Sniff Petrol issue 34

2003 will be a year of massive global recession according to senior economists, and the impending financial meltdown can be attributed to one significant factor - high powered supercars. One of the first to reach this alarming conclusion was Professor Randy Frigbasket, Head of Automobiles Studies at St Bernard College in Schnorbitz, California. 'It's actually real simple,' Prof Frigbasket explains. 'In the late 1980s and early '90s we saw a raft of very high powered supercars launched; Jaguar XJ220, Bugatti EB110, Cizeta V16T, McLaren F1 and so on. No sooner had they gone on sale than the world's economy slumped. Fast forward to the present day and count the number of supercars coming in 2003: Porsche Carrera GT, Mercedes-McLaren SLR, Bugatti Veyron, Bentley Continental GT plus deliveries of the Ferrari Enzo, the Edonis and, from Sweden, something called the Koenigsegsegseg. There can be only one conclusion - the economy's fucked.'
However, before people stop blathering on about how much money they've made on their fucking house and start panicking instead, there is one ray of hope. The British government is one of the first to take Professor Frigbasket's prediction seriously and has drawn up a radical plan to prevent these economically catastrophic supercars from ever going on sale. Under the brave new scheme each supercar maker will be infiltrated by a crack team whose sole aim is to ensure that, despite orders being taken, no actual cars will ever be delivered. The team will comprise of a range of inexperts taken from former staff at Jensen, Strathcarron and Marcos. Their collective expertise in the field of failure will be co-ordinated by beardy inventionator Sir Clive Sinclair. We rang Sir Clive for further comment but he had invented a new phone system for his house based around washing machine motors and squelchy rubber keys and it didn't seem to work properly.

The brand new BMW-designed Rolls-Royce isn't just about a clean sheet engineering programme and a purpose built factory in Sussex, we can exclusively reveal today. As part of a comprehensive plan to make the reborn Roller a unique automotive landmark, all BMW staff involved in the project have taken part in an extensive training scheme to make them as traditionally British as possible. 'That's right old boy,' agreed spokesman Hans 'Bunty' Weismann-Smythe. 'Self conscious use of the words 'motor car' in press releases is just the start, dontcha know. Now those blasted Jerries at Volkswagen have been shown what's what we're free to get this bally crate off the ground and we'll be doing it in a way that's as dashed British as Her Majesty the Queen or eggs, bacon and knockwurst. Erm, sausages. I meant sausages�'
Under the radical new reinvention programme all Project Rolls-Royce staff have been forced to watch up to 40 hours of 'talkies' from the Ealing Studios using the very latest in cinematic projection devices. BMW bosses have also offered financial incentives to any employee who grows a large moustache and adopts an appropriate nickname which can be used during company time. 'Yes, that's been jolly successful,' Weismann-Smythe crowed. 'I was just saying to Ginger and Corky, this bally moustache caper has been quite a wheeze. I haven't had so much fun since that time at school when we stole matron's bloomers and hoisted them up the flagpole. Lawks! Blimey! What ho! Etcetera.'
In line with this innovative stab at Britishness the new Rolls-Royce base in Goodwood has been fitted with extensive oak panelling, roaring log fires and stirring portraits of Churchill, Gladstone and Higgins out of Magnum P.I.
'It's all so bally British,' Weismann-Smythe continued. 'You know it makes one want to sing Land of Hope and Glory� which of course we do every day, just before Pater says Grace at suppertime.'
Sniff Petrol tried to point out that Weismann-Smythe was actually born in Haimhausen near Munich but he had inexplicably gone off to get a large, four engined propeller plane with which to bomb himself.

Former Volkswagen Group chairman Ferdinand Piech is becoming an increasing 'burden' according to sources within the company's Wolfsburg headquarters. Piech retired from VW last year and, having toyed with devoting his new-found free time to creating 'some sort of master race' or 'blowing up the moon', he seemed to settle into a steady retiree's routine of playing bridge, pottering in the gardens of his care home and killing squirrels. However, It now seems that these were merely diversions and, with the rules of bridge successfully re-written and the shutline tolerances on the lawn / flowerbed interface now reduced to a class leading 5mm, Piech is missing his old employer.
'Not so long ago he was happy with just visiting at weekends,' claims one senior VW manager. 'Then we got into a routine of visiting him at least once a week too, and he'd get very stroppy if you hadn't brought him some engineering drawings or maybe a prototype ashtray lid assembly. Now he seems to be round here all the time.'
Other sources were quick to agree; 'Dr Piech keeps shuffling into the purchasing offices,' claimed another high ranking member of staff. 'He always says, "Don't mind me, I'll just keep out of your way" but last week he heard me arguing with Teves on the phone and asked me if our relationship was strained. Then he told a collegue he thought I was seeing other ABS suppliers behind their back.'
Worried VAG employees say Piech is even dropping by unannounced after they have taken him home following weekend visits. 'Last month we were busy load testing prototypes of the MkV Golf at the Ehra-Lessien test track when he just turned up unannounced,' complained one engineer. 'He insisted he was "just looking" but we later discovered that he'd recalibrated the cooling fan thermostat for the automatic transmission models and specified a new sort of one piece door seal whilst we weren't looking. Why can't he just let us run our own lives?'
Unfortunately no end is in sight for weary VW staff. Despite a board level directive to have care home staff confiscate his bus pass, Piech reportedly turned up at a durability test session for the next Audi A6 in the Namibian desert, claiming to be 'just passing.'
'Oh God,' wailed one engineer. 'I think he's built himself some sort of helicopter.'

