An open letter to men with fast cars and fancy watches
Nothing screams erectile dysfunction as loudly as a diamond encrusted Rolex.
In my vast experience of travelling the globe, participating in royal activities, grand soirees, and through my exposure to the well heeled, I have come to the conclusion that it takes a certain type of man to sport a watch the value of which would feed several villages in the Sudan for years. As well, one would perhaps think that in light of the Global Financial Cock-up, those with fat wallets pillaged from haemorrhaging shareholders would catch on that discretion is the better part of valour – or at least, prudent during our Bernie Madoff days.
But these men are of a sad, and certain age, needy of ego and (I suspect) with erections propped up by Viagra and carbon based stones. Some have emerged from communist China with newly found capitalist bank accounts and they want everyone to know it. Occasionally, they are Hip Hop gangsta rappers who believe that extra bling will function as a light source if ever marooned in the wilderness. Certain Queensland property developers have also been known to sport the links of time & tack, co-coordinating their ensembles with white shoes.
Sometimes they are very minor members (and have minor members – again I hasten to add, I suspect) of a Middle Eastern Royal family riding on the coat-tails of their Oxford educated cousins. They may hail from Moscow and be of an entrepreneurial bent. Occasionally, the species, known as nouveau riche, or self-fabricated man, is also known to frequent Bellevue Hill and Double Bay, or the owner’s circle during Spring Racing Carnival in Melbourne.
As disparate as they are geographically, the common belief these males all seem to hold, is that once blinded by the eye burning reflections from all that gold, crystal and diamond, young, leggy and gormless women will love them for themselves. Did I mention the moon is purple with green spots?
Which brings me to the classic MMV (Male Menopause Vehicle), think man well over forty five, driving a Ferrari, Aston Martin or Porsche. Rule of thumb: the larger the horse power, the smaller the inside leg measurement; better performance on the road, lacklustre performance in the bedroom (or so I suspect).
On any sunny morning, or amidst the dappled afternoon light caressing the tree lined streets, these overly tanned, often recently divorced men, travel the upper middle class highways surrounding our best performing postcodes, nary making it past second gear and sporting white baseball caps (covering a thinning pate) and tasselled leather loafers as they sit ensconced in their shiny convertibles.
In the evenings, these specimens of motor enthusiasm frequent leather “sofa-ed” nightspots and dangle key-chains artfully between freshly manicured fingertips in order to attract jersey clad Paris Hilton doppelgangers with the promise of being allowed to “take my car for a spin later”. It’s all attention on the chassis – little deliverance on the performance and predictably, no understanding of the transmission – particularly with the later models.
Personally, I love four on the floor and a tiger in the, er, tank, but I prefer high performance and all its accoutrements to be evinced with imagination and flair, not over-revved and under driven with a poor c*utch handling technique.
So gentlemen be warned; tasteful and discreet is best when it comes to wrist-wear and cars. One should wear a watch, not the watch wear one. It simply doesn’t pay to advertise your shortcomings.
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