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When I was much younger, my brain would glaze over with boredom when someone cited build quality and reliability as the main reasons that they drove some German, Swedish or Japanese car or another. Not for me the engineered-to soulless-perfection of 200,000-mile engines, interiors that kept dry in a downpour or dependability offering greater than even odds of making it to my destination – and back – without troubling my glovebox stash of Scotch Locks, cable ties and gaffer tape. If a car offered enough performance, character and style, what matter the occasional half hour spent kneeling on a rain-lashed motorway hard shoulder, screwdriver in hand, torch clamped between gritted teeth? And then my brother emigrated, gifting me his pre-GM Saab 900S. Apart from the Abba Gold cassette left in the…