Shane Hegarty's encyclopaedia of modern Ireland
You hear it before you see it. Thwoomp. Thwoomp. Thwoomp. The sound of 250 decibels of pure industrial hip hop crammed into metal. A dozen amplifiers and a rack of subwoofers ramming beats against a leather interior. Oompcha. Oompcha. It gets closer. Thwoomp. Thwoomp. Like the approach of a T. rex. If the T. rex wore a baseball cap, that is.
Suddenly, the thwoomp is joined by a vroom. Then you see it. A riot of painted flames and extravagant spoilers and eerie purple neon lights under the chassis. And for a brief moment the sound fills every corner of your world. Modified-car owners are usually generous enough to share their musical tastes with the public; sure that, as we bring our kids to the seaside amusements, we'll appreciate the soundtrack of "mother****er" being yelled over and over again at glass-rattling levels. If there's anything that a modified-car driver likes better than the freedom of the open road it's slow-moving traffic through which they can crawl and be appreciated by the wider world. Perhaps it's because the music is so loud that they don't realise that the wider world is muttering "idiot".
That kind of hackneyed response, they'll point out, is unfair. They are simply dedicated hobbyists, expressing their personalities through the media of fibreglass, alloy and stainless-steel twin exhausts. They are, almost exclusively, young men; but don't many settled adults also modify their cars? A "Baby on Board" sign on the rear window, perhaps. Or a tattered county-colours ribbon flapping from the aerial. Should we mock modified-car enthusiasts simply because they find it cool to fit a custom cover on their gear knob? OK, maybe that's not the best example.
Nor should they be confused with boy racers. They wouldn't put €10,000 into a car, they will say, just to drive it into a ditch. So they demand our respect. But somehow, we refuse to give it. Perhaps it's because the happy thrum of a sunny day at the seaside will inevitably be disturbed by the raging vrum of a modified Opel Corsa. Or that you'll inevitably get stuck beside a revving souped-up Peugeot 306 in a traffic jam. Or because of these guys there's a thousand episodes a day of Pimp My Ride on MTV. Or because they seem to consider a perfect handbrake turn to be man's ultimate test of skill. Or because there's something about a bright yellow car with fins that suggests that its driver is just as attractive. Or maybe it's because of the preponderance of bottle blondes and hoisted cleavage at their regular events. Modified cars is one hobby; modified women another altogether.