When Performance Car magazine closed, two writers and a Subaru kept driving

The editor held up a beautifully framed shot of the Jaguar XKR going sideways. ‘Great oversteer, Meaden,’ he beamed. ‘This could make an ideal cover shot for our magazine, Performance Car.’

Richard Meaden allowed a smile to play across his boyish face. ‘Thanks boss,’ he grinned.

‘Now get back to your computer and write it up,’ the editor added, ‘as the deadline was nine days ago.’

Meaden strolled back into the main office and sat at his desk.

‘Great oversteer, Dickie,’ said a soft voice next to him. Meaden turned to look at his friend and colleague John Barker, who was sitting at the next desk, casually smoking a rolled-up cigarette while writing an insightful review of a new Porsche.

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‘Thanks mate,’ Meaden replied. ‘I loved the pictures from your new BMW M3 review. Great oversteer…’

Barker was about to reply when a wave of grey men entered the office. Management Suits! This couldn’t be good news. Instinctively, Barker and Meaden leapt up and followed their editor into the meeting room where the Suits had gathered.

‘Gentlemen, I’ll keep this brief,’ the main Suit mewed. ‘We’re closing down Performance Car. Please finish the insightful reviews you’re currently writing and then leave the building, having first handed in your ID cards and driving shoes.’

‘You want our driving shoes?’ asked Meaden, shooting a glance at Barker.

John knew exactly what his young friend was thinking. ‘Our driving shoes?’ Barker repeated slowly, his eyes twinkling mischievously behind his glasses. ‘You’ll have to catch us first!’

With that the two friends burst from the meeting room and sprinted through the office. With lightning reactions Barker seized a set of keys from his desk as he sped past and the pair disappeared into the stairwell, sliding down the bannisters and catapulting out of the emergency exit into the publishing company car park.

‘What have we got?’ shouted Meaden.

‘Subaru Impreza Turbo, Terzo limited edition,’ Barker replied briskly. ‘215bhp, 214lb ft at 4000rpm, 50:50 front-rear torque split.’

‘Let’s do this!’ cried Meaden and they leapt into the Mica Blue saloon as furious Suits began firing their revolvers from the upstairs windows of Your Puppy magazine.

Barker lit the 2-litre turbocharged engine and in one smooth move dialled up 3k of twist, snicked the lever into first and smartly released the clutch, sending the Subaru surging towards the car park exit. ‘Shit!’ exclaimed Meaden, ‘The barrier’s down!’

‘Not a problem,’ grinned Barker, quietly, launching the square-cut Subaru up a kerb and onto the ramp-shaped nose of the white Lotus Esprit belonging to one of the chief Suits, sending the Impreza soaring into the air, easily clearing the security fence before its rally-bred suspension effortlessly soaked up the landing in the street outside and the two friends sped safely away.

‘What now?’ questioned Meaden as his experienced colleague helmed the Impreza across the flatlands of the East Midlands.

‘I suppose we ought to lie low for a while,’ mused Barker, maintaining a steely focus on the road ahead. Suddenly he spotted a car coming straight for them.

‘This lunatic is trying to run us off the road!’ exclaimed Meaden.

‘Hold on!’ barked Barker, expertly mashing the powerful brakes as the other car skidded sideways on the handbrake, blocking their path.

‘Isn’t that a Maserati Ghibli Cup?’ queried Meaden. As he spoke, a mysterious man emerged from the red Italian coupe. Barker noticed that from the corner of his mouth emerged a piece of straw.

‘The name’s Metcalfe,’ the man said. ‘Harry Metcalfe. I’m looking for a couple of chaps to set up a new high-performance motoring magazine.’

‘What’s your plan here, Metcalfe?’ demanded Meaden, sceptically. ‘It’s simple,’ Metcalfe purred, patting the hot bonnet of his Maserati. ‘We get the best cars, the best writers, the best photographers, and we make the best damn car magazine in the world. Are you in?’

‘I suppose we are,’ smiled Barker. ‘But we can’t do it alone.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Metcalfe assured him. ‘We’ll get others, and over time we’ll nurture new talent to handle a car as well as a sentence, and I want to give them names that sound ridiculously made up.’

‘What, like...’ Barker paused as his brilliant mind whirred to think of the most implausible name possible, ‘Jethro Boving‑Don!’

‘Ha ha, ha,’ Metcalfe chuckled. ‘That’s perfect.’

Meaden smiled. ‘What about Henry Catch‑Pole?’

‘Steady on!’ Metcalfe spluttered.

‘When shall we start?’ Barker asked.

‘No time like the present,’ Metcalfe exclaimed. ‘Welcome aboard, gentlemen. And remember, if we do this right we’ll create something that could last for at least 25 years!’

And that is how evo was founded. Probably.