While I was in NZ on holidays recently I found a Top Gear book, and one particular bit particularly amused me:
The default supercar for the post-war European male is, was, and probably always will be, the Porsche 911. Although finely honed and all too ordinary today, it was a unique proposition a few years back, both in terms of its looks and its handling. Or rather, the lack thereof. Porsche ran a sort of accidental eugenics programme for the best part of thirty years, by producing a car that appealed to one of society’s least likeable types, and then promptly wrapping him around a tree.