the latest gadget or widget from the Apple corporation, would you consider calling them, even just under your breath, ďboring and sadĒ?
And yet if, the next day, you met a bloke in a pub and he argued a passionate case for why the last Holden Commodore, as the fruit of the automotive design, engineering and manufacturing capability of this great country, was the best one, youíd probably consider them quite reasoned, admirably patriotic and possibly the sort of bloke youíd like to have a beer with.
Caring about some inanimate objects, and the giant corporations that make them, is deemed socially acceptable, at least in this country, while getting excited about, say, trains, makes you a sad person with too many anoraks and greasy hair.
This has been rammed home repeatedly for me recently, first by my son, who was quite taken with the Top 10 Shootout at Bathurst this year, and that last, crazy-scary-good lap by Scott McLaughlin.
What this 10-year-old cynic could not get his head around, and what I simply couldnít explain to him using logic, is why it mattered what car this clearly amazing driver was using.
Obviously, this suggests Iíve been a bad, or at least negligent father, for a decade, and counting.
But his utter bafflement at why people would cheer for a car company, rather than the human driver, did disarm me, and not just because of the inherent stupidity he was pointing out. It was also because I barely recognise now the boy I was at his age, and for many years afterwards, because I really used to care about Holden beating Ford, and now I give not one wit.
When Brocky drove Fords, and even Volvos, I took it as a personal affront, and Iím honestly at a loss as to what I was thinking, in retrospect. Quite simply, I was young, dumb and eager to be part of something larger than myself. I followed the mob (after being initially led along by my Holdenloving, V8-driving old man). This is how populism happens. And Trump.
My care factor for whether a Holden or a Ford wins Bathurst hasnít just dropped to zero because Iíve grown older and wiser, itís because my love for either brand has been thinned out, like the hair on Dick Johnsonís head.
Itís one thing to watch something you once loved die in public, but itís even worse when you realise youíre just one small part of a larger group of people who cared, but just didnít care enough.
The second time I was struck by manís inhumanity to brands was after Iíd written something about the new Lexus LS, and performed a video review of the car so awful that it had to be removed from the internet.
In amid the pile-on of personal abuse and commentary on my retardation, I was genuinely surprised to find that I was being attacked by people who feel strongly Ė and I mean ďIíd have a Lexus over a German car, any dayĒ Ė strongly about the brand.
People who are fired up about Lexus. Truly. Itís like meeting someone whoíll die in a ditch over their Dualit toaster or their Alessi kettle.
Itís weird, but then humans and their passions are weird, and itís about more than just wanting to be part of something. I have no desire to hang out with other Porsche fans (because they actually own the bloody things) or to take part in Ferrari forums, but I find myself almost uncontrollably passionate about the inanimate objects those companies make.
Fortunately, it seems, I may not have passed on the madness to the next generation.
Interestingly, my stepfather, who poured the red Holden blood into my veins by shouting at our then-tiny TV as if the Bathurst race was vitally important, didnít even watch the whole thing this year, nor does he retain any of his passion for the brand (he owns a chipped Audi S3 and an old WRX). Why? ďBecause they all look the bloody same, who cares? Nobody cares any more.Ē
Dear Supercars series, I think you have a problem.