Kilian Doyle went into the Dublin motor show grumbling - but came out smiling
It was my first motor show. I was decidedly underwhelmed at the prospect. Ogling cars I'll never own doesn't exactly light fires for me. Still, it was Ireland's first show for over a decade. So I mingled with the masses, the vast majority male. Quelle surprise.
All you could see through the doors from the queue to get in to the RDS were three gleaming Ferraris. Any second thoughts at handing over the whopping €15 entrance fee were quickly dispelled as they beckoned us, siren-like, with their sculpted haunches.
Call me a philistine, but Ferraris leave me cold. I find them smug, self-congratulatory, sleazy. It's probably because I've never driven one.
Luckily, what was tethered in the field beside the prancing horses was a far classier beast - the Aston Martin DB9. This is an astoundingly gorgeous car. And the Vanquish lurking in its shadow wasn't far behind in the aesthetics department. I hadn't paid in, but just being in the same room as cars with such gargantuan presence would have been worth it. Unfortunately, about 300 people had the same reaction and I couldn't get anywhere near them.
I made straight for the classic car room, striding purposefully through the hustle of the main pavilion. It was an oasis of calm, containing - among other wondrous machines - a corner of immaculately-preserved and obviously deeply time-consuming Triumphs and, taking over half the room, the most incredible collection of Jaguars, from 1935 to the present. Lovingly presented by the Daimler Jaguar Trust, its collective worth was apparently a cool €15 million.
Among them was my car of the show, the 1992 XJ220. Vulgar, ostentatious, hideously expensive, but . . . I wanted one. Only 200-odd of these 212mph monsters were ever made. Perhaps that's because they cost £400,000, astronomical money now, never mind 12 years ago.
One of the Jaguar team leaned towards me, conspiratorially, and whispered a little secret into my ear - Elton John's is up for sale for £150,000. I scuttled off. I didn't want one that badly.
Outside, the first thing I saw was a man selling disposable cameras for a fiver. Smart chap. I handed over the cash and ran back to from whence I came, snapping half a roll of film on the XJ220.
In the main hall, the atmosphere was markedly different to the one of hushed awe next door. It was like walking out of the Louvre and into the Liffey Valley shopping centre at Christmas time. It was raging consumerism, and a bit spit'n'sawdust, to be honest. Stalls flogging Formula One team hats and shirts, vendors knocking out everything from air fresheners to wheel braces. An eager salesman thrusted an Isuzu Trooper catalogue at me, nearly getting a slap for his impudence.
Apart from the cars for sale, practically every machine was emblazoned with warnings for us grubby proles to keep our filthy mitts off the paintwork. There were more "Do Not Touch" signs than in a lap dancing club. Luckily, those who did touch - and there were many - weren't brought outside and given a kicking by the bouncers, but rather were stared at witheringly by attendants armed with Windolene and dustcloths.
Speaking of half-naked women, the show was distinctly lacking in what men of my father's generation would refer to - not unkindly - as "dollybirds". I had expected scores, but counted only about six, all apparently thoroughly enjoying the drooling males of all ages straining to sneak gawps down their cleavages. One of them was so orange I was unsure if was the fake tan or if she was suffering from a bizarre skin condition.
Anyway, she and three others were paraded outdoors to the car park for what was one of the most entertaining bits of the show - an exhibition by Terry Grant, stunt-driver to the stars. "He's got 11 world records for stunt driving, you know," his announcer told us. "Ooohh!" we all gasped.
Poor Terry. It was a minor disaster. His main stunt car blew up. Not literally - it just left half its gearbox on the tarmac within the first 30 seconds. Terry and his mechanic tried to tie the engine back together with bits of rope, to no avail.
Fortunately, he had a TVR handy, which he proceeded to flung in ever-decreasing figure of eights around the four clearly terrified girls, tyres belching white smoke.
I decided to go back inside, avoiding the field full of boy racers and their modified cars completely. If we ignore them, maybe they'll go away.
"TVR was named after a bloke called Trevor!" the announcer was telling the crowds still marvelling at Twisting Terry. Whew, I thought, relieved I hadn't decamped a minute earlier. Imagine, I could have gone to the grave without being aware of that nugget.
As I walked back into the main hall, I came across the TVR display. Whoever Terry was, he must be mighty proud - they are gorgeous cars. Fast and bulbous, they look like they were designed by Salvador Dali in a playful mood. They ooze fun. And all for the price of a boring old Merc. No contest in my book.
I'd been there an hour and a half. And I'd seen everything. Twice. And I'd managed -despite myself - to enjoy it all. As, I'm pretty sure, did the other 40,000 people who'd passed the Ferraris over the three days of the show.
As a parting gesture, I queued for 15 minutes for the pleasure of sitting in the DB9. It was breathtaking, even while stationary. I could only imagine what it would be like on the open road. On the way home I went straight to the nearest newsagents for a Lotto ticket. I didn't win. Maybe next year.