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I don't want a Porsche Boxster. There are several reasons for this. First of all, while it is beautifully made and beautifully balanced, it is a bit cramped for fully grown men, the clutch is a bit of a faff and the styling's a bit backwards. Most of all though, I don't want a Porsche Boxster because James May has one. And there is, quite literally, nothing in his life that I covet. Not his postcode, not his old motorcycles, not his hoopy jumpers. Not even his swish new Vickers Velos aeroplane.

However, parked outside my house right now is a limited-edition Porsche Boxster called the RS60 Spyder. I've been using it for the last seven days, and I've decided I don't want one of these either.

Partly this is because it isn't a limited edition at all. It's just a normal Boxster S with a button that makes the exhaust a bit louder and an interior finished in what they call Carrera Red. Oh, and it has a 'unique' front spoiler designed primarily to make a hideous graunching noise on every single one of Oxford's 2.5 billion speed humps.

Of course, the RS 60 Spyder name is designed to stick its hand down the trousers of every Porsche enthusiast in the world and remind them with a warm squeeze of some long-forgotten racing car that Fortesque Major took to victory in the Mille Florio of 1903. But it doesn't. What this car does - what every Boxster does - is sit outside your house reminding you that you couldn't quite afford a 911.

I don't want a 911 either. And no, this has nothing to do with Richard Hammond. Yes, he does have a 911, and that's bad - I mean, look what it's done to his hair. But then he also has one of every other car in the world, so abandoning the 911 just because some fridge magnet in the Welsh borders has one wedged between his cross-eyed Morgan and his Vauxhall Firenza is silly.

I wish I did want a 911. I love the way they drive. I love the way they look. I love the way they are built. In my life, right now, a two-wheel-drive 911S would be absolutely perfect. So why did I buy the souped-up SLK55 Hitler-mobile instead?

Maybe you think I'm heading toward the Cayenne. Nope. Things I'd rather have include ebola, six elbows and an unquenchable desire to goose the Pope. It's brilliant. Tougher than you could imagine and properly fast. But it simply doesn't float my boat.

This is odd. We are all aware there is a chemistry between people. You meet someone, and before they've even drawn breath to speak, you know you hate every fibre of their being, and would like to hit them in the head with a shovel. Certainly, I felt this way when I first met Piers Morgan.

But how is it possible to have a chemical reaction to a ton-and-a-half of wiring, glass, steel and oil? Why do I now want a Mercedes SL65, which is a pointless car that has so much torque it will only accelerate downwards, through the centre of the Earth, and not a Porsche turbo, which is excellent?

I understand, of course, why some people deliberately buy awful cars.

Take the Citroen Picasso. This is a car for people who drive everywhere at 40. On the motorway. On the A44 when I'm in a rush. Through villages. In garden centres. Everywhere. Styled to be non-threatening, it manages, by trying not to be offensive to anyone, to be offensive to everyone. So why does anyone buy such a thing when there are so many alternatives? A wheelbarrow, for instance, or a holiday in Guantanamo Bay, or gout. I'll tell you why. Because the Citroen is cheap.

It's cheapness that causes people to buy a 4WD Kia. They need something to pull their caravan up a muddy field, and while they'd like a Range Rover, it's too expensive. That makes perfect sense to me. If I were a caravannist, with a family to feed and a modest income, I'd probably buy a Kia.