Cartorque vol 23: ‘what cars would order at the bar’

There are certain cars that, if they were people, you simply know would be thrown out of a pub within twenty minutes. Not because they’re violent. Not because they’re rude. But because they arrive with an energy so catastrophically unbearable that everyone else quietly finishes their drink and leaves through the fire exit.

Take the Honda Civic Type R.

Now this doesn’t walk into a bar. Oh no. It arrives. Usually at 11:48pm with the sound of an angry trombone escaping from a Halfords exhaust system. It parks diagonally across three spaces despite being roughly the size of an upright fridge freezer and then storms in wearing enough red trim to look like a gaming chair sponsored by Monster Energy.

And what does it order?

Simple.

A pint glass containing Red Bull and seven vodka shots mixed together by someone named Kyle who definitely owns fingerless driving gloves.

The Type R then proceeds to tell absolutely everyone within a three-mile radius that it “could’ve had an M3” but chose this because it’s “more raw”. By midnight it’s challenging the fruit machine to a race and attempting to explain VTEC to a woman who only asked where the toilets were.

Then you’ve got the BMW M3.

This is a whisky car. Not because it appreciates whisky, you understand, but because it thinks ordering whisky makes it look successful. It asks for something Japanese and expensive, nods thoughtfully after the first sip, tries its hardest to seem sophisticated, and then spends forty-five minutes outside telling strangers about their next big business venture.

Spoiler it’ll flop.

The Ford Fiesta ST meanwhile orders four Jägerbombs before anyone’s even sat down. It is loud, charming, probably wearing a cap indoors, and somehow manages to stay sober despite having all the refinement of an exploding microwave.

The Fiesta ST is the mate everyone claims is a terrible influence right before following him into another terrible decision.

Then sitting quietly in the corner is the Toyota Prius.

Sparkling water.

Lime slice.

Home by 9:15.

Not because it wants to be, but because somewhere deep in its hybrid little soul it’s terrified that fun might reduce fuel economy.

And then there’s the Range Rover Sport.

Now this orders an espresso martini. Obviously. It wears a designer coat worth more than the GDP of a medium-sized island nation and keeps placing the key fob on the table in a way that suggests everyone should be impressed.

Unfortunately, half an hour later it’s outside waiting for the AA because something electronic has decided life is no longer worth living.

The Mazda MX-5 drinks whatever’s cheapest, laughs constantly, and somehow becomes everyone’s favourite person in the pub despite having approximately 12 horsepower. It doesn’t care. It’s having a lovely time. Roof down. Tiny little grin. Probably mates with the bartender by the end of the night.

Now the Audi RS3 is a different creature entirely.

Vodka. Straight.

Not because it enjoys it, but because subtlety has never once entered the conversation. This is a car that exists purely to arrive at traffic lights like an angry nightclub owner. It drinks aggressively, talks aggressively, and leaves aggressively with enough pops and bangs to trigger local seismic equipment.

But none, and I mean none, compare to the unholy catastrophe that is the Nissan Juke.

The Juke is what happens when a design team collectively loses a bet.

Its headlights are in the wrong postcode. Its proportions look like they were assembled during an earthquake. It resembles a startled frog that’s just been informed about taxes.

So naturally, if it wandered into a bar, one might assume it would order a nice comforting cup of tea.

But no.

Remove every aspect of it being tea. Remove the warmth. Remove the comfort. Remove the dignity.

Replace it with a 12-gauge shotgun so it can march directly outside and finally perform the one useful service it was ever destined to provide: removing a Nissan Juke from the road permanently.

And somewhere, in the distance, every pedestrian, cyclist, and innocent bystander would stand and applaud as if they’d just witnessed the end of a long and terrible war.

Meanwhile the Porsche 911 GT3 doesn’t even drink alcohol at all. It orders sparkling mineral water because it’s driving tomorrow morning and unlike every other car here, it actually has somewhere important to be: a mountain road at sunrise, humiliating lesser machinery while sounding like Wagner performed through titanium exhaust pipes.

The GT3 doesn’t need to shout.

It already knows it’s the best thing in the car park.

Writer

Adam Woodruff