Regular Sniff Petrol readers may have noticed that last month's issue of the interweb's most orange car-based netsite did not appear as promised. This delay was not, as reported elsewhere, because Sniff Petrol 'couldn't be arsed' or was 'doing proper work for, like, money' but was in fact the result of an unfortunate accident in which the ship carrying a fresh consignment of jokes and crudely Photoshopped pictures capsized in the English Channel.
Some fans of the website once described as 'quite funny' by a man we met at a party may not realise that for almost a year many of the features you see on this page are assembled in Germany to ensure top quality and a high standard of fit and finish (unless you use an old version of Netscape. Then the text all overlaps and looks shit. Apparently). When the Sniff Petrol ship fell over all the precision jokes meant for the December issue were lost. Environmentalists are now working flat out to contain a small car-related joke slick which is threatening to amuse bird life on the coast of Belgium. Meanwhile marine salvage experts have decided just to loaf about a bit allowing the stricken vessel itself to become like that bit of loose carpet outside the kitchen which everyone remembers to fix only when someone else trips over it again, or - in this case - twats into it with 43,000 tonnes of bloody great boat.

(oo) What you want. (oo) Baby, I got. (oo) What you need. (oo) Do you know I got it? (oo) All I'm askin'. (oo) Is for a little respect when you come home (just a little bit). Hey baby (just a little bit) when you get home (just a little bit) mister (just a little bit).
I ain't gonna do you wrong while you're gone. Ain't gonna do you wrong (oo) 'cause I don't wanna (oo). All I'm askin' (oo). Is for a little respect when you come home (just a little bit). Baby (just a little bit) when you get home (just a little bit). Yeah (just a little bit). I'm about to give you all of my money. And all I'm askin' in return, honey is to give me my propers. When you get home (just a, just a, just a, just a). Yeah baby (just a, just a, just a, just a). When you get home (just a little bit). Yeah (just a little bit).
------ instrumental break ------
Ooo, your kisses (oo). Sweeter than honey (oo). And guess what? (oo). So is my money (oo). All I want you to do (oo) for me. Is give it to me when you get home (re, re, re ,re). Yeah baby (re, re, re ,re). Whip it to me (respect, just a little bit). When you get home, now (just a little bit). D-E-T-R-O-I-T Find out what it means to me. D-E-T-R-O-I-T. Take care, TCB. Oh (sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me). A little respect (sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me). Whoa, babe (just a little bit). A little respect (just a little bit). I get tired (just a little bit). Keep on tryin' (just a little bit). You're runnin' out of fools' (just a little bit). And I ain't lyin' (just a little bit). (re, re, re, re) 'spect. When you come home (re, re, re ,re). Or you might walk in (respect, just a little bit). And find out I'm gone (just a little bit). I got to have (just a little bit). A little respect (just a little bit). So roll on Geneva!

Our resident car dealer casts his eye over the best buys of 2003.

When you slap your fat on a spanky Gareth you're always going to piss in a wicker biscuit. But there are ways to stop your hands from leaking. One way is to parp through a witch's tit on something that other Garys are going to be greasing their faces to rub. And in 2003 my ankles are on these twats:

Beetle Cabrio: We all finger the Bunghole but now Peepshow have slashed the puke off it and that means it's gonna be up to its arse in nasty. If you can fondle one in 2003 you'll be smelling wet gas. Grunty.

Volvo XC90: At last the Dirties give fuck monkeys a seeing to with a good length that's also a brilliant for service. Seven turds, sacks of smoothly and mess with my sister. Only frig is tight sphincter which means if you've handled one you'll be sitting on a platter of gas. Bum.

BMW Z4: At last a full cocked blowhole from the Bandit. But that means hefty panting from more easy Janets than the Alans who parped on the old one. That'll suggest that it's packed with cress for the firmly styled Gary. Smack your gran. Jesus.

Smart Roadster: Lick my crisps if this one doesn't honk like a cheesehorse in 2003. Even spamhatter ones will scratch serious nodgers in the first part of the weasel so toast your knackers sharply if you want to feel a sturdy burst in this year's saucy panhandle. Nigel Havers. Minty.

The Paris-Dakar Rally is the race even people who aren't interested in rallying aren't interested in. So Sniff Petrol is almost delighted to present the diary of rally correspondent, Barry Dackar, to explain the mysterious allure of this mysteriously alluring event.

Day 1, somewhere in Spain. A lot of people can't see the attraction of the Paris-Dakar rally, particularly seeing as it involves neither Paris nor Dakar. But when you've had a day like mine, the critics are silenced and no mistake. After six hours solid spectating, I finally saw a car that looked a bit like a van tear past on the horizon. It may have been a competitor, in which case it was exciting. God I love rallying.

Day 2, somewhere in Africa. I remember being teased back home by non-rally fans, saying 'what's the point of travelling 3000 miles to stand in the middle of a desert, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone you've never heard of driving a plume of dust'. But I just say 'roll on the next stage'. Didn't see any cars today - think I may be lost.

Day 3, somewhere else in Africa. I am lost. Got mauled by an animal. Covered in bite marks. Still, all part of the fun - you don't get that on the Network Q! The boys back at the Crumpsall & District Rally Supporters Association will be so jealous; at last Ron Lombard and his bloody "Monte Carlo Splinter" can sod off!

Day 4, somewhere still in Africa. Asked a native, who'd earlier stood next to the friend of an driver's mechanic, to sign my blue Subaru bobble hat. Another one of rallying's plus points - you can get so close to the action! Take note, Mr Ecclestone!!

Day 5, Le Hotel Joe Orton, Marrakesh. Thought I'd pop in for a drink of water - my supply had run out at Dover and I was feeling a little parched. A kindly journalist revived me - he couldn't understand why I didn't just watch Eurosport and phone a report back home from the pool side. Pish pish!

Barry Dacker is now missing, presumed dull