I've expressed opinions about traditional Japanese Kabuki theatre. I own a Debussy CD. And I have read Eat, Pray, Love (although I did skip most of the Indian bit).
In other words, I am a highly cultured, refined 21st-century metrosexual and in touch with my feminine side. So I shouldn't be even mildly amused by a sledgehammer macho phallus like the new BMW M3, but I am. Very.
Few cars truly soar like this, at least not unless they have farm animals on their badges. It can reach 100km/h in 4.8 seconds and, were it not for a top speed limiter, I suspect it would keep accelerating until it ran out of petrol (which might not take very long).
But the real secret to the M3's anti-social behaviour is a little button marked "M" that turns what is a relatively comfy, easy-to-drive coupé into a kind of hair-trigger landmine by increasing throttle response, firming up the dampers and quickening the steering.
It sends pure kangaroo juice coursing through the piston heads which makes the first few clutch-lurching miles quite trying. Master it, however, and you won't stop smiling for days.
This raises an interesting question about people who own cars that don't fit their image - old ladies who drive Porsche Boxsters (a surprisingly large demographic); young men in Honda Accords (rare); humans driving Audi Q7's (purely hypothetical) and so on.
To what extent do you let people's perceptions of you dictate the kind of car you drive? Would I buy an M3 if I had the money?
Well, R700 000 would buy an awful lot of Edith Wharton novels and pot pourri but, yes.
I'd go for the sedan; it's as fast but cheaper than the coupé and much cheaper than the slower, heavier convertible.
But I'd still probably take the 2CV to Splashy Fen, were I ever to go there and if I had a 2CV.
See? This is a good example of how us metrosexuals speak.