Shiny yet friendly with pleasingly moist undertones

I left my home country, as one does, on a Greyhound bus, cast out, in the words of Roderick Stuart, by the ones I loved, and found myself adrift, alone and bereft in a new and strange place the locals called the web.

Clinging for comfort to the lightbulb bequeathed to me by the youngest of my birth mothers I somehow chanced upon Pistonheads.

Oh, what wonders there confronted me! Almost impossible to classify. With the Alanis Morisette inducing exception of the classifieds, wherein I procured myself transport for the rest of my journey.

I shall not detain you, dearest reader of these meagre words, with the trials that followed, of the long dark night that culminated in a travel lodge on the outskirts of Milton Keynes, the subsequent surgery and recuperation, or the joyous meeting with the lesser of the Chuckle Brothers, where the wisdom of the ages was bestowed upon your humble narrator.

Let it simply be known that, throughout it all, and in accordance with the prophecy, it was Pistonheads that guided me.