I notice a gaggle of girls waiting to toss their Sloggi in my direction as I arrive at the first populated junction

I must say that some folk do collect the craziest of things, illustrated perfectly by my friend Clive, who for as long as I can remember has feverishlyI I hoarded any type of washing machine – top-loaders and washer dryers, even three slightly worse for wear commercial washers that he somehow managed to secretly shuffle out of his local self-service Laundromat. I also have the misfortune of knowing another chap (more an acquaintance than a friend I’m pleased to say) who happens to bypass the daily grind by accumulating newspapers. He doesn’t even recycle them; instead he stacks this bundle of bygone news in some chronological order and then leaves them in the corner to collect dust. It has been his thing since turning 13 – and probably always will be – essentially amassing pointless bits and pieces for no reason other than a mental misalignment, or apparent lack of female interaction. But then who am I to talk, nesting away hot hatches, vintage vinyl, wigs and memorable stories that I can one day bequeath to my grandchildren.

The last 18 months at the helm of evo has undoubtedly contributed to the latter, this author’s already fine anthology including the testing of supercars against superbikes, driving three racecars to Hatta in the searing heat of Ramadan summer without refreshment, discovering the evo triangle in a filthy Murciélago LP640 on a dreary day in Wales, sampling the Sultan of Brunei’s F40, breaking Rod Stewart’s F50 and, of course, swimming the course of the Autodrome club circuit when Dubai flooded back in 2007.

So for reasons leaning towards sentiment, and sentiment only, I suitably panged for something equally memorable to add to this list, especially as this was to be my final issue as evo’s Editor-in-Chief. Sadly I pulled one short straw after the other, as Bassam lapped up LA in an SLK 55 from Mercedes, John Simister eloped to Le Mans in an authentic 1960’s factory GT40, and lucky Peter Tomalin fondled his way around the French Riviera in a Bugatti Veyron. Unable to jump on the next plane for my own utopia I sat myself down and completed my chores, tying up all those loose ends ready to hand over the keys of evo to the new Editor-in-Chief, Bassam Kronfli, who was rejoicing in the ultraviolet rays on some beach somewhere on the West Coast of America.

Not to be upstaged by the rest of the evo team I decided to moonwalk out memorably by pulling off the unthinkable; managing to beat every last one of them by filling my socks around Bur Dubai, having a laugh on my very own doorstep in a supercar with the help of my friend Mana.

Knowing that my time at the region’s leading car magazine was coming to a close, Mana cordially invited me the opportunity to borrow one of his cars for a day.  Of course I said yes, as Mana doesn’t have what you’d call a stagnant stable of cars; no less than ten, mostly Porsche, with the exception of a Rolls and a Range Rover. So as morning broke on the big day, I woke violently and checked my phone for the time – and the date in fact. I wanted to make sure it really was Friday, the Friday and that I hadn’t overslept. Actually I’d been doing this very action all night long – checking my phone, worried that I hadn’t set the alarm. I did this more than I’d like to admit. No wonder I was physically and emotionally drained by the time the alarm finally called out at 7am.

The night prior I had surrounded myself with dinner guests, to generally gloat about the following day, every last one of them leaving homebound a little confused as to what all the fuss was about, knowing that I’m not the greatest fan of the Porsche brand. But the GT is not just any old Porsche, it’s the be the be all and end all. Period.

With so much riding on this day I didn’t want to spoil the growing ambience by rocking up to Mana’s grand palace in one of my sand-strewn sheds, so I successfully strong-armed evo photographer Alejandro into swinging by my place early morning, with promise of coffee and croissants. He actually arrived on the dot, bearing a grin bigger than mine.

I have driven my fill of phenomenal cars over the last 15-years of automotive journalism, with a photographer of some sort hanging out of window, boot or sunroof, but everything was about to be excelled as evo's dutiful snapper drove me and my belly full of dragonflies directly to the carport, turning the final corner only to be met by the menacing jet-black muzzle of today’s ride. Nothing had prepared either of us for the experience, as professional conduct promptly made way for prepubescent gibberish when seconds later the GT’s key fob found a place in my palm: The scale of the responsibility and trust riding on our shoulders  now starkly put into perspective.

As I would be handed responsibility of Mana’s Carrera without he or any guardian sat next to me, I was surprised to be given the most basic of conditions. First and foremost I was instructed; don’t drive back to Europe in his car. Secondly, under no circumstance do I turn off the traction control and thirdly, as I later discover more than once that under no circumstances should I administer any throttle while engaging the clutch, otherwise the car will stall. And finally, Mana’s famous last words; drive the car hard.

Making your acquaintance with someone else’s hypercar when they’re two feet away from you, with their arms folded in front of them is a particularly daunting – especially when you're feverishly pressing all the wrong buttons and grabbing everything but the belt buckle you're looking for. Nevertheless my host is relaxed and reassuring, even when I inelegantly plummet into the hard-edged driver’s seat of his exclusive special order black-on-black Porsche. Once strapped in I knew he would have his work cut out extraditing me at 8pm, when the car was due back at his abode.

Looking ahead of me I observe the chunky plain steering wheel I’d been hankering after since the GT was launched in 2004. The interior maybe more sobering than the fine I had to pay in 1988 for spraypainting the length of the school gymnasium wall along with my friend Charlie, but the GT's insistent air of focus had already forced me to the owner’s bathroom, more than just once.

Back between the wheel I oggle at the smattering of functional switchgear decorating the arcing centre console; the six-speed H-pattern manual shifter – not topped with the factory beach wood, but special-order carbon – sat up high. My feet are now fidgeting erratically over the three well-placed pedals below, eagerly waiting my dazzlingly and daring display of footwork!

You may wonder why I'm so captivated by the Carrera, but for me what makes the GT the most incredible supercar of my time is that nothing really changed from the initial direction of 5.5-litre racecar to 5.7-litre road car, nor was anything done to restrict the titanium-tainted folly of horses, 604 of them.

I would only have the narrowest window of time with these apocalyptic Appaloosas, yet an hour into my adventure with the GT and I notice a gaggle of girls waiting to toss their Sloggi in my direction as I arrive at the first populated junction. This de-smalled audience was fantastically in-tune with my ego trip and the yowling V10 making it all happen – or it was, until I also realised that Porsche had also maintained the use of ceramic racing clutch. This is another hint at this car’s ground-up intention; a fabulous fact that I flung around at my dinner party, but something less fun to live with on a daily basis. Especially when there’s as much torque as this fighting away under your feet – 435lb ft and a clutch that acts like a pin to a grenade, a rather unflattering on or off and no in between. This was exactly what Mana had warned me of. But had I listened?

The GT badge was certainly doing my bedpost proud; the fact that I was now stalling the car on the hour, every hour, was not.  So before I got truly cheesed off with the Bur Dubai darlings having a jolly good laugh at my expense I snuck out of town in search of some traffic-free roads, devoid of buses, bicycles, bollards and bewitched bystanders. I finally find myself on the road to Al Ain, blowing away my tension, only to realise the Carerra GT really is as user friendly and as practical as a Boxster. For heaven’s sake you can actually see out of this supercar, in all directions.

It doesn’t sound like a Boxster though – well not one that I’ve heard anyway. The barking motor that sits behind the cabin was destined for a Footworks F1 car, instead finding a new home, as the momentum for Stuttgart’s supersonic GT. The sound therefore is no less F1 than a current F1 car, as Alejandro and I accelerate around the clock to 100kph in under 4seconds.

It didn’t seem to be running out of steam either, hitting 300kph in what could have been sonicboom. The spleen-aching acceleration still pounded away without resistance, the mountains of speed accumulating as Bur Dubai blurred into nonsense, leaving the bulk of the traffic behind us, skimming past Wafi mall with triple-digits now showing on the analogue cluster. The tempo was edging above the previous idle towards orchestral, the volume of power now physically pushing us along increasing.

We’re finally onto the dual carriageway; unsettled surface changes, road works and the ever changing landscape of highway all laying in wait to castrate any schoolboy errors and a lead-weight for a right foot. Ignorance still blinkered any misfortune when I approach the first of many roundabouts, relishing the seemingly sufficient runoff of four lanes wide to manoeuvre the German supercar if it got a hint out of shape. And that demonic F1 scream now bouncing off the wall of imposing trucks and bridge sidings replacing the backdrop of construction and a slate-grey sky with the mental canvas of the famous Col De Turini top pass of southern France.

‘Anyone who has not yet driven a Carrera GT or simpy has no ambition to do so, shame on you’

In a world of my own, with surroundings, time-zone, era and mental stability clearly out of whack I dive my left foot into the carpet again for a sharp down-change for yet another oncoming roundabout – the ever-present mechanical prattle of the race-bred engine beating its pulse through the carbon tub. The onslaught of revs die to an almost muted idle – filling the cabin with relative silence – once I depress the clutch. Part and parcel of the superlight carbon-ceramic clutch Porsche have employed, it’s an eerie experience nonetheless. Grab another gear and before you know it, it starts getting rather loud and rather silly, all over again. It feels amazingly light and extremely agile at this velocity too, as it should at 604bhp-per-ton. So light in fact that I was genuinely surprised to discover that the windows were glass and not in fact polythene, the seats not made of clouds and the steering wheel not fabricated from toilet rolls.

I wasn’t surprised at the Carrera's explosive nature though, but slightly unprepared for the assault on the senses. I was wisely mature with my borrowed toy, daintily disciplining my throttle inputs, but Alejandro’s eyes are soon as wide as dinnerplates as we exit one of the many roundabouts the GT on a knife’s-edge, the rear-end worryingly hungry for a more lateral perspective of the horizon. It goes without saying that even with the so-called stability control judiciously engaged you still have to be on full alert, awake, and wary of wheelspin in the lower gears. Knowing this, I find it hard to relax for the remainder of the afternoon. But by early evening though, as the day came to a close I took one last stab at being a superhero with Mana’s edgy Porsche – only to discover that the GT is there to protect and serve the best it can, even when you are nose-deep into the danger zone.

And to think a friend of mine warned that I’d be sorely disappointed with the GT; to the contrary, this car exceeded every one of my expectations – the GT possibly the most significant car I’ve driven in a very long time. Honestly, anyone who has not yet driven a Carrera GT or simply has no ambition to do so, shame on you.

That said; if I had been told on my first day of evo that 18-months later, on my last day, I’d be driving my dream supercar I wouldn’t have wished away any of the days in between – my time at the helm of evo rich with fun, frolics, Freudian slips and flipping fast automobiles

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