Well, yes. Because within a year or two, I'd be completely bankrupt. The first order of business would be to increase performance. Of course, since having both the Alpine and the Sceptre would put me high in the running for America's Greatest Rootes Group Enthusiast, an engine swap is out of the question. That means I'd spend about the cost of a nice, rust-free Hillman Minx squeezing 135 horses out of that nice little Rootes mill so that I could get blown away by Accords and Camrys. Eventually, I'd be living in the Sceptre, which will tow my Alpine on a trailer. But since the Sceptre lacks the lookalike Rambler's fold-flat seats-- and since 135 high-strung, Weber-fed ponies aren't really enough to tow an Alpine on a trailer-- I'd have to sell the Sceptre and find a bigger vehicle to live in. A bigger Rootes vehicle, of course, since by that time I will have completely succumbed to Rootes Group-related dementia. A Sunbeam/ Commer Funwagon might work as a living space, but if a Sceptre can't tow, than neither can a full-sized motorhome with the same tiny engine. That leaves only one choice...

I'm glad I don't have space in my garage for this Humber Sceptre. Because if I did, I'd buy it, and if I bought it, eventually I'd be living in the back of a 1949 Humber Super Snipe estate.

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let's face it, if you're going to buy a car like this, you want it to be obscure. The Simca is perfect for this. You would be able to buy it, destroy your life rebuilding it, and then when you completed it, everywhere you'd go, people would stop you and say, "I know cars, and I have no idea what that is!" For hours, you'd sit and regale them with stories of your adventures rebuilding them; people would ask to see inside it, under the hood. The joy of owning an obscure car is being able to tell the average car enthusiast all about it.

And for that reason, the Simca cannot be the choice.

Oh no, my friends, this is Project Car Hell, not Project Car Probably-Unpleasant-But-The-Payoff-In-The-End-Is-Worth-It! For that reason, it must be the Humber.

Look at that thing. Compact dimensions for the era of the land yacht. Round fenders with quad headlights. Simple, tasteful Chrome, some nice design touches, but completely unlike the American auto-buying public was lusting after in the late '50s and early '60s? Murilee knows what I'm talking about. Mike The Dog, too, if he's paying attention.

So you drag the Humber home; you go through everything Plecostomus describes, the loss of your wife, children, and dignity. And after you dry it out from its adventure in the lake -- and gradually come to your senses about the whole idea of British things being somehow positive -- you decide it would be nice to take it to some car shows. Perhaps you'll get to share your tales of woe with other British car owners! You'll get to regale random bypassers about the delightful obscurity that embodies your car. Sure, they might know about an MGB, but they won't know about a Humber! Oh, that would be nice.

You get to the car show, and instead of directing you to park near all the MGs, Jaguars, Triumphs, and Rovers, you are directed off to the back of the lot. To an isolated, seemingly-unloved section. You don't recognize any of the cars as you're pulling in... except... wait, isn't that a... oh, what? Sorry, yes, I'll pay attention, could you guide me as I back up? I can't see that curb.

You get out, and look around. What the hell is this? The car beside you appears to be a bastardized Amphicar. What? A Nash? Why the fuck are you parked by a Nash? You look around. There's a Hudson, another Nash, another Nash. Some long-haired slacker looking kids sitting on the hood of a blue Pacer. A Gremlin? An old Willys? A Hupmobile? What the hell is a Hupmobile? You turn around to the attendant to ask why you're parked way over here, and see that he's stuck your admission sheet on your window. You read what he's written: "1958 Rambler -- ORPHAN BRANDS SECTION"

You try and stop him as he walks away, explaining loudly that it's not a Rambler. He ignores you, and within seconds you're being surrounded by ancient men and women. One lady, whose skin has more folds than an Origami contest, corners you against the door of your car and starts regaling you with her fond memories of her Rambler experiences. "I lost my virginity in a Rambler just like this one. Those fold-down seats were the greatest. It was with a boy named Robert... Now that boy had a pecker on him, let me tell you!"

And she does. She tells you all about it. ALL about it. As she finally finishes her story and shuffles her walker away, a small ancient bald man with glasses the size of satellite dishes, and pants hiked up to his ribcage, opens the driver's side door. "The fold-down seats in these were the greatest!" he bellows at you over the squeal of his hearing aid. Before you can stop him, he's wrenched on the seat-adjust handle, and forced your seat back into a fully-reclined position. You stare, mouth agape, as the realization sets in that you don't have fold-down seats. Loudly enough for anyone within a city block to hear, he begins telling you a story remarkably like the one you'd just heard, about a girl named Annie, and about every anatomical detail he could remember about her... and he remembered a lot.

Your brain gradually comes to a screeching halt as you listen to him. For the next eight hours, one elderly person after another insists on telling you every graphic detail you never, ever, ever wanted to know about any old person's sex life. You try and protest, but it simply isn't possible. They can't hear you, and they don't care anyhow. They still have another three hours before the Handi-Bus takes them back to the assisted-living home.

The day ends, and you win the award for "Best AMC". You throw the award in your trunk in disgust, and drive home -- uncomfortably, due to the collapsed seat-back that will likely be almost impossible to repair.

The next morning, after a fitful night, with nightmares of elderly people doing stripteases for each other, you awake early. You make yourself a large pot of coffee, and by the seventh cup, you've made your decision.

You call the wrecking yard, and tell them you have a car that needs to be taken away and crushed. Crushed immediately, before you can change your mind. "Ah," says the voice on the other end. "Must be a British car. I understand, we'll be right over." You tell him you won't be home, but the keys are inside it, just take it away.

With a feeling of peace gradually washing over you, you head out to the car, and climb into the trunk. A feeling of relaxation washes over you as you jam the latch shut so they can't look inside, and you slip into a peaceful sleep.

Not even the sound of breaking glass and twisting steel interrupts your slumber.

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What I really need is a car which was never fashionable in any way. Not elegant. Not well built. Not good to drive. Not fun, nor cool to be seen in. Not impressive to the fairer sex. Not fast, not carrying any emotional baggage. Eccentric. Perhaps even pitiful.

The more tragic a car, the better and more surprising a total ground up makeover could be. You mention an SR20, but I feel that a screaming 4 is slightly off-message.

I propose, therefore, the S54. We're talking BMW, baby. Straight six normally aspirated incredibility. An Anglo German combine.

I propose also that I suddenly become 10 years younger, and own such a beast during high school. I can turn up in my prosaic and weird looking funny car from England on the first day of the semester. People talking about the weird guy with the quaint old English car.

Then, on the second day, on my lunch break, Rory, the Jock from the hockey team, who always gets the pick of the girls in each and every school year, is there at the lights in his 5.0. He has his ragtop down so his hair can blow. He learned to do that from some white rapper.

The lights turn green. Rory likes fast cars, but isn't really a driver. His automatic box gives him an immediate start off the line, but only because I've dropped the clutch and my 343 horsepower are completely overwhelming the rear beam axle. I grab second. Suddenly, the Yokohamas act as a second clutch, grasp at a big handful of blacktop and cannon me down the road. I pass Rory as his ox hesitantly changes to third, by which time we're well towards the quarter.

That afternoon, in Shop class, Rory is oddly quiet. Usually acting the fool, wisecracking around the teacher, he has taken a slightly contemplative demeanor. Chloe from the cheerleading squad takes a seat between Rory and myself, but nearer to me.

"You take me for a ride home later?"

"Perhaps... If you're lucky"

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Oh Project Car Hell, why do you tempt me so

My meager savings is not what I wanted to see blow

But some late-night knob-gobbling

Done fast, fast then slow

Now my lust will not leave me

And this car won't relieve me

As the tailpipe won't fit

Despite my attempts most unseemly

The Sceptre now sits in my driveway like a cancer

And my sceptre's needs are still unanswered

I'd do it myself, rub one out nice an neat

But my heart just isn't in it, I want lips on my lancer!

Now a Rootes car is nice and its smooth ride may tame us

Its storied history is really most famous

But it wasn't my goal

To undertake a project most lamest

No, I wanted satisfaction that only

Comes from telling someone to blow me

And now at full mast

My trouser snake is now most lonely

So I'll take on the project

Of the Humber with respect

Because I now have no choice

As my pleas have all been reject

So I'm left with my manhood a swell

And no money for a hooker to tell

That I can't pay for mouth music so sweet

Now that I'm living in Project Car Hell

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And a saucy Minx it is.

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Things don't go well from the start. The front bumper sits too low to get onto the back of the U-haul tow-dolly you rented-- damn your cheapness for being unwilling to rent the more expensive 4-wheel auto transport. After making a set of makeshift ramps, you coax the Humber onto the tow dolly and trailer home your prize, victorious.

You begin spending your free afternoons wrenching on the Humber. Your wife periodically pops into the garage, asking if you're done yet, and whether you'd like a lemonade. Lemonade be damned, you tell her. You want some afternoon tea. And scones.

After much thought, you realize that putting a Japanese SR20DET would be the easy way out, and your Humber would always be a bastardization of British and Japanese, not unlike Takuma Sato. No, you have to put something truly ridiculous into this car. A Rover 4.2 litre SOHC V8 should do it, proper power to match the Humber's "all business" looks.

After a month of tracking down just a handful of the electrical gremlins the British electrics present you, you blame it all on the fact that it was made for a bastard audience, and that it wouldn't have happened were the car properly right-hand-drive as it should have been.

Sick of the city, you move out to the country and into a quaint cottage reminiscent of the english countryside, enrolling your children in a british private school. You begin speaking with a Manchester british accent, much to your wife's dismay. You stop seeing the dentist, and throw away the invisalign you had spent thousands on just a few months ago. Dental care be damned. This is a british car, and things are better in Britain.

The Humber draws near completion, but your marriage has suffered heavily, and your children hate you for being torn away from their friends in the city so you can live a more British lifestyle. One day, while popping over to FedEx to get the last of the parts you've been special ordering from the UK, you find your wife and kids gone, a note on the front door informs you that they've moved in with her mother.

Damn the ingrates, they can't appreciate the time you've spent putting together a proper family car for them. Oh well, you don't need them.You begin dating the girl with bad teeth at work, unbothered by her jagged grin and slight bit of ponch, because she, like your car, is a British import.

With the last bit of trim, it's finally complete. You fire up the Humber for the first time, the Rover V8 chugging listlessly, begging to be taken out on the windy country road. You oblige, popping the car into gear and cruise out onto the windy country road upon which you now reside.

In your fever to make the car as British as possible, you have overlooked the suspension of this car. Used to the nimble handling of your modern Ford Focus (with European bumpers, no less), you attempt to thread the needle of a banked turn with the ages-old Humber. The tires shriek in protest, and the car sails through a wooden fence into a pasture, rolls down a hill and crashes into a pond. You scramble to unlock the doors as the car begins to sink, but the old door locks stick, and you can't get the driver's side door open. You scramble across to the passenger side door as water begins to fill the cabin of your Humber, water overtaking its electrical system as the engine cuts out, and the water level reaches the windshield. In a panic, you try the passenger door, and find it unable to open... exactly like that episode of Top Gear where Hammond tested this same thing. You kick the window and find the thick, old glass is too tough to shatter-- no wonder it had held together all these years. You can't see the surface anymore. The only thing to do now is wait for the cabin to fill and the pressure to equalize. You take your last breath, and sit calmly in your Humber, accepting the loss of your Humber. The cabin is filled completely with water now, and you feel the car set down on the bottom of the pond. You try the passenger door again. Still, nothing. You try again and again, frantically, your oxygen supply running low. Things get dark as you try to scream, and the last bubbles of air leave your lungs. You gulp in water, and the world goes black.

A few moments later, you slowly come to, on the shore of the pond, the Farmer having rescued you from drowning. "heh, you darn brits think you're so much better than us 'merican folk", the farmer chuckles. "I reckon that oughta teach you to be humber."

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Is that the muffler on TOP of the Humber engine?

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