Marriage is all about teamwork, but a certain amount of independence is also important in a healthy Porsche-supporting relationship, says John Glynn.

When I was growing up in Ireland in the 1970s, nice cars were rare beasts. For a start, the country had yet to discover the EU Development Fund, so away from Dublin (as we were), the roads were straight out of the third world. There was no MOT, so people maintained their cars as they saw fit, which meant most didn’t. Finally, there was the Government, who considered that if you were wealthy enough to have a nice car, they deserved a reward for giving you the opportunity to amass enough money to buy it. Irish car tax was and is obscene.

None of this deterred my dad, who owned a few successful music shops, and had a bit of money to spend on his favourite things: cars. Dad’s best buddy was a car dealer, so he was always coming home in interesting machinery, most of which is etched upon my memory.

My first car journey was home from hospital in a carrycot plonked on the back seat of a Fiat 850 Sport Coupe – there still exists a cutting from the Limerick Leader, showing the local Fiat agent presenting dad with the keys. Next, he pushed out not just the boat, but the dock and nearby warehouses too, buying a brand new Mercedes 250SE, in Sand over Chocolate, with caramel-coloured MB-Tex trim and an ice-cream-white steering wheel; the epitome of ‘70s in-car decadence.

The Mercedes was mistakenly swapped for a Peugeot 604, whose main purpose seemed to be inducing motion sickness in children, something it did exceptionally well. Car credibility was restored when, one year later, dad arrived home in a beautiful E21 BMW 320i with all the trimmings: Alpina wheels, Cibie lamps and tinted sunroof deflector.

I also recall an MGB Roadster - five kids plus driver crammed into this so-called sports car for our first and last outing. Umpteen breakdowns meant no one was travelsick but, as this was a soft top in the west of Ireland, never before or since was I ever so saturated. The dents left in our driveway by the B’s tyres were a lasting monument to cars bought in pubs. Friday fun in a red Lancia Beta HPE was unforgettable, and three days with a wicked yellow Datsun 260Z changed my life forever – my first unrealised automotive romance.

One supermarket trip in the 260Z was a particularly memorable event, with seven people and a week’s shopping eventually spilling from the slinky Japanese 911-a-like onto our front garden. Scenes like this failed to impress his Mrs Glynn, and therein lay the fatal flaw: two-doors were easily argued against when it came to transporting the near football team that was Family Glynn; eight of us in the end.

Dad did his best to work around these rulings, and mum and kids became accustomed to returning from six-week summer breaks by the sea to find we had become a three-car family. A metallic blue Mark 1 Renault 5 TS, with now impossibly rare hoop seats and the registration 111 IIU, topped off my favourite of these threesomes. But despite the fact that we had a humungous Peugeot 504 Family estate for team transport, Jack’s third-car purchases always met a cruel end on the jagged rocks of marital realism.

These days, many of us who enjoy a third (or fourth) car for fun drives, track days and whatever else crops up, do so thanks to working wives and somewhat independent financial arrangements. Joint accounts pay the household bills, and what’s left is usually the property of whoever earned it. That’s how it works in our house anyway, which may have something to do with what I learned from Jack’s efforts. But, as a recent discussion on impactbumpers.com highlighted, not everyone enjoys such an equitable arrangement. For some people, 911 ownership is a salmonic upstream struggle against outpourings from significant others, mostly regarding the relentless receipts draining away joint resources.

Settlement from a motorbike accident should have paid for my first 911, but instead, my bike accidents paid for a pair of extended maternity leaves, and I borrowed the Cabriolet cash in restitution. A few years later, I mentioned to my Mrs Glynn that I was considering another 911 (manspeak for “I am buying this, how big an argument are we going to have?”), and since Sarah’s only objection revolved around losing her wedding car, I kept both. Yes dear, temporarily.

I pay for my Porsche habit by working part-time: what you are reading will cover half a year’s road tax for the orange car, due in a few days. As long as the house and kids are paid for, and ‘er indoors and I do some nice things together every so often, my remaining money is just that: mine. To her much-appreciated credit, Mrs Glynn has never argued about how it gets spent.

I tip my cap to those owners who have to work hard to keep their beloved 911s when dinner-table finance summits centre on new conservatories and replacement kitchens. But by the same token, we should never take for granted those partners who accept our car-fancying illnesses as part of who we are, and just let us get on with it. If you share your life with such a person, give them a big hug from me (and Jack).