About Me

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Where this started

I didn’t “get into cars” the way people say it casually, like it was a phase or a weekend hobby. Cars were part of my environment early — not as shiny showpieces, but as something real, mechanical, frustrating, loud, and oddly meaningful.

 

My old man was always in the engine bay of a battered 2003 XR6 Turbo. If you know those cars, you know

they can be an absolute weapon… and also a complete headache when things go wrong. Bearings

blowing, overheating, coolant spraying into places it absolutely shouldn’t — that car was chaos. The

odometer had rolled past 999,999km years before I was old enough to even understand what that meant,

and half the time the soundtrack to “bonding time” was being told to hold the light properly while he

was elbows-deep in problems.

 

And even though that sounds rough around the edges — it’s one of the biggest reasons I’m the way I am.

 

Because somewhere in all that noise, I learned the core lesson: if you’re going to do something, do it properly. Not neatly. Not politely. Properly. The kind of properly where you check twice because you don’t want it coming back to bite you. The kind of properly where your name is attached to the outcome, and the outcome matters.

That was the mechanical side of it.

 

Later, when I moved in with my grandparents, I got exposed to the other side — the side most people only ever see

through car magazines or showrooms.

My grandfather loved cars too, but he wasn’t just into “cars.” He was into the kind of cars that carry

history, engineering, prestige — the ones people dream about, the ones that turn heads even

when they’re sitting still. R34 GTRs, Mk4 Supras, Jaguar E-Types, Porsche 911 variants that don’t

need an introduction. Cars with real value. Cars that you respect because you understand what

they are.

 

Living with him changed the way I looked at paint, bodywork, and presentation. It wasn’t just “wash

it and it’s clean.” It was:

• how paint behaves under different light

• how swirls actually show up

• how a finish can be improved without being destroyed

• how protection matters, not as a gimmick, but as preservation

• and how a car can look “good” to most people… while still being nowhere near what it could be

 

For about five years, I watched cars transform. Not “quick tidy ups.” Proper restoration work — barn finds that looked dead

coming back to life. Ferraris like the 250 GT, 308, 330 GT — cars most people will never be near in their life — going from

destroyed to genuinely beautiful. And even the cars that were already decent… somehow becoming better than they

had any right to be, simply because my grandfather approached them with care and standards.

That’s where the respect for the finish came from.

So when people ask me why I take detailing seriously, the answer is simple: I grew up around people who treated cars like they mattered. Mechanically, visually, emotionally — the whole thing.

 

 

The moment I realised “most people rush this”

When I got my first car — a 1998 R34 Nissan Skyline — I started taking it to detailers during

busy seasons of life when I couldn’t do everything myself. And that’s when I learned

something that honestly annoyed me more than it should have.

Most people don’t look closely.

 

They look for “clean enough.” They look for “shiny enough.” They look for the big

obvious result that photographs well for a second and passes a quick glance. But if you

know what you’re looking at — if you’ve been around real workmanship — you see the truth straight away.

The missed areas. The rushed edges. The streaks. The spots they didn’t bother to properly wipe down. The signs the cloth was dirty. The places they never even touched because it didn’t sit right in their process. The “we’ll just get it out the door” vibe.

And when it’s a normal daily driver, people might accept it.

 

But when it’s a Skyline — a car with presence, a car with history, a car people genuinely admire — rushing it feels disrespectful. Not just to the owner. To the car itself.

That genuinely pissed me off.

Because I wasn’t paying for a “pretty good effort.” I was paying for care — and the care wasn’t there.

That frustration didn’t turn into a rant or a grudge. It turned into a decision: if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it in a way that I would trust with my own car.

 

That’s the foundation of True Blue Detailing.

 

 

What I believe detailing actually is

Some people treat detailing like it’s about shine. Like you just foam it up, scrub it, wipe it, dress the tyres and call it a day.

To me, detailing is closer to workmanship.

It’s preparation, method, patience, and standards. It’s understanding that every shortcut has a cost — sometimes you see it immediately, sometimes it shows up a week later, sometimes it shows up as permanent damage you can’t undo.

 

“Done properly” is a phrase people throw around, so I’ll say what it means in my world:

• Safe wash methods that reduce the chance of swirls and scratches, instead of adding them

• Correct product choice for the surface, not “one chemical for everything”

• Process discipline — doing steps in the right order because each one sets up the next

• Attention to the places others skip because they’re inconvenient or time-consuming

• Finishing touches that aren’t just cosmetic, but make the result last longer

 

I care about the outcome, but I care about the way we get there just as much.

 

 

Work ethic and standards

I’ve got a strong work ethic, and I’ll say it plainly: I don’t stop until it’s done.

That might sound like a generic line, but here’s what it actually looks like day-to-day:

 

I triple check my work. I look at it from multiple angles. I step back and look at it again. I check it under different light. I scan the interior like someone who’s never been in the car before, because that’s the perspective that matters. I run through the details that people miss — because those are the things that separate “yeah it’s clean” from “wow.”

If I can’t look at the end result and honestly think, “I’ve impressed myself,” I don’t feel settled. It’s like that feeling when you leave the house and something feels off — you can’t relax until you’ve checked the door is locked, the stove is off, whatever it is. Some people call that perfectionism. Some call it OCD. I don’t really care what label gets slapped on it.

 

I care that the job is right.

Not right in a theoretical way. Right in a “hand the keys back with confidence” way.

 

 

The solo operator difference

I’m upfront about being a solo operator, and I actually think that matters.

When you book with a big franchise or a large operation, you might get good results — but you might also be one name in a long list. A job slot. An invoice number. A time allocation.

That’s not a moral judgment. That’s just how scale works.

But for me? It’s personal.

 

Every customer I take on is connected directly to my reputation. If you’re happy, people hear about it. If you’re not happy, people hear about it too. There’s no buffer. No “head office.” No brand name to hide behind. It’s just me and the standard I’m willing to stand behind.

And I actually like it that way, because it creates a kind of accountability that big operations often don’t have.

If I upset someone, I don’t get to shrug and move on to the next suburb. I have to live with it — locally, socially, professionally.

So when someone asks, “Why would I pick you when you’re starting out?” my answer is simple:

Because my name is on the line with every car. I can’t afford to be careless. And I’m not here for quick money — I’m here to build something real.

 

 

The kinds of jobs I’ll take

I’m not scared of real work.

If your car is genuinely dirty, the kind of dirty most people don’t want to touch, and as long as your not my Ex — I’m still open to it, as long as it’s safe. I’ll clean the real-world cars. Family cars. Work cars. The ones that have lived hard. The ones that need proper time, not a quick wipe.

I’m willing to work around almost anything, provided it’s legal and reasonable.

 

The line for me is health risk.

I’ve got kids. I’ve got responsibilities. I’m not going to pretend I’m invincible, and I’m not going to take on something that’s genuinely unsafe without the right precautions. But outside of that? If you’re willing to pay for the time and care it takes to make it right, I’m willing to do the work.

Because I actually enjoy the transformation — I enjoy seeing something neglected become something you’re proud of again.

 

 

Why this business matters to me

True Blue Detailing isn’t just “a business idea.” It’s not a phase.

It’s me taking everything I’ve learned — from my father’s engine bay chaos to my grandfather’s appreciation for craftsmanship — and turning it into something that’s mine.

It’s a long-term play. It’s something I’m building to create stability for my family, to grow locally, and to do work I can genuinely respect.

 

And yeah, I’ve got goals like anyone else.

I want to grow. I want this to become known as the detailer people recommend when they want it done properly. I want to build a life where hard work translates into real progress — not just “getting by.”

And if I’m being completely honest, there’s also a personal motivation in there that makes me smile: I’d like this business to help fund an absolutely overpriced engagement ring for my partner one day — hopefully soon.

Not because I’m trying to impress strangers. Because it means something to me. It’s a marker of the life I’m trying to build.

 

 

What you can expect from me

If you book with me, here’s what I want you to know:

• You’ll get honest communication, not hype

• You’ll get proper workmanship, not shortcuts

• You’ll get care for your vehicle, whether it’s an enthusiast car or a daily driver

• You’ll deal with the person doing the job, not a rotating team

• You’ll get a result I’m willing to attach my name to

 

If you’re looking for the fastest, cheapest option, I’m probably not the best fit.

But if you want someone who genuinely cares about the result, who works hard, and who takes pride in the finish — I’d be happy to help.