The GT3 RS is full-on. Limb shakingly physical, brain gaspingly demanding, it’s a car you have to limber up for. Shrug your shoulders, flex your fingers, roll your head around on your neck, do what you like. Prepare. But you’re still going down.

There’s not much else like it. The McLaren Senna, that’s the car people mention, but I’m not sure even that feels as physical and urgent as you peel into a quick corner as this does. Modern supercars lack edge. I’ve said it myself, that they place speed and capability over involvement. Well done Porsche, for setting me straight. Because the GT3 RS is ballistic, a car with utter, stark staringly furious focus on attack, attack, attack. It’s all it knows. I dread to think what it’s like on road. Pretty bloody horrid, I suspect. 

Haven’t got the spare neurons to think about that right now, because the rear tyres are super-heated to 70°C, the carbon ceramic brakes are glowing, the battered air is left trembling and the GT3 RS is delivering a riotous smackdown, clawing demonically into the tarmac, bludgeoning me until I’m punch-drunk. It’s hectic. It’s busy. It’s super stiff and moves around, skips and fidgets, argues and fights. It belittles me. I feel cuckolded. “Get me a proper driver,” it screams, “One who…