In the depths of winter 2010, after a rather heinous break-up and some rather disappointing times at work and university, (look out, here comes a metaphor) Mr Brain, CEO of my life, decided to give his hardworking employees Commonsense and Thinking Things the Fuck Through a much needed vacation.
Mr Brain appointed Impulse to run the office until Commonsense and Thinking Things the Fuck Through came back. Mr Brain’s decision to put Impulse in charge of making key decisions was a giant dick move, and I still punish him to this day with copious amounts of whiskey.
One night on the way home from work I crashed my car after losing control in a rainstorm. I was fine but my car was buggered. I wasn’t going to get it back for around two months. I needed a solution.
Being without a car totally sucked and while surfing the local used cars website at around 3:47am (PS: WAY too late to be shopping for something as expensive as cars), I found it. THE car. Not just any car, the most gorgeous incredibly sexy car I had ever seen. It was curved, it was powerful, it was from the seventies, it was British, it was nearby, but most importantly it was CHEAP. It was a 1977 Jaguar XJS, for around $6500.
My mind blew a fuse. Impulse was jumping up and down behind his mahogany desk. Finally, the job he had been waiting for. This was the big one, the one where he could prove his worth and finally show Mr Brain that he was important. He finally had a shot at the big time and by God; he was going to take it.
I sent a text to the owner that instant. The next day the owner called me explaining that he had moved around 1300km away and had forgotten to update the location of the car on the advert, at this point any normal person would give up, but ohhh no! Impulse was at the helm, he was determined and he wasn’t going to let Mrs. Impulse think he was a failure. Next thing I knew I was on a plane, 1300km away, forking over $6500 in cash to a complete stranger.
But the Jaguar was mine.
I felt like a God amongst men. I had a 70’s sports car, I was sex on wheels. I was going to pull the world’s largest amount of ass using this car as my Chariot of Sexual Conquest and General Awesomeness.
|This is the sheer level of coolness I was anticipating|
After one week of ownership the XJS had broken down twice. I was a little concerned, but not fazed. After forking over another $950 on repairs life had been restored. Around a month later on a fried chicken run the engine blew up. Boiling coolant and water exploded onto the pavement. But was I fazed? Fuck no.
After a few more instances of exploding this and leaking that, I was battered and bruised and slightly defeated. The Jaguar taunted me on a daily basis from the driveway.
In my mind it was a beautiful woman who had a scorned black soul hell-bent on ruining men. My beloved car had become a man-eater, the embodiment of my ex-girlfriend. The penny dropped and the dream died.
I sold the Jaguar for a fraction of what I paid for it, after getting my original car back around nine weeks later.
Mr Brain fired Impulsive for being a massive dickhead and order was reinstated at massive cost to my dignity, temper and wallet.