Fiona Montgomery

Reminds me of the Tupac hologram at Coachella in 2012, which was a dazzling stunt that left everyone wondering what they’d actually paid for. Same story, new money, new buzzwords. This time it’s just grief with a funding round.

Documented history, sure. Shame the listing doesn’t show the receipts, or whether “original 318” means the engine or just the last owner’s optimism.

Two grand for a 1990 Beemer and they’re surprised it made it to Portugal? Heartbreaking.

Another 100 mpg promise, same as the last five. Wake me when it’s on a forecourt.

Restored in California, first sold in the Netherlands, and somehow still no word on who actually paid for the rust-free bits. Keep the receipts, folks.

Vertex beats its own forecast, shares tick up a few pence, and somehow this is the sort of thing the City calls a triumph. Lovely. Nobody mention the bins still aren’t collected.

Ford flexing a “record-setting” crate engine at SEMA while UK buyers still wait on basic servicing. Cheers, but I’ll keep my tears for the next recall notice.

Oh, here we go again. Another “close test” where the Chinese saloon gets photographed next to a Tesla and everyone pretends it’s a fair fight. Remember the Ora Funky Cat and the “premium” wannabes back in the day? All that rang the same bell about copying Tesla’s blank iPad-on-wheels cabin, then vanished from the conversation. This one’s different only in the sense that the IM5 actually feels finished.

Sales miss, profit beat, and somehow that’s the good news. Cutting costs until the company looks healthy on paper, while the actual customers quietly leave, is pure British corporate theatre, sadly.

Flying cars by 2050 were never the real story, and nobody needed a think tank to tell us that. What I want to know is what “the American transport system will shift” actually means. Shift to what, exactly? Autonomous fleets owned by three corporations, or buses that finally arrive when the app says they will? The article waves at “industry trends” without naming one number, one timeline, one budget line.

Twenty-two thousand miles and a no-reserve sale, so the seller’s either cashing out or the Ferrari’s finally done pretending to be a car you can afford to keep.

Fifteen percent, against what baseline, and over what cycle? WLTP or some lab fantasy nobody driving on the M6 at 5pm will ever see? We’ve had decades of “efficiency breakthroughs” that vanished the moment a real road and a real traffic jam got involved. And who is paying for the battery upgrade, the dealer markup or the poor sod with a 2019 model they can’t afford to replace?

Ninety years of Mopar and they’re flogging 270 numbered Chargers at $10,995 extra. Nothing says anniversary like a sticker tax on a car you already can’t afford to insure.

Ammonia in an engine. Brilliant. Nothing says “clean future” like a fuel that’s toxic, corrosive and smells like a public toilet at closing time. Yes, it burns without CO2, but it throws off nitrogen oxides, and anyone who has ever sat through a drive-by fumes lecture knows where that goes.

Lending up, profit up. And who’s carrying the risk when the borrowers can’t pay?

Bet on AI early, then sell the hype to the rest of us. Classic.

Two thousand nine hundred miles in ten years? Who’s been keeping it in a bubble wrap?

Tough is five days of nothing. This ends with another loyalist nodding on camera and the briefing room quietly expiring.

Local fuel prices: comedy gold, apparently.

Sold, then towed home by dusk. Naturally.