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Wedge fund: TG infiltrates the Supercar Owners Circle

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Wedge fund: TG infiltrates the Supercar Owners Circle | Top Gear

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Wedge fund: TG infiltrates the Supercar Owners Circle

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Wedge fund: TG infiltrates the Supercar Owners Circle

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Maybe it's the guy who wears his silk pyjamas 24/7. Or the chap intent on showing me the 16 working pistons in his Bugatti watch. Or maybe it’s the loon in the Ferrari Monza who sets off at max revs and noise. Every. Single. Time. Perhaps it’s the man pitching his car curation business over dinner to this veritable Dragons’ Den of potential investors. Or the family that turned up with five Koenigseggs. Or the husbands discussing handbags as investments while their wives check their glossy nail polish. How about the bloke who’s got his own five-strong video crew in tow? Or the Dutchman who’s painted his 918 Spyder to pay homage to the VW Polo Harlequin?

Photography: @phjwz, @MichaelDeJong, @SupercarsOwnersCircle, @Miroszi, Quentin Martinez

I’m hoping it’s him, but it’s probably not. I’m looking for the character who most epitomises what’s going on here. To be honest, any of them would do. This could easily be a story about the people rather than the cars.

This is the Supercar Owners Circle, a club dedicated to helping people with ridiculous car collections get the most out of them. It organises events, visits, trips and – once a year – a full weekend of hypercar activities. The plan is simple, and similar in tone – if not scale – to what we all want to do with our cars: find great roads, head to a track, see what they can do on an airfield, hang out with mates, maybe meet the person who created it, find out what you might like to buy next.

Barriers to entry? You need to be nominated and you need to have a hypercar habit that’s got badly out of hand. People sent their cars ahead (yes, some sent more than one) and arrived from all corners of the globe to gorge themselves on hypercar overload in southern Spain.

There was a plan, but obedience and adherence are clearly alien terms in some quarters, so everyone went their separate ways as soon as they left the hotel on day one. Then found each other a little later at what quickly became the world’s most exotic Repsol station, before heading to Circuito Ascari for a lap or three, lunch at an Andalusian dancing horse ranch and then a mountain drive down to the coast for the most intimidating, oppressive drive of the weekend: a crawl, rev and snap along the Puerto Banús seafront. Christian von Koenigsegg was feted with Taylor Swift levels of adulation. People, it was weird.

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Day two involved more mountain roads and a partially organised but alarmingly flat-out run down Granada airport’s main runway. But that wasn’t the most fraught part of the weekend. That honour went to road driving, made instantly more hazardous by car spotters in rental cars. Cameras, bodies and phones dangling from windows and poking from sunroofs, they outnumbered the supercars three-to-one and behaved like Rommel’s first battalion: social media division. Not many prisoners were taken as they proved what we already knew to be true: that there really is nothing faster than a hire car.

Punctuating all of this was food, drink, chat and presentations. Artworks were auctioned off for charity, investment opportunities were presented, Delage showed its Formula One inspired D12, the Little Car Company let people tootle around the car park in its mini recreations. And you couldn’t leave the hotel without being papped. It was a travelling circus, an automotive carnival, a black hole of a car cruise, pulling everything else into its orbit. Was it fun? To a point. But it’s like a meal where everything is dessert – in the end it’s all a bit... rich.

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Maybe it's the guy who wears his silk pyjamas 24/7. Or the chap intent on showing me the 16 working pistons in his Bugatti watch. Or maybe it’s the loon in the Ferrari Monza who sets off at max revs and noise. Every. Single. Time. Perhaps it’s the man pitching his car curation business over dinner to this veritable Dragons’ Den of potential investors. Or the family that turned up with five Koenigseggs. Or the husbands discussing handbags as investments while their wives check their glossy nail polish. How about the bloke who’s got his own five-strong video crew in tow? Or the Dutchman who’s painted his 918 Spyder to pay homage to the VW Polo Harlequin?

Photography: @phjwz, @MichaelDeJong, @SupercarsOwnersCircle, @Miroszi, Quentin Martinez

21 minutes 29 seconds

I’m hoping it’s him, but it’s probably not. I’m looking for the character who most epitomises what’s going on here. To be honest, any of them would do. This could easily be a story about the people rather than the cars.

This is the Supercar Owners Circle, a club dedicated to helping people with ridiculous car collections get the most out of them. It organises events, visits, trips and – once a year – a full weekend of hypercar activities. The plan is simple, and similar in tone – if not scale – to what we all want to do with our cars: find great roads, head to a track, see what they can do on an airfield, hang out with mates, maybe meet the person who created it, find out what you might like to buy next.

Barriers to entry? You need to be nominated and you need to have a hypercar habit that’s got badly out of hand. People sent their cars ahead (yes, some sent more than one) and arrived from all corners of the globe to gorge themselves on hypercar overload in southern Spain.

There was a plan, but obedience and adherence are clearly alien terms in some quarters, so everyone went their separate ways as soon as they left the hotel on day one. Then found each other a little later at what quickly became the world’s most exotic Repsol station, before heading to Circuito Ascari for a lap or three, lunch at an Andalusian dancing horse ranch and then a mountain drive down to the coast for the most intimidating, oppressive drive of the weekend: a crawl, rev and snap along the Puerto Banús seafront. Christian von Koenigsegg was feted with Taylor Swift levels of adulation. People, it was weird.

Day two involved more mountain roads and a partially organised but alarmingly flat-out run down Granada airport’s main runway. But that wasn’t the most fraught part of the weekend. That honour went to road driving, made instantly more hazardous by car spotters in rental cars. Cameras, bodies and phones dangling from windows and poking from sunroofs, they outnumbered the supercars three-to-one and behaved like Rommel’s first battalion: social media division. Not many prisoners were taken as they proved what we already knew to be true: that there really is nothing faster than a hire car.

Punctuating all of this was food, drink, chat and presentations. Artworks were auctioned off for charity, investment opportunities were presented, Delage showed its Formula One inspired D12, the Little Car Company let people tootle around the car park in its mini recreations. And you couldn’t leave the hotel without being papped. It was a travelling circus, an automotive carnival, a black hole of a car cruise, pulling everything else into its orbit. Was it fun? To a point. But it’s like a meal where everything is dessert – in the end it’s all a bit... rich.

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Love supercars? Have bags of money? There’s only one club you need to be a part of