Cars, men's men, boys' talk, more cars and the desirability of not gettting into debt

Posting on this blog virtually every five minutes while I was on holiday has rather given me a taste for it, so in the spirit of the great British pastime to Establish A Tradition (And Any Tradition Will Do, The More Pointless The Better), I shall tell you all - both - about my new car. That should be 'new' car, because it is, in fact, more than nine years old and has had two previous owners. The major feature in its favour is that it is not the pile of shit I have been driving these past two years and which was due for its MoT on October 3. To be fair, it wasn't a pile of shit when I bought it (from the garage which services my cars and from whom I bought this new ('new') one and the one before the one before the car I got rid of yesterday.
This one is also a Rover, V registration and has only don 77,000 odd miles, so it should be good. The body is also in quite good nick, but for me its unique selling point was that Rob Gibbons, the Cornish garage owner with whom I swap both jokes and cars, only wanted £800 for it. The previous on, an R registration Rover, which had already done 131,000 when I bought it and was not much of a looker. It looked a tad shabby and, for example, Princess Di or any of her circle would never have been seen dead in it. But it was safe, warm and took me to London and back at least 60 over these past two years. However, the power steering had been making also sorts of noises first thing in the morning and especially in the colder months, two tyres were barely legal and the exhaust was shot to pieces. All in all I calculated that it would take at least £600 to correct everything, buy the tyres and get it through the MoT, so the £800 I paid for this one, which comes with six months tax and a full 12-month MoT seems worth it. It's like getting a better car for £200. (Or is that Irish logic?) I had only bought the one this one replaced as an emergency vehicle because the one before another Rover, though N registration (keep up at the back, you are wasting no one's time but your own) was damaged beyond any reasonable hope after I had several too many sherries while visiting my stepmother on a cold December day in 2007 crashed into a county council white van while tearing around our narrow Cornish lanes far to fast.
I should also point out that as far as cars are concerned, I am not a 'man's man'. In fact, as far as I can tell I am not a man's man in any other respect except when talking football, rugby and snooker and 'totty' (lovely word that, which will mean bugger all to our American friend). Cars, leave me cold except when it comes to attempting small repairs. All that twin-carb, supercharged talk leaves me cold. I went to West End Motors in Bodmin to see what might be available to me under the £2,000 scrappage scheme and it seems I could have been able to drive away in a brand new Nissan Micra for £4,999 all in. But why get into debt? I tried to persuade myself finally to join the human race and buy a brand new car for a change, but I failed.
Amen, or as we men's men say 'she's got a lovely pair of headlamps'. Boom, boom.