Colchester is the oldest recorded town in Britain. Roman remains spring up from the earth whenever you rub the sole of your shoe against the ground; Sestertii are more numerous than pound coins and the Toga is still de rigeur in the more avant garde nightspots. Actually, that’s nonsense.

‘Twas a dull, grey Sunday, but it was brightened up somewhat through my sighting of this; another refugee from a forgotten era.

I usually gush with excitement and wonder when I track down an example, any example of American road-borne machinery, and when I visited a local retail park with a view to acquiring a new pair of walking shoes and some kind of stowable waterproof garment, preferably at a massively discounted price; I failed miserably to achieve either of my goals. But I did find a Chevrolet Camaro RS parked outside.

And, brilliantly, this was the first time I’ve found an American car on the street that I really, seriously, wouldn’t want to own.

Awful, isn’t it?

I don’t mind Camaros per se, I really don’t. Actually, on the record, I quite like them. But not this one.

If I were a Teenage Dirtbag, I’d be green with envy if one of my peers drove an IROC.

Z28, if pronounced Zee-Twennyate, not Zed Twenty Eight like somebody from the BBC in 1949 might say, is also a very cool name indeed. Of course, this particular 1989 example of Camaroness is neither of the above.

It isn’t a Berlinetta, either, which means it doesn’t have that infinitely neat bar-graph instrument display or natty little swivelling console for the radio.

Nope.

I’d forgotten how big the third-gen Camaro was, the answer to this question is that it’s slightly too big to fit within the frame of a Samsung Galaxy Note portable telephone on 16:9 mode from ten feet away.

Check out the graphics! I’d love to meet the master artist who dreamt those up; see how they complement the sinuous curves of the bodywork to emphasise all the unbridled power lurking subtly beneath those muscular flanks.

Unbridled power? Well, yeah. Running the plates tell me that there’s a throbbing monster of a 2.8 V6 in there, with presumably 135 hp waiting for the next opportunity to turn those balloon-profile tyres into white smoke, or certainly try their best to despite the interfering efforts of the inevitable automatic gearbox.

Of course, I’m not being at all fair here. This is somebody’s pride and joy, and I was lying a little about not wanting to own it, for this simple expedient: Of all the cars in that car park, and there were many; this is the only one that had literally anything interesting to say for itself. This is a car which is terrible in many, many ways, and which is somehow all the more appealing for that fact.

Compared to the tedium of the Peugeot sitting next to it, the Camaro is a massive, two-fingered salute to the drab, derivative way the task of getting from a to b is performed. It may not get anywhere all that efficiently, carry any style or elegance, have any real performance, handling or much in the way of comfort; but I bet it doesn’t give a damn, either.

Owning a late ’80s Chevy over here must take some effort and determination, and the decision is made even more brave and noble by the fact that precious few people would see the point, or the appeal. It’s this unconditional love for his car that marks out the true hoon. O Terrible Camaro owner, we salute thee.

[Photos Copyright 2014 Hooniverse/Chris Haining]