The Fordborghini, on the other hand, there are so many ways you could go about finishing that thing, you'd never settle on a course of action. Psuedolambo all the way.

 Reply

I can't decide whether it needs six chromed velocity stacks coming through the hood, or an enormous hood scoop.

 Reply

And in a flag-waving, cricket playing, tea drinking, home-fires burning, bad dentistry having, fish 'n chips eating, empire-surrendering, financial crisis suffering, egotistical, bigotted and quasi-patriotic way it really ought to be the Lagonda by a country mile.

Particularly the Lagonda after recieving some sort of later Aston Martin V8 or straight-six transplant, possibly by way of an Eaton blower or two. Yeah, it should walk it.

And yet. Like the eight-legged goat in the science museum that you can't help going back to and marvelling at the freakishness of it all, the WhatTheFuborghini demands my attention. The very exsistence of such a monstrosity deserves recognition, that it has been allowed to survive this long is nothing short of miraculous.

It has been a while sice I saw such a display of automotive wrongability. I feel it needs a Rain-Man sort of loving and nourishment, to some how give it dignity and respect in this cruel, cruel world.

Wrongborghini. Out of charity if nothing else.

 Reply

With the Fordborghini, eventually you'll run out of lacquer thinner to hufff, sober up and come to your senses. One five minute phone call, two hours later, and your project is being towed out of your yard on its way to the crusher. How much easier could it be?

 Reply

Then I stopped laughing, and looked at the Lagonda ad.

I'm sure that it will go for significantly more than the current $1k, but that would be a lovely recipient for the 1977 pre-HE Jaguar 5.3 V12 I've got sitting, waiting for a project. The Lagonda owners' group purists might want to lynch me, but they'd have to catch me in their Lagonda.

And any mere Lagonda aficionado would probably let it slide, since I kept it all British.

 Reply

Your sick fetish for British things has really gotten the better of you this time. Or at least, that's what you tell yourself as the flatbed dumps this heap of British Opulence onto your driveway. Your wife looks hatefully at the sorry carcass of an automobile in the driveway, gives you a sharp look of disapproval and goes back into the house without saying a word.

The Lagonda is a special kind of car. "It'll be worth hundreds of thousands when I'm done!" You tell your wife. She begrudgingly allows you to continue squandering your nest egg on this thing. You're telling the truth, yes, it will be worth hundreds of thousands in bone-stock form...

But you can't be bothered to restore it to Bone Stock. Bone stock in this day and age-- technology more than half a century old-- That's not Lagonda. Lagonda is about being overly complicated, ambitious and luxuriant.

The fact that it comes devoid of headlights permits you the opportunity to have complete artistic freedom with a car that might otherwise be considered a concours winner when finished. Not for you, oh no.

Three liters? To hell with that.

No, you need a modern five point nine liter V12 from a DB9. Of course, this car needs the fancy flappy-paddle gearbox to truly be opulent, and so you scavenge the gauge cluster from a DB9 as well. The power and the luxury of 12 cylinders fits your motives perfectly. You also snake the air-con from the DB9, because driving without air-con in Southern CA is simply uncivilized.

Having scavenged the engine, tranmission and most of the steering column from a DB9, you continue in your project, having already robbed yourself of several thousand pounds to get the project this far.

But wait, you're missing suspension, too.

You scavenge the rear suspension from an MN12 Thunderbird. The 5x108 lug pattern fits perfectly.

For brakes, you opt for a set of Wilwood 6-piston front and 4-piston rear calipers. Yes, they're aftermarket,but you grind down the Wilwood logos and have a set of CNC machined Lagonda logos welded onto the calipers, giving the appearance of stock when they are far from it.

It's fucking genius, you think, already prematurely congratulating yourself on your wit.

Now there's the issue of wheels.

You, naturally, opt for a set of beautifully machined one-piece wheels from OZ, a rather modest set of 17" Superturismo GTs, fitting with the styling of the AM DBR9 LM car's wheels.

In a manner of four weeks, you've cobbled together enough of a car to be functional-- but you've sunk yourself thirty thousand in debt already, and then there's still the issue of glass, lights, the interior!!

Yes, you now have a rolling chassis. Your wife does not look thrilled with your progress. "I don't like the styling." She complains. You scowl at her, telling her "How dare you criticize a masterpiece like this!" Push comes to shove quite quickly, and the argument ends with your wife taking the kids, the BMW and her half of the joint account, going back to 'live with her mother.' It won't last, you reassure yourself. Once the project's over she'll come around and life will never have been better.

The car still needs lights, and the best replacement are the headlights from the Brabus G-Class SUV-- Projectors the perfect size for your Lagonda, fitted with HIDs. And now you're left with the taillights. Naturally, those must be updated to a set of completely custom LED taillamp assemblies.

Absolutely gorgeous. Getting custom sideglass made for the side windows was an easy enough task-- it was the curved rear window that presented the issue. Luckily, some rich yahoo in the Lagonda Club happens to have a spare, and begrudgingly sells it to you for the bargain price of a grand.

Now you invest the remaining funds you have into the interior of the car. Naturally, only a rich, deep burgundy leather befits a car of such luxury.

As you delve deeper into the British Opulence of the Lagonda, you decide that you too must look the part. You grow out a Moustache, and realize that your hair has gone white from the stress of completing the project. Ah, yes, but white hair matches the silver hue of your Lagonda.

You've always worn glasses, but it seems that only your right eye really needs the corrective lens-- your left is fine. So, you procure a monacle, and fit it over your right eye. Ah, you feel more British already.

You have your Lagonda loaded up once more on the flat bed, and deliver the car to a Lowrider leather upholstery shop in Wilmington-- a place where you can find outstanding craftsmanship at a very un-Lagonda price tag.

With some time on your hands now, you feel that now would be an ideal time to have yourself a congratulatory brew. In the span of a few short months, you've been the mastermind of concocting a genius resto-mod of a Lagonda. The loss of your wife and children has actually allowed you to focus more on the project, with your work receiving even less attention that usual.

You stroll into the liquor store and buy yourself a six-pack of Blandford Fly from the BevMo-- never mind that it's unrefrigerated-- and have yourself a couple of nice, warm brewskies.

You wipe a bit of froth from your white Moustache as you plop down in your recliner at home and flip on BBC world news.

And then, the shop calls, and off you go to retrieve your Lagonda.

As the flatbed delivers your complete Lagonda onto your driveway, you stroll up, knowing that now is the time. Having completed your project, you giddily stride up to the driver's door, pull the shiny chrome handle and step into your luxuriant automobile. Till now, you'd dared not fire up your Lagonda. Now, you fire it up, the DB9's V12 roaring briefly, then settling down to a gentle purr. How fitting of this glorious car. And yet, it is far from what Lagonda had originally built back in 1956. You decide to take the car for a spin, and pull out onto the street.

And then, from behind a van across the street comes a long, low white wedge-shaped Sedan... it's oddly familiar.

And then another one in black.

And then another.

It's the Lagonda club. And they've come to exact revenge on you for your crime of restomodding what could have been a concours-grade restoration, now irreversably modified.

You gun the throttle, all twelve cylinders rolling. And then in front of you appear two more Lagonda sedans.

They jam on the brakes in front of you, and naturally, you stomp on yours. The six piston front calipers grab mercilessly, and you slam your mouth onto the steering wheel, knocking your teeth out of alignment and bloodying your lips. You throw the car into reverse and flee as fast as you can. And in front of you stands a crowd of Lagonda club members, holding pitchforks and torches. They're calling for a lynching. They're calling your name.

By now you realize that perhaps your life would have been better having never gotten involved with this car-- but it's too late for that. The crowd closes in on the car and yanks you out of the driver's seat, and instantaneously you are bombarded by a flurry of white gloved fists and glossy black dress shoes.

You awake an unknown amount of time later, feeling drowsy and quite sore in a grassy green field. You sit up, and notice a road at your left. There's a sign. It reads, "Welcome to Wisconsin."

Welcome to another kind of Project Car hell. Where your resto-modding of a marque like Lagonda has led to your beating and delivery into what the Lagonda club considers hell. I guess it's not that bad, actually. Except now you're broke, look British and are in Wisconsin. Ouch.

 Reply

[karakullake.blogspot.com]

 Reply