What are Derby “Bentleys” made of? Shortness of breath from birth to death—that’s what Derby “Bentleys” are made of!
Really, Mr. Jack T. Hopkins, Jr., should be chained to one while it struggles with its asthma. There is an old story about creaking gates lasting the longest, but unfortunately it won’t wash in this case, for nitrided crankshafts are commonly bent and play fury with bearings, even at the revolutions worth using.
It is lucky for Mr. Hopkins that he never dared to try and compare me, an 8-litre Bentley, with the nearest apology for a counterpart of the period which was made by Rolls-Royce—or I would gladly bounce my unadulterated 2 1/2 tons on his head.
At least it would have been a fair attempt: similar years and similar size.
As for trying to compare a youthful and effeminate beauty with a well-developed man of senior years . . . well, really!
Apparently he has never heard of the Napier Bentley (the merest rumour of which scared R-R into their dastardly deeds) or of the V12 Lagonda, or the smaller engine which found its way into the Aston Martin.
I suffer a Derby “Bentley” as a stablemate (4 1/2 half-throttled litres of rebuilt engine) but she simply cannot understand that maximum revs should be reachable in a reasonable time: such adenoids—and oh! that brake servo and unnecessary complications. Proper pemickity she is.
Whoever heard of a sports car with a power curve that shape? Come to that, whoever heard of a silent one?
I may not be legitimately a sports car, but I will gladly whisk even the heaviest body up to over 100 m.p.h., quickly through the gears to max revs before each change, with a combination of efficiency, safety and silence which is still unsurpassed after 35 years. Or have they done it at last?
I rather lost interest, I’m afraid.
Just in case you, Mr. Editor, think that you have found a friend, I am exempting Crewe products because Britain needs a status symbol—even if it is one that suffercates.
And don’t mess about with my spelling. My owner tells me that very nearly three-quarters of my 8-litre brothers are still alive: they have been scrapping Mark Vls for ages, thank goodness.
Up, Tulloch, and at ’em! GN 82.