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He came out as gay in the same year and revealed a former relationship with Jonathan Zeizel had inspired his debut album. When he accepted one of the awards he famously thanked his ex, saying: 'I want to thank the man who this record is about, who I fell in love with last year. The brewery used to produce a super strength Barley Wine called Strong Golden at 10.
I feel better for it. In fact, Sam wasn't even the first openly-gay man to have ever received Best Original Song, as Sir Elton John bagged on for Can You Feel The Love Tonight in 1995. Eighty mph in the 2500 is anon 4,000 rpm in fourth gear. Retrieved 19 December 2013. In 150,000 miles, it's needed little more than gas, tires, and a water pump. Prior to his breakthrough at the age of 21, the London, England-born singer and songwriter balanced study with music, sang in choirs and in bands, and performed in musical theater productions. At the on 17 May, Smith received three Billboard Awards: Top Male Artist, Top New Artist, and Top Radio Songs Artist. Retrieved 12 February 2013.
Crack in the Road. This service is provided on News Group Newspapers' Limited's in accordance with our. The periodic foray into the realm of Magic FM-friendly funk aside, it all proceeds at the same slow-to-middling pace.
Sam Smith - Stay With Me Lyrics - Retrieved 5 December 2014.
I just bought a shitbox. Actually, shitbox is a bit harsh. Crapcan might be better. But so many euphemisms apply. Whatever you call it, it's a 1971 BMW 2500 sedan. I drove it home last week. And let's be honest: There aren't many people who want a 44-year-old luxury car with bad paint, rusty doors, a torn headliner, no radio or carpeting, or air conditioning, or fifth gear , a leaky clutch master cylinder, a trunk full of filthy and near-valueless spare parts, and zero historic or investment value. Sam Smith I write about cars for a living. The job is nothing if not surreal. Last year, I lapped Indianapolis Motor Speedway in a Porsche 962C that won the 24 Hours of Le Mans. I spent the better part of a day last fall drifting six-figure exotics on a closed-off airport runway for a photographer. I have driven every new car on the American market and more supercars than I care to remember. I've been lucky enough to meet many of my heroes, the racers and artists and engineers who spend their lives pursuing speed, beauty, and genius. As with any job, there are bad days, but the best of them provide a glimpse of how humanity works and thinks and dreams. And at the end of those magical days, I come home to my piles of crap. Of the seven cars I own, five move under their own power. Just one was built in the last decade, and only two—a 1965 Ford Mustang fastback and a 1968 Alexis Formula Ford race car—could be said to have any real value. Lest you become envious, my entire collection, a term I use loosely, is worth less than a new pickup. I'd also note that I can't stop, but my wife might read this, so let's just say I can. Any time I want. Car obsession isn't rare, nor is owning several vehicles. But an alarming number of car writers share my affliction. Some express it by carefully curating a collection of classics; others choose a shotgun approach with, shall we say, less traditional machinery. This has little to do with income and everything to do with perspective and a kind of disease. A writer I know in New York has a literal warehouse full of cheap old British sports cars. Aaron Robinson of Car and Driver went to absurd lengths to obtain a three-cylinder , and he's rebuilt two. Lamborghinis make no sense to begin with, but Espadas, which offer the running costs of a and the value of a BMW, make even less sense. Aaron bought one, restored it, sold it, and missed it. So he bought another one and almost immediately took it apart. There are two things to note here. First, I am jealous of Aaron. And second, our heads work alike. Even the fun ones are missing something. And it is why, a month ago, I spent two days driving a 1970s German hantavirus home to Seattle. Sam Smith I know how this looks: Privileged people drive all the new cars, get used to glory, and decide everything sucks. But it comes from a different place, I swear. Part of it is because newer cars are expensive, and variety is spice. If you're of modest means and willing to sacrifice, you can have five neat old cars for the price of a single new one. Call it simplicity or purity, maybe even character, born not of wear or time, but of freedom of design. And an obsession with the fundamental quirks that give a car personality. Things like floor-hinged pedals, , or doors whose latches feel deeply mechanical, like the cocking of a gun. And if you drive a lot of new cars, you realize that stuff is growing rarer by the minute. It is a byproduct of progress. On paper, a new BMW M3 is superior to any before it. The modern car accelerates harder, stops quicker, and is quieter and more comfortable than an M3 built in the 1990s. Any engineer will point to it as a less compromised product. But compromise is character. The older car is simpler and smaller. It was built to less aggressive crash standards, so it has thinner pillars and weighs less. The new one feels like a city bus by comparison. Twenty years ago, people were looking to the vehicles of decades prior and bemoaning the increase in weight and complexity. In the late 1800s, the first automobiles were viewed as atrocities, far less civilized and romantic than horses. Rose-tinting the past while moving forward is human nature. But looking back still has value. Many analysts, for example, now believe that the recent boom in classic-car values is due to the arc of new-vehicle development. Take the current Porsche 911 GT3: a fantastic car, but complex by the standards of even ten years ago. The electrically assisted power steering is distant. Previous GT3s were deeply involving to drive and only available with manuals. When the new car was announced, older examples—even relatively recent models—saw a noticeable increase in value. What have we gained? Everyone knows that restrictive legislation killed the grossly unsafe or heavily polluting car. That is inarguably good. As is the glut of durable, crashable and recyclable vehicles filling showrooms. We are living in something of a golden age of automobiles—more performance and relative fuel economy than ever before. And while new cars still break, statistically, they're more reliable and efficient than at any point in history. The inevitable march toward perfection has given us direct-injected, turbocharged engines with fantastic performance and wonderful fuel economy, dual-clutch transmissions that deliver shifts in the blink of an eye, and electric cars virtually free of excuses. Sam Smith Part of this is simply time. Computer-controlled engines have been common for over 30 years. Even the simple rubber tire is over a century old. Those are just three pieces of a complex machine, but cumulatively speaking, each has received more development hours than the Manhattan Project. Given similar time and engineering attention, anything would evolve to be good. But if humanity is an assemblage of flaws, we're slowly engineering the human out of the automobile. It clicks into place with a notchy, mechanical flip, like the rewind lever on an old film camera. The manual steering box and small tires keep the wheel dancing and talkative at modest speed. The paint is faded and shrunken, but the ash trays and door furniture are plated metal, not plastic. The whole car seems to have been built with an eye toward multiple lives, with a simple, honest functionality at the heart of every piece. When the 2500 was new, it was the range-topping equivalent of a modern BMW 7-series. Those cars dwarf it in traffic. They are soporific at anything below 100 mph. Eighty mph in the 2500 is roughly 4,000 rpm in fourth gear. The engine, a 2. You stay awake and feel alive. You are dwarfed by Honda Accords. When I got the car home after 800 miles of road trip, I was sore, smelly, and oddly rejuvenated. I like nice cars and pretty things, of course. I can or stroll through Cars and Coffee as thrilled as anyone else. Nor am I a Luddite. I love the BMW, but I wouldn't strap my kids into it for a daily commute. My wife has a 2005 Honda CR-V for that. You put the key in and it goes. In 150,000 miles, it's needed little more than gas, tires, and a water pump. This is a wonderful thing. Most people would see it as used-up junk. Yes, the front seats are from an Acura. The trunk seal lets exhaust into the cabin. The gas pedal gives the carburetors just half throttle. But the suspension has been rebuilt. The gearbox is solid. The brakes are healthy. The body is straight as a Nevada highway. I can make a difference here. I can make this car better, keep it alive without losing the patina and earned funkiness of age. And then we can get out and go places.