Farrari: Taiwan's greatest sports car

JUST last weekend I was offered a glimpse into a strange and exciting new world; one of someone who wasn't into their cars!

I know this because my friend - who, at the tender age of 23, is facing a midlife crisis - has decided she's got to start saving up for the ultimate Italian sports car. Yes, she wants to ditch her ageing Vauxhall Corsa for a Farrari.

A what, sorry? I thought it was Ferrari, with an 'e', that petrolheads the globe over get all misty-eyed over, but apparently no more. Lexus proved years ago that you can make a far-eastern motor that closely mimics a Mercedes - and still sell - so the idea of a cheap, knock-off Ferrari doesn't seem so far-fetched either.

Like Guccy watches and Nikey trainers, all Farraris would be made not by skilled Italian craftsman, but by small children in Taiwanese workshops, and then sold for £14.99. Compared to the £143,000 needed for the California, the real Ferrari's entry-level model, it's a bit of a bargain.

All Farraris would get plenty of power from their evocative two-stroke scooter engines, but then they'd need it to see off tough competition like the Porch 911 and the Lamburgini Murky Lager.

Luckily Farrari's fine racing heritage gives it a great pedigree and a following like no other. It might not be in F1, mind, but where better to showcase your sporting credentials than in the village cricket championship?

It's just a shame some of the models wearing that evocative prancing bull badge aren't quite up to scratch. The newest model, the 458 Ital, is clearly a minicab repainted in Italian Racing Red, while their entry-level roadster doesn't even have wheels.

As car firms go, I don't think Farrari's a bad one. Its cars might be a little lacking in some of the more important aspects - such as working - but five minutes of illustrious and imaginary heritage can't be wrong.

Once I'd finished my pint, I got back to the rather more pressing issue of cars that actually exist, and asked my co-drinker if she had anything else in mind.

"Definitely," she said sagely.

"A Kia Sedona would be lovely"...

The Lake District: a police state, apparently

ONE of my mates is convinced we’re living in some brutal and unfair police state.

She’d felt the full force of the police – that’s a £60 fine to you and me – for breaching the laws of the land, and reckons it’s all the fault of evil, target-hungry coppers. The only problem is, I agree with them.

Her crime was not being bothered to belt up, which I honestly think is one of the riskiest things you can do on the road, short of being drunk or drugged up. The last thing I’d want to do is pretend I’m a brilliant driver dancing around gingerly on the moral high ground – I’m not – but a £60 fine probably wasn’t enough.

I took a break from being a Champion reporter last Friday (even journalists get holidays sometimes) and headed for the Lake District, and at least twice on the rutted rivers they call roads up there I remembered why cars have seatbelts at all.

The old chap in Hawkshead who reversed his van into the side of a line of traffic – my car included – luckily didn’t do any damage, but I still breathed a sigh of relief that nobody was hurt. I had a couple of words with him about his breathtaking stupidity, but I don’t think he liked either of them.

But worst of all was Mondeo Man, who dawdled onto a busy dual carriageway somewhere near Barrow. Despite it being a 70mph road, he stopped dead in the outside lane, and I’m glad my usually hopeless drum brakes actually worked for a change. The consequences of ramming a modern motor with a machine made mainly from rust and gaffer tape doesn’t bear thinking about.

I don’t believe speed is the main cause of accidents – usually it’s hitting things – but I know I’d want to be strapped in if my luck ran out. The boys in blue weren’t being unfair to my Facebook fury friend, but trying to save her life.

£60 to stay alive? Probably a price worth paying.