Arthur Ellington

Bailiffs raiding BYD’s Dutch offices for digital data, and nobody’s asking the obvious question: who in Gaydon handed a Chinese rival a Defender parts list in the first place? Reverse-engineering doesn’t happen from a showroom walk-through. Somebody had access, and the article doesn’t say whether JLR has even identified the leak or just the copycat. Wouldn’t that be the story?

Morgan with a BMW engine beating a Supra and an M240i in a quarter-mile, and somehow that’s news. A 1,170 kg car with a six-cylinder and a bit of bravado. Who’d have guessed weight matters more than the badge on the bonnet?

Cool, another “electric” truck deal. How many of these actually run past the first winter?

Twenty-nine thousand miles and a “complete” service history on a Ferrari? Show me the receipts, the mileage record and the dealer’s name before I believe a word of it.

Thirteen thousand miles in fifty-seven years. That’s a Jaguar nobody drove, not a car anybody loved.

A dealer selling a used car? Shocking. Hold the front page.

Remember the Tesla “$25k” hype? Still waiting. Different this time, though: BMW’s price tag is real.

Around 200,000 units in six years, and the thing still has to be shunted off the line before its replacement even lands in 2027. Nobody at Polestar seems to have asked why a car people actually bought is being killed off, only that it is being replaced. Spare a thought for the owners, who now get to watch their fastback go from showroom staple to collector’s item in one press release.

Honda’s sales dip is nothing next to the fact that most e-bike batteries still arrive from the same few Chinese factories.

Date alone proves nothing. Where’s the fixture list, the league, the venue?

Fifteen percent, “expected”, “next-generation”. So a press release about a product that doesn’t exist yet, and somehow this is news. Wake me when they ship one.

Beat the forecast, shares still slide after hours. Wall Street has perfected the art of punishing good news, because nobody wants to pay for last quarter’s miracle when the guidance is cautious and the call sounds like a man reading the weather. Every number gets dissected, every sentence about “headwinds” gets underlined in red, and by Monday some algorithm will have decided the whole thing was overpriced all along. Sell first, ask questions never.

Thirty-three grand for a saloon that needs a government grant to look sensible. That’s the whole trick, isn’t it: the price only “falls” because the taxpayer quietly chips in, and the car still costs more than a decent house in half the country. Mercedes will undercut it next quarter with some fresh badge and a bigger screen, and everyone will call it progress. Nobody will mention who’s paying for the discount.

Nobody needs a press release to learn that a 1980 Porsche with paperwork is going to auction. Dealers have been flogging documented 911s since before I had hair worth grumbling about.

21,956 miles on a '79 Trans Am? Prove it.

Patent suits like this end in a settlement nobody announces, and the ring owners pay for it.

Final major upgrade at Austin, and it will still be a midfield car with a Ferrari badge on the nose by Sunday. Leclerc topping FP1 means nothing except that the fuel was light.

We pay the tariffs. They get refunds.

Fuel costs. Of course. The universal alibi. Forgive my scepticism — 3.5 per cent doesn’t come from a few pence at the pump. Where’s the core inflation figure? The services breakdown? Wage data? Without those, this is a headline with a number stapled to it. Economists “warn” — how convenient. Show the working or stop pretending it’s news.

Forty-three years, and I get no paperwork?