m not one to rhapsodise about how a car can go from 0 to 80 km/h in under three seconds, and once I have driven to my destination, I don’t really feel like I had to get back behind the wheel in a hurry. I’d sooner take a nap or do something more prosaic like — oh, I don’t know — watch the Discovery Channel.
In the final analysis, cars just don’t necessarily turn me on and my soul is never sufficiently tormented by the grunt of 170 ponies spewing out of high performance combustion. My nipples don’t go hard at the mere sight of powerful and exotic cars, although I did unwittingly wet my pants when I first saw the gorgeous Mercedes CLS and later had to retrieve my tongue, having lecherously gawked at the achingly beautiful — not to mention outrageously cool — Mercedes SLS AMG.
I know this might sound unconvincingly feeble, but I actually buy and own a car for the most practical of reasons, which is to get from point A to point B in the safest — and preferably cheapest — way possible. This shouldn’t be too surprising, coming from a guy whose whole car-buying routine involves kicking the tyres, raising the bonnet to look at the engine, and wondering what the hell he is looking at.
While I do understand the concept of car ownership as a status symbol — fulfilment of a childhood dream, you have arrived etc — a car is still largely a mobility tool to me. I don’t feel less of a man if I drive a Perodua Viva (assuming, of course, it does get me from point A to point B), and it’s ridiculous to suggest that I suddenly become a better person when I drive a certain European marquee to work. The car make is not terribly important to me, although I do draw the line at Proton Gen.2, a machine no sane person would want to be seen driving.
I realise that it’s possible that at this point some readers will snigger and sneer at my apparent inability to turn on the testosterone tap when it comes to cars. Which begs the question: am I less of a man because of that?
You can LYAO all you want but I can assure you that the last time I checked, all the vital parts are intact and in good working condition. Fortunately, not being a car aficionado does not lead to erectile dysfunction, and I am happy to report that my brain can still perfectly operate like the Terminator’s at the sight of a hot woman – you know, thorough scanning of exposed flesh, rapid calculations of all the vital stats, and other mental extrapolation which can’t really be printed here.
It is possible that I will eventually grow out of my indifferent phase. One day, I might become sufficiently financially viable to get an insanely posh car and morph into a proper petrol-head. But even then, I’ll probably be quite content to let someone else drive the damn car while I quietly sit in the front passenger’s seat, fumbling with the iPod.
In the meantime, I am quite happy to drive around in my semi-battered, five-year-old Chevrolet. It is not the most elegant machine, and sometimes people complain that it moves with all the grace of a malnourished pigeon. It may be a little ragged and frayed, but when all is said and done, it still serves me perfectly well.
NOTES:
[1] Along with snoring, barbecuing, home repair, minor electrical work and basically thrashing things with power tools.
[2] Men, not both cheeks of my bottom.
[3] Quite an apt term, actually.
[4] Yes, it’s exactly what you are thinking.
[5] Hopefully not all three colours at the same time.
* The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the columnist.
