5,000

5,000

‘I’ll give you five grand. Full and final offer.’

The Porsche 944 had seen better days. Much better days. Back then, in the shimmering summer of 1985, it had left its Mayfair showroom like a regal show pony. Mike Delaney had been so excited with his stunning new motor that within fifteen minutes he’d accidentally wrapped it around a lamp post in Pimlico. This had led to a rather tense conversation with both his wife, Hilary, and his insurance broker, Maurice.

Somehow this start of Mike’s relationship with the 944 meant they were never able to truly bond and within 2 years he’d traded it in for a newer model. He did the same with his wife. He kept Maurice.

The silver Porsche, lux by name and lux by nature, found itself purchased by Harold Smith-Crummins within 3 weeks of being back on the market. The family loved it, although the three children constantly fell out about who got to sit in the middle in the back where there was technically no seat. Eventually the youngest, Nigel, convinced his mother that the car was doing dreadful things to his coccyx and Harold was forced to buy a more suitable family car. Yes, the Volvo arrived. The Porsche, however, remained his pride and joy for 15 more glorious years until, in 2002, he found getting out of the car was simply too tricky for a 22 stone old aged man in his late 50’s with the onset of idleness and arthritis.

The 944 found its way into Autotrader and, after several months and five unsuccessful punter visits, the car was sold to Billy ‘The Teeth’ from Clapham. Billy got the nickname ‘The Teeth’ on account of his legendary visit to a Turkish dentist in Balham in the late 90’s. He’d gone for a full set of pearly whites only for the works to be a disaster as, one by one, they all fell out. This was a great shame for Yusef the Turk who found an urgent need to leave the country on account of Billy being a gangster. The sad story had a happy ending with Billy going to Ankara for the teeth to be done again and coming back with the most perfect, shiniest, whitest, straightest set of teeth ever seen in the Clapham gangster community.

Billy loved his Porsche, a car that had been cared for so very well by the previous gentleman owner. He and his fifth wife, ‘Loose Lips’ Linda, would regularly leave the mean streets of Clapham for trips to the east coast and dreams of a non violent retirement. Sadly this all came to a crushing end when Billy crossed Dan ‘The Hammer’ Jackson, and Billy once again found himself without teeth and an urgent need to raise some cash for another Turkish trip. The Porsche had to go.

It’s 2005. Star Wars is back on the big screen, hurricane Katrina is wreaking havoc, and the 944 sits unused on the drive of Barbara Goodall. She’d bought it on a whim with a windfall from an unknown third Aunt from Coventry and, despite best intentions to pass her driving test, a 92 year old with a severe cataract in one eye and glass in the other, was always going to make this car purchase a chancy one. 3 years passed and when Bab’s shuffled off this mortal coil, it was left to her executors, namely Horace Wilpole’s solicitors, to sell the now weather worn car.

Harry Bludgeon bought it with the intention of renewal and profit. As 2010 arrived, summer falling gracefully like a well worn coat across the country lanes of Essex, Harry went to market the car and boom, he sold it with a grand loss of £325:63p. That included the advertising costs, but not the 583 cups of tea and 964 biscuits consumed whilst spending time on the improvement.

Bernie Hardcastle bought the Porsche as his third car to make him feel young and vigorous again. For an 84 year old it was quite the aim, and for several summers it worked. Bernie took anyone of his 3 lady friends out on trips and sometimes all at once! It was on one such trip with Alice Gracegirdle in June 2014 when a bit of nip and tuck in the less than suitable backseat, led to Bernie having a heart attack. He did, at least, manage to leave this world with a large smile on his face and his trousers around his ankles.

Bernie’s son kept the Porsche for a few years, but was never able to truly shake the memory of his father’s saucy passing in the back of the motor. The car then once again found itself in the pages of autotrader, its value reflective of its falling status.

Maggie Charlesworth bought it for her and Jasper, her treasured shih-poo, and the Porsche found itself back in inner city London, this time in upmarket Brompton. The 944 sat outside the smart Georgian terrace and on the odd occasion went for a little circle of the block with Maggie and Jasper barking for joy.

And so to the summer of 2025 and Gerald Munster, grand nephew of the now deceased Maggie, was the latest to sell the Porsche. His eccentric great aunt had been knocked over by an ice cream van driven by a mad Peruvian monk, high on dandelion leaves. It made the papers with one headline screaming ‘Monkey Business in Brompton.’

Gerald was now selling the car to a burly older chap who’d answered the ad on Facebook. He had optimistically gone for a £7,500 sale price figuring that £6K would be a fair result.

‘I’ll give you five grand. Full and final offer,’ said the buyer with a weathered face and noticeably fantastic white teeth.

‘Done,’ said Gerald, extending his hand for the firmest handshake he’d ever experienced.

A X

(Blip rocks)