There I was, hunkered down in the armchair, tub of popcorn, bag of Heroes and a large fizzy drink. Let the classic car show roll. (See previous post).
After half an hour of Mr Wilson twittering on about sleek and elegant Italian espresso machines on wheels, I was getting withdrawal symptoms. I wanted less Italian pea-shooter, more British blunderbuss. Eventually there was Senna unwrapping this unmistakable outline of automotive nostalgia, this iron age piece of exotica, so I was more than ready for his accented attempts at describing something way beyond his years - a walk round the car, a look under the bonnet, the reason for the oddly hung exhaust, why did it have a hump on the boot, a listen to the straight six rumble. Nope. I hardly had time for one puff of pop, sook a Hero fudge or have a single swig of fizz before it was all over. Cheated? I was so annoyed I would have thrown the cat at the TV - if I had a cat.
On the other hand just a fleeting glimpse of that ton of assorted BMC ironmongery getting flung around the ‘Mercedes-Benz World’ handling track was pure dead brilliant.