I spotted this dynamic duo shamelessly bringing down property values in West London: home of celebrities and cognoscenti and the rich and the famous and those who don’t find Robin Leach to be hilariously ironic. You can’t fling a chip butty without it splattering malt vinegar on a German luxury car. There must have been a council meeting or two dedicated to the attempts made to send these two to the crusher; mothers walking their uniformed schoolchildren probably cross the street when walking by them. The MGB GT was in nice shape, but look at the TVR: just sitting there, hulking, menacing, looking a cross between a pitbull on racehorse steroids and Jack Sparrow’s father if he was in Cars. Benzes probably leak a little oil when they drive past.

Admittingly, I took more pictures of the TVR because mother of God, it’s a 1970s TVR. So let’s talk about that!

The TVR Taimar is the hatchback version of the 3000M, adding a single long piece of glass for easy boot access, emergency burrito warming and all sorts of fun if you slammed it on a set of skis. Did you know the Taimar name was derived from the phrase “Tailgate Martin?” Me neither. Sounds like a mild-mannered children’s television character from the War. If anybody manages to attract a female Hoon at a party with this fact, I demand an open bar at the wedding.

The hatch was electrically powered, which meant you could show off the hatch to your neighbors once. Mercifully, it came with a sunroof.
Motivation was provided by the 3000M’s Ford Essex 3.0-liter V6, itself the largest evolution of the TVR M-series cars. And the Taimar was one of the first turbocharged cars in Britain, a fact that TVR made abundantly clear with its paint schemes. Sadly, this was not the TURBO model, presumably because it didn’t have TURBO emblazoned in 50-foot high eye-searing letters down its TURBO flanks.

The irony, of course, is that this is parked in Kensington, one of the most expensive places to live on the planet. This isn’t the front lawn of a Georgia meth lab. The annual costs of that parking space could probably fund the research and development of a 2001-style toroidal space station, complete with bocce ball courts and an Applebee’s. Hell, the rest of the street was filthy with Porsches and Bentleys, a place where BMW ownership confers the same amount of snobbery as picking up the prom queen in a Tercel. To pay out the nose in Kensington for a spot to leave your rusty, flat-tired long-forgotten British sports car demands a certain amount of testicular fortitude and je ne sais quoi guaranteed to piss off your neighbors at a level that would intimidate even the most steely-eyed of Miami homeowner’s-association presidents.
And if the MGB-GT behind him is also his, then may God have mercy on his soul.