Life is an exercise in polarization. Wherever we go we're polarized, asked to pick a side. As TISM observed, "Yob or wanker, wanker or yob, pass me the brush to tar ya; take your choice then live your life, c'mon pal whatareya?!!" We make these choices, or these choices are made for us, from the day we gain consciousness. Black or white. Boy or girl. Vegemite or Marmite. Stones or Beatles. Labor or Liberal. Evolution or creation. Buffy or Faith. And, for those of us of a certain age - i.e. those who were young impressionable lads in the Eighties - another binary choice. The choice of which supercar poster would get pride of placement over the bedhead. For most, it came down to two names. Ferrari or Lamborghini.
Supercars were epic, monstrous creations in the Eighties. None of the computer-refined widgetry of today, no ABS, stability control or any of that toffee-nosed wank. Supercars of the Eighties were impossible to sit in, hideous to drive, and wanted to kill you. This, then, made them a hell of a lot easier to worship, as eight-year-old boys are wont to do - pestering parents to buy wall posters and Matchbox cars, defacing their pencil cases with supercar names and their schoolbooks with supercar doodles, writing action stories in which the car gets more of a starring role than the lead actor (Knight Rider with better hair). The electronically neutered supercars of today, are they worshipped the same way by kids these days? Would they save up for months to afford a Tamiya model of a Lamborghini Countach LP500S, knowing full well their grotty little bother would smash the crap out of it the moment their back was turned? Would they line up in the un-airconditioned late-summer skank of the Alstonville Motor Show just to get a glimpse of a Countach or a Lotus Esprit? Probably not. They're too busy eloping to Africa for that sort of shit.
But back in the day - we're talking 1985 here, Marty McFly territory - it was all about the supercars. Which meant - with the utmost respect to the Lotuses, Corvettes and 911 Porsches of the world, and never mind the fact that my own bedroom wall circa 1985 actually had Brocky's first Mobil HDT Commodore postered thereupon - supercar war amounted to Ferrari vs Lamborghini, in particular Testarossa vs Countach. They were the ones setting the fastest street-legal top speeds in the magazine tests. They were the ones you chose on Test Drive. And they might have been - and still are - very near neighbours in the same part of northern Italy, but even then they had diametrically opposed philosophies to making supercars. Ferraris were the best of everything, and showed it. Lambos just tried to make your head explode. They were designed with a very sharp ruler and propelled by thermonuclear holocaust. Or, at least, a series of ever-larger V12s (now a 6.5L in today's Murcielago LP640, still derived from the same engine in the 1966 Miura) which were as preposterous as they were powerful.
My loyalties are probably pretty obvious, what with the Countach being name-dropped twice already, and the fact I started this while daydreaming in front of the Top Gear wall calendar at my work desk (Miss January: the Lamborghini Gallardo LP560-4), a moment preserved for eternity in a recent Arsebook status update. For me, the bull beats the horse. In 1985 Ferrari had the 288GTO, the 512 Berlinetta Boxer and the big-arsed Testarossa, ranged up against the Countach LP500S, and they still couldn't get close. Think of a supercar silhouette in your mind - if you're my age, it's going to be the angular, purposeful wedge of the Countach, and not only because it was the easiest shape to draw in the inside cover of your Maths book. Ever since the thing had been sprung on an unsuspecting world in 1973 it'd defined supercar. If you're a few years younger, it might be a Ferrari F40, but by the late '80s the goalposts had moved dramatically and the Countach was showing its age. Even the 25th Anniversary dress-up couldn't help it keep pace with the F40, Porsche 959 and an increasing deluge of stupefying Callaway Corvettes, though a pair of Mickey Mouse 'ear' intakes helped the massive V12 breathe at high speed, whereas previous high-performance Countaches would auto-asphixiate Michael Hutchence style. By the nineties, Ferrari was well ahead, Lambo was struggling under Chrysler ownership, and had only the Diablo - using mostly Countach derived bits - to take the fight to the F40, F50 et al.
Then, the final insult. Lamborghini was bought by Volkswagen.
And, funnily enough, it worked. The Germans dealt with the shitty detail stuff the Italians couldn't be arsed with, like build quality, wiring that actually worked and designing a seating position that didn't require you to be a lower simian. Leaving the Italians to do their thing in the departments of passion, brio, massive fuck-off V12s and general supercar madness. Today, Ferrari, on the back of their years of Schumacking the arse of everyone else in F1, build technically brilliant, electronics festooned, high-performance track tools. Lamborghini make batshit-insane stealth fighters like the Reventon and Murcielago. Bristling with purpose and menace, usually named after bullfighting weapons or matador-slaying bulls, and crammed full of what Jeremy Clarkson likes to call "POWERRRRR."
Given the choice, I think I know what would be going on my wall today.
Scarlett Johansson.
The Doctor is OUT.
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