I'm sorry, but having an Aston Martin DB9 on the drive and not driving it is a bit like having Keira Knightley in your bed and sleeping on the couch.
Ooh good I've got syphilis, the BEST of the sexually transmitted diseases.
This is the Renault Espace, probably the best of the people carriers. Not that that's much to shout about. That's like saying “Ooh good I've got syphilis, the BEST of the sexually transmitted diseases.”
I don't understand bus lanes. Why do poor people have to get to places quicker than I do?
The air conditioning in Lamborghinis used to be an asthmatic sitting in the dashboard blowing at you through a straw.
Koenigsegg are saying that the CCX is more comfortable. More comfortable than what BEING STABBED?
Racing cars which have been converted for road use never really work. It's like making a hard core adult film, and then editing it so that it can be shown in British hotels. You'd just end up with a sort of half hour close up of some bloke's sweaty face.
It couldn't pull a greased stick out of a pig's bottom
Some say that he has no understanding of clouds, and that his ear wax tastes like Turkish Delight. All we know is he’s called the Stig.
Some say his droppings have been found as far north as York, and that he has a full size tattoo of his face, on his face. All we know is he’s called the Stig.
This car is more fun than the entire French air force crashing into a firework factory.
Speed has never killed anyone. Suddenly becoming stationary, that's what gets you.
A turbo: exhaust gasses go into the turbocharger and spin it, witchcraft happens and you go faster.
Driving most supercars is like trying to manhandle a cow up a back staircase, but this is like smearing honey onto Keira Knightley.
Supercars are supposed to run over Arthur Scargill and then run over him again for good measure. They are designed to melt ice caps, kill the poor, poison the water table, destroy the ozone layer, decimate indigenous wildlife, recapture the Falkland Islands and turn the entire third world into a huge uninhabitable desert, all that before they nicked all the oil in the world.
The Americans lecture the world on democracy and then won’t let me turn the traction control off!
Tonight, the new Viper, which is the American equivalent of a sportscar in the same way, I guess, that George Bush is the equivalent of a President.
Some say he never blinks, and that he roams around the woods at night foraging for wolves. All we know is he’s called the Stig.
In the olden days I always got the impression that TVR built a car, put it on sale, and then found out how it handled. Usually when one of their customers wrote to the factory complaining about how dead he was.
Owning a TVR in the past was like owning a bear. I mean it was great, until it pulled your head off, which it would.
or simply:
