Everything else is replaced with upgraded OEM Porsche parts, or new, improved and generally heinously expensive items that don’t stare down the rifled barrel of Porsche Accounting. Suspension is replaced wholesale. Brakes are upgraded to Brembo items, the gearbox to a Getrag G50 six-speeder, with optional LSD. Interiors morph into either serious-browed pseudo race (‘cage, race-spec Öhlins suspension, harnesses, one-piece carbon seats, manual windows), to the specification we have here, which is more of a GT (sunroof in a steel roof, big electric seats, Bilstein adjustable damping, electric windows). Engines are reworked courtesy of motor impresarios Cosworth (yup, Cosworth), and come in three incarnations: a 3.6-litre Touring with 300bhp, the 3.9-litre Sport with 360bhp and the 3.9/4.0-litre Cup car with 400bhp+, depending on how drivable you need it to be on a daily basis. Throttle bodies, balancing, head work, RS plenums - the litany of blueprinted righteousness never seems to end.

But it’s not the fact that Singer does all this stuff that really makes the back of your neck tingle and your palms drip guilty sweat. Plenty of other cars manage materials science somewhat in advance of this, or have considerably more power and performance. Nope, the truly genius bit about the Singer, the bit that has you looking over your shoulder and considering a bit of part-time drug-dealing, is the fact that the car is slathered with a generous dose of subtlety and then polished with a dollop of poise.