The 1970 Plymouth Sport Fury GT

The story of Plymouth is one of those Shakespearean tragedies of which the history of motoring has just too many. It’s a tale of romantic woe, at the end of which both lovers end up dead, for all the wrong reasons, and with neither of them ever properly finding out how the other one felt, before it was too late.
In this case, Plymouth is Juliette; specifically, Plymouth is the ’70 Sport Fury GT, and Romeo is us, as in the classy muscle car aficionados of the world. I mean OK, it could be the other way round. You can be Juliette if you want. This analogy is weird enough as it is without adding political correctness to the mix, but that’s the way the world works nowadays.

The point is that Plymouth got taken away from us too soon, too young, and for reasons no-one explained properly at the time….and we died of a broken heart as a result. Well OK, we didn’t, because we found alternative affection (God we’re a shallow fickle bunch), but you get my point.

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