Thanks for joining me!
Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton
I thought long and hard about starting this blog. My love of automotive journalism came from many different sources, but mostly from my Godfather, Jim Scott. Uncle Jim was a motoring correspondent with a local newspaper in Scotland, and at every visit, a new shiny piece of mechanical sculpture was parked outside. I remember the day I saw the then brand new Porsche 944 in Guards Red parked outside my grandmother’s house in our town. It may as well have been the Lunar Rover such was it’s affect on those who passed by. Even earlier than that, my Christmas stocking always contained the next edition of the Observer’s Book of Cars, and pocket money was swindled away on such pornography as Car, Motor, Autocar, Supercar Classics, et al. My name is Bryan, and I have a problem. I’m an autoholic.
Each month, a fix of fantasy was delivered by prose by the likes of LJK Setright, Russell Bulgin, Steve Cropley et al. It became obsessive, so much so, that I knew publication dates. When I started on my own career in the retail motor trade in 1992, I knew that someday I too would get to command such road rockets as 911’s, GTI’s, GTO’s and Vantages. And after 26 years, here I am, with a mixed bag of emotions towards the world I once coveted and loved.
The sheer poetry of how the gearshift in the Ferrari BB512 could be only be mastered by the few has been overtaken by how many views and subscriptions can be achieved by those with a camera when merely buying a car. No more definitions that put me there in the driving seat of that Countach whilst sipping on a cup of java, but instead the images of baseball caps, obnoxiously oversized watches abound by the young men on my screen who simply collect supercar after supercar from ornate palaces that masquerade as dealerships and ask you to “like” them. No more romance. My drug is dying.
So, here we are.
If I was to help save the world for addicts like me, I had to do something. And after many days gazing back in my mind to that little boy laying across the sitting room floor, legs in the air, wondering what it must have been like to be tasked with collecting your thoughts onto paper about the two “Reds” on that beach in Wales, I put fingers to Mac. No more excuses, no more moaning about the lost art, no more mourning.
House of Cars is not new. Its a blog, a website, a place to come and escape for a bit. Indulge yourself in the life that can’t be lived by all, but will be brought to you so you can at least dream. It is not the intention to camouflage the unworthy in the hope of a preferential invite, but to make it known in a relevant and constructive way. It is an idyllic hideaway for you at lunchtime, or on the 06:49 to Waterloo. Cars are immersive, and to have had the experiences I have I feel I must share them, just like those souls did for that little boy lying on the carpet, or for my Uncle Jim who drove me in my first ever Porsche.
So, join me in my journey. Ride shotgun as I try my best to bring you the content that has been missing from our lives as addicts for so long. Tell your friends too, as there’s plenty of room for everyone. We may disagree at times, we may even fall out, but I know we’ll have fun.