I used to think that it didn’t matter how you enjoyed cars, so long as you were enjoying cars.
I thought that there weren’t enough of us to become factional about it, that any kind of car enthusiasm was a good kind of car enthusiasm.
I thought there were bonds that tied us all together, that those who polished old Triumphs had traits they shared with those who modified Vauxhall Corsas and those who took sports cars to top speeds on airfields.
That if you were the Middle Eastern client who bought 11 Mercedes 300 SL Gullwings and had modern AMG mechanicals dropped into it, that was fine. If you were the Japanese designer who subsequently bought one and gave it an urban camo, that was even cooler.
For why? Because you were enjoying cars. You were one of us. Whether you were playing music from an Astravan in a deserted supermarket car park on a Friday night, or dipping a Suzuki Jimny in mud up to its door handles in a disused quarry, we were all in it together.
Well, I was wrong, Instagram has made me realise. I’m only on it to try to make my cat a global superstar, really, but some of the videos the app suggests to me are not of a cat falling off a shelf. Instead, it’s somebody else losing their dignity.