For a lot of people, including me, the Goodwood Festival of Speed is about escapism. It’s about leaving the hideous, stressful, jammed and potholed roads and watching people burn rubber. It’s also about coveting thy neighbours goods. And when the goods are this good, it’s difficult not to.
The parade of cost-no-object exotica that we get to enjoy at Goodwood every year is not intended to provoke envy but to allow us mortals to enjoy them vicariously. It’s funny, if we saw somebody luridly fishtailing his Aston from a standstill we’d probably think “asshat”. But do it here and you get a loud, spontaneous cheer. And long may it stay that way.
There now follows a lengthy photostream of expensive cars being grievously abused for the benefit of onlookers.
There were many Ferraris. In order of heirarchy:
I’m getting a bit lost with all the Ferrari designations, I have to admit.
Anyway, then came the Lambos.
Next there came something I had never heard of.
What’s one of those, then? Well, it’s German but powered by an LS3 crate engine (but LS7 or LS9 optionally).
Hmmm. Not sure, myself. It’s bound to be absolutely wondrous, despite looking like it’s built from bits from Pep-Boys.
Never mind, here comes an Aston Martin.
Now this looks a hell of a thing. When I saw it on Top Gear I wasn’t sure, but that was a photo. In stealth black it actually looks equally evil and brilliant.
Speaking of which, here’s the Lagonda. In beige.
I would rock that so hard.
I’m very glad they didn’t try to out-Lagonda the old William Towns Lagonda. Instead they’ve created something restrained and discrete, yet absolutely not lacking in menace.
There are shades of the old Vantage Zagatos of the ’80s (and I like the ’80s), in fact there’s quite a lot of Italian in the whole thing. And the whole crowd can verify that it goes sideways with consummate ease.
Ordinarily I give supercars a wide berth. Just like with tabloid papers going on about the latest celebrity goings-on, since that has absolutely nothing to do with me then I’m not interested. Having a favourite supercar is like having a favourite position for carnal knowledge of Taylor Swift. Of vague, passing, titillating interest, but not really relevant in the long run.
But today it’s different. Today we are all equal. We celebrate cars. All cars. And my favourite is probably the Ford GT anyway.
(All images copyright Chris Haining and Hooniverse 2015)