Harrison Whitmore

Man wears a watch for forty years. Riveting. Next you’ll tell me the sky is blue — we knew this decades ago.

Monetarism died because nobody could agree on which “money” to count. Warsh has a chart, presumably. Which aggregate — M1, M2, some bespoke thing his staff cooked up? And when the gauge screams tighten while unemployment climbs, whose neck is on the block? Ask Volcker how that ended. Nobody is itching to relive it.

556 bhp, 551 lb-ft, and a Nevada title. Here’s the part nobody prints: in Britain a 1955 shell is tax-exempt, MOT-exempt, emissions-exempt. Forty years old and the rulebook just stops looking. So bolt a supercharged LSA into a two-tonne brick, burn 12 mpg, and pay the Treasury nothing. Another loophole with chrome.

It ends the way it always does. The Bank holds rates or nudges them up, mortgage holders bleed, wages quietly lose the race, and fuel stays expensive because nobody’s ending that war. Then in a few months we get another “unexpected” uptick and the same grave faces on the news. Nothing gets fixed. The bill just moves to your kitchen table.

Last rebuilt Targa rotted. This one’s Guards Red.

Ah yes, breaking news: a thing that has been dying for thirty years is still dying. Riveting. They’ve been writing this obituary since the floppy disk. Meanwhile the average driver treats a clutch like a rotary phone — a curiosity, not a choice. Nostalgia doesn’t pay for the third pedal. Never did. Call me when the headline reads “water is wet” and we can all go home.

Regulated wrapper, empty promise. Where’s the liquidity?

Nobody could have foreseen this. Except everyone.

I’ve sat through this film before — the Suzuki Kizashi was comfortable, cheap and genuinely pleasant to drive, and the brand was gone from these shores inside two years because nobody could remember it existed. Comfortable and affordable is the floor, not a reason for anyone to walk into a showroom